I named this blog "The Temporary Carey" because I planned to blog - temporarily - about a short-term mission trip. My original plan was to post a few pre-trip musings, then make one entry for each of the seven days of the trip, then perhaps a single wrap-up. But here it is over a week after we returned and I find myself continuing to meditate on the experience. Perhaps I'll finish up this time, but no promises.
What prompted this latest round of pondering was some remarks in "The Abbot's Notebook," the weekly newsletter from Philip Lawrence, OSB, abbot of the Benedictine monastery of Christ of the Desert in northern New Mexico. Each Wednesday, the abbot emails a column in which he meanders from gossipy news about the latest activities of the monks to some insightful thoughts on the nature of the monastic life and the Christian life in general. (You can read these pieces and subscribe to the hebdomadal screed at christdesert.org/About_Us/Abbot_s_and_Cellarer_s_Pages/Abbos_s_Notebook/index.html.)
The Benedictines are primarily a contemplative order. They dedicate themselves, as Thomas Steagald recently wrote in The Christian Century (June 15, 2010, "Pay Attention"), to "one place and one conversation." One place: the monastery; one conversation: prayer. And so, pondering the spiritual discipline of service, the good abbot relates that "lots of times I am asked how monks can possibly serve others when they stay hidden in their monasteries. Of course the monks serve one another and that is serving others. We also serve others in our prayers. There are lots of ways of serving one another." And then he drops the big right hand: "Not all of us are called to be missionaries. Not all of us are called to run soup kitchens or shelters."
Or to go on frequent mission trips?
Short-term mission trips have become, it often seems to me, the gold standard of Evangelical piety. Temporarily Careying on in exotic locales (like Fort Wayne, Indiana!) often becomes a de facto validation of one's zeal for both the social gospel and the salvation of the lost. This is, on the whole, a good thing, I believe. After all, when I was a Christian teen or college student, the big buzz was your church youth group's ski/Bible retreat.
But I have a confession to make: I don't like them very much.
This is a purely personal statement. My limited experience leads me to believe that such trips have tremendous value, both for those who go and those to whom they go. But for me . . . . I know that I ride the short bus when it comes to emotional intelligence; if emotions were football teams I'd be the Detroit Lions. Still, I keep hearing people who return from mission trips enthuse about how wonderful they feel and I just don't get it. Then, too, there's the spiritual aspect of it all. What I mean to say is that I don't receive a big spiritual jolt from this kind of thing either. I don't worry about this too much; I learned a long time ago that God does some of his best work on me when I'm not looking and that I can't take on more of the likeness of Christ if I keep whipping around to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. Obedience trumps emotions every time in the spiritual life - and in life in general, I tend to suspect.
Perhaps all of this says something, not about the validity of short term mission work in general, but about my own vocation. Even Baptists, I sometimes suspect, need contemplatives, though I can't think we'll ever value them very highly. Then again, a good contemplative doesn't worry about being valued. Could it possibly be - and could I confess it if it was - that God calls me to one place and one conversation, to this kind of spirituality, one that makes people shake their heads and wonder - as the abbot says they apparently do about him - how I can be a Christian at all? A friend recently posted on Facebook about a routine Sunday service at the inner-city church he leads: cleaning human excrement from the floor, calling 911 for a medical emergency and breaking up a fistfight. And I sit in a study and read books and try to pray a lot. Frankly, I'd rather be him when it comes sheep-and-goat time.
We should always suspect our own carnality, but we should also respect our own calling. Sorting out the two in the uber-deceitful human heart constitutes the art and science of the Christian walk.
Abbot Lawrence points out that Christian service often means embracing the ministry right before our eyes rather than romantically questing for it in some far-flung locale. "The service that Christ presents to us in the Scriptures is also a simple
serve to anyone who happens to come into our lives. There is no sense of Jesus seeking out people to serve: instead they
come into His life over and over." I'd quibble with that last line. "Let us go into the next towns, that I may preach there also: for therefore came I forth." - Mark 1.38 Still, there were plenty of times when Jesus tried to go all Howard Hughes but God seemed to have emblazoned his back with a giant bull's eye visible only to the pitiful. "And from thence he arose , and went into the borders of Tyre and Sidon, and entered into an house, and would have no man know it: but he could not be hid." - Mark 7.24
So maybe that is my call, not a very high one but perhaps all the same a necessary one. Perhaps the Spirit directs me to pray globally while acting locally.
But the good abbot spoils it all when he adds that "for myself, I can often tell if something is a call of the Lord by my own response to it. If it is difficult and I want to avoid it, I can be pretty sure that this comes from the Lord."
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
Thursday, July 29, 2010
Baby Talk in the Place of Exile
"Indeed, He will speak to this people
Through stammering lips and a foreign tongue. . .
So the word of the Lord to them wil be,
'Order on order, order on order,
Line on line, line on line,
A little here, a little there.'"
- Isaiah 28.11, 13
First off: that's not an ideal teaching technique. You don't use it for advanced pupils and one who remained in this phase of instruction would be truly remedial.
I mention that because John McArthur and his legion of followers actually brag that the famous pastor's teaching follows this pattern. It is true that just a couple of verses earlier the tenured religious class of Israel scoffs at Isaiah's "Judgment 101" in the same terms when they do, in fact, require this kind of special needs instruction. But the point is that they shouldn't.
There's some marvelous stuff going on here in the Hebrew that would make the point much clearer. Eugene Peterson gets the wordplay exactly right in The Message when he translates,
"So God will start over with the simple basics
and address them in baby talk, one syllable at a time -
'Da, da, da, da,
Blah, blah, blah, blah.
That's a good little girl,
that's a good little boy.'"
I don't know that MacArthur's Minions would feel quite so darned scholarly if their guru admitted that he sees himself a a sort of Religious Right Mr. Rogers cooing to a studio audience of biblical dimwits. What Isaiah really says is that because Israel refuses to hear the lyrical, poetic words of warning from one of God's mightiest and most eloquent prophets, the Lord will indeed relegate them to the "Hooked on Pentateuch" version of revelation. They will, YHWH promises, find themselves scattered from Hell to Persia, hunched in foreign cities studying Assyrian via Rosetta Stone, mindlessly mumbling the ABC's of their conqueror's lingua franca and trying to parse out, amidst all the suffering, what God says to them in this harsh new language of exile. As the Book of Ruth testifies, they eventually became adept and heard their Lord speak rich words of love in the lingo of judgment.
Anyway, the passage is on my mind because of my recent endeavors as a short-term missionary working with Muslim Burmese exiles who spoke almost no English. We spent the bulk of our time teaching them English as a Second Language, which does in fact consist of, "Da, da, da, da. Blah, blah, blah, blah." At least, I imagine that's what it sounded like to them as I intoned over and over again, "Hello. How are you? I am fine," and discussed the finer points of the ABC's. These were intelligent, literate people who no doubt had considerable standing in their own country, and sophisticated abilities with their own subtle and complex language. Yet because of exile, of military coup and political upheaval, they found themselves shipped to a foreign land where people dress funny and eat strange food and jabber in syllables that bleat "da da da da" and practically pat them on the head when they master some simple phrase.
So the question becomes, What is God saying to the Burmese in nursery-room English? What is the word of the Lord according to the Book of Exile?
And the frustrating thing is that, for the most part, I don't know. Because I only had four days and I never got beyond "See Spot run." I suppose I could at least have tried "Jesus" on 'em, but they know that name and politely refuse to hear it. The whole thing leaves me wondering if my colleagues and I did any good. Beyond meeting some wonderful people and learning a little about their customs, did we manage even the most basic introduction into the Kindergarten of the Kingdom?
