Rooted in Life

Struggles to Understand and be Understood

2009-07-01T15:20:00.002+02:00

Before I came to South Africa, I never considered what a privilege is it to understand the words spoken around me. Before living in a country with eleven official languages, I took for granted that many may have to learn a second, third and even fourth language just to communicate in a new city, or even a new part of town. I had no concept of what it felt like to listen intently for the few words that I might recognize in a limited new vocabulary and the frustration of not knowing how those small recognitions fit with the many unknowns.

More than ten months into my time in South Africa, my isiZulu is not even close to conversational. I do not understand the majority of what is spoken around me at church functions. I can sit through a six hours communion service and only occasionally hear words that I recognize, never mind understand the context in which they are spoken. (At least now I am better at recognizing the major sections of the liturgy.) Most people I meet are more than excited that I can simply greet them and exchange a few pleasantries in their home language. To my frustration, there is no expectation that I understand anything in isiZulu when English is my first language.

I never considered what an intimate connection one has to one’s mother tongue. It is the language spoken in one’s home by one’s family members, the language in which one most easily expresses emotion. It is the language in which prayer comes most easily. After months of attending church services in isiZulu, to hear a liturgy in English, the words themselves suddenly had new meaning. They were no longer words I heard every Sunday. I had missed these words for many, many Sundays and greeted them like old friends that I had not seen in a very long time. I was comforted by their familiarity and excited to appreciate them in a profoundly new way.

Like many Americans, I have never taken the study of language seriously. I’ve never had to, because almost everyone that I associate with in the US also speaks English as a first language. The circles in which I move have never necessitated that I learn another language. I studied French for the required number of years in high school and dabbled in it for a few semesters at university, but I had no appreciation for how difficult it can be to learn a language in a practical way. There is a difference between doing grammar exercises in a classroom and trying to ask for directions in an unfamiliar city. There is also a difference between singing through phonetically-written hymns having no concept of what one is actually saying and feeling that one is praying every word one sings.

I have crossed a language, and hence a cultural, divide. In my ignorance as a white, middle class, English-speaking American, I had no understanding of the difficulties a black, poor, isiZulu-speaking South African might encounter simply on the basis of their linguistic understanding. To be a Zulu in South Africa is not only to learn one’s mother tongue, but also to be required to learn at least English and possibly Afrikaans. (Both are historically colonial languages, with all their cultural, political and ethical implications on society.) My struggles to take public transport and find my place in a church liturgy do not compare to trying to understand the instructions given by an emergency room nurse or a magistrate considering the custody of children. But now, even in my own limited and small way, I understand differently.

I know now what it means to be an outsider and a minority, to struggle to understand and be understood. This is a feeling compounded by a new awareness of my race, class and nationality in any given social interaction. Now I have perhaps even a vague understanding of what the Latino, working-class, Spanish-speaking immigrant in the US might experience in this struggle. I will never ask the question, which now seems grossly insensitive, “Why can’t they just learn English?!”

Caught in Between - May Newsletter

2009-06-15T15:03:00.002+02:00

I came that they may have life and have it abundantly.

- John 10:10

There are days in South Africa when I often feel that I travel between two different universes, especially when I work at the crèche. In the morning I catch a kombi taxi, which shuttles domestic workers to and from the upper-middle class neighborhood where I live, to town. In town I catch another taxi out to the townships. The drivers that don’t recognize me often assume I’m a health professional going to the public hospital. What other business would a young, decently dressed white woman with a backpack have in the poorest, almost entirely black part of town? They are always surprised when I tell them I volunteer at a crèche. A taxi driver once asked incredulously, “You came all the way to South Africa to work at a crèche?” (To work with pre-school children is perhaps even less glamorous than working in hospital.)

How is it possible, that within the same city, shacks made of sticks, mud and corrugated metal can exist beside luxury homes with granite counter kitchens and swimming pools? A failing public health system with no medications or sterile gloves and world-class private health facilities? Dysfunctional township schools riddled with violence and prestigious prep schools? The gross inequality between the rich and poor is one of the defining characteristics of South African society. In fact, it has one of the widest disparities in wealth of any country in the world. Though a volunteer living on a modest stipend, by virtue of the color of my skin and a certain amount of social capital, I have the ability to travel between these worlds at will. Many, in fact the majority, of South Africans do not have this privilege. I often feel caught between these worlds, comfortable in neither, riding the kombis between them every day.

The South African city in which I live and work is a microcosm of the global reality of socio-economic inequality. Americans live in the wealthiest, most militarily powerful society in the history of the world though they represent a tiny fraction of the world’s population. And yet according to Jeffrey Sachs, a development economist, “Almost three thousand people died needlessly and tragically at the World Trade Center on September 11; ten thousand Africans die needlessly and tragically every single day…of AIDS, TB, and malaria” (my emphasis). According to the UN Human Development Index, half the world’s population lives on less than $2 a day. And yet for me, these statistics were not enough, only numbers in the pages of books and NGO reports. Although not my initial motivation, I traveled over seven thousand nautical miles to come face to face with global inequality. I traveled on a jet plane only once to negotiate the space between two different worlds daily.

I thought that I was coming to South Africa to come face to face with poverty, to witness the stories of and walk alongside individuals. The poor are not people comfortably “out there” living in another world, although we construct our societies in such a way that it becomes easy to avoid them. (In South Africa people that are poor are relegating to townships and inner city neighborhoods, places people advised not to go and are not highlighted in guide books.) And yet I realize now that to talk about poverty is not enough. The daily realities faced by individuals, families and entire societies living in poverty are indeed tragic and dehumanizing. As Christians it is important that we have an understanding of poverty, but this is not enough.

We also need to be talking about wealth. Is it not also tragic and dehumanizing that citizens of developed countries can maintain such a high standard of living in the context of so much poverty? As an American, though raised in what I understood as middle class family, I have realize that I too come from a society of incredible wealth and privilege. I too participate in systems that maintain inequality. Our entire global society, not just those of live in poverty, is in need of transformation. The only thing that is really comfortably “out there” is the moon! Wealthy and poor alike exist together in this world, and we are all in need of God’s healing and transformative grace because of the sins we have committed against God and one another.

Jesus said that he came that we might have life and have it abundantly. What is the abundant life? Is it the American standard of living or something far simpler and more sustainable? Was abundance intended for the wealthy few or for all of humanity? For rich Christians, this realization requires a deep, sincere look at and engagement with the huge disparities between the developed and the developing world, extraordinary privilege and desperate poverty. This gap is not something “out there” on those “problem continents” but a reality in which all participate. Living in South Africa, I have entered into this tension. I invite you too, through your growing awareness, to enter into this space, to “travel” back and forth between these worlds. It is my sincere hope that we invite God’s presence, in abundance, to reconcile them. I pray that it may be so.May Highlights

Attending a Young Adults League circuit conference
Attending several theological cafes and a lecture at the School of Religion and Theology at the University of KwaZulu-Natal (UKZN)
Co-facilitating a Peer Education workshop with PACSA’s Gender and HIV/AIDS Desk
Preparing a statement on the theology of accompaniment for PACSA in consultation with staff and academics
Creating teaching aids, especially an entire alphabet complete with pictures, and attending my first parent meeting at the crèche

Even now I am sending you...

2009-06-01T15:07:00.000+02:00

“I thought you were going to say you were a missionary or something…”

I was shocked to be found out. Our conversation was ending, and I was surprised by this offhand comment. I had been chatting with a cashier in a grocery store.

“Where are you from?”
“My accent gives me away doesn’t it? I’m from the US.”
“Oh that’s cool. What are you doing here in South Africa?”
“I’m a volunteer doing development work.”
“Good for you. Are you enjoying your time here?”
“Very much so. I’m learning a lot from the people I work with.”

These conversations, usually with complete strangers or new acquaintances, usually unfold in the same way. I always introduce myself as a volunteer doing development work. I usually mention that I’m supported and sent by the Lutheran Church in US. But I never use the “m-word”: missionary. “Volunteer” is a safe, secular word, a very different sort of label. It has many positive connotations of giving of oneself and one’s time for the sake of bringing about worthwhile change. I like describing myself as a volunteer, because in those casual, fleeting conversations in the grocery store no one asks tough, uncomfortable questions about what I’m doing in this country.

I shy away from using the word “missionary” to describe myself in these conversations for several reasons. I haven’t taken ownership of the word, because my understanding of it is often quite different from how it is understood here in South Africa and abroad. When many people hear the word missionary they think of people handing out tracts on the street and trying to have conversations with people, the majority of which are very uninterested, even offended or threatened. For many, the faces of Christianity are often these missionaries on the street.

The history of the word “missionary” is a complex one. It is loaded with contemporary and historical understandings, many of which are not positive. Especially here in South Africa the word does not often have positive connotations. Missionaries came to this country with colonization. Although they brought the Christian faith, developed infrastructure through schools and hospitals, and translated Bible, they also often forced their new converts to adopt western cultural practices to prove that they truly “belonged” to the church. Though they often had a positive impact, in many cases missionaries also reproduced in the church the colonial structures of oppression and racism that were practiced in wider society. The white, western missionary was not often someone the black African or later the apartheid government understood as a positive agent in this country.

Being aware of the cultural and historical context in which missionaries worked, I am mindful of not wanting to undermine the churches that are already established here. Who I am, a Lutheran from the US, to be a missionary, in the traditional understanding of the word, when there is a Lutheran church here in South Africa with its own pastors and evangelists? Who am I to evangelize to the people of South Africa when there are many people here far more capable and equipped than I to do that work in this context? Instead, should my work here not be to accompany what is already taking place, to walk alongside and encourage these and other ministries?

