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Writer's pictureMarcos

My friend Francisco

Our eyes are firmly on Jesus as we walk through these challenging times of COVID. It hit us in November, and Veronica is having heavy repercussions and is still not able to stand or walk, and has some cognitive confusion. But she is slowly moving forward.

On the final day of 2021 our good friend Francisco Camacho, also sick with COVID, left family and ministry behind as he went to the presence of Jesus. Francisco and Elva moved to Porvenir to work at a local orphanage about six weeks before we arrived to do youth ministry in this same town in 1981. We have been close amigos all these 40 years.


We write today to give you our thanks for your recent gift. And I would like to take the time here, to tell a story about my friend, Francisco.

It was almost 20 years ago, on a Sunday in our missions month, when we had a Mexican missionary family invited in to speak, they were missionaries in China. And your man Marcos had a brilliant idea to help people understand what it was like being a believer in a country where it was illegal to preach the Gospel.

As a backdrop to the story let me mention that the Mexican government was in the process of changing laws about religions in Mexico, and we, the church, were unsure whether the door was opening wider for us, or closing all together.

That part of our Sunday was fact, not fiction.

Moving on to the somewhat fictitious part, I asked the local chief of police to arrive at our event, with all the boys in blue in their black and white cars. complete with red lights flashing.

And then I rounded up some other fellows who looked like the famous and feared non-uniformed judiciales.

And then, as if I had planned it—which, believe me, I had not—there was a fatal car accident between Ensenada and Porvenir in which one person died. The authorities closed the highway, so people coming to our event from the city hit a roadblock. They called and let us know the situation. I suggested they take the alternate route in, a dirt road in terrible shape, that would take about an hour to manage. We would wait for them to begin. When I announced to those present about the accident, the death, and our rescheduled starting time, a heavy cloud seemed to come down on all.

When we were finally able to begin, the auditorium was packed corner to corner. Police cars were outside, lights still flashing, the officers were inside the auditorium, standing along the back wall, all of them looking stern and unhappy. Francisco and Elva were in the third or fourth row, not far from Veronica and me.

Then, more fiction, I stepped onto the platform to begin. I suggested to the hundreds present, that due to the precarious situation with the changes in the law, it would be a good idea to not take out their Bibles during service, but rather, leave them hidden under the seats. Uff. The heavy cloud darkened.

The plan was, when the missionary to China took the pulpit, the judiciales would arrive and denounce us as being an illegal sect and arrest me, hauling me away in handcuffs. (My original plan was to resist arrest and have them shoot me, but I could not find any blanks and I thought it not wise to get shot with real bullets!) After my arrest the missionary would explain to all that this was just acting, we wanted to give a feel of what it is like for believers in China.

So our meeting began—we praised, we watched video, we had dances, and dramas (oh yes, and the all-important offering!) and then it was time for our speaker. I introduced him, and a minute or two into his opening the judiciales burst in and loudly asked from the rear of the auditorium who was “el Señor Schultz”. I stood up in the front row and boldly identified myself.


They declared that this gathering was illegal, and I firmly stated such was not the case, that we had been assured by the authorities in Mexico City that we had permission to hold our event. The jefe of the judiciales responded that such was not the case and he promptly put me in handcuffs.


As they took me away, the place went wild. One of the older ladies from our congregation chased after the judiciales slamming them with her big purse. She, obviously, was the congregant who loved me the most! Pandemonium reigned. The pastors who were present shouted at the officials, “we have our rights…” and “the constitution says…” It was wild.

My plan of the speaker “explaining” anything flew right out the window because of the havoc taking place. Two of the pastors almost got into fist fights with the judiciales. People were screaming, and some ran for the doors.

Then there was my friend Francisco, and his wife Elva. His eyes searched the room for Veronica. She remained sitting right next to my vacated seat, calm as a cucumber in Cuba. Francisco knew immediately that Marcos had staged the entire scene. He whispered his observation to Elva, and they sat quietly waiting for the uprising to reach its end.

That was my friend Francisco, similar to Marcos in craziness and in the cause of the Gospel. And wise. He knew me inside out.


Precious in the sight of the Lord is the death of his saints. Psalm 116.15



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