Saving Souls in Siberia
American Evangelical Christians Struggle In A Cold, Hard Land
Whether encouraged by their Orthodox clergy or motivated by their own growing xenophobia, some local and regional authorities decided to take matters into their own hands. The problem metastasized to a national level when, in 1997, the federal government passed a law limiting religious freedom to the extent that even the Salvation Army was kicked out. As the situation deteriorated, the U.S. Commission on International Religious Freedom began to keep a running tab of the misdeeds: congregations forced to pray in schools and private homes because they couldn't get permits to build their churches; a Baptist Church set on fire; dozens of reported cases of slurs and street fights.
With the growing threat from local security services, tapped phones, and revoked visas, sticking it out in small-town Russia has become a quotidian gamble for American missionaries. As a result, many have retreated to the relative blur of Moscow or St. Petersburg, and many more returned home to America. "The honeymoon is over. It's been over for some years," says a U.S. government official who follows Russia but would speak only on condition of anonymity. "If you're a member of a minority religious group and you're living in a community that's hostile, chances are you're not going to get much help from the local government. If you go and complain about harassment, you might find you suddenly lost your lease."
The village of Ust-Omchug lies in the heart of Russia's far eastern tundra, in the remote region of Magadan, which was once so notorious for its forced labor prisoners that it was tagged "gateway to hell." Jim Pranger and his family moved there in 2000, after they were unable to get visas to live in the nearby village of Palatka. At first, only children came to Sunday services, and before the Prangers could find enough adults to keep the congregation going, warnings from the local Orthodox clergy that it was a mortal sin to attend the Pranger services began to circulate through the cloistered community. Soon, Pranger and his family lost their religious visas--again. It was the third time they were forced by circumstances to relocate in Russia, and this time, they would go west to Krasnoyarsk, where there was more freedom to operate.
A self-professed "ex-druggie rock-and-roller," Pranger has a thick, long beard and black boots that make him look a little like an outlaw biker. The devout Baptist says that he grew his beard out only to protect his neck and face from the harsh Siberian winds and that he no longer drinks, smokes, swears, or listens to rock-and-roll the way he did in his Navy days--not since he found faith in Jesus in Jacksonville, Fla., 27 years ago after being lured to church by "pretty girls and a free chicken dinner." Now, if a rock-and-roll song comes on during a movie he's watching, Pranger hits the mute button.
For Pranger, life in Russia is an adventure. An avid reader of Christian literature, he gleans inspiration from the likes of Hudson Taylor, who charted his own course through China in the late 1800s, and David Livingstone, who roamed Africa translating the Bible into indigenous tongues. "A lot of these guys are my heroes. I like adventure! I like to get things started, but I don't have the patience to finish it," he says. Before he was a pastor, Pranger had tried a lot of things he'd never finish: construction, small-engine repair, farming.
advertisement