Missionaries are almost exclusively associated with evangelism, sent to covert non-believers to the Christian faith. This understanding needs to be transformed and reclaimed by people serving in an international context and by Christians generally. This can only really occur, not in casual conversations, but in meaningful engagement through relationships. I acknowledge that evangelism is important part of Christian discipleship, but it should not be the only understanding of missionary work. To be a missionary is to be a witness. There are so many ways to witness to the Christian faith, in addition to evangelism.

Christians are called to live out their faith in daily, intentional acts of discipleship, in their relationships with others. Philip Knutson, an ELCA representative in Southern Africa, says that all Christians are missionaries. If all Christians are sent into the world for the sake of the Good News, we cannot be comfortable with safe labels like “volunteer.” To be a missionary is not reserved for a select, commissioned few. Christians are not just “do-gooders” on weekend service projects, though those projects certainly have their own value. To be a missionary requires an awareness of how daily actions witness one’s faith, which requires disciple and self-sacrifice in a way that it does not of the occasional volunteer. How would the church be different if each Christian felt called to be a missionary, felt the responsibility to witness through their words and actions? Though I am serving in South Africa, thousands of miles from home, should I be seen as different from any other Christian? Are we not all called to do God’s work in and for the sake of the world? I pray that it might be so.

"Typical Day" - April Newsletter

2009-05-06T09:03:00.007+02:00

Yet, O Lord, you are our Father;

we are the clay and you are our potter;

we are all the work of your hand.

- Isaiah 64:8

There is no such thing as a “typical day” in South Africa. Several people have asked me what exactly it is that I “do” on a daily basis. It is only in retrospect that I am thankful for the complete lack of description about my placement sites I initially received from YAGM. I didn’t have even a vague job description to which people could relate. I remember being frustrated in the months leading up to my departure that I was unable to tell people what exactly I would be “doing.”

For those of you who, like me, have a need to “do,” I will make some vague attempt at describing the “typical day.” In fact there are three potential “typical days” depending on which placement site I’m at and what day of the week it is. A day at the PACSA office almost always begins with making the rounds, saying hello to my co-workings, checking in on things both personal and professional. There is usually a meeting or two to attend, e-mail to check, and a report or minutes to write. Lunch often involves coordinating an order from the Indian restaurant down the block with co-workers. The day usually end when I realize I’m in danger of missing the last khombi out of town.

A day at the crèche starts with cleaning the hall and feeding the kids breakfast porridge. Then there are usually songs, games, drawing/writing activities, and stories (often in no particular order). Sometimes I help out with organizing the student and financial records. Then lunch and nap time round off the day.

Weekends are filled with errands that I put off during the week, social events (weddings, funerals, more casual hangouts), and church on Sundays. I attend a few different congregations, two in the townships and one at the Lutheran Theological Institute at the local university. Admittedly I am a very “left brain” person. I like structure. I like to know what I’ll be doing in any given day and week. Only several months after arrival I realized this need to “do,” if acted out in the way I’m accustomed, would have been a huge detriment to my year of service. A plan or an agenda would have made me so focused on a few specific things that I would not have seen anything in the peripherals of my vision or made room for anything unexpected. I’ve had to let go of this need for structure, which has given way to a decidedly more “right brain” schedule. There is so little that can be planned on any given day, because there are simply too many contingencies to predict. I might be invited to a person’s home in the afternoon or pulled into a meeting during the day. I might be asked to come on a hospital visit or a trip into town at the spur of the moment. These events, though unexpected, often become the most interesting and meaningful parts of my day. Much to my initial uncertainty, the plan is often to have no plan.

It’s humbling to realize that there’s something in control of this experience far more powerful and aware than I am. This year has been in a lesson in giving up control and learning this experience is about something much bigger that I am. In order to be shaped into something beautiful, clay must be soft and pliable. If it is hard, no work can be done, no creativity expressed. In many ways this time has shaped me and shaped itself, not the other way around. Iwas told at university that your experience is exactly what you make of it, that you create your own experience. If I had taken that mentality into a cross-cultural setting I would have been bound for failure. I realize now how much rigidity there is in this approach and how limiting it can be. My year of service as a YAGM is largely not a process I can control or shape, and I don’t understand that as a bad thing. It is something that has unfolded organically and prayerfully. There has been something very powerful in allowing God do the molding.

April Highlights

Helping facilitate a peer education workshop with the Gender and HIV/AIDS Desk at PACSA
Celebrating the Easter holidays at family’s home and attending my first sunrise service
Presenting reflections on the theology of accompaniment at a learning workshop
Observing the SA national and provincial elections, in which the African National Congress (ANC) was re-elected as the majority party
Attending the wedding and traditional Zulu ceremony of a friend from the ELCSA Young Adults League

Between Creation and Creator

2009-04-30T11:33:00.003+02:00

Recently I spent four weeks with no functioning indoor plumbing. Due to an infrastructure malfunction, the water supply was almost non-existent to the house at which I’m staying. A tiny trickle came from the tap behind the house, which was to provide water for four people. It took about an hour to fill a five-gallon bucket, making the water supply extremely limited. Only small amounts could be used for simple activities like bathing, cooking, and laundry. During one of those weeks there was also no electricity, which meant no lights after dark (excepts candles and flash lights) and no hot water for bucket baths. Aside from being incredibly tiresome, this experience was an opportunity to learn and grow.

I didn’t realize how dependent I had become on modern conveniences like indoor plumbing and lighting until I had to go without them. I had never questioned whether water would flow from the sink faucet when I turned it. Although I had heard stories from returned Peace Corps volunteers, I never thought I would learn the art and science of the bucket bath, because the shower always worked. After living for weeks with very little water, I became very aware of exactly how much I was using. When your only source is very limited and time-consuming to acquire, every drop counts. When the water came back on, this now almost instinctive mentality remained, that every drop counts. When the water flowed through the pipes again, it felt so luxurious to do laundry without hauling buckets of water that took hours to fill. It was a glutinous indulgence to take a long, hot shower. I realized I had taken for granted how wasteful I had been in my water consumption and how privileged I am to have running water at all. In the crèche’s neighborhood where I work, no one has indoor plumbing. There are taps along the road where women come with their buckets for their daily needs. I suddenly had a whole new appreciation for the lives of my co-workers and the children at the crèche. I had endured that hardship for an insignificant amount of time compared to potentially one’s entire life.

This experience begged the question, how many other resources as a privileged person from the developed world do I take for granted? How often do I assume that “simple” things like water and electricity will always be there? And for how many of the world’s people have these things never been available? As another example, it took me months to realize that I’m working for free. There is something inherent in the job description of a “volunteer” that I am not receiving wages for the work I do. But it took me several months to realize that I’m not “profiting” from this experience. For whatever reason, I had never taken this idea to heart, because the stipend that I am provided with takes care of my daily needs: food, transportation, utilities, etc. There is also money for things like newspapers, minutes for my cell phone, the occasional movie rental or coffee… My needs and then some are provided for. At the end of the month there is usually just enough, or even a little left over, if I budget well. Tracking how much money I spend has become a spiritual discipline. By recording every cent, I hold myself accountable to exactly where my stipend is going. With a “limited” amount of money every month, I am aware that I can’t take it for granted by spending frivolously. And yet, many of the people that I work with can’t count on something as basic as a monthly stipend and barely scrape by on social development grants from the government. With the South African unemployment rate at 40%, for many there are simply no jobs available to earn a decent living.

I have been told that how people spend their time and money is a direct reflection on their values. A person’s schedule and checkbook reveal quite a bit about who they are as a person and their priorities. But if everything we have comes from God, how we use what we have been given is also direct reflection on the sort of relationship we have with God. This includes not only more “western”-valued things like time and money but literally everything: the roof over our heads, water in the pipes, food on the table, opportunities for employment and contributing to society… This includes not only physical, tangible things necessary for life, but also the intangible needs for love, acceptance, and community through relationships with family and friends… This continuous blessing is very difficult to compartmentalize, because it permeates every part of our lives. How can we work on our “spiritual lives” if every encounter, every action is a spiritual act, a communion with our Creator? God is in all of it, because he gives us not only everything in our lives, but our lives themselves. We have a responsibility not only to use what we have been given, but also to ensure that all people have access to those things necessary for life, as a response to the love that God has shown us.

Food for thought:

884 million people in the world do not have access to safe water. This is roughly one in eight of the world's population. (WHO/UNICEF)

2.5 billion people in the world do not have access to adequate sanitation, this is almost two fifths of the world's population. (WHO/UNICEF)

The weight of water that women in Africa and Asia carry on their heads is commonly 20kg, the same as the average UK airport luggage allowance. (UN HDR 2006)

At the feet of another

2009-04-24T15:38:00.001+02:00

On many days when I arrive back at the house after spending a day at the crèche I wash my feet. Especially on rainy days the dirt road between the khombi stop and the crèche is cause for mud between my toes when I wear open hiking shoes. The dirt from the courtyard and surrounding neighborhood, carried on the shoes of the learners, constantly deposits itself on the floors of the hall and kitchen. Many days begin with mopping up droppings from the pigeons that manage to get into the hall overnight. I usually spill a drop or two of morning porridge on my pants while feeding a toddler. There are always snotty noses to wipe. Occasionally a child will wet his/her pants, and needs to be cleaned up. It seems that almost everything within reach of the kids ends up in their mouths, resulting in many objects covered in spit. There is always a rather large insect, lizard, or bird to be chased out. Working at the crèche can be a dirty job. The feeling of warm water and soap on my feet at the end of a long, often exhausting day is a simple blessing.

I was struck during Holy Week by the connection between washing my own feet and how Jesus, through his example, calls us to wash the feet of others. (This text is read on Maundy Thursday.) After washing the feet of his disciples in preparation for the Passover meal, Jesus said, “So if I, your Lord and Teacher, have washed your feet, you also ought to wash one another’s feet. For I have set you an example, that you also should do as I have done to you” (John 20:14-15). I realized that, at the end of the day, I’m often washing my own feet and not the feet of others. The only time that I have literally washed someone else’s feet is during Maundy Thursday worship service.

