I recall so well the summer of 1962, which I spent in Managua, Nicaragua. I was part of a group of ten college students on a Peace Corps-type of mission to that beleaguered, poverty-stricken country in Latin America. Often we attended a Baptist church there. We could not have been more different from the members of that little congregation. They were smaller than we. Their skin was darker. They were poorer by far. Because of the language difference, I could not understand much of what their preacher said. But then, folks tell me that can happen even where everybody speaks the same language! But despite all that, I felt totally at home among those people and was blessed by their services. And I know why. When they talked about their "Jesus Christo," I knew they were referring to my own Jesu…