Well, this is what I believe: NOT that God exiled these particular people from their country because of their own particular sins; indeed, these are the nobodies, the ones always more sinned against than sinning when war's hot blast blows in a nation's ears. But I do believe that God is speaking to them, and that the broken heart he retains from the hard classroom where he instructed his own beloved people continues to make him highly skilled in the teaching of Exile as a Second Language. I believe God has a word for Hchit Maung and Si-da-bay and Wha-Wha-Laing and Mamya and the rest of those who had to humble themselves to hear first-grade English from an untrained teacher, and that their entire ordeal is not a means of hearing that word but is, already, that word itself. And I believe that that word is "love". And one day when, before the throne of our Father, they pour out God's praise with an eloquence that surpasses Shakespeare, I will perhaps punch the angel next to me on the shoulder and say, "That's one of my pupils. Taught him his ABC's."
The crowds who heard Jesus hungered for his teaching because he spoke in image and story, eschewing the da-da-da-da of the seminary professors of his day. (Mt 7.28-29) Yet Jesus' words were never "sophisticated" and always invited the simple understanding of a child. And in one of his most arresting images, Jesus had a word for ESL evangelists like me and my friends in Fort Wayne last week:
"And whoever in the name of a disciple gives to one of these little ones even a cup of cold water to drink, truly I say to you, he shall not lose his reward." (Mt 10.42) And what is a disciple's reward? To become like his teacher (Mt 10.25), and to make other disciples (Mt 28.18-20). And that's the permanent reward I'm claiming from my temporary teaching.
Through stammering lips and a foreign tongue. . .
So the word of the Lord to them wil be,
'Order on order, order on order,
Line on line, line on line,
A little here, a little there.'"
- Isaiah 28.11, 13
First off: that's not an ideal teaching technique. You don't use it for advanced pupils and one who remained in this phase of instruction would be truly remedial.
I mention that because John McArthur and his legion of followers actually brag that the famous pastor's teaching follows this pattern. It is true that just a couple of verses earlier the tenured religious class of Israel scoffs at Isaiah's "Judgment 101" in the same terms when they do, in fact, require this kind of special needs instruction. But the point is that they shouldn't.
There's some marvelous stuff going on here in the Hebrew that would make the point much clearer. Eugene Peterson gets the wordplay exactly right in The Message when he translates,
"So God will start over with the simple basics
and address them in baby talk, one syllable at a time -
'Da, da, da, da,
Blah, blah, blah, blah.
That's a good little girl,
that's a good little boy.'"
I don't know that MacArthur's Minions would feel quite so darned scholarly if their guru admitted that he sees himself a a sort of Religious Right Mr. Rogers cooing to a studio audience of biblical dimwits. What Isaiah really says is that because Israel refuses to hear the lyrical, poetic words of warning from one of God's mightiest and most eloquent prophets, the Lord will indeed relegate them to the "Hooked on Pentateuch" version of revelation. They will, YHWH promises, find themselves scattered from Hell to Persia, hunched in foreign cities studying Assyrian via Rosetta Stone, mindlessly mumbling the ABC's of their conqueror's lingua franca and trying to parse out, amidst all the suffering, what God says to them in this harsh new language of exile. As the Book of Ruth testifies, they eventually became adept and heard their Lord speak rich words of love in the lingo of judgment.
Anyway, the passage is on my mind because of my recent endeavors as a short-term missionary working with Muslim Burmese exiles who spoke almost no English. We spent the bulk of our time teaching them English as a Second Language, which does in fact consist of, "Da, da, da, da. Blah, blah, blah, blah." At least, I imagine that's what it sounded like to them as I intoned over and over again, "Hello. How are you? I am fine," and discussed the finer points of the ABC's. These were intelligent, literate people who no doubt had considerable standing in their own country, and sophisticated abilities with their own subtle and complex language. Yet because of exile, of military coup and political upheaval, they found themselves shipped to a foreign land where people dress funny and eat strange food and jabber in syllables that bleat "da da da da" and practically pat them on the head when they master some simple phrase.
So the question becomes, What is God saying to the Burmese in nursery-room English? What is the word of the Lord according to the Book of Exile?
And the frustrating thing is that, for the most part, I don't know. Because I only had four days and I never got beyond "See Spot run." I suppose I could at least have tried "Jesus" on 'em, but they know that name and politely refuse to hear it. The whole thing leaves me wondering if my colleagues and I did any good. Beyond meeting some wonderful people and learning a little about their customs, did we manage even the most basic introduction into the Kindergarten of the Kingdom?
Well, this is what I believe: NOT that God exiled these particular people from their country because of their own particular sins; indeed, these are the nobodies, the ones always more sinned against than sinning when war's hot blast blows in a nation's ears. But I do believe that God is speaking to them, and that the broken heart he retains from the hard classroom where he instructed his own beloved people continues to make him highly skilled in the teaching of Exile as a Second Language. I believe God has a word for Hchit Maung and Si-da-bay and Wha-Wha-Laing and Mamya and the rest of those who had to humble themselves to hear first-grade English from an untrained teacher, and that their entire ordeal is not a means of hearing that word but is, already, that word itself. And I believe that that word is "love". And one day when, before the throne of our Father, they pour out God's praise with an eloquence that surpasses Shakespeare, I will perhaps punch the angel next to me on the shoulder and say, "That's one of my pupils. Taught him his ABC's."
The crowds who heard Jesus hungered for his teaching because he spoke in image and story, eschewing the da-da-da-da of the seminary professors of his day. (Mt 7.28-29) Yet Jesus' words were never "sophisticated" and always invited the simple understanding of a child. And in one of his most arresting images, Jesus had a word for ESL evangelists like me and my friends in Fort Wayne last week:
"And whoever in the name of a disciple gives to one of these little ones even a cup of cold water to drink, truly I say to you, he shall not lose his reward." (Mt 10.42) And what is a disciple's reward? To become like his teacher (Mt 10.25), and to make other disciples (Mt 28.18-20). And that's the permanent reward I'm claiming from my temporary teaching.
Saturday, July 24, 2010
From Temporary to Permanent: Now What?
Well, I'm home. This afternoon I had bacon and fried eggs with fresh-ground coffee and biscuits baked from scratch for late lunch, then sat on my back porch in my pajamas, read the newspaper and stared out at Corpus Christi Bay. As A. E. Houseman so eloquently captured the moment,
Home is the sailor from the sea,
The hunter from the hill.
All well and good, but now what? Yesterday afternoon I lay in my bed at our hotel in Chicago, flush with the whiteness of my sepulcher. I had completed my Temporary Carey adventure; my hand had been stamped so that I could enter the gates of Jesusland one day and hear my master say, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy lord with full access to all the rides." I had clearly secured my spot on the sheep-side of the last judgment and earned a good night's sleep in a real bed.
I decided to reward myself with an hour or so reading C. S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters. This proved to be a bad idea, because I had no more begun than I hit a snag. In chapter thirteen the wily old demon discovers that his protege Wormwood has allowed the "patient," previously sunk in comfortable backsliding, to experience "a second conversion - probably on a deeper level than the first." As phase one of the plan for damage control, Screwtape advises that "the great thing is to prevent his doing anything. As long as he does not convert it into action, it doe not matter how much he thinks about his new repentance. Let the brute wallow in it. Let him, if he has any bent that way, write a book (or perhaps a blog?) about it; that is often an excellent way of sterilising the seeds the Enemy plants in a human soul."
Well darn!
So now comes the truly hard part of what has been a great experience. In one of my earliest blogs I quoted a recent article in The Christian Century. The author, Mark Radecke, outlines what he calls a list of "worst practices" for drive-by mission work such as I have been doing for the past few days. This clever approach could leave a casual observer with the feeling that Radecke is cynical about such endeavors. That would be incorrect. In his opening paragraph he states that "In leading such trips and researching their impact, I've found that they can have a profound effect on the faith and life of participants, and good work is often done: people living in poverty have their needs addressed by energetic and caring people." I have no doubt that we did some good work and did indeed address significant needs for some marginalized folks. But the profound effect portion of the beatitude will fail to materialize if I let myself be "Screwtaped" upon returning to civilian life.