It is so easy to spiritualize Jesus’ commandment to wash one another’s feet. In Jesus’ day the washing of feet was reserved for the slaves, for the lowest class in society. We no longer exist in a slave-owning society, and foot washing is no longer a ritual of hospitality. What is the equivalent of “foot washing” in our day? How does one place oneself “at the feet” of another? What are the acts of service that make our lives cleaner and more comfortable, which require getting dirty? Cleaning toilets, changing diapers, collecting garbage, mopping floors, washing laundry and dishes… And who are the “slaves” of our day, the people who take the thankless jobs no one else wants? The domestic workers, child-care givers, nurses’ assistants, janitors and garbage truck workers… Are these the kind of people, according to Jesus, who most closely following his example of service in our times? Are we all called to do the same?

Jesus is calling us to get our hands and feet dirty, to take off our “outer garments” and learn the vulnerability of service. Touching someone else’s feet is an intimate act. A person’s feet can tell you a lot about them. It can be difficult to create this kind of physical connection in other mundane aspects of service, but an element of vulnerability is always involved. In our day there is often a disconnect between the “service sector” and those receiving services. There is very little human interaction, no opportunity to serve another person, because a “service” is bought and paid for.

In the mundane, even servile act, of washing his disciples’ feet Jesus shows us, not just tells us, how we are to serve and love one another. Love, manifest in acts of service, is often this radical thing encountered in ways one doesn’t expect. The call not to be leaders but servants, to place ourselves “at the feet” of others, is an uncomfortable, inconvenient thing. How would our days be drastically different if we sought not to be served but to serve? What would happen if we took Jesus’ commandment seriously and realized that none of us are too good to get our hands (and feet) dirty for the sake of others?

Women In God's Image

2009-04-02T15:35:00.001+02:00

So God created humankind in his image,
in the image of God he created them;
male and female he created them.
– Genesis 1:27

A husband cheated. A pastor perpetrated sexual assault. A teenager fell pregnant. A daughter cared for her abusive father. We have strayed so far from God’s living-giving intentions in creating us… Before I came to South Africa, gender-based violence, sexism, abuse and broken families were issues “out there.” Listening to the stories of women here, I am unexpectedly learning to confront this same sense of brokenness within myself. Issues of gender, the relationships between men and women, is no longer something out there, but real and present “in here.” Though separated by the gulfs of culture, language and life experience, South African women are teaching me that I too am a woman, sharing in the experiences of a fallen humanity. And I too am a woman created in God’s image.

Over a weekend in March I had the privilege of participating in a workshop called Women in God’s Image (WIGI). The purpose of the workshop was for a group of twenty-odd women to ask two questions. What does God mean to me? And, what do I mean to God? Women of diverse races, mother tongues, and ages interpreted these questions through art, poetry, and prose. To put pen to paper and brush to canvas was a courageous act, a risk that required copious amounts of honesty and vulnerability. For many, including myself, the creative process was also healing, a moment of catharsis. It was powerful to prod often definitive, traumatic moments as things no long inside oneself but out. There was freedom in making those experiences one’s own, to transform something ugly and broken in something beautiful, a work of art. It was a birthing process that required large dollops of grace and trust.

As a woman, and now something of a gender activist through my work at PACSA, I was surprised that I had never considered that my womanhood could contribute to my understanding of God. If God is Spirit, beyond the human definitions of male or female, can God be understood as Mother as well as Father? The comparison of God to a mother hen sheltering her brood under her wings is often overlooked (Matthew 23:37), as well as many images from the Old Testament. God “knit us” together and “hemmed us in” even as we were being made in the womb (Psalm 139). I was challenged to consider life as a birthing process, that God, in agonizing pain, is delivering us to eternal life (Romans 8:22-23). And yet like little children we bang away with rebellious fists. For me this is an exciting new understanding of God.

The WIGI workshop was a powerful affirmation that women too are created in the image of God; that they too are holy and set apart for God’s purposes. Throughout history and today, half the world’s population, in ways both subtle and obvious, has been told that it is “less than.” How are Christians living out the great commandment to love one another in this reality? Perhaps new understandings of God are part of the answer.

Below is a poem I wrote during the WIGI workshop.

Meditation on Psalm 139

Embrace from the womb,
Hemmed in,
Behind and before,
Known, yet restless.
Kicking.

Wrapped in a dark, watery blanket
Then torn into light.
Hands folded in prayer
And a sucking thumb
The day you went home from hospital.

Little banging fists.
A nipple offered—
Rejected.
To know better,
Put off childish ways.

To be a child to enter the Kingdom…
Naked.
First born.
Known flesh from Mother God.

Childish Love

2009-03-06T14:24:00.001+02:00

I’m embarrassed to admit that I’ve never really liked kids. If I had a choice between child care and almost anything else, I would choose the anything else. Like so many things, I realized that all I needed was a little exposure to change my attitude. I needed to experience in order to understand. I’m beginning to reconsider my disinclination toward children through the exchange of smiles, laughter, games, and piggyback rides. At the crèche where I work there are definitely good days and bad days. There are times when it seems like every other learner is crying, fighting, losing a shoe, or refusing to eat lunch. On days like those it’s difficult to believe that I have so much to learn from them; that they have a simple, uncomplicated wisdom from which most adults can and should learn.

A common saying is that kids won’t care what you have to say until they know you care. In every conversation, in every human interaction, there are two levels of communication: what is being said and everything else. “Everything else” is nonverbal–body language, emotional state, preconceived notions, prejudices, etc. It’s almost a separation between the head and the heart, the words and what they mean. A person will never listen sincerely to what one says unless that person first communicates approval on some basic level, or on a more profound level, expresses love. I think children are much more in tune with this sort of nonverbal communication than adults. It’s so easy to show love and be loved by the kids at the crèche. We speak very little of the same verbal language. My isiZulu is about as good, if not worse, than their English. Communication happens often on the nonverbal level–a smile, a hand to hold, even sitting quietly together. As adults there are so many simple joys that we take completely for granted, because we have lost this child-like ability to show love.

The adults I find most difficult to love here in South Africa, and in the US as well, are often the people from which I have the most to learn. When we become adults and “put off our childish ways,” we become selective in whom we love. While children will love practically anyone who shows them affection, adults love those people who are easiest to love, the people with which they have the most in common, who reinforce their prejudices and biases. We learn nothing about love through those people who are easy to love and love us return. What if I treated the adults in my life with which I often struggle in a more “child-like” way?

I didn’t realize that even when I think there is a disconnect between what I’m thinking and what I’m saying, nonverbal communication is just as, if not more, powerful than what’s actually coming out of my mouth. Even if I think I’m acting professionally, a person has no interest in what I’m saying if, however unintentionally, I’m conveying judgment or disapproval. Instead of subtly, or perhaps not so subtly, communicating condemnation, I need to examine my feelings towards these difficult people. How can I learn to love those people with whom I struggle the way that God loves them, as His children? How can I learn not to be so selective in whom I love, and only return the love of those who have shown me love first? God is passionately seeking to be in relationship with every single one of us, not just those people we like. This child-like love is radical in that, though as humans we are unable to do so, it shows no partiality.

I’m beginning to understand why Jesus said that we must become like children to enter the kingdom of God. I used to think this idea was completely ridiculous. What could children, or any “non-productive” part of society, possibly have to teach adults about God’s kingdom? Having already attained some sort of “maturity,” what do adults have to learn from the whimsical, unhindered ways of children? As an adult I like to think that I’ve put off my childish ways, that I’ve done a lot of growing up—but I realize now how much growing up I have left to do.

Things Seen and Unseen

2009-03-06T13:59:00.007+02:00

The longer I’m here in South Africa, the fewer pictures I take. I no longer feel the need to “document” the people I know and the places where I work. I find myself looking at people face to face instead of through a camera lens. It makes me very uncomfortable when people refer to my year of service with YAGM as “traveling.” Although I hardly blend into a crowd here in South Africa, I’ve become fairly good at picking out the tourists. They stick out for any number of reasons: dress, mannerisms, accent. In December I had the opportunity to be a tourist again when I visited Johannesburg for the first time since I arrived in country. Living here for several months now, I chaffed under adopting the tourist mentality again. I visited the Apartheid Museum and Constitution Hill. Both trips were moving, provocative explorations into South Africa’s history; tributes to how much the country has overcome in the ugly, brutal face of apartheid.

Tourists skim along the surface of a country. Bound to their guidebooks like Bibles, tourists want to see the “sights,” “attractions,” and “highlights,” within a maximum of three to four days per city. They visit the museums, shopping centers, and recommended restaurants. To enjoy the “ethnic flavors” they might even enjoy a traditional dance performance or buy hand crafted jewelry. None of these activities require any real engagement with the people(s) and the culture(s). Interaction may be reduced to ordering food from a waiter at a restaurant or asking questions of a scripted tour guide. The rest of one’s time can easily be spent in the company one’s fellow travelers. As a tourist, one sees what the South African Department of Tourism wants one to see, and the guidebooks will not make mention of certain areas. It’s so easy to get caught up in the national narrative, the public discourse that one is “supposed” to hear.

As a visitor to Johannesburg, I did not stay in a recommended hotel, or even a youth hostel. I stayed in the flat of a colleague in Hillbrow, arguably one of the most notorious neighborhoods in all of South Africa. One of the stark realities of this country is that it is possible to move between different worlds in a matter of minutes. Constitution Hill, home of the Constitutional Court, lies just outside Hillbrow. The South African constitution is arguably one of the most liberal in the world, holding human rights such as access health care, education, social security, and other basic services (among many other things) sacrosanct. And yet, a five minute walk from the highest court in the land I heard gun shots every night and was told that I was not allowed to walk around the neighborhood without an escort (preferably without a purse for fear of petty theft). A few blocks away from Constitution Hill the government can not provide basic services like police protection and consistent access to electricity and running water. Is the South African government living out its ideals through policy implementation and political will? The reality on the ground for many, perhaps most, suggests no.

