Childish Love

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

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

[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?

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

“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

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

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.