Actually, I have a few ideas about possible long-term changes in my personal ministry, ideas not only birthed by my activities in Fort Wayne, but notions that now actually seem realistic and within my capabilities. That's important. I read the other day that former speaker of the house Newt Gingrich "wakes up with about five new ideas most days, many of which are instantly snuffed out by the cold reason of daylight." The concrete action of teaching ESL and playing with refugee children in a sweaty park may have overcome the vampire DNA of some of my former vague good intentions. I'm not going to speak of any of the specific projects I'm mulling because that seems frightfully close to praying on a cyber street-corner, but I would like to reflect in general terms on the basic concept.
There is a prayer I've prayed almost daily for a number of years now, mostly in English and recently in Spanish, and it contains the familiar petition, "thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." Theological disclaimer: I know that the Lord, just before giving the church this prayer, cautions against "vain repetition" and "thinking that (we) shall be heard for (our) much speaking." The odd thing is that, the more I have prayed this prayer, the more I myself have begun to feel it take hold of me, and Jesus didn't say there was anything wrong with discovering that we can finally hear ourselves as a result of steady meditation. My Father in heaven certainly knew before I asked that I needed some performance-enhancing drugs in the area of my missional muscles, but I had managed to remain marvelously unaware.
"Thy kingdom come" - take that in the Dallas Willard sense of meaning that the reign of God that permeates the very atmosphere around us finally becomes the basis for our everyday actions. What might that look like? The business section of last Sunday's New York Times contained an article about a company called Knights Apparel that makes college-logo clothing. This outfit pays its workers in the Dominican Republic a living wage and welcomes them to join a union. The company absorbs the additional cost, lowering its profit margin in order to remain competitive with sweatshop giants like Nike and Adidas. At the end of the piece, one worker explains that her previous wages left her constantly impoverished, sometimes going hungry because she could only feed her children, sometimes borrowing money for necessities, all the while living in a windowless shack with no indoor plumbing. Her bosses sometimes yelled at or slapped her and her colleagues, refused to allow them to go home if they were sick, and forced them to work past midnight on days that began at seven in the morning. Asked to compare her new job to her old, she said that "the difference is heaven and earth."
Now I don't want to go all social gospel here, but that last line gets my attention. This woman (who, by the way, is a sister in Christ who feels a call to the pastorate) has entered the Kingdom of Heaven on earth, and has exited the Hell on earth she previously occupied. It is, I can't help thinking, a legitimate question after my Temporary Carey debauch to ask in what small ways I can engineer a similar change of address right here in my own zip code.
Now that's the sort of thing that can make your coffee suddenly bitter . . . and your walk with the Lord slowly sweeter.
Home is the sailor from the sea,
The hunter from the hill.
All well and good, but now what? Yesterday afternoon I lay in my bed at our hotel in Chicago, flush with the whiteness of my sepulcher. I had completed my Temporary Carey adventure; my hand had been stamped so that I could enter the gates of Jesusland one day and hear my master say, "Well done, thou good and faithful servant, enter thou into the joy of thy lord with full access to all the rides." I had clearly secured my spot on the sheep-side of the last judgment and earned a good night's sleep in a real bed.
I decided to reward myself with an hour or so reading C. S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters. This proved to be a bad idea, because I had no more begun than I hit a snag. In chapter thirteen the wily old demon discovers that his protege Wormwood has allowed the "patient," previously sunk in comfortable backsliding, to experience "a second conversion - probably on a deeper level than the first." As phase one of the plan for damage control, Screwtape advises that "the great thing is to prevent his doing anything. As long as he does not convert it into action, it doe not matter how much he thinks about his new repentance. Let the brute wallow in it. Let him, if he has any bent that way, write a book (or perhaps a blog?) about it; that is often an excellent way of sterilising the seeds the Enemy plants in a human soul."
Well darn!
So now comes the truly hard part of what has been a great experience. In one of my earliest blogs I quoted a recent article in The Christian Century. The author, Mark Radecke, outlines what he calls a list of "worst practices" for drive-by mission work such as I have been doing for the past few days. This clever approach could leave a casual observer with the feeling that Radecke is cynical about such endeavors. That would be incorrect. In his opening paragraph he states that "In leading such trips and researching their impact, I've found that they can have a profound effect on the faith and life of participants, and good work is often done: people living in poverty have their needs addressed by energetic and caring people." I have no doubt that we did some good work and did indeed address significant needs for some marginalized folks. But the profound effect portion of the beatitude will fail to materialize if I let myself be "Screwtaped" upon returning to civilian life.
Actually, I have a few ideas about possible long-term changes in my personal ministry, ideas not only birthed by my activities in Fort Wayne, but notions that now actually seem realistic and within my capabilities. That's important. I read the other day that former speaker of the house Newt Gingrich "wakes up with about five new ideas most days, many of which are instantly snuffed out by the cold reason of daylight." The concrete action of teaching ESL and playing with refugee children in a sweaty park may have overcome the vampire DNA of some of my former vague good intentions. I'm not going to speak of any of the specific projects I'm mulling because that seems frightfully close to praying on a cyber street-corner, but I would like to reflect in general terms on the basic concept.
There is a prayer I've prayed almost daily for a number of years now, mostly in English and recently in Spanish, and it contains the familiar petition, "thy kingdom come, thy will be done on earth as it is in heaven." Theological disclaimer: I know that the Lord, just before giving the church this prayer, cautions against "vain repetition" and "thinking that (we) shall be heard for (our) much speaking." The odd thing is that, the more I have prayed this prayer, the more I myself have begun to feel it take hold of me, and Jesus didn't say there was anything wrong with discovering that we can finally hear ourselves as a result of steady meditation. My Father in heaven certainly knew before I asked that I needed some performance-enhancing drugs in the area of my missional muscles, but I had managed to remain marvelously unaware.
"Thy kingdom come" - take that in the Dallas Willard sense of meaning that the reign of God that permeates the very atmosphere around us finally becomes the basis for our everyday actions. What might that look like? The business section of last Sunday's New York Times contained an article about a company called Knights Apparel that makes college-logo clothing. This outfit pays its workers in the Dominican Republic a living wage and welcomes them to join a union. The company absorbs the additional cost, lowering its profit margin in order to remain competitive with sweatshop giants like Nike and Adidas. At the end of the piece, one worker explains that her previous wages left her constantly impoverished, sometimes going hungry because she could only feed her children, sometimes borrowing money for necessities, all the while living in a windowless shack with no indoor plumbing. Her bosses sometimes yelled at or slapped her and her colleagues, refused to allow them to go home if they were sick, and forced them to work past midnight on days that began at seven in the morning. Asked to compare her new job to her old, she said that "the difference is heaven and earth."
Now I don't want to go all social gospel here, but that last line gets my attention. This woman (who, by the way, is a sister in Christ who feels a call to the pastorate) has entered the Kingdom of Heaven on earth, and has exited the Hell on earth she previously occupied. It is, I can't help thinking, a legitimate question after my Temporary Carey debauch to ask in what small ways I can engineer a similar change of address right here in my own zip code.
Now that's the sort of thing that can make your coffee suddenly bitter . . . and your walk with the Lord slowly sweeter.
Friday, July 23, 2010
Multiculturalism North of the Mason-Dixon
Yesterday was the last official day of mission work for the trip. Today was a travel day to Chicago. We plan to see a production of Shakespeare's "As You Like It" tonight (I have SUCH forebearing co-workers)then fly home tomorrow.
As I look back on the trip, and this blog in which I've chronicled my hopes and misgivings, I realize that I have focused almost exclusively on one of the people-groups with whom we have been working - Burmese exiles - to the exclusion of the other group of foreigners - Yankees. The permanent staffer from Experience Mission, our three summer staff leaders, and the other two members of our group are all from Indiana. I must say that, without exception, they have been wonderful, polite, energetic people who clearly love the Lord, and I think we were probably wise to let their state back into our country.
