A conversation with Jaap Wiersma
“Are you willing to do the difficult things too?”
Why Letting Go Is the Highest Form of Faith
It was a privilege for me to meet Jaap and Jennie Wiersma today. Wonderful people who have been working in the Kingdom of God for so many years. In many areas: from addiction counseling to serving in the church. And twice, a long period of missionary work in Brazil. It is a privilege to meet these people. So I drive to Rotterdam and arrive at a beautiful apartment complex on the Nieuwe Maas. With a stunning view of that beautiful city, with the outlines of all those tall buildings in the distance that never fail to surprise. Even more surprising is the conversation with Jaap and Jennie.
Jaap grew up in Putten. Raised Reformed, in the Andreaskerk. As he describes it himself: fairly liberal. Taking responsibility, being there for others—those were the values he was taught. But a personal relationship with God? No, he didn’t have that. “I liked beer and the pub better,” he says honestly. The church was there, but it was more of a social gathering place than a place where he met God. That changed when he was sixteen.
A powerful message
A friend called him: “Jaap, you have to go to Amsterdam. David Wilkerson is speaking there.” The urgency in her voice wouldn’t let him go. He went.
At that meeting, Jaap heard for the first time that Jesus would return. He had never given that much thought before. “He spoke as if He were already at the door,” says Jaap. When the call came to come forward, he did. But it didn’t bring about a real change at that moment.
Still, something had been set in motion. Later, through a coffee shop in Harderwijk, he ended up in a church where Spanjersberg was the pastor. There, just to be sure, they prayed with him again. “Double blessing,” he laughs.
His mother had been a pastor at that same Andreas Church where he grew up. The apple doesn’t fall far from the tree. And his father was a teacher. Yet Jaap doesn’t want to call himself a teacher in the traditional sense. “I’m not just looking for the head, but the heart. What does this mean for your life?” When he prepares a sermon, he prays: “Lord, what will people be talking about over coffee? What will they take home with them?”
A passerby instead of a pastor
His path to becoming a pastor was long and winding. He first began as an elder and was later asked to serve as pastor. He called himself a “passerby” instead of a pastor. He stepped in with a clear plan: to be a bridge to the new era, reaching out to the younger generation. An intermediate step, not an endpoint.
Cornelis van der Dussen and Dick van Steenis were his predecessors. “God guides your life,” he says. “Step by step, even with the necessary bumps along the way. Our generation has experienced moments that were painful.” He doesn’t hesitate: “You can’t escape that. And that’s not a bad thing. Because what shapes you the most? Not your successes. It’s precisely the difficulties that bring you closer to God.” That sounds like a pious one-liner, but he means it. He has lived through it.
Brazil
In the midst of a busy life—at De Hoop, in the church, and as a social worker—Jaap and Jennie both heard, independently of each other, the same calling: God was asking them to go to Brazil. It came through the radio, via the testimony of Lenie Flach.
Jaap was on his way to a meeting with the executive board of Vendex in The Hague, where he worked at the time. He turned on the radio and heard her story. Instead of going to the meeting, he turned his car around and drove home. It turned out Jennie had heard that same broadcast. The same experience. They stood on the threshold of a new adventure.
With four children, the oldest thirteen years old, they left for Minas Gerais. The children learned Portuguese on the street—first a few odd words, as is often the case. They lived in a poor neighborhood, but were welcomed there with open arms. As soon as the neighborhood realized that Jaap and Jennie weren’t “rich Dutch people,” they truly belonged. The youngest, a boy with blond hair, was called Pintinho: little chick. He played with the chickens on the street, and everyone in the neighborhood looked out for him. Outside the neighborhood, it was sometimes dangerous, but within the neighborhood, it was safe. In fact, when they later returned to the Netherlands, the children felt less safe on the streets of Rotterdam than they had in Brazil.
But then their daughter Ilse fell ill. On her seventh birthday, she fell into a coma. Jaap was away at the time, taking someone to Belo Horizonte; cell phones didn’t exist yet. Jennie had to take Ilse to the hospital alone. At the first hospital, they were turned away: the quota of ten patients was full. With a child in a coma, they found themselves back on the street. At a private hospital, they were immediately asked for money. They didn’t have enough, and an unsecured check wasn’t accepted. Once again, they had to turn back.
Exhausted, Jennie pulled the van over in front of the gate in their neighborhood. A neighbor looked inside and said, “That child is going to die, while you’re here to help us.” She sent her own children out into the neighborhood to collect money. One gave sugar, another a chicken to sell. After a few hours, they had raised some money. It still wasn’t enough, but the nuns at the Catholic hospital called a doctor. He came immediately. He ran through the hallways with Ilse in his arms, with Jennie following in a panic. He put her on an IV and said, “If you had been ten minutes later, she wouldn’t have been here anymore.”
Ilse survived, but she was no longer the girl she used to be. She could no longer speak or walk. Specialized care was needed, so Jennie took her back to the Sophia Children’s Hospital in Rotterdam. Meanwhile, opinions in the congregation were divided. One half said, “See, you’re being attacked; this is from the devil.” The other half said, “See, this isn’t from God; otherwise, this would never have happened.” Jennie’s matter-of-fact response: “I can’t make sense of either of those claims.”
