US: Surfng the Nations is a ministry with a misssion, part relief agency, missionary training camp and surfers' crash pad, writes Tizon Tomas Alex in Honolulu
If Jesus were alive today, he would be a surfer. He would mingle with fishermen and beach bums and lay his mat on the sand among the scantily clad.
Instead of walking on water, he would ride waves on a carved piece of fibreglass, keeping an eye out for anyone in need of saving. This is what Dean Sabate and his friends believe. They are surfers for Jesus. Today they are on Waikiki Beach doing what they believe Jesus would be doing. While others might see a frolicking crowd, Sabate and his group see sprinkled among the masses a few lost souls who need tending.
"This is our ministry, being out here, being in the ocean, making friends," says Sabate (42). He is a former professional surfer, muscular and bronzed. "We don't go thumping people on the head with a Bible. We come out here, enjoy the water and talk to people," he says.
"We just allow God to work." Lost souls include the lonely, the poor, the hopeless and the worn out. These are plentiful in paradise, although they're not always easy to spot. Sabate knows. Just seven months ago, he was aimless and living in a park on the other side of Oahu. A pastor found him, befriended him and introduced him to a group of Christian surfers. Now Sabate leads a group of "surfer missionaries". There are about a dozen of them here on this postcard-perfect afternoon. One of the surfers, Dave Strigl (38), takes me out on the water. We paddle on boards around Mamala Bay. His ultimate goal is to bring people into a relationship with Jesus.
But the surfers don't rush it. They're willing to wait months, even years, for a conversion, On these outreach trips, they're interested in developing friendships. The surfers' approach, in one line: "Make friends first, God will do the rest."
On the water, there's no talk of Jesus, but death comes up. "See that sea turtle?" Strigl says, gesturing toward an approaching shell. "I didn't know sea turtles came this close to shore. It could mean sharks," he says, smiling.
Sharks could cause death, and death leads to the afterlife. The afterlife is a natural segue into God but that talk would come later. Inside the surfers' van, in case anyone shows interest, is a box of Christian tracts.
On some occasions, the surfers gather at the beach and pray, and then hand out the tracts to people who approach. On a grassy spot above the beach, Sabate chats with a surfer named Scott, who has stopped by. Scott is separated from his wife and doesn't know what to do. "Only God can heal a broken relationship," Sabate tells him.
On-the-spot conversions generally don't happen. A good day is when a single conversation leads to a single invitation to a Bible study. The main thing, according to the group's philosophy, is to hang out with the needy like Jesus did. After three hours on the beach, the surfer missionaries regroup, pile into their van and head for the hills above Honolulu.
The van chugs up a winding road into the heart of Kalihi Valley, a lush ravine of low-income houses and apartments. An upright surfboard by the side of the road marks the spot where the van turns on to a long dirt driveway. It leads into a three-acre compound of ramshackle buildings with tin roofs. This is home base. Since 1997, longtime missionaries Tom and Cindy Bauer have used the property as headquarters for their ministry, called Surfing the Nations. Sabate and Strigl are leaders in the group. The ministry is part relief agency, missionary training camp and surfers' crash pad. The group surfs in the early mornings, serves for most of the day, then surfs again in the late afternoons.
Service can include outreach, cleaning house for the disabled and holding surf workshops for young teens. In between the surfing and service, surfers study the Bible, attend missionary classes and maintain the compound. They spend two hours a day praying and meditating. About 25 people stay on the property in separate bunkhouses for men and women. It is a revolving population. They range in age from teenagers to midlifers and come from all over the world and all Christian denominations. They stay for a few days or a few years, depending on their financial arrangements. Surfers raise their own support - frequently from home churches - to pay for travel and personal expenses.
The property is owned by Grace Bible Church, where the Bauers have attended for years. Room and board are provided, and surfboards supplied. Cindy Bauer manages the office and makes sure the place runs on a schedule. She is in her 50s, energetic and cheery. Tom Bauer (56) is the head surfer dude, the spiritual leader of the community. They have four grown daughters, two still living at the compound.
The concept of a surfer's ministry came from Tom. A native Californian and surfer since childhood, Tom owns 70 surfboards. "I didn't choose to be a surfer. I was called to be a surfer," says Tom.
He first tried to merge his two loves - surfing and Jesus - in the early 1970s, when some in the church establishment frowned on beach culture. He was told he'd have to choose one or the other, and for years he kept those two aspects of his life separate.
Some traditionalists viewed the beach - associated with flesh and drugs and beatnik rebellion - as "not a place where good Christian folk assemble", says David Morgan, a humanities professor at Valparaiso University in Indiana. The irony is that the Sea of Galilee, where Jesus supposedly walked on water, was likely a place with a rich beach culture, Morgan says.
The idea that Jesus today would keep company with surfers, Morgan says, "has some sociological support to it". The Bauers moved from California to Hawaii in 1979 as missionaries.
They started the surfers ministry 18 years later. For them and the other surfers at the compound, surfing is a spiritual experience. Part of it is being immersed in God's creation, Sabate says. "And there are times when the waves are really big and you think you could die, and there's no one to turn to but God." Thursday is Feeding the Hungry day at the compound. Just as the sun rises above the hills, the surfers begin setting up tents and tables just off the gravel parking lot.
In the community centre, others pack boxes of food. The boxes are passed along a human chain until they reach the tables. The food line is scheduled to begin at 10am, but a few people start arriving about 9am. Others come in borrowed cars and trucks. Some 12 per cent of Hawaii's population suffers from food shortages, according to state agencies. They've heard about the food programme by word of mouth at the beaches.
By the end of the day, a few hundred people have come and gone. With the day's work done, Sabate and Strigl throw surfboards in a van and hop in. Strigl starts the engine. "Wait," says Sabate. They both close their eyes and bow their heads. "Lord, we thank you for this day," Sabate says. "We pray that you may protect us out there in the water . . . We pray that you may use our gifts and talents to serve you. Please use us. In the name of Jesus, we pray. Amen." - (LA Times-Washington Post)