Granted, they need diction lessons. Their pronunciation is all elbows that strike the ear at odd angles, and they flatten out their vowels as if they'd run the words through a mangle and broken their backs. Lest you think I'm being unkind, bear in mind that just the other day I read about a survey which shows that people consider a speaker with an accent less trustworthy () so I'm just trying to help these brothers and sisters out by encouraging them to learn the benchmark English we speak in the Republic of Texas. Also, one of them actually asked me what the Alamo was, so clearly a course on Texas history and mythology is in order.
All kidding aside, it has been a great experience to work with Sara, Mandi, Lauren, Ralleigh, Brittany and Katie. All of them are college students but Mandi, Lauren and Ralleigh are staffers for Experience Mission, which means they've been in charge. As someone who teaches kids their age, it was an exercise in trust to take orders from their demographic. I must say they repaid my trust ten times over: they were competent, gracious, hard-working and knowledgeable. In fact,this referesher course on how to occupy the position of learner may have been one of the greatest blessings this trip has brought me so far.
It is mid-afternoon and I'm tired. I don't want to start nodding off during the ambic pentameter this evening; I get to see about one good Shakespeare play in a good year and I want to have lots of energy for this one. Accordingly, I'm going upstairs to take a nap. I'll blog more tomorrow - and probably for a few days afterward - about sweaty-soaked clothes, palm-reading and the gap between intention and action. Right now I'm going to engage in what my friend and former student Jeremiah Bailey refers to as the spiritual discipline of napping.
As I look back on the trip, and this blog in which I've chronicled my hopes and misgivings, I realize that I have focused almost exclusively on one of the people-groups with whom we have been working - Burmese exiles - to the exclusion of the other group of foreigners - Yankees. The permanent staffer from Experience Mission, our three summer staff leaders, and the other two members of our group are all from Indiana. I must say that, without exception, they have been wonderful, polite, energetic people who clearly love the Lord, and I think we were probably wise to let their state back into our country.
Granted, they need diction lessons. Their pronunciation is all elbows that strike the ear at odd angles, and they flatten out their vowels as if they'd run the words through a mangle and broken their backs. Lest you think I'm being unkind, bear in mind that just the other day I read about a survey which shows that people consider a speaker with an accent less trustworthy () so I'm just trying to help these brothers and sisters out by encouraging them to learn the benchmark English we speak in the Republic of Texas. Also, one of them actually asked me what the Alamo was, so clearly a course on Texas history and mythology is in order.
All kidding aside, it has been a great experience to work with Sara, Mandi, Lauren, Ralleigh, Brittany and Katie. All of them are college students but Mandi, Lauren and Ralleigh are staffers for Experience Mission, which means they've been in charge. As someone who teaches kids their age, it was an exercise in trust to take orders from their demographic. I must say they repaid my trust ten times over: they were competent, gracious, hard-working and knowledgeable. In fact,this referesher course on how to occupy the position of learner may have been one of the greatest blessings this trip has brought me so far.
It is mid-afternoon and I'm tired. I don't want to start nodding off during the ambic pentameter this evening; I get to see about one good Shakespeare play in a good year and I want to have lots of energy for this one. Accordingly, I'm going upstairs to take a nap. I'll blog more tomorrow - and probably for a few days afterward - about sweaty-soaked clothes, palm-reading and the gap between intention and action. Right now I'm going to engage in what my friend and former student Jeremiah Bailey refers to as the spiritual discipline of napping.
Thursday, July 22, 2010
Is "GHOTI" an Ancient Symbol of the Persecuted Church?
I was in my early adolescence when Evangelical pop-culture found itself all a twitter over the discovery that ancient Christians used the Greek word for fish - ichthus - as an acrostic for identifying one another during times of persecution. The Greek characters provide the opening letters for each word in the phrase, "Jesus Christ Son of God Savior." The thing sort of took off and led to rings and medallions and bumper stickers and, for all I know, a boutique line of Spaghetti O's. I've never bothered to check the research but I figure it must be true; a quarter of a million Jesus Junk peddlers can't all be wrong. Or actually they can, but that's not the point.
What I'm wondering is if we can't upshift yet another notch and start using GHOTI for the same purpose. Stick with me.
A famous story (probably apocryphal) tells how George Bernard Shaw once argued that English spelling makes so little sense that one could spell "fish" "ghoti" by taking the "gh" in enough, the "o" in women, and the "ti" in tradition. So I'm pondering a new covert Christian code word to help us navigate the current wave of persecution. (After all, they no longer require our preferred form of prayer on the loudspeaker in public schools. Can lions be far behind?) Here's my idea: if the image of a fish inscribed with the corresponding Greek noun could cloak a Christ-follower, then using the actual English word would add a layer of obscurity. Then going to the Shawvian spelling would complete the coup, disguising our faith so successfully that we ourselves might not realize we were Christians. (And Heaven knows we leave ourselves few enough other clues. The ruse should be undetectable.)
I'm thinking about this on this final evening of our mission trip for two reasons. First of all, I've spent about six hours per day since Monday teaching English as a second language. Attempting to teach my language always embarrasses me because I become aware of what a train-wreck it is. English is a mashup of German and French with a smattering of pre-Roman British tribal tongues with Latin grammar mounting a desperate attempt to impose order. More than one house is "houses," but more than one mouse isn't "mouses" unless you're talking about those little devices that control your computer cursor, in which case it is - or they are. When I found myself attempting to explain why "champaign" rhymes with "plain" (why it was on the day's vocabulary list is an open question, but one that is above my pay grade), I had to laugh at the fact that the whole world really needs to learn this mongrel mishmash because it is truly the global lingua franca. "Ghoti" made a fair amount of sense by around eleven o'clock.
Secondly, the students with whom I have been working are mostly Muslim refugees from Burma. This means that, even if I had the language skills to share the gospel openly, I probably couldn't because they wouldn't listen. Instead, I wound up realizing that my only hope - especially in the short space of four days - was to encode the gospel in a form all but indecipherable in the short term. I had to be Christ with sufficient success to overcome the inability to speak Christ. I had to, metaphorically speaking, spell the gospel "ghoti" if I wanted to slip past the watchful dragons of several centuries of cultural bitterness and hatred. The idea is to be a Christian contaminant, like slightly sour milk that you drink because it tastes all right and that doesn't make you violently ill until a day or so later.
And the weird thing is that I won't know if I've succeeded until - well, maybe the judgment. It may be eternity before I find out if anyone decoded my stealth evangelism. Anyway, that's my thought for the day, and I'm going to wrap up because I want to get down to the Christian bookstore and buy my "Ghoti" bellybutton ring.
What I'm wondering is if we can't upshift yet another notch and start using GHOTI for the same purpose. Stick with me.
A famous story (probably apocryphal) tells how George Bernard Shaw once argued that English spelling makes so little sense that one could spell "fish" "ghoti" by taking the "gh" in enough, the "o" in women, and the "ti" in tradition. So I'm pondering a new covert Christian code word to help us navigate the current wave of persecution. (After all, they no longer require our preferred form of prayer on the loudspeaker in public schools. Can lions be far behind?) Here's my idea: if the image of a fish inscribed with the corresponding Greek noun could cloak a Christ-follower, then using the actual English word would add a layer of obscurity. Then going to the Shawvian spelling would complete the coup, disguising our faith so successfully that we ourselves might not realize we were Christians. (And Heaven knows we leave ourselves few enough other clues. The ruse should be undetectable.)
I'm thinking about this on this final evening of our mission trip for two reasons. First of all, I've spent about six hours per day since Monday teaching English as a second language. Attempting to teach my language always embarrasses me because I become aware of what a train-wreck it is. English is a mashup of German and French with a smattering of pre-Roman British tribal tongues with Latin grammar mounting a desperate attempt to impose order. More than one house is "houses," but more than one mouse isn't "mouses" unless you're talking about those little devices that control your computer cursor, in which case it is - or they are. When I found myself attempting to explain why "champaign" rhymes with "plain" (why it was on the day's vocabulary list is an open question, but one that is above my pay grade), I had to laugh at the fact that the whole world really needs to learn this mongrel mishmash because it is truly the global lingua franca. "Ghoti" made a fair amount of sense by around eleven o'clock.
