“Dollars? Dollars?” A money changer thrusts a wad of bills toward the foreigner with the camera around his neck. Other vendors shove forward, offering lottery tickets, nail clippers, gaudy puppets on a string, and wind-up plastic scuba divers that kick inanely across a dish of water. Every hawker in Lima, Peru, must hang out on this eight-block pedestrian mall, the Jiron de la Union.
Some parts of the Jiron resemble a zoo more than a street. Kittens and puppies, some only weeks old, mew and whine on the corner devoted to the pet trade. Nearby, a comically dressed monkey, plied by quarters, is busily pulling fortune cards. And farther on, the crowd parts a little, giving wide berth to a man holding a stick high in the air; from the bottom end of the stick dangles a mangy-looking mongoose. The mongoose is eyeing a cleverly segmented wooden snake that another vendor is causing to slither along the pavement.
On the Jiron de la Union, anything goes. Many Lima residents won’t risk the street: they warn solemnly of thieves who pick pockets and snatch gold chains and watches. Everyone has a horror story, and you think of that as the bodies press against you. Hide your camera. Keep hands in pockets, grasping money. Look over your shoulder every few seconds.
Abruptly you turn off the street of chaos onto a quiet side street, free of beggars and merchants. The change is startling: no rock music blasting from open shops, no odor of food from sidewalk grills. You see a door, with a simple brass plaque announcing “Agua Viva,” or “Living Water.”
The door opens onto a beautiful colonial courtyard, vintage 1820, in a high-ceilinged room trimmed with mahogany. Everywhere, green plants reach toward skylights. The only sound is the calm murmur of water in a fountain. Standing still, you can sense your blood pressure, pulse, and adrenaline subsiding to normal levels. A beautiful woman, smiling, rustles across the room in a batik sarong to greet you. Her Spanish is lined with a melodious French accent.
Soon you are seated, studying a menu, checking the more difficult words against a traveler’s dictionary. Hearts of palm salad or avocado? The fresh trout in herb sauce or grilled sea bass? Or perhaps Tournedos à la Mexicain with tomato and mushroom? Or lamb, or filet of beef? “Remember to leave room for dessert,” your host says. “They have exquisite chocolate mousse and ice cream meringues.”
Waitresses glide in and out of the room, each in native costume. They come from five continents to work at Agua Viva, you are told. Finally, after you place your order, the manager of the restaurant arrives to answer your questions. She is a petite Frenchwoman named Sister Marie, with neat red hair and alert blue eyes. The waitresses are Christians, she explains—not nuns, exactly, but an order of committed lay workers serving under the umbrella of the Catholic church.
The movement traces back to a priest named Marcel Roussel who, in 1949, began work amid the poverty and despair of postwar France. Roussel was overwhelmed by how many people the church never touched: none of the prostitutes he passed each day on the streets of Paris, for example, dared enter a church, and yet if he stopped to converse they often expressed deep needs. Father Roussel concluded that the church could not merely wait, but rather must actively pursue people of need, especially in the workplace. Had not Jesus served as a carpenter, and Paul as a tentmaker? “Everywhere,” concluded Roussel, “in prisons, hotels, and work sites, we can help re-establish a dialogue with God.”
Roussel recruited a group of young women known as Missionary Workers for just that purpose. At first they took jobs in factories and came together only for prayer and study. But within a few years Roussel envisioned a restaurant where the Missionary Workers could live as a family, worshiping together and pooling their energies in a common endeavor that “would shine as a light to the world.” The first such restaurant, Eau Vive, opened in Belgium in 1960. Its success soon led to others in Saigon, Buenos Aires, Burkina Faso (formerly Upper Volta, in Africa), New Caledonia, Rome, Manila, and then the Agua Viva in Lima, Peru.
It took two years for the Missionary Workers in Peru to clean the former colonial palace—once used as a printing plant and then abandoned for 25 years—and restore it to its former grandeur. Today, Agua Viva attracts the wealthy and powerful of Lima (including a group of senators who meet monthly for Bible study). Only a few clues announce to the visitor the restaurant’s spiritual intent. The inside cover of the menu proclaims “Jesus lives! For this we are happy.” And each evening at 10:30 the waitresses appear together to sing a vesper hymn for their patrons.
Besides these clues, says Sister Marie, the work itself should stand as a witness. “Don’t ask us how our prayer life is going; look at our food. Is your plate clean and artfully arranged? Does your server treat you with kindness and love? Do you experience serenity here? If so, then we are serving God.” A visitor mentions Brother Lawrence, and Sister Marie beams. Yes, that’s the idea, she says. The workers cook, wait on tables, scrub floors, worship, all to the glory of God.
But the Missionary Workers have introduced a modern twist to the Brother Lawrence style: they proffer gourmet meals in order to serve the poor of Lima. Later that day, 50 other people, not the rich and powerful this time, but mothers from the slums of Lima, will fill the same elegant room. The Missionary Workers lead training classes on basic hygiene, child rearing, and physical and spiritual health. And once off duty in the restuarant, all staff members devote themselves to the poor, carrying out social programs that are financed by profits from the restaurant.
In some countries, the Missionary Workers focus their energy on jails and hospitals. In Peru, they concentrate on struggling families in the slums. Each “waitress” works regularly with 200 poor people in the barrios. Some of Agua Viva’s patrons know of the outreach programs, some do not. The Missionary Workers rarely talk about their work unless asked. But sample comments in a guest book show that their peculiar two-edged mission is having an impact:
“I thank the Missionary Workers for being a living reminder of simplicity and joy in the heart of Christianity. Thank you for having helped me cross to the side of Salvation.”
“Continue to make us thirst for this Living Water whose transparent brilliance shines out through your faces.”
“You are a most eloquent living evidence for nonbelievers. You are a gift of God; the Holy Spirit breathes here. Through good cooking, God is transmitted too. Thank you for your ray of sunshine in a cloudy sky.”
An American visitor, fully informed of the Missionary Workers’ rare ability to minister both to rich and poor, came up with a more mundane conclusion after a lavish five-course luncheon. Stepping out of the serenity of Agua Viva, back into the cacophony of downtown Lima, he patted his stomach and said, “At last, a guilt-free gourmet meal!”
By Philip Yancey.
