Finding Freedom in Panama - Softcover

Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

William E. Wilbur was born June 6, 1941 in Lakeland, Florida where his father was an instructor pilot during WWII. After the war in 1945, his family moved to the small town of Dolgeville in the Adirondack mountains of New York State. After graduation from High School, he attended the University of Rochester for one year, and then enlisted in the U.S. Navy where he received a medical discharge after one year. He returned to the academic world and graduated with a BA in Physics from Utica College of Syracuse University in 1965. Wilbur went on to further training at the Eastern Baptist Theological Seminary in Philadelphia where he met Ann Hammonds. They were married shortly after graduation in 1968 and he was licensed by the Presbytery of Philadephia.

For two years, the young couple worked with college students in Eastern New York State on staff with the Inter-Varsity Christian Fellowship. Their twins, David and Becky were born in June 1970 so Wilbur became the temporary pastor of a small church in Westerlo, N.Y just outside of Albany. This turned out to be a permanent situation and thus he was ordained in the Reformed Church in America in 1971.

Bill and Ann always had a concern for world missions and in January of 1976 left the cold of the north to move to the beautiful tropical town of Gamboa right next to the Panama Canal. There he became the pastor of the Gamboa Union Church, an English speaking congregation, where he continues to this present time.

In 1996, Wilbur earned the Doctor of Ministry degree, doing his thesis on coping with transition in light of the Panama Canal treaty.

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I never would have chosen to go into a Panamanian prison, especially at a time when relations with the U.S. were so tense. Panamanian General Manuel Antonio Noriega and his troops were expecting an invasion by U.S. forces. And he was soon to declare war on the U.S.

The year was 1989. I had been visiting an American inmate at the infamous Carcel Modelo ("model prison" in Spanish) in Panama City. Many times, after parking my car, I had to walk right past Noriega's headquarters. Armed soldiers were posted throughout the immediate area, some equipped with shoulder surface-to-air missiles to use in the event of an air strike. In that same area later that year, three U.S. military men would be fired upon by the Panama Defense Force. One marine would die, setting off the U.S. invasion of Panama.

How did I-- a tall, thin, white American from the mountains of upstate New York--end up visiting prisoners in Panama? I was a long way from my quiet little hometown of Dolgeville, New York, with its 2,400 residents. My two brothers and I came from a home where there was the security of parents who loved each other and their children. Nothing really exciting every happened in our part of the world except the excitement the teenagers were able to create on a Friday night or a winter blizzard closing down the whole town for a few days.

Shortly after I arrived in Panama in January 1976, I met the warden of the Canal Zone Penitentiary, which was only one mile from my house. His wife was a member of our church, and they had a special interest in having someone conduct weekly meetings with the men at the prison. I was the logical one to do it because I lived close by. Since my predecessor had gone there regularly, the assumption was that naturally I would follow in his footsteps.

"Pastor Wilbur, when would you like to have a tour of the prison and meet some of the Christian prisoners?" the warden's wife asked one Sunday after the service.

"Well, I'm still kind of getting settled and getting acquainted with the congregation. Maybe when things are a little less busy," I gave as an excuse.

The truth was, I really didn't want to go. I didn't know Spanish, and I didn't know how I could relate to a group of prisoners. But underlying all my excuses was the fact I was afraid of the whole situation. Coming from a small town in upstate New York with an all-white population, I was uncomfortable with the idea of going into a place with mostly black and Latin inmates. I would be the only white guy. What could I tell these men, especially if I didn't speak their language? And why would they listen to me?