Secondly, the students with whom I have been working are mostly Muslim refugees from Burma. This means that, even if I had the language skills to share the gospel openly, I probably couldn't because they wouldn't listen. Instead, I wound up realizing that my only hope - especially in the short space of four days - was to encode the gospel in a form all but indecipherable in the short term. I had to be Christ with sufficient success to overcome the inability to speak Christ. I had to, metaphorically speaking, spell the gospel "ghoti" if I wanted to slip past the watchful dragons of several centuries of cultural bitterness and hatred. The idea is to be a Christian contaminant, like slightly sour milk that you drink because it tastes all right and that doesn't make you violently ill until a day or so later.
And the weird thing is that I won't know if I've succeeded until - well, maybe the judgment. It may be eternity before I find out if anyone decoded my stealth evangelism. Anyway, that's my thought for the day, and I'm going to wrap up because I want to get down to the Christian bookstore and buy my "Ghoti" bellybutton ring.
Wednesday, July 21, 2010
Going (Hazel) Nuts on the Mission Field
Tomorrow is our last day of mission work. Friday we travel to Chicago and Saturday we head home. Somehow the theme of smallness continues to be the keynote for me as I ponder this experience. "For who hath despised the day of small things?" the Lord asks (rhetorically, I presume) in Zechariah 4.10. Well, let me list a few of the things I am not despising so far:
1. Chit Maung, an eighty-six year-old Muslim man with whom I have had English lessons for the past three days. I say I've had the lessons with him rather than given them to him, because he firmly communicates that he is in charge and that we will learn what he considers important. We have not practiced set exchanges such as, "How are you?" and "I am fine." Instead, I have discovered that American women are big and loud, while Burmese women are small and quiet. I have also learned that Muslims do not eat alligators and (I think) that men and cows should not have sex. If they'd taken my grandfather and exiled him to Burma in his eightieth decade and given him Burmese lessons, he would have acted exactly like Chit Maung.
2. Juan. Or Won. He's a Burmese child so we assume it isn't the Hispanic version, but he tells us that it's his name every time we ask, and he answers to it. Anyway, this kid is four or five and goes through life like a heat-seeking missile. Yesterday he hurled himself at a ten-foot cyclone fence, scaled it like a spider monkey, hung by one hand and foot as he curveted out into space, then leapt into the ether and landed on all fours before scampering off to his next conquest. If you roll a hula hoop across the lawn he'll dive through it, roll and spring back up then look at you as if to ask, "What's next?"
3. Mo, a Burmese child from the predominantly Christian Karin tribe who, unlike his pals, is not innately good at climbing trees or at soccer. But he's taken a liking to me and today he learned to throw a football in a respectable spiral.
Is this what God sent me here to do? Because it isn't much. But I've been reading Julian of Norwich this week and was struck afresh with her account of the hazelnut. God showed Julian a hazelnut and told her that this tiny pod was, for all practical purposes, the entire created world, and that though it seemed - and in fact was - so frail that nearly anything could crush it, "it lasts and always will because God loves it."In this little thing," Julian muses, "I saw three properties. The first is that God made it, the second is that God loves it, the third is that God preserves it."
So with one day of hazelnut missionary work ahead, I look at my unimpressive list and remember: God made what I have done here, God loves it, and will somehow do eternal work through it. And I dare anyone to despise that.
1. Chit Maung, an eighty-six year-old Muslim man with whom I have had English lessons for the past three days. I say I've had the lessons with him rather than given them to him, because he firmly communicates that he is in charge and that we will learn what he considers important. We have not practiced set exchanges such as, "How are you?" and "I am fine." Instead, I have discovered that American women are big and loud, while Burmese women are small and quiet. I have also learned that Muslims do not eat alligators and (I think) that men and cows should not have sex. If they'd taken my grandfather and exiled him to Burma in his eightieth decade and given him Burmese lessons, he would have acted exactly like Chit Maung.
2. Juan. Or Won. He's a Burmese child so we assume it isn't the Hispanic version, but he tells us that it's his name every time we ask, and he answers to it. Anyway, this kid is four or five and goes through life like a heat-seeking missile. Yesterday he hurled himself at a ten-foot cyclone fence, scaled it like a spider monkey, hung by one hand and foot as he curveted out into space, then leapt into the ether and landed on all fours before scampering off to his next conquest. If you roll a hula hoop across the lawn he'll dive through it, roll and spring back up then look at you as if to ask, "What's next?"
3. Mo, a Burmese child from the predominantly Christian Karin tribe who, unlike his pals, is not innately good at climbing trees or at soccer. But he's taken a liking to me and today he learned to throw a football in a respectable spiral.
Is this what God sent me here to do? Because it isn't much. But I've been reading Julian of Norwich this week and was struck afresh with her account of the hazelnut. God showed Julian a hazelnut and told her that this tiny pod was, for all practical purposes, the entire created world, and that though it seemed - and in fact was - so frail that nearly anything could crush it, "it lasts and always will because God loves it."In this little thing," Julian muses, "I saw three properties. The first is that God made it, the second is that God loves it, the third is that God preserves it."
So with one day of hazelnut missionary work ahead, I look at my unimpressive list and remember: God made what I have done here, God loves it, and will somehow do eternal work through it. And I dare anyone to despise that.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
St. Julian of Fort Wayne (Well, Not Really)
A few weeks ago I ordered "Julia of Norwich: A Contemplative Biography." Amy Frykholm's new biography of St. Julian of Norwich, to whom I occasionally refer (because I think I'm hilarious when I do this sort of thing) as "Saint Julie the Sandwich." I deliberately saved it for this trip and began it shortly after the plane lifted off. In it, Frykholm offers a gripping account of how Julian turned to an Augustinian friar to help her sort through the visions she received during her near-fatal illness. One of the good father's first acts was to teach her the ancient Christian art of lectio divina or "sacred reading," the slow mulling of a single text of Scripture.
It has been a long while since I've deliberately engaged in lectio and I thought that might be a good practice for this short-term mission trip. Accordingly, as I read the Gospel from the morning office on Monday, I tried to be open to a particularly gripping passage. I happened upon Matthew 26.38 from the Gethsemane narrative, where Jesus tells the disciples, "My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me." (It's even more gripping in Spanish, which reads something like, "I have the soul filled with sadness and mortal anguish.") Somehow it reminded me of King Claudius' line in "Hamlet," where he tells his queen, "My soul is full of discord and dismay" (Act 4/Scene 1). Of course, Claudius is grief-stricken because of the consequences of his own evil actions; Jesus' grief, by contrast, comes from his calling to take on himself everyone else's tangled web of sin.
It got me to thinking of the story of Mother Teresa of Calcutta, and how, as she road a train across India, she found herself suddenly gripped with Jesus' fifth word from the cross, "I thirst." For her, it became the basis of a lifetime calling. She understood Jesus to be speaking directly to her of his thirst for souls, and particularly the souls of the poor. That kind of story has a long history, amounting almost to a Christian trope. St. Anthony of Thebes went to church and heard, "Go and sell all that you have," and it moved him to launch the movement of the desert fathers. St. Francis sat in church and heard the words of Christ about taking nothing on one's missionary journey; that order became the basis for the Franciscan revolution. Spurgeon heard a bad sermon on the great text, "Look to me and be ye saved," and his subsequent ministry never strayed far from the priceless but free salvation bought by Christ.
Well, I'm not claiming to be Mother Teresa, let alone Spurgeon, but that gospel reading leaped out at me. I imagined my Lord telling me that the suffering of these Burmese refugees is his own suffering, and that he brought me here this week not to accomplish any dramatic deliverance for them but simply to be the eyes of Christ, to be the reality that God is not blind to this tragedy. God may not work a miracle for these people; he didn't for his son. But he stayed his mighty hand in that case because salvation could only be accomplished at that terrible price. Thus I still don't think I'm here to do some great thing; it will be enough if I manage to stay awake, to force myself to sit in English as a Second Language classes six hours each day, and to play with sweaty kids in a trashy park for a couple of more, and refuse to close my eyes, to sleep either literally or spiritually.