But is any government sincerely any different? In Washington D.C., American politicians consistently espouse values like equality and democracy. Parts of the city are indeed beautiful. But it is also a city with one of the highest crime and prostitution rates in the country. In any American city, some have the luxury to avoid certain neighborhoods, pretending that they doesn’t exist, or that they’re not “our problem,”–told to stay away for their own safety. It is easy to forget that fellow citizens live a life of poverty in those very neighborhoods, completely removed from the experience of some. Some, perhaps most, willingly don’t “see” those places. Their sight becomes selective. Have we become tourists in our own country, cutting ourselves off from experiencing those places that aren’t recommended in the guidebooks? Avoiding certain places out of fear (rational or irrational)? Living in South Africa has helped me to see my own country in new ways as the scales continue to fall from my eyes. I hope to continue to see not only South Africa, but also the United States, not through a camera lens, but with my own eyes, wide open.

Conversion

2009-02-05T15:06:00.003+02:00

[After Paul’s conversion on the road to Damascus…] And immediately something like scales fell from his eyes, and his sight was restored. Then he got up and was baptized.
- Acts 9:18

We say that we want to help the poor, but do we really? I thought that I was compelled. When I attended my first Ecumenical Advocacy Days conference in Washington DC, I had a conversion moment. I knew that the way I lived out my faith would never be the same. My life had been going in one direction and took a complete U-turn. During those few days I knew, that on some level, I would spend the rest of my life on the side of the poor. My rationale for going to the developing world, for volunteering, was that I wanted to put a face to the statistics. I wanted to engage with people, not just read about them in glossy NGO brochures. I felt that if I was truly going to advocate on behalf of the poor (or if anyone was going to take me seriously) that I needed to spend time on the ground, to witness what it really means to confront the daily realities of poverty. Frankly, I had no idea what I was getting myself into. I said I wanted to help the poor. Do I really have any idea what that statement means? Am I ready to be converted yet again? That is something about which I’m not so sure…

NGOs, government agencies, and churches (among many others) have institutionalized development work. This is both a very good and a very bad thing. There is a constant emphasis on numbers and results. In “NGO speak” development happens through baseline studies, action and business plans, M & E (monitoring and evaluation), and statistical analysis. The process is clinical and dehumanized. Agencies no longer deal with human beings but with “the poor,” “the marginalized,” “the disadvantaged,” “the [insert appropriate adjective here].” People become objects. It is so much more comfortable, palatable, and safer to objectify a person than to enter into their lives, in the same way that it is so much easier to mail a shoebox full of semi-useless items overseas than it is to think about systematic socio-economic inequality. We praise Mother Theresa, because she selflessly gave her life to serving the poor, but we murder Archbishop Oscar Romero because he asked why people are poor in the first place. Romero was murdered because he threatened the status quo in a radical way, in such a way that people were willing to kill him.

People say all the time that they want to help the poor by volunteering their time and donating their money to charity. It’s a fashionable, socially acceptable, résume-building, even noble thing to do. (And it looks great on university applications.) The wealthy give to charity by attending lavish dinners and golf tournaments. To the world this is “helping the poor.” The entire process is sanitized. The typical charity event involves no interaction with people that are poor, the people that will be scavenging the dumpsters after the event. Even those experiences that are interactive, like volunteering at a soup kitchen or a homeless shelter, leave the volunteers the luxury of leaving at the end of the day, to returning to the comforts of their daily lives.

Justice is not such a popular, socially acceptable concept. It points to our hypocrisy, the dichotomy between “helping the poor” and sharing in the lives of the poor, coming down on the side of the poor. That is a concept for which people are martyred, one of the very things for which Jesus was crucified. Jesus was always hanging out with the "wrong" people. Who are the sinners and tax collectors of our day? The homeless man on the street corner, the drug addict in the alley, the physically and mentally disabled that act out in public, the illegal immigrant working in a restaurant kitchen, the HIV positive person rejected from her church… What philanthropist is willing to do a photo-op with a homeless person? We have to ask ourselves, who is the absolute last person we would want to be seen in public with? Those are exactly the people, the people on the margins, that Jesus would be spending his time with now.

Six months ago I thought that I was compelled. I thought that I knew what it meant to live with the constant knowledge that a person dies every four seconds from a preventable, poverty-related cause. But I was wrong. I was still operating in the charity paradigm. Have I ever been willing to be seen with the wrong people? What would everybody think? How would I feel? Would I have to think and act differently? Am I willing to be converted again and again? To admit that I more of a Pharisee than I ever thought, because I’m so wrapped up in my own self-righteousness that I can’t see the Son of God right in front of me? This is the kind of conversion that happens every day, as I realize more and more (and perhaps less and less) what sort of life a follower of Christ is called to.

Am I a Jonah or a James?

2009-01-27T16:25:00.002+02:00

Below is a devotion that I prepared for my home church's annual meeting on 25 January. I was able to deliver it via Skype. Many thanks to all the people that made this connection possible. This reflection is based on Jonah 1:1-4 and Mark 1:16-20.

Am I a Jonah or a James? Am I a runaway prophet or a disciple of Christ? I ask myself those questions every day. Even though I’m living and serving in South Africa as a called and commissioned volunteer, I’m no different from you. God is not only calling me to service. He’s calling every single one of us. How will we answer that call? Are we even listening for that call? When God said to Jonah, “Go at once to Ninevah,” he ran in the opposite direction. (And we all know what happened to Jonah.) But when Jesus said to Simon, Andrew, James, and John, “Follow me,” they left what they were doing immediately. They didn’t say, “Wait! Let me tie up some loose ends first,” or even, “Wait! Let me say goodbye to my friends and family.” James and John left their father behind in their fishing boat that very moment. How many of us practice that kind of radical obedience to Christ’s call in our daily lives? I know that I fall painfully short.

We like to think that we’re disciples, that when Jesus calls we will immediately answer. But so often we are more like Jonah. When Jesus calls, we have so many excuses: “I’m busy. I’m already overcommitted. I have responsibilities. I can’t fit one more thing into my life. I don’t have time.” But like Jonah, what we’re really saying is that we’re scared. We’re scared that when Jesus calls we might have to think in entirely new ways, that our relationships might have to change, that we might have to use our time and resources differently. We’re scared of what God might be capable of, that He might actually be gracious, merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love.

I’ve heard that Emanuel considers its budget to be not only a moral, but a theological, statement. (I say this now, because experience has taught me that discussing finances is often the most contentious part of an annual meeting.) I would like to take this idea several steps further. Not only your budget, but everything you do at Emanuel, is a statement of your faith, your priorities, and your commitments. When you ask yourselves if you’re runaway prophets or disciples of Christ, you will have to answer both. We are both sinners and saints; part of a broken, sinful humanity and children of God. We live in that tension, but we are also called to live less and less like Jonah. So I challenge you, the people of Emanuel, to continually ask yourselves, where is God calling you today, in this very moment? How will you answer, as a Jonah or a James?

The Hard Way

2009-01-08T11:30:00.007+02:00

“Where is everything?” I was speaking with an acquaintance before a council meeting in the sanctuary of a church. We chatted about my work at the crèche. She then proceeded to walk from the sanctuary to the fellowship hall where the crèche is housed during the week. As she peered into the dim room, she asked, “Where is everything?” She had expected the hall to be completely changed as a result of my work in a few short months and could not hide the disappointment on her face when it looked exactly the same. Although she quickly realized how unrealistic her expectations were, I could not help but think that she was confusing me with a miracle worker.

There is a strong temptation here to do the easy thing, to write an e-mail home requesting funds to support the crèche. As my home congregations generously support my time here to South Africa, I have no doubt that they would also support extremely poor children, though they have only seen in pictures on my blog, especially if they knew that I was working with them directly. Their generosity and good faith are truly a blessing. With the favorable exchange rate, even a few hundred US dollars could provide copious amounts of new stationary, books, toys, and even clothing and food. The staff and learners at the crèche would be extremely pleased, being slightly lifted out of a dire financial situation. I would feel great about myself, because I had actually “done something” with my time in SA. My sending communities would also feel great, because they would be supporting my “doing something.” Superficially, everyone would be happy. A good deed would be done. But what happens in another year when I’m gone? Where will the books and toys come from then? Although significantly more difficult, I am working with local resources and expertise to create sustainable changes at the crèche.

“People are coming to paint the kitchen?” I was in a meeting with a pastor and the principle of the crèche. We talked about the institutional relationships between the church and the crèche itself. We brainstormed strategies for creating more parishioner involvement with its affairs, as most have little or no connection with them. Toward the end of the conversation the pastor mentioned there were plans for a short-term mission team from Europe to paint the kitchen while they were visiting Pietermaritzburg. Although perhaps not in perfect condition, there is no pealing or seriously discolored paint in our crèche kitchen. “They’re planning to paint the kitchen? I can think of a hundred things they could do besides paint the kitchen! Why didn’t they ask us what we could use?” I said.

This is typical of so much of the development work in Africa. A well-intentioned short-term mission team or a donor-backed NGO swoops into a township, or any other very poor community, with a plan to “fix things.” Little, if any, consultation with the local population is done, and there is often little regard for the hierarchical social structures already in place. No one had asked the principal of the crèche what improvements she would find most helpful. Questions such as, “What do you think this community needs?” and “Whose approval do I need to carry out this project?” most are often not asked, because there is an assumption that they already know what is needed.

