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Mariano Carillo, a 61-year-old bricklayer, faces challenges in attracting members to services other than Sunday at his church in Lan Lan. "People work so hard on their farms that they come dragging into service or they don't make it at all," Carillo says. There are 60 homes in the Lan Lan community, and every family attends one of three churches: the AG, AIIECH, or United Pentecostal. The three movements do not get along, largely because of vastly different theological views on the Holy Spirit.

Carillo's AG church offers activities every evening. All of the 22 families who attend live within a 20-minute walk. And everyone walks. The church is simple, with a stone floor, plastered walls, a corrugated tin roof, wooden pews—and an electric keyboard.

Oswaldo Quinlle, 39, is pastor of the two-year-old Quichua Evangelistic Center in Riobamba, the mother church for AG work among the indigenous group. "Before I was saved I was a terrible person," says Quinlle, another 1999 Bible school graduate. "I used to beat up evangelicals."

One of his primary challenges is unifying Christians in Riobamba. Some members from a church across the street have tried to dissuade Quinlle's flock, claiming the AG's teaching on tithing amounts to charging for services. Quinlle receives $20 a month for leading the congregation of 80. Like Carillo, Quinlle also has trouble getting members to attend, not because they are worn out, but because they think they must keep their businesses open in the evening. They do not think they can afford to attend church in what some describe as Ecuador's worst economic downturn in history.

Out Of The Ashes: But some pastors such as Pedro Roche see economic struggles—as well as the threatening volcano—as opportunities to spread evangelistic fervor and build unity among believers.

To reach a Wednesday evening service at Roche's church in Chalan, people must walk on a one-lane dirt path in the dark. The only other modes of transportation are two burros outside. Time is not important; some attendees arrive nearly an hour late. The service, scheduled for 7 p.m., does not begin until nearly an hour later as people of the community chat about events of the day. Even the latest worshipers make sure to shake hands with everyone else. Some men offer their arms instead because their hands are dirt-covered from work in the fields.

Pastor Pedro Roche enters the sanctuary wearing a Nike hat and traditional wool poncho. As with many Quichua, Roche's life has been transformed by the gospel. Alcohol abuse is commonplace among the Quichua, some of whom would spend what little money they had on liquor. At times, dozens of intoxicated Quichua would be passed out along roadsides.

Roche became a Christian after he drank too much whiskey, fell into a cactus, and quit drinking. His skeptical wife became a Christian four months later when she saw his changed behavior. Roche, a Bible-school student, now oversees three churches. At the service in Chalan, worship is full-voiced singing about Christ's second coming, streets of gold in heaven, and names written in the Book of Life.

Some members of the women's choir wear no shoes. But they all wear blue-yarn shawls as a choir uniform. A dog wanders in to check out the situation.

The low rumbling of the nearby volcano brings to mind hellfire and brimstone, fueling Roche's sermon.

"We're called to repent before our town suffers," he proclaims to his congregation. "We shouldn't need these natural phenomena as reminders."

See more on the Tungurahua volcano at the VolcanoWorld site.
The online Catholic Encyclopedia is one of the few religious sites with information about the Quichua Indians.

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January 10 2000, Vol. 44, No. 1