So that's what I did today. I watched a bunch of Burmese children scale trees and fences as if they were living in a jungle instead of a housing project. I listened as an old man struggled to form the alphabet and spell simple words. Maybe I kept my eyes open; maybe I refused to stop thinking about everything I can't do much about. And maybe that is what Christ brought me here to do.
It has been a long while since I've deliberately engaged in lectio and I thought that might be a good practice for this short-term mission trip. Accordingly, as I read the Gospel from the morning office on Monday, I tried to be open to a particularly gripping passage. I happened upon Matthew 26.38 from the Gethsemane narrative, where Jesus tells the disciples, "My soul is exceeding sorrowful, even unto death: tarry ye here, and watch with me." (It's even more gripping in Spanish, which reads something like, "I have the soul filled with sadness and mortal anguish.") Somehow it reminded me of King Claudius' line in "Hamlet," where he tells his queen, "My soul is full of discord and dismay" (Act 4/Scene 1). Of course, Claudius is grief-stricken because of the consequences of his own evil actions; Jesus' grief, by contrast, comes from his calling to take on himself everyone else's tangled web of sin.
It got me to thinking of the story of Mother Teresa of Calcutta, and how, as she road a train across India, she found herself suddenly gripped with Jesus' fifth word from the cross, "I thirst." For her, it became the basis of a lifetime calling. She understood Jesus to be speaking directly to her of his thirst for souls, and particularly the souls of the poor. That kind of story has a long history, amounting almost to a Christian trope. St. Anthony of Thebes went to church and heard, "Go and sell all that you have," and it moved him to launch the movement of the desert fathers. St. Francis sat in church and heard the words of Christ about taking nothing on one's missionary journey; that order became the basis for the Franciscan revolution. Spurgeon heard a bad sermon on the great text, "Look to me and be ye saved," and his subsequent ministry never strayed far from the priceless but free salvation bought by Christ.
Well, I'm not claiming to be Mother Teresa, let alone Spurgeon, but that gospel reading leaped out at me. I imagined my Lord telling me that the suffering of these Burmese refugees is his own suffering, and that he brought me here this week not to accomplish any dramatic deliverance for them but simply to be the eyes of Christ, to be the reality that God is not blind to this tragedy. God may not work a miracle for these people; he didn't for his son. But he stayed his mighty hand in that case because salvation could only be accomplished at that terrible price. Thus I still don't think I'm here to do some great thing; it will be enough if I manage to stay awake, to force myself to sit in English as a Second Language classes six hours each day, and to play with sweaty kids in a trashy park for a couple of more, and refuse to close my eyes, to sleep either literally or spiritually.
So that's what I did today. I watched a bunch of Burmese children scale trees and fences as if they were living in a jungle instead of a housing project. I listened as an old man struggled to form the alphabet and spell simple words. Maybe I kept my eyes open; maybe I refused to stop thinking about everything I can't do much about. And maybe that is what Christ brought me here to do.
Monday, July 19, 2010
Fighting Terrorism One ESL Lesson at a Time
Well, I'm here at last, the kitchen of a Methodist church in Fort Wayne, Indiana where I'm bunking along with a colleague and two of our students as we carry out various mission activities here in the midwest. We're working with a team of four from the sending agency and two other students from Bowling Green State University.
Today I spent time with some very brave people - adults from Burma who, having landed in this country through various horror stories of war, flood, famine and political persecution, have now set themselves the task of learning English and becoming Americans. It was easy to catch myself slipping into a superiority complex as I waited, growing ever-more bored, for an eighty-six year old man to write out the alphabet. Then I asked him the Burmese words for some of the vocabulary we were working on and realized that, if the position were reversed, I would be seriously floundering. We spent a couple of hours this afternoon playing with Burmese children at a nearby park. When I'd ask a child for the tenth time (most of them speak fluent English already) to tell me his name or a simple phrase ("How are you?"), and he would roll his eyes, sigh, and run it by me again, I began to appreciate the courage it takes these people to do anything other than simply stay in their own neighborhoods where they can understand everyone.
But I've also had an interesting insight into why this work might be worth doing.
At the airport Sunday morning I discovered a new wrinkle in pre-flight security. I knew I had to shuck my shoes (wore my Crocks for just that occasion) and turn out my pockets like a schoolchild accused of theft. But then they made me stand in front of a big blue screen and raise my arms above my head, elbows bent so that I was just inches away from the classic thumbs-in-ears-tongue-out position of childhood mockery. Presumably an operative somewhere was seeing me in my full Adamic nature to make sure I didn't have any explosives stashed . . . well, I'd rather not consider the possibilities.
And this is my thought as I put Sunday and today together: those scanners can't make us safe. I'm not protesting their presence, and I certainly don't have any better ideas, but let's face it - if determined people want to kill us in large numbers and don't mind dying in the process, they're going to figure out a way to do it. The New York Times recently reported that the Group of 20 summit meeting in Toronto a few weeks back ran the Canadian government $897 million dollars American! That works out to $12 million per hour.
My point is that if it costs that much to keep us safe, then we've given someone far too good a reason to want to hurt us. Or at least, we've let someone else convince people that those reasons exist.
So what do English as a Second Language classes have to do with anything? Two things, perhaps. First of all, communication, understanding - those are better weapons against terror than naked screen scans and high-end SWAT teams. Second, we do this in the name of Jesus, even to people who would not tolerate the mention of that name.
I'm not completely delusional; I don't mean to suggest that the folks at the airport can stand now since Doug Jackson spent a few hours reviewing the alphabet with a Burmese refugee. But I also remember a famous preacher whom I once heard say, casually, in a throw-away line that he didn't bother to defend, "God only does big things." I don't know; I did a little thing today, and maybe God was in it. My friend and student Geoff Smith translates first beatitude as "Blessed are those who stink at religion." I might render the latter portion, "for their completely negligible actions bring in the Kingdom in ways too small for anyone to notice, let alone blow to smithereens."
There's a prayer in the morning office of the Book of Common Prayer which asks, in part, "Give peace, O Lord, in all the world; For only in you can we live in safety." And perhaps what I learned today is that our peace lies, not in full-body security scans or $12 million per hour safety patrols, but in small things that invite our supposed enemies into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Today I spent time with some very brave people - adults from Burma who, having landed in this country through various horror stories of war, flood, famine and political persecution, have now set themselves the task of learning English and becoming Americans. It was easy to catch myself slipping into a superiority complex as I waited, growing ever-more bored, for an eighty-six year old man to write out the alphabet. Then I asked him the Burmese words for some of the vocabulary we were working on and realized that, if the position were reversed, I would be seriously floundering. We spent a couple of hours this afternoon playing with Burmese children at a nearby park. When I'd ask a child for the tenth time (most of them speak fluent English already) to tell me his name or a simple phrase ("How are you?"), and he would roll his eyes, sigh, and run it by me again, I began to appreciate the courage it takes these people to do anything other than simply stay in their own neighborhoods where they can understand everyone.
But I've also had an interesting insight into why this work might be worth doing.
At the airport Sunday morning I discovered a new wrinkle in pre-flight security. I knew I had to shuck my shoes (wore my Crocks for just that occasion) and turn out my pockets like a schoolchild accused of theft. But then they made me stand in front of a big blue screen and raise my arms above my head, elbows bent so that I was just inches away from the classic thumbs-in-ears-tongue-out position of childhood mockery. Presumably an operative somewhere was seeing me in my full Adamic nature to make sure I didn't have any explosives stashed . . . well, I'd rather not consider the possibilities.