How could it possibly be a bad thing for people in the developed world to contribute, through a partner, directly to people in the developing world? How could it possibly be a bad thing that a group of university students goes to Africa instead of Myrtle Beach for spring break? These are well-meaning efforts, but ones that often go awry because of the substantial complexity of development work. There are no “quick fixes” or “feel good” moments in confronting the daily realities of systemic socio-economic inequality. (Although there are moments of real joy.) A nuanced, discerning approach is needed that requires a knowledge of the bureaucratic structures of both government agencies and NGOs, grant writing procedures, availability of local resources, health and public safety issues… This list goes on ad infinitum. Development work happens in a complex web of constantly changing socio-economic and political forces.

This is not to say that you should not support development work because it is something to be left to “experts.” But it does require a discerning, informed approach. You should invest in development organizations and short-term missions trips. But as Americans we like to throw money at “problems.” It makes us feel better, because there is an illusion that we’re actually helping accomplish “something,” although that something is far removed from ourselves. So yes, donate to development organizations and support mission initiatives, but be discerning in how you use your money. Instead of sending shoeboxes of cheap toys and toothpaste once a year for Christmas, consider supporting programs that seeks sustainability, programs that accompany and invest in their companions instead of trying to “fix” them. Sustainable development does not depend on a one-time hand out, as good as that may feel, but demands real engagement, not only with issues and statistics, but more importantly, with the people on the ground. Instead of objectifying “the poor,” development calls for building relationships with people that are poor. I pray that we have the wisdom to know the difference between helping “the poor” and accompanying people.

A Long View

2008-12-28T17:36:00.003+02:00

The young adult stage of life can be one of almost constant transition. Many switch time zones, or even continents, with each new course of study, year of service, or job opportunity. Some move away from home after graduating high school to attend university. Others enter the work force or go to graduate school. Countless possibilities present themselves, many far from home and the comforts of the familiar.

In South Africa, although I’m building some wonderful friendships and have been shown immense hospitality, I can never feel truly at home. As soon as I think that I have something figured out, I realize that there are several more unknown layers of meaning underneath that something. I can never really forget that I’m not a South African. I expect to be made uncomfortable, to be put in awkward social situations, to be asked to do something I’m not prepared for, and to always be meeting new people.

In conversations with people I’ve just met, my accent usually betrays the fact that I’m not South African. The questions that follow often go something like this:

“Where are you from?”
“I’m from the US. I’m here a volunteer.”
“Oh, really. How long are you here for?”
“A year.”
“And when are you leaving?”
“Probably mid- to late-July.”

When are you leaving? Although I’ve been in South Africa for four months now, in some ways it seems that I have still just arrived, that I am barely scratching the surface. A year is both very short and very long, both significant and insignificant. The story of my year of service is an infinitesimal part of the story of the people of South Africa, one that is thousands of years old. In many ways I’m just passing through, a sojourner, fully present but ultimately on my way to the next thing. When are you leaving?

I’m waiting for a moment of repose that never arrives. When I’m on the cusp of completing some big task, I look forward to a moment of calm, of stillness. But that moment never comes. The end of one thing inevitably produces several more things. Inertia hurtles me forward in time.

Regardless of a particular life stage, ultimately, we are all strangers in a strange land, passing through on our way to the next thing. It’s easier to feel at “home” in one’s country of birth, among family and friends who speak one’s mother tongue. Supposedly as a young adult is the best time to serve abroad before becoming a “real adult” and “settling down” with the obligations of a career, a family, and a mortgage. Is to be a “real adult” simply to be deluded into thinking that one’s life is all that predictable, that it brings some sort of stability?

Do we ever really settle down? Is the purpose of life to settle down into the comfort of predictability, or are must we ultimately serve something bigger than ourselves? Or do we ever realize that our lives are always in process, that transition is inevitable, and that we are part of a greater story that is far beyond our comprehension?

We are part of a far greater story: God’s story. Our lives here on Earth are but a tiny part in the history of the cosmos, however significant or insignificant our impact on that history may be. Although that feeling of smallness can be overwhelming, it is also liberating. In not being able to do everything, we recognize that we can do something in a meaningful way.

It helps now and then to step back and take a long view. The Kingdom is not only beyond our efforts, it is even beyond our vision.

We accomplish in our lifetime only a small fraction of the magnificent enterprise that is God’s work. Nothing we do is complete, which is another way of saying that the Kingdom always lies beyond us.

We are workers, not master builders; ministers, not messiahs. We are prophets of a future not our own.

- Archbishop Oscar Romero

World AIDS Day

2008-12-10T13:59:00.006+02:00

A year ago on World AIDS Day I was a student organizing students on a university campus. I was trying to convince my peers that it was in their best interest and the “right thing” to care about a pandemic happening thousands of miles away on “the problem continent” (although it is happening on a much smaller scale at home too). I helped coordinate a letter writing campaign to the US Senate in support of legislation for the President’s Emergency Plan for AIDS Relief (PEPFAR), which took place during a worship at the campus chapel. Although a profoundly different experience, this year on World AIDS Day I was also a young person among young people. But I was the student and my peers were the teachers. There was nothing spiritualized or theoretical about the day. It wasn’t advocacy; it was “real life” in a way I wouldn’t have been able to comprehend a year ago.

The day started with a march. Hundreds of people sang, danced, carried banners, and distributed flyers and red ribbons to passers-by. Stopping traffic and making active participants of those standing on the side of the road was a powerful way to disseminate information. I had an adrenaline rush from being among so many people singing and marching, and the almost parade atmosphere of the police escort cars and people watching.

The march was followed by a rally. There were speakers, dramas, and singers. On the field where the rally was held were mobile HIV testing sites. Each of the three trailers had several consultation rooms fully staffed by counselors and nurses. Most South Africans are “HIV ignorant.” Of the 600 people that attended the event, over 70 tested for HIV and learned their status. Knowing one’s status is extremely important in stopping the spread of the pandemic. Those who test negative are encouraged to continue practicing safe behaviors and habits. Those who test positive can take the necessary steps in getting treatment and support. The people at the rally weren’t just talking about HIV/AIDS. They were doing something to stop its spread.

What struck me about the types of people in attendance was that they were either young or old. This year World AIDS Day fell on a Monday, which could explain why there were not as many adults present. Many were probably working. The number of young people there, especially those that participated in the program and decided to get tested, was a strong testament to power that youth can have in transforming a society. There was strength in their commitment to change, to taking ownership of their generation.

The young people of South Africa have inherited so many challenges: high rates of crime and unemployment, limited access to quality education, and a failed health care system. These are challenges most American students and young adults cannot even fathom. As a young person myself, I know how quickly some in the older generations write me off, won't take me seriously, or condemn me as apathetic and uninterested. Many older people think youth are more fascinated by the latest video game or designer brand of jeans than becoming involved in the community. Yes, it is true, that there are many young people that do need swift kick in the pants to get off the couch. But this year on World AIDS Day, I was a witness to the power that youth can have to making a positive impact on their communities. Young people may have a lot to learn, but they also have a lot to teach, especially to their western peers.

What I'm thankful for

2008-12-09T12:01:00.005+02:00

When people ask me a year from now how I celebrated Thanksgiving in South Africa, I’ll have some awesome stories to tell about hiking in the Drakensburg Mountains and taking a day trip into Lesotho. If the conversation doesn’t stop there, the follow up questions might include, “Is Thanksgiving celebrated in South Africa?” (No, it is not. Thanksgiving is based on distinctly American historical events that have little, if any, relevance in SA.), and “Lesotho? What’s Lesotho?” (It is not, in fact, a dance move. Lesotho is a tiny, landlocked country within the borders of SA. It’s pronounced leh-SOO-too.)

The YAGM volunteers in SA gathered for our first retreat over the Thanksgiving weekend at the home of our country coordinators, Brian and Kristen Konkol. Kristen cooked an amazing dinner complete with turkey and pumpkin pie. We didn’t watch the Macy’s Thanksgiving Day parade or drink hot chocolate to ward off the cold. But we did go to the pool at the local university in sunny, 85 degree weather. The seasons are in the southern hemisphere are opposite those in the northern hemisphere. As the US is bracing for winter, SA is heating up for summer. I typically don’t associate the pool with Thanksgiving, but it made me really think about the meaning of the holiday. Is Thanksgiving really about chilly fall weather and pumpkin pie, or is it about giving thanks for the things that matter most?

As we sat down to dinner in the mid-afternoon, there was a shared feeling that, as volunteers, we are becoming more and more like family. Far from our own kin in the US on such a family-oriented holiday, we realized the importance of the people with whom we are sharing this experience. During orientation at LSTC, the chaplain told us that we if we never “psychologically unpacked” that we would have a very difficult time integrating into our countries of service. Bonding with our fellow volunteers and looking to them for support in this experience has been an important part of the unpacking process. We had to acknowledge that we’re all in this together.

One of the most common things people are thankful for is “friends and family.” As Americans we like to think that we create our families through our life choices: that we choose to marry a certain person and to have a certain number of kids, or even whether to stay in touch with blood relatives. We also choose which friends and communities we consider “family.” For South Africans, one’s identity is inherently bound up in the family and community into which one is born. There is no choice in being part of a community, because individuals are inherently defined by their relationships to each other. South African culture places a stronger value on how communities shape individuals than how individuals shape themselves.

Frankly we didn’t choose whom the other volunteers in the SA YAGM program would be in the same way that we didn’t choose our host families or placement sites. The program chose for us. As volunteers were “born into” the same community, not because we sought each other out or chose to serve with each other. Although our placements vary widely across the country, we are defined by our group identity and by the church we serve. We are not best friends, but we are family, I might even dare to say, an African family. And that is something for which I am incredibly thankful.

Pictures courtesy of Amy Swenson

Where are the townships?