What remained intact was their calling. That had never been questioned. It wasn’t until years later that they discovered Ilse hadn’t had meningitis at the time, but a metabolic disorder. Hereditary. It was their own granddaughter who later nearly fell into a coma, which paved the way for the correct diagnosis. Thanks to the right medication, Ilse became a completely different woman. She is now the mother of two children.
The price children pay
Jaap is painfully honest about his fatherhood. “I was a pretty absent father.” In Brazil, he was responsible for a large area and traveled long distances. His oldest son suffered because of it, but Jaap didn’t notice until much later. “When you do everything for God, you’re quick to think you’re doing everything right. But that’s not true.”
One evening, he sat with his son—who was eighteen by then—by the heater. Jaap said, “Rem, you missed me. I wasn’t there when you needed me. You were going through puberty, dating, and everything was raging through your body, and your father was busy with the gospel. Will you forgive me?” They sat there crying together by the radiator. Out of that pain, something new and beautiful grew.
This has since become a regular topic when Jaap talks with other leaders. “How are things at home? How are your children and your marriage?” He adds with a laugh: “Even God took a day of rest. Who do you think you are that you don’t need one?” Cornelis van der Dussen told him back when Jaap became a pastor: “If you only do what God asks of you, you’re already busy enough. But knowing you, you’ll probably take on a whole lot more.” That turned out to be prophetic.
Building a congregation across borders
Rotterdam is different from a mountain village in Minas Gerais, but he took the lessons from Brazil with him. In a multicultural congregation, you quickly see little islands forming: the Brazilians together, the Antilleans together, the Dutch in their own bubble. “It’s not easy to break through that,” he admits. “It’s human nature to choose people who are like us.”
According to Jaap, it starts with honesty about your own culture. The Dutch, he says bluntly, are by nature a people who always think they know better. “In mission fields, but also here, we impose our standards on the people around us.” He recalls Dutch groups who came to Brazil to help with construction. They wanted to decide the color of the paint, because ‘he who pays the piper calls the tune.’ Meanwhile, the Brazilians had already prepared yellow, purple, and pink. The Brazilians loved those colors, so the Dutch had to reluctantly apply the “Brazilian” colors.
“What does it mean to be a church?” he wonders. “Are you capable of truly embracing another culture? Or does it have to go the way you think it should? The latter—that’s typically Dutch.” He laughs at the cultural differences: in the Netherlands, the pastor is ready at ten o’clock sharp and gets annoyed by the empty seats. But the people who arrive late in Brazil are the last to leave. They’re still celebrating their birthday over coffee hours later. “Isn’t it fantastic that they’re there at all?”
Back in the Netherlands, Jaap wanted to shake things up and break established habits; he completely rearranged the auditorium once. The stage in the middle, the chairs rearranged. People were completely confused: “Where’s my seat?” He had them speed-date with people they’d never spoken to before. Because, according to Jaap, being a congregation means making an effort for one another.
The art of letting go
From De Hoop to Kom en Zie, from the Netherlands to Brazil and back again; Jaap has had to pass the baton many times. And time and again, he had to learn to let go. He worked alongside his successor, Koen Minderhoud, for four years. First, spending one day a week together, talking, building a relationship. Then standing beside him, and finally: closing the door behind him.
“Retiring really means retiring.” He had told Koen: “You’re not allowed to call me for the first three months. Figure it out yourself.” And when Koen didn’t call him, he secretly found it awful. “I suddenly didn’t feel useful anymore.” His wife said matter-of-factly: “So he can manage just fine without you.”
“At a moment like that, you’re confronted with yourself,” says Jaap. “And that’s only a good thing.” The lesson applies everywhere, whether it’s about your children or your successor. “If I focus on Koen, I see plenty of things to criticize. But if I focus on God and see what He’s doing, then I enjoy it just as much. It’s okay for things to go differently than I did.”
Trust goes beyond faith
The last part of our conversation is about trust. Not “faith” in the sense of praying hard enough to make something happen, but deeper trust. “Faith is often still in control mode: I believe, so now it has to happen. But trust requires a relationship, not answers.”
He discovered the depth of Romans 6: that he is not only set free because Jesus died for him, but that he has been crucified with Him. Died and rose again. “It is no longer I who live, but Christ lives in me.” With a grin: “We sing so easily: ‘Lord, I give You my heart.’ I’d be better off singing: ‘Lord, I give You my arm’—I have two of them anyway. But if you truly give your heart, you’re no longer there yourself.”
Does that always work? “Sometimes better than others. But it’s the foundation of my life.” And sitting quietly in a bus shelter until Jesus returns? He’d rather pass on that. He still travels to Brazil regularly. No longer in an official capacity, but simply to visit pastors and ask: “How are you really doing? Shall we catch up?” And to visit the projects they’re still involved in through the ELO Foundation, where many children find a safe home every day.
Another way of being a blessing. Perhaps the most beautiful one.
“Dare to let things go, so you can receive something new. If we keep holding on, God cannot fill our hands.”
Would you like to read more about the missionary work Jaap and Jennie are involved in in Brazil? Visit the ELO Foundation website: www.elostichting.wixsite.com/st-elo
@wimvanputten