And this is my thought as I put Sunday and today together: those scanners can't make us safe. I'm not protesting their presence, and I certainly don't have any better ideas, but let's face it - if determined people want to kill us in large numbers and don't mind dying in the process, they're going to figure out a way to do it. The New York Times recently reported that the Group of 20 summit meeting in Toronto a few weeks back ran the Canadian government $897 million dollars American! That works out to $12 million per hour.
My point is that if it costs that much to keep us safe, then we've given someone far too good a reason to want to hurt us. Or at least, we've let someone else convince people that those reasons exist.
So what do English as a Second Language classes have to do with anything? Two things, perhaps. First of all, communication, understanding - those are better weapons against terror than naked screen scans and high-end SWAT teams. Second, we do this in the name of Jesus, even to people who would not tolerate the mention of that name.
I'm not completely delusional; I don't mean to suggest that the folks at the airport can stand now since Doug Jackson spent a few hours reviewing the alphabet with a Burmese refugee. But I also remember a famous preacher whom I once heard say, casually, in a throw-away line that he didn't bother to defend, "God only does big things." I don't know; I did a little thing today, and maybe God was in it. My friend and student Geoff Smith translates first beatitude as "Blessed are those who stink at religion." I might render the latter portion, "for their completely negligible actions bring in the Kingdom in ways too small for anyone to notice, let alone blow to smithereens."
There's a prayer in the morning office of the Book of Common Prayer which asks, in part, "Give peace, O Lord, in all the world; For only in you can we live in safety." And perhaps what I learned today is that our peace lies, not in full-body security scans or $12 million per hour safety patrols, but in small things that invite our supposed enemies into the Kingdom of Heaven.
Saturday, July 17, 2010
A Prayer for the Team
Today the actual trip begins. I don't know what kind of access I'll have to the blog from this point forward but I'll do my best to post daily, keeping everyone apprised of the day's events. I admit that I don't like leaving home but I'm trying to regard this, not as a "trip," but in the ancient Christian sense of "pilgrimage." Toward that end, I offer the following intercession from the Book of Common Prayer as the supplication I ask you to make for me and my companions on this journey.
O God, our heavenly Father, whose glory fills the whole
creation, and whose presence we find wherever we go: Preserve
those who travel, in particular Sherman, Jena, Joe and Doug; surround
them with your loving care; protect them from every danger;
and bring them in safety to their journey's end; through
Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
O God, our heavenly Father, whose glory fills the whole
creation, and whose presence we find wherever we go: Preserve
those who travel, in particular Sherman, Jena, Joe and Doug; surround
them with your loving care; protect them from every danger;
and bring them in safety to their journey's end; through
Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen.
Thanks, Jesus, But I Don't Think You Know What You're Talking About
And he called unto him the twelve, and began to send them forth by two and two; and gave them power over unclean spirits; And commanded them that they should take nothing for their journey, save a staff only; no scrip, no bread, no money in their purse:But be shod with sandals; and not put on two coats. - Mark 6.7-9, KJV.
We leave tomorrow at 6:30. I'm packed and ready to go. The airline allows one carry-on and one "personal item" per passenger. (I've always wondered what an "impersonal item" would be.) The School of Christian Studies has also generously popped for the $25 fee that allows each of us one checked bag.
Since we're sleeping in a church rec hall or something, they told us to bring our own bedding, hence the need to check one suitcase. Mine sits on the floor a few feet from me as I write. A rough inventory runs as follows:
One sleeping bag (Camo, which I think is really cool.)
One pillow (Well, not yet; I'll need it tonight.)
Shorts: six pair
T-shirts: four
Polo shirts: two
Jeans: one pair
Pajamas (Well, some sweat pants and an extra T-shirt)
Cell phone charger
I also have a backpack for the plane. It will hold a minimum of six books. I consider this downright mendicant.
Now, I don't guess that's a lot of stuff, but it sure expands on Our Lord's basic inventory for a short-term mission trip. Two coats? I have six changes of raiment. As for no bread or money, our meals are all arranged in advance and you can bet I'll have my credit card in my pocket. Granted, I'm not taking a staff, but I don't get any points there because Homeland Security regulations wouldn't permit it anyway.
So what gives? I mean, contextually Jesus is giving orders for a short-term mission trip. I've heard people (people who intend to stay safe at home, mind you) criticize career missionaries for not conforming to Jesus' inventory here, but that's just bad hermeneutics. He wasn't telling the disciples to adopt this aerodynamic bill of lading as a lifestyle; just long enough to do a Galilean tour. But what about me: one week on the road fits nicely into the context of the passage.
I must admit, it sounds alluring and romantic to think of boarding the plane with nothing but a backpack, going the Franciscan route. Maybe I could limit clothing to the Mother Teresa rule: She allowed her nuns three habits, "one for wearing, one for washing, and one for praying." I could skip the bedding and sleep on the floor every night, another thing Mother Teresa did all her life. But then I think about having to wash clothes in a bathroom sink every night, about my aching bones shivering on no-pile industrial-grade carpeting, about being an olfactory expense to everyone around me, and I cave.
Bottom line: I don't think I'll lose my salvation over a few pair of boxers, but I must admit that I don't seem to believe Jesus really knows what he's talking about. On the plus side of the ledger, I am meeting the protocol for footwear: I'm taking only one pair of sandals. Actually, a pair of Crocks, but I think, adjusting for culture, that still counts.
We leave tomorrow at 6:30. I'm packed and ready to go. The airline allows one carry-on and one "personal item" per passenger. (I've always wondered what an "impersonal item" would be.) The School of Christian Studies has also generously popped for the $25 fee that allows each of us one checked bag.
Since we're sleeping in a church rec hall or something, they told us to bring our own bedding, hence the need to check one suitcase. Mine sits on the floor a few feet from me as I write. A rough inventory runs as follows:
One sleeping bag (Camo, which I think is really cool.)
One pillow (Well, not yet; I'll need it tonight.)
Shorts: six pair
T-shirts: four
Polo shirts: two
Jeans: one pair
Pajamas (Well, some sweat pants and an extra T-shirt)
Cell phone charger
I also have a backpack for the plane. It will hold a minimum of six books. I consider this downright mendicant.
Now, I don't guess that's a lot of stuff, but it sure expands on Our Lord's basic inventory for a short-term mission trip. Two coats? I have six changes of raiment. As for no bread or money, our meals are all arranged in advance and you can bet I'll have my credit card in my pocket. Granted, I'm not taking a staff, but I don't get any points there because Homeland Security regulations wouldn't permit it anyway.
So what gives? I mean, contextually Jesus is giving orders for a short-term mission trip. I've heard people (people who intend to stay safe at home, mind you) criticize career missionaries for not conforming to Jesus' inventory here, but that's just bad hermeneutics. He wasn't telling the disciples to adopt this aerodynamic bill of lading as a lifestyle; just long enough to do a Galilean tour. But what about me: one week on the road fits nicely into the context of the passage.
I must admit, it sounds alluring and romantic to think of boarding the plane with nothing but a backpack, going the Franciscan route. Maybe I could limit clothing to the Mother Teresa rule: She allowed her nuns three habits, "one for wearing, one for washing, and one for praying." I could skip the bedding and sleep on the floor every night, another thing Mother Teresa did all her life. But then I think about having to wash clothes in a bathroom sink every night, about my aching bones shivering on no-pile industrial-grade carpeting, about being an olfactory expense to everyone around me, and I cave.
Bottom line: I don't think I'll lose my salvation over a few pair of boxers, but I must admit that I don't seem to believe Jesus really knows what he's talking about. On the plus side of the ledger, I am meeting the protocol for footwear: I'm taking only one pair of sandals. Actually, a pair of Crocks, but I think, adjusting for culture, that still counts.
A Day in the Life of a Temporary Carey
In Calvin Miller's hilarious play Fred 'n' Erma there's a scene where a little girl, Dawn Marie, asks her Father, a sort of Evangelical Archie Bunker, "Daddy, what do missionaries do all day?"