2008-11-19T08:39:00.004+02:00

The townships in South Africa are a legacy of apartheid and ultimately of colonialism. As a black, legally, one could not live anywhere else in a city before 1994 when South Africa became a democratic country. Originally built with the intention of being temporary homes for migrant workers, townships sprang up on the outskirts of cities throughout SA. They still have a makeshift, hurried feel to them, although people have lived there for generations: half-built houses and little, if any, infrastructure. Access to basic services like health care, water, electricity, and sanitation are limited, if available at all.

In the past few weeks I’ve begun to reflect on the townships in a different way. It would be insensitive to think of the townships as a metaphor, perhaps even crass to compare to something else the way people live and die in poverty. But I’ve started asking, where are the “townships” in my own life? Where are the “townships” in Boston where I spent four years at university? Where are the places that some can pretend don’t exist, because they would never choose to go there voluntarily? The Fens? Dorchester? South Boston?

The only time I went to Dorchester in four years of living in Boston was when I served jury duty. It wasn’t easy to get there. I took two unfamiliar bus routes. On the second bus I felt for the first time what it was like to be a minority. During that rather long ride two Teach for America volunteers in bright red jackets boarded and exited the bus before I reached the courthouse. Like I often do now, they stuck out like sore thumbs as white volunteers in a predominantly African-American neighborhood. Although the extreme and pervasive nature of poverty in Africa does not compare to the poverty in US, I spent four years in denial that poverty existed at all. I even attended a church that housed a homeless shelter in its basement! Like here in SA, I was a privileged, on my way to being well-educated white that could afford the luxury of denial.

The townships are an interesting phenomenon, in that as a North American, it would be possible to spend an entire year in SA without setting foot in a township. I could attend and serve a white, suburban congregation. I could socialize with white university and seminary students. I could do all my shopping and find entertainment in the city center.

By the very nature of my work here, that option, to never go to a township, is out of the question. I spend part of my week, often the most difficult part of my week, working in a place where it becomes impossible to look away, to be in denial. It becomes impossible not to be in touch with the realities of limited access to health care, water, electricity, and sanitation. When children come to the crèche in tattered clothes and hungry for their morning porridge, it is difficult not to ask why. Why was I numb to this reality that literally billions of people on this planet share? In my remote, insulated Boston bubble, even as an activist and organizer, I had the convenience of looking away when I chose to. I was not confronted with hard realities life and death on a daily basis. For the majority of the world’s population, looking away is not an option: it’s a daily existence.

Early one morning last week, as I was sweeping the floor of the crèche, I couldn’t help but think to myself “Is this what I signed up for? How naïve was I?” One of my primary motivations for coming to the African continent was to put faces and stories to the statistics. I was asked during one of my interviews for this program, what makes the statistics any different from the stories of the poor that you could read? Why not just buy a book? The statistics do not even begin to paint the picture. The fact that one person dies every four seconds from treatable, preventable, poverty-related causes translates into the reality that I have started mentally preparing myself for the possibility of losing one of the children at the crèche during the year. The statistics don’t pull at your heart or sink in the pit of your stomach like being present for children born into desperate circumstances by no fault or choosing of their own. Sharing my presence is so hard sometimes, because I can’t look away. I no longer have that luxury. You are there when kids are laughing and sobbing, satisfied and hungry, healthy and HIV positive. Although the gifts of time and presence can be difficult to share, I would not trade that opportunity for anything. I thank God for the privilege and the ability to do more than read a book.

HIV/AIDS and Gender-Based Violence in the South African Context

2008-11-17T15:52:00.008+02:00

Below is a very brief paper that I wrote for PACSA as part of introductory section to a much larger project. Many of the statistics are startling, but eye-opening to the realities of the South African context.

The high prevalence rates of both gender-based violence and HIV/AIDS have created interrelated crises in South Africa. At 5.5 million people, South Africa had the highest number of HIV infections of any country in the world in 2007 according to Joint United Nations Programme on HIV/AIDS (UNAIDS) and the World Health Organisation (WHO). The Department of Health in South Africa stated that 18.3% of adults (15-49 years) were living with HIV in 2006, although the prevalence rate varied widely from province to province. In Kwa-Zulu Natal, 39% of pregnant women tested positive at antenatal clinics. In South Africa women are disproportionately infected with HIV. Among 15-24 year-olds, women represent 90% of new infections. The HIV incidence among women 20-29 years-old was approximately 5.6% in 2005, nearly six times higher than the incidence rate among men of the same age range. As AIDS-related illnesses are the leading cause of death in South Africa, it cannot be denied that this country faces a health crisis of massive proportions.

The spread of the HIV/AIDS pandemic is directly related to the elevated occurrence of gender-based violence in South Africa. According to People Opposed to Women Abuse (POWA), a woman is raped in South Africa every 26 seconds. Every fourth woman is in an abusive relationship, and every six days a woman is killed by her intimate male partner. One in four girls (under the age of 16) has been sexually abused. If a rapist is HIV positive, his victim is also likely to become infected. When a woman is in an abusive relationship, she is far less likely to be able to negotiate using condoms with her partner, a proven method of preventing HIV infection. Women are also more likely to be infected than men for biological reasons. The friction from forced sex creates lesions through which the virus can be transmitted in semen and blood over a wide surface area. A common misconception is that women are more likely to be infected through risky sexual behaviors, such as promiscuity, but a large South African study demonstrated that 61% of all HIV positive women had been faithful to one partner their entire lives. The high level of gender-based violence in South Africa is not only a crisis in its own right, but it is also contributing to the spread HIV. The HIV/AIDS pandemic and the pervasiveness of gender-based violence must be addressed as two interrelated crises facing South Africa today.

Stay in touch for more about my experiences organizing for the 16 Days Campaign Against Abuse of Women and Children and World AIDS Day (1 December).

PACSA: an NGO in SA

2008-10-31T08:14:00.004+02:00

As with any aspect of the development sector, immersing oneself in a NGO like PACSA requires learning a new alphabet soup. My first week on site, I attended a CCOH workshop, which was sponsored by CABSA. A few weeks ago at long-term strategic planning, the staff discussed several OD concepts. In a month’s time I’ll be attending the SACC conference, which is not the same as the AACC conference a week later. On Wednesday I wrote a brief paper on the connection between HIV/AIDS and GBV, usually know as VAW, in South Africa. Are you following?

As working at an NGO means that one is inherently working on a deadline, the reader will have until the end of this reflection to memorize these:

AACC All Africa Council of Churches
CABSA Christian AIDS Bureau of South Africa
CCOH Churches Channels of Hope
GVB gender-based violence
NGO non-governmental organization
OD organizational development
SACC South Africa Council of Churches
UNAIDS United Nations Joint Program on HIV/AIDS
VAW violence against women
WHO World Health Organization

My work at PACSA is primarily with the gender desk, which tackles GBV, offers youth peer education in schools and churches, advocates for gender equality, and explores gender, theology and spirituality. Every day is different and may include a myriad of different projects. For example, last week I working on pulling statistics from the latest UNAIDS and WHO report on the AIDS pandemic for a publication and editing a master’s thesis on emerging conceptions of masculinity in post-apartheid South Africa. Most of the work is academic and based on organizational development principles. When I first arrived, some of the staff asked me what my discipline was, as if I am here to do research. It is sometimes difficult not to feel intimidated, because I don’t have a doctorate in development economics. I have been able to put my writing skills to good use though, as the majority of the staff do not speak English as a first language. The staff is something of a UN, representing not only South Africa (Zulu, Indian, and white), but Malawi, Swaziland, Kenya, Germany, Holland, and now the US.

My placement sites at PACSA and the crèche create an interesting counterbalance to one another. Working in a township with limited access to electricity, water, and sanitation is, in many ways, as “on the ground” as development processes become. But I spend the other half of my week in a downtown office, complete with internet access, staff learning workshops, and a Christmas party in the planning. Like so many aspects of life in South Africa, the work at my placement sites exist in stark contrast to one another and yet are intimately connected. The type of work I do at the crèche, which is community-based, is often supported by NGOs like PACSA. Often my work at PACSA gives me a new idea or approach to try with the students and staff at the crèche. It is as though I travel between two different universes on a weekly basis, but my work at both sites is addressing economic inequality in South Africa. I look forward to continuing to work and to learn at each site, as the experience at one enrichs the other.

Birth Certificates and the Hokey Pokey

2008-10-27T12:35:00.006+02:00

After my first visit during orientation, I thought that I had a good sense of what I was getting myself into. A month ago I thought I had my year planned out. The crèche is situated in a township, and the children who attend are from the immediate neighborhood. There are few material resources (toys, books, art supplies, furniture, etc.) at the disposal of the staff and the learners. The entire school day takes place in the large, open fellowship hall of a church. I thought that I would be spending my time writing grants and working with the Department of Social Welfare to find more sustainable sources of funding for the crèche. Essentially, similar to what happens in so many development projects, I wanted to throw money at the “problem.”

At first it was difficult not to be overwhelmed by both the poverty that the children were born into and the chaos often created by their sheer numbers. I kept thinking to myself, I don’t have a degree in early childhood education or development or public health; I’m not qualified to do this kind of work! I quickly discovered that my calling in life is not, in fact, to be a isiZulu-speaking preschool teacher. I spent my first few weeks doing crowd control and many renditions of the Hokey Pokey. The children discovered early on that I can be used as a human jungle gym, especially during piggyback rides. With as many as forty-five learners (in addition to the toddlers) and often only one teacher, the staff was thankful just to have another set of hands. I was constantly chasing after stray toddlers, wiping snotty noses, and tying, if not completely retrieving, shoes. In those first few weeks I learned the rhythms of breakfast, morning attendance, snack, play, story time, lunch, and nap time. Names started attaching themselves to faces. In my mind some sense of order began emerging from the chaos.

In the quite moments of the early morning while the students were arriving and in the early afternoon during naptime I asked, and continue to ask, a lot of questions. How is the crèche funded? (Funding comes from school fees and subsidies from the Department of Social Welfare, both of which are inconsistent sources of income.) What is the institutional relationship between the congregation, whose space is used, and the crèche? (There is none.) What are the crèche’s biggest needs? (The laundry list is quite long.) But I realized I was asking the wrong sort of questions. I focused almost exclusively on what the crèche did not have, when I needed be asking what resources did the crèche already have that could be used more creatively, efficiently, etc. Ironically YAGM introduced me to this method in orientation. It’s called an asset-based approach to development. There was a disconnect in my mind between knowing the theory and putting it into practice. I’m constantly revising my approach, asking myself how the work I am doing will best allow sustainable development to take place.

Instead of bemoaning my worse than embarrassing proficiency in isi-Zulu, I started looking for ways to use my gifts to the crèche’s advantage. (Although it still amazes me how much one can communicate to a four-year-old whose mother tongue is different from one’s own.) Using my organizational skills I’ve started working through the student records and the financial books, both of which need attention. I’m working with the teachers and staff to write policy and procedure for a myriad of different situations and finding the most effective ways of communicating home to the parents. These projects are easily more than a year’s worth of work, but I am doing what I can with the time that I have been given. Like anything in life this work is in process, and it is one that I am blessed to be a part of.

In, but not of, the world

2008-10-20T09:15:00.005+02:00

It’s a very interesting time to be a student of both South African and American politics and the democratic process. SA, like the rest of the world, is following the US election campaign with piqued interest. I have also become slightly obsessed with it, as I woke up at 3:00am to watch two of the US presidential debates live. (With the time change South Africa is six hours ahead of the US.) I was a little miffed when the analysis following the final debate was cut off at 5:30am for World Sport. Who watches sports at that hour of the morning anyway? The global media coverage of the US election comes with an appreciation of the fact that whomever Americans elect as their next president has implications, not only for their own country, but also for the world. Americans have a profound responsibility when they vote, as many of the policy decisions the next US president will make will have a direct impact on people throughout the world. As not of the world, but with the acknowledgment that I am in it, I implore the Americans following this blog to make an informed choice on 4 November. (I don’t think that my absentee ballot will be counted unless the vote in my district is close.)

When I’m introduced as an American people will often ask whom I’m voting for within the first two minutes of conversation. When I first received this question in small talk with new acquaintances I was slightly taken aback. Discussing politics in the US isn’t explicitly taboo, but it is certainly not considered “polite” conversation, especially with a person one has just met. But here in SA, politics permeate daily conversation, especially in the light of recent events. When I was formally introduced to the township congregation at Machibsa where I am placed, I was asked in front of everyone by one of the worship leaders, “Will you be voting for a black man in the election?” (The question is often unavoidable. For those of you who know anything about my political affiliations, you can probably guess how I responded.)

Political discourse is also alive and well in SA. By the completion of my year of service there will have been three presidents: Thabo Mbeki, Kgalema Motlanthe, and in all likelihood Jacob Zuma. Mbeki resigned in the political fallout of a Pietermartizburg High Court ruling in favor of Zuma. Motlanthe was appointed as a transitional leader between now and the next presidential election in April. The majority, the African National Congress (ANC), may be facing a breakaway party in the election. Although I have reduced the current political situation to a few sentences, it is infinitely more complex. As I learn more about the history of SA as the context in which these politics play out, I am slowly peeling away layers of understanding.

In addition to following secular South African politics, I have also been a part of the democratic process in the church. I participated in two recent ELCSA elections as an observer to ensure that they were “free and fair”. The first was for the national executive committee of the Young Adults League and the second was for the bishop of the South Eastern Diocese. (A diocese is the equivalent of a synod in the ELCA.) As American volunteers with no voting privileges, my YAGM colleagues and I in attendance were considered unbiased. We were recruited to pass out, collect, and count ballots. I’m discovering that the democratic process is an integral and often unavoidable part of life–in the US, SA, and the church–which is why it requires critical engagement in its many manifestations.

The Life of the Church

2008-10-14T15:42:00.010+02:00

I didn’t realize how out of place I must have looked at my first South African church service until several weeks later. I was sitting on the “wrong” side with the mamas (mothers and grandmothers) instead of across the aisle with the youth. In traditional Zulu culture men, women, and youth sit separately at community events. I had brought my Bible upon a reminder from my host mom, but had neither a Zulu hymnal nor the ELCSA almanac (a booklet of daily Scripture readings based on the liturgical calendar). No church would be able to afford sets of hymnals and Bibles for the pews. I was wearing a skirt, but didn’t know how inappropriate it would have been to wear trousers as a woman. (I still feel perpetually underdressed.) Although I found elements of the service similar, I could do no better than sit or stand when everyone else did. The first week I started to recognize the tunes and words to parts of the liturgy was a small victory. The singing was hauntingly beautiful, but I had no idea how everyone remained in the same key without a pitch reference. I thought it very unusual that several women were wearing what appeared to be a uniform, only to learn that they were members of the Prayer Women’s League. Congregants can join one of several fraternal organizations called leagues (Men’s, Women’s, Youth’s, and now Young Adults’). I was naively surprised to be introduced at the end of the service (and have been at several services since then) and felt guilty that everyone knew who I was, because I was still struggling with my first set of Zulu names. As I am terrible with names, I am thankful that to begin associating names with familiar faces and positions within the church hierarchy at the events I have attended since then. I realize now that my ignorance shielded me from complete disorientation and embarrassment on that first Sunday.

Sunday worship is a vibrant experience, full of singing, dancing, and even dancing while singing. (This has been a fun adjustment for an American used to more quiet reverence, although I will probably never move quite as well as my counterparts.) I was struck on that first Sunday, which was a very ordinary one, that the church was teeming with people. I was squished between the end of a pew and my host mom for three hours. (The longest service I’ve attended so far was almost six.) This enthusiastic attendance has been consistent on every Sunday since in venues ranging from a township congregation to an ordination service at Durban’s city hall to a tent at the national Young Adult’s League conference. There are no churches large enough to accommodate several hundred people. Most ELCSA churches are in rural areas for a number of historical reasons relating to the work of missionaries and the legacy of apartheid. Every Sunday has been different but I am slowly learning, in the brief time since my arrival, about the life of the church in the South Eastern Diocese (SED) of ELCSA. I am so grateful for the patience and hospitality of South African Lutherans, especially as I am integrating into a new church culture.

14 September: Young Adults’ League rally in Pinetown
21 September: ordination service in Durban
27-28 September: Prayer Men’s League conference in Imbali (township outside Martizburg)
3-5 October: national Young Adults League conference in Limpopo (most northern province of SA)
10-12 October: synod assembly in Umphumulo (seat of the bishop and offices of the SED)

The Host/Guest Relationship

2008-09-29T17:30:00.005+02:00

I make my bed and tidy up my room every morning. For those of you who know anything about my housekeeping inclinations, this is an extraordinary feat. I can probably count on two hands the number of times I made my bed in my Boston apartment. It’s a simple discipline, but it reminds me daily of the host/guest relationship. My mom taught me the polite thing to do when you are an overnight guest is to make the bed in which you slept. This practice keeps me mindful that I will always be a guest of my host family.

Being a guest brings a different sort of awareness to one’s interactions. I make an effort not to interfere with anyone’s daily routine (by spending too much time in the shower), but also to be more sociable than my introverted tendencies incline me to be (by spending a lot of time in the kitchen). After living by myself for two years, living with a family has been an adjustment. I’m discovering that I’m not used to living in relationship. I’m accustomed to doing things on my own and if not alone then with people of my own choosing. In SA there’s a much stronger emphasis on relationships on all levels than in the US. People are defined not exclusively as individuals, but by the quality of their relationships. There’s a saying, “I am, because we are.”

My mom, in her infinite wisdom, loved to tell me as a kid, “Crystal, you can’t do it alone.” I absolutely hated when she said that. What do you mean I can’t figure out the entirety of SA on my own? I’m a capable individual, right? (Yes, I realize how incredibly ridiculous that sounds.) At times it’s difficult for me to ask questions, because having to ask is an admission that I don’t have the answer already. Sometimes I feel like I’m asking a hundred questions a day. It’s humbling to acknowledge that my hosts have a wealth a knowledge and experience to share with me; that I can’t figure this all out of my own. I’m thankful that I can’t, because cross-cultural living is too complicated to figure out by myself.

As an American raised in the ideals of rugged individualism and the self-made person, the idea of living in relationship is at times jarring. I’m not used to being accountable to other people about where I’ll be and what I’m doing with my time. But on a more profound level, I’m not used to being defined as someone’s daughter or someone’s co-worker. I’m just Crystal—not Crystal living with the Dlaminis, or Crystal working with Mrs. Mahaye at the crèche, or Crystal attending the Machibesa congregation. Those are all things I’m used to compartmentalizing, not things with which I define myself. I think this discomfort is a result of a need to rethink how I view living in relationship by acknowledging that I do live in relationship. As much as I like to think I can do it on my own, I can’t. I don’t believe that’s an admission of weakness. It’s a belief in the strength of living in community. We live interdependently, relying on one another. We have to. I am because we are.

On the ground in PMB

2008-09-20T13:53:00.001+02:00

One of my motivations for serving with YAGM was to put faces to the statistics of extreme poverty and disease. It is one thing to listen to figures rattled off from a PowerPoint presentation and quite another to be shown around a township. I wanted to experience “the real thing.” I’m currently living in the province with highest infection rate in the country with the highest overall infection rate of HIV/AIDS in the world. At a 40% prevalence, KwaZulu-Natal (KZN) is one of the centers of the pandemic. It doesn’t get more real than this.

Pietermartizburg (PMB), or Martizburg for short, is the provincial capital of KZN. It is a city of stark contrasts. Like many other cities in South Africa it is possible to travel between areas with every developed world amenity imaginable to the desperate poverty of the developing world within minutes. You can find a shopping mall within kilometers of a township. I travel between these worlds on a daily basis.

I live in a neighborhood about a ten-minute khombi (taxi) ride from the city center. It’s a quiet area with spacious houses and well-kept gardens. Yesterday morning I enjoyed watching a troop of monkeys scamper across the road as I waited for a khombi. Before 1994 (the end of apartheid), by law my host family would not have been allowed to live in this neighborhood, as blacks in a formerly white section of the city. (During apartheid cities were racially divided into black, colored, Indian, and white areas. Its legacy is still clearly visible in the geography of the city.)

Each morning I travel to the city center or to the townships, depending on which placement site I’m working at that day. The khombi system is like the MBTA in Boston in the respect that it appears to have no set schedules. But with a lot patience (mostly with myself) and a little bravery I’ve been learning to navigate my way around the city using public transportation. Like any system, it’s much easier to negotiate once one has a better sense of how it operates.

I’ve been officially working for two weeks now, though the majority of my first week was spent in a training workshop on HIV/AIDS and the church. I wasn’t able to go to work on last Friday, because of the Jacob Zuma court proceedings that made the little city of PMB famous for a day. (There was no public transportation, as the khombis were not running their regular routes but ferrying Zuma supporters to the political rally taking place downtown.) To that end it is a very interesting time to be a student of South African politics. For the first time the president of the country, Thabo Mbeki, is not also the president of the ruling party, the African National Congress (ANC). Jacob Zuma is the current president of the ANC.

My sites are with a Christian non-governmental organization (NGO) called the Pietermatizburg Agency for Christian Social Awareness (PACSA) and a crèche (preschool) attached to an Evangelical Lutheran Church in South Africa (ELCSA) congregation. (Are you following the alphabet soup?) I’m discovering that as an American I have a strong need to “do” and to do it right now. I’m seriously resisting the urge to shout, “I’m here!” It’s taken a lot of patience to realize that neither SA or even PMB revolve around the orientation processes at my placements. I’m jumping, as a guest, into systems that were set in motion long before I arrived and will continue long after I’m gone. These first few weeks I’ve been trying to find the places where I will serve most effectively within those systems. Like any system, it’s much easier to negotiate once one has a better sense of how it operates, as difficult as that may be for an impatient American like me.

Kicking the Box

2008-09-13T09:44:00.010+02:00

South Africa Orientation (26 August – 8 September)

As our country coordinators, Brian and Kristen said, "The best way to learn about South Africa is from South Africans." This may seem like an obvious statement, but it’s not as simplistic as it sounds. Our first few days were in Johannesburg. We then traveled east to Pietermaritzburg, where we spent the remainder of orientation. There were also day trips to Pretoria, the capital, and Durban. No amount of reading, whether from Fodor’s travel guide or Nelson Mandela’s autobiography, can really prepare you for an immersion into South Africa culture. No number of workshops on cross-cultural understanding or YAGM policy will teach you how to live and work in another context thousands of miles from the one you have known your entire life. There is nothing that can replicate the hauntingly beautiful a cappella singing in a church service, the story of a volunteer caring for her neighbor with HIV/AIDS, or the raw power of the Indian Ocean on the eastern coast. The best way to learn about South Africa is from South Africans–to listen to their stories and to share in their experiences.

A common theme from Chicago was that the “success” of your service is contingent upon how you choose to engage. I don’t think my previous conception a comfort zone exists anymore, because I’ve already consciously and unconsciously stepped outside it too many times. (That’s a really good thing.) I acknowledge that we all live in boxes (our prejudices, fears, misunderstandings, etc.) and place other people in boxes, sometimes intentionally but often unintentionally. From Day 1 landing in Joburg, our SA country group has been asked to “kick the box.” We’re not only expected to listen intently, but to think critically. This year is about pushing boundaries and taking risks (of course not in terms of my physical safety Mom and Dad) but socially, emotionally, and spiritually. Orientation taught us how to engage within our context, to ask questions.

Engagement is not always an easy thing. Engagement is introducing yourself to the mama (older woman, grandmother type) sitting next you at a church function that sings better in Zulu than you ever will and complimenting her as such. Engagement is not allowing your eyes to glaze over through a talk about mission in the context of globalization from a professor at the University of KwaZulu-Natal (It was actually really interesting.), but really thinking about how what this person has to say is going to affect your year. Engagement is taking the risk that leading a game “Red Light Green Light” when visiting a township crèche (preschool) might turn into complete chaos. (Chaos with lots of eager four-year-olds has its fun moments.) Engagement is not only showing up but being present. Therein lies what I think will be the greatest challenge but also the biggest success of my year here in South Africa.

Orientation in Chicago

2008-08-28T21:18:00.003+02:00

Where else would it be considered not unusual for your roommate to be icing down a typhoid vaccine in a Starbucks cup or your ultimate Frisbee team determined by whether you are serving in the Global North and the Global South? (And where else would the Global South consistently buck historical trends by dominating the North?) Where else do you refer to expecting the unexpected as the “mushrooms in your basement”?

This past week (17 August-25 August) I was at orientation for YAGM at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago (LSTC). We stayed at dorms of the University of Chicago in the Hyde Park neighborhood, about a twenty-minute walk from the shores of Lake Michigan. The rhythm my days here began with devotions and Bible study in the morning, followed by workshops and presentations in the afternoon. We dug into accompaniment theology (link), what it means to walk in solidarity with and be for present for the people we’ll be serving. We discussed answering the Christian call to work for justice in the context of globalization. But we also dealt with some of the more mundane details like flights, insurance, the YAGM handbook, security, etc. I spent my free time in the evenings playing ultimate Frisbee, hanging out in the dorms, and exploring the Hyde Park neighborhood. Although I was at first really anxious to “go and do something!” upon arrival in Chicago, this week has helped prepare me mentally, emotionally, and spiritually for the upcoming year—although there’s only so much you can prepare for an experience like the one I’m about to embark on.

I was blessed to meet so many engaging people this week and to renew the acquaintances I made at the DIP (Discernment-Interview-Placement) event in Wisconsin in April. We come from diverse backgrounds, but we all share a passion for justice. Among the YAGM’s sense of camaraderie quickly developed from a shared sense of, “If we were all crazy enough to show up, we must all be in this together, right?” The friendships I have made in this week will be so important for the coming year, because who else is really going to understand why your roommate was icing down a typhoid vaccine in a Starbucks cup? Who else am I going to be able to e-mail about my own “mushrooms in the basement”? This week has taught me about the importance about engaging in your own local context for support. But fear not, that’s definitely not going to keep me from being in touch with everyone back home!

For the next two week I’ll be going through in-country orientation with the other South Africa YAGM’s, first in Johannesburg and then in Pietermaritzburg.

The Why of Service

2008-07-27T22:06:00.008+02:00

Below are excerpts from a talk that I gave today at my home church about my upcoming year of service in South Africa with the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America's Young Adults in Global Mission (YAGM) program in South Africa.

In the past several weeks you as a congregation have been learning about the “what’s” of my upcoming year in mission. I will be serving with the ELCA in Pietermaritzburg, South Africa in a variety of capacities, primarily in ministries addressing HIV/AIDS, domestic violence, and democratic empowerment. But what I would like to share with you today are the “why’s,” why I have come to this moment in time, on the verge of something completely new.

Last Sunday at UniLu, the community that I have called home during my years at Boston University, Pastor Don Larsen preached on the work of the Holy Spirit. He said that the work of the Spirit is to lead. I would take this several steps further to say that the work of the Spirit is to poke, to prod, and perhaps even to shove a little. I told Don so after the service. In response to this comment he showed me the verse from Mark, which immediately follows Jesus’ baptism and anointing by the Holy Spirit. Chapter 1:12 of Mark reads, “And the Spirit immediately drove him out into the wilderness.” Jesus would then be tempted by the Devil in the desert before beginning his formal ministry. In this passage the word used in the Greek “to drive out” or “to cast out” is ekballow. This same word is used in the Gospels when Jesus casts out demons. Don suggested that in the same way, the Spirit is casting me out, driving me to a new place for a spiritual purpose. That is a difficult sentiment with which to grapple, to be driven out, but one with which I resonant deeply.

I go to South Africa to do a difficult thing. I am under no romantic illusions about “finding myself,” but I know that this experience will change me profoundly. I go not only to be an agent of change, but more importantly I go to be changed. Change is difficult, especially for Lutherans as we know. I go to learn to see the work of the church through new eyes: African eyes, developing world eyes. I leave you to grow and have the Spirit grow in me.

I have been contemplating this growth process through the image of a tree, but more specifically a tree and its roots. The growth of a tree happens in two directions, both upward and downward. Often when we consider trees, we think exclusively of the obvious, what is above the ground. I ask you to consider not only a tree’s expression above ground (its trunk, branches, and leaves), but also its expression below ground: its roots. Though often overlooked, the roots of a tree are equally important. They keep the tree literally “grounded,” grounded in the soil whose water and nutrients sustain it.

In the same way, I feel grounded in my roots. But my sense of rootedness is changing from a physical understanding to spiritual one. Emanuel and UniLu are my spiritual roots, but it so much easier to be reminded of these roots through physical things. I can see and touch the font in which I was baptized. I can hear the congregation say the prayers and the creed along with me. I can greet and talk face to face with each one of you. But in just a few short weeks all those familiar, comfortable stimuli will fall away. My senses will be bombarded with new sights, sounds, ideas, and emotions. The communities of faith that have nurtured me have ensured that my roots are strong and planted in solid ground.

But roots are only half the story. The second half is yet to come. Growing out of this sense of grounding, of rootedness, I have found the freedom to grow, to branch out, to take the risk of doing a new thing. I have the privilege of giving a year of my life in service, to the development of another community, to accompany that community in its own walk. I invite you to take part in this walk.