"Well," Fred replies, "they get up early, sweetheart, and tiptoe through the jungle shooting monkeys till they find a native, and then they tell him to get some clothes on if he wants to become a Christian." He goes on to explain that missionaries also wrestle anacondas so they can skin them out and thus have something to drape over the piano as a visual aid on missionary night when they come back home on furlough.
People are always asking us missionaries that question, "What do you do all day?" Okay, the phrase "us missionaries" in this context is an outrage, like Disraeli's "we writers, ma'am" to Queen Victoria. Still, people have been asking me what we will be doing on this particular short-term mission trip. Of course, I want to avoid the romanticized notion people tend to get about this kind of work. I'm pretty sure even refugees are fully clothed in Fort Wayne, Indiana (I think there must be an ordinance or something), and I don't think the anacondas have migrated from the Florida swamps up north yet. So, just to keep the record straight, and to help people know how to pray, I'm posting our daily schedule. Sunday and Saturday are travel days, of course, and Friday is a sort of de-briefing time, but this is the gist of the trip from Monday through Thursday, subject to change, I'm sure, depending on the needs that arise.
Monday, July 19 through Thursday, July 22
7:15 a.m. Breakfast
7:45 a.m. Prayer time
8:15 a.m. Group time
8:30 a.m. Teams leave for sites (ESL)
12:00 p.m. Lunch
1:00 p.m. Teams leave for sites (Kids Club)
3:30 p.m. Finish work for the day
4:00 p.m. Break and Clean-up
5:00 p.m. Leaders Meeting
6:00 p.m. Dinner
7:00 p.m. Evening program
8:30 p.m. Team time
Now, If you'll take a close look, you'll see that from a little after seven in the morning until half-past-eight at night, these are all group activities. As a confirmed introvert (an an unconfirmed but highly suspected case of Asperger's syndrome), this is in some ways more challenging for me than wrestling giant constrictors, so I really do appreciate your prayers.
"Well," Fred replies, "they get up early, sweetheart, and tiptoe through the jungle shooting monkeys till they find a native, and then they tell him to get some clothes on if he wants to become a Christian." He goes on to explain that missionaries also wrestle anacondas so they can skin them out and thus have something to drape over the piano as a visual aid on missionary night when they come back home on furlough.
People are always asking us missionaries that question, "What do you do all day?" Okay, the phrase "us missionaries" in this context is an outrage, like Disraeli's "we writers, ma'am" to Queen Victoria. Still, people have been asking me what we will be doing on this particular short-term mission trip. Of course, I want to avoid the romanticized notion people tend to get about this kind of work. I'm pretty sure even refugees are fully clothed in Fort Wayne, Indiana (I think there must be an ordinance or something), and I don't think the anacondas have migrated from the Florida swamps up north yet. So, just to keep the record straight, and to help people know how to pray, I'm posting our daily schedule. Sunday and Saturday are travel days, of course, and Friday is a sort of de-briefing time, but this is the gist of the trip from Monday through Thursday, subject to change, I'm sure, depending on the needs that arise.
Monday, July 19 through Thursday, July 22
7:15 a.m. Breakfast
7:45 a.m. Prayer time
8:15 a.m. Group time
8:30 a.m. Teams leave for sites (ESL)
12:00 p.m. Lunch
1:00 p.m. Teams leave for sites (Kids Club)
3:30 p.m. Finish work for the day
4:00 p.m. Break and Clean-up
5:00 p.m. Leaders Meeting
6:00 p.m. Dinner
7:00 p.m. Evening program
8:30 p.m. Team time
Now, If you'll take a close look, you'll see that from a little after seven in the morning until half-past-eight at night, these are all group activities. As a confirmed introvert (an an unconfirmed but highly suspected case of Asperger's syndrome), this is in some ways more challenging for me than wrestling giant constrictors, so I really do appreciate your prayers.
Friday, July 16, 2010
The Eleven Commandments of Short Term Mission Trips
A friend posted on Facebook this morning that she is going to see a production of Shakespeare's "Macbeth." That reminded me of a favorite line from that play, where Lady M, lobbying hard for regicide, sneers at her husband for "letting 'I dare not' wait upon 'I would,/Like the poor cat i' the adage." Nobody is quite sure what proverb the Bard invokes, but it evidently has to do with a feline who wanted to scoop a fish from a pond but feared wetting its paws. P. G. Woodehouse's character Bertie Wooster finds the line both fascinating and incomprehensible, and mistakenly believes his butler invented it, but basically grasps that it has to do with foregoing a potentially good action out of concern for collateral damage.
All of this is on my mind as we prepare to leave on our short-term mission trip this Sunday. I'm going because I figure it'll score points with Jesus but I'm not convinced that, on balance, I'll end up running in the black. Mark William Radecke, a professor of religion at Susquehanna Univeristy in Selinsgrove, PA, recently published an excellent article outlining eleven of what he calls "the worst practices" of Temporary Carey mission work. You can read the whole article at www.christiancentury.org/article.lasso?id=8440, but I'll summarize and comment here.
1. Here to ogle: He seems to mean that it's a good idea to get to know people and a bad idea to photograph them for your blog. Well, we're going up north and I confess that watching the Yankees go about their native handicrafts always fascinates me. Seriously, though - I'm not very good at getting to know people in my own culture. I would truly appreciate prayer that I would have - and take - the opportunity to develop relationships.
2. It's all about me: The idea here appears to be that whether I enjoy myself, or even feel the trip has been "productive" is not the point. Radecke cautions against taking an interest in people "only insofar as they can help us achieve something else - which, too often, is feeling good about ourselves and what we're doing." Or, perhaps, hoping we cajole Jesus into feeling that way.
3. Changing the mission trip location each year: Radecke seems to feel that this reduces the opportunity for long-term relationships and increases the touristy mentality of short-term mission work. In other words, "Indiana wants me/Lord I can't go back there." I think for me the greater danger is simply not having a location next year, figuring I've fulfilled the mission trip requirement on my eternal degree plan.
4. Ethnocentrism: I learned that one in Sociology 101 at Glendale Community College. It means thinking other people's way of doing things is wrong because it is different from yours. (Did you know that New Yorkers put milk in your coffee unless you specifically ask them NOT to?) I've always loved the passage in C. S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters where the demonic Yoda tells his protege that he can damage a very devout young woman's faith by working on her unexamined assumption that "the kind of fish-knives used in her father's house were the proper or normal or 'real'kind, while those of the neighbouring families were 'not real fish-knives' at all." This kind of thing is especially hard for Texans, whose culture is, of course, base-line for Western civilization. Pray for me; I'll do my best.
5. Relativism: This is an over-correction for ethnocentrism and is, Radecke points out, a subtle way of not taking another culture seriously. Fortunately, he admits that "two weeks is far too short to understand another society's complexities," and I get only half that time. So I probably won't have to do any heavy rebuking.
6. Engineer's syndrome: This is my term, not Radecke's, but I think I've got it right. It means immediately setting about "fixing" some problem in the local culture. I'm not much good at fixing stuff so this one worries me less.
7. I have, you need: This is the idea of swooping down like the Great White Father and providing food, shelter, etc. in a way that reduce the dignity and undermines the independence of the recipients. I think we're mostly doing VBS type stuff, so unless you count pipe cleaners, we probably won't face this one.
8. Let's see some results: This is the idea of wanting to "finish" something, whereas good mission work takes years. We're not on a building project (the example Radecke uses), but there is that itch to have some conversions I can report back home. I worry about what C. S. Lewis calls "the missionary's holy desire to save souls" that, he points out "has not always been kept quite distinct from arrogant desire, the busybody's itch, to (as he calls it) 'civilize' the (as he calls them) 'natives.'"
9. Where did you go to grad school?: Radecke writes that "it is certainly appropriate to draw on the expertise of local professors, pastors and others with advanced degrees," but points out that Temporary Careys should be more about learning than teaching. Bottom line: pray that I can keep my big mouth shut. (I'm only taking a Spanish Bible, which should limit my compulsion to launch into lectures since, at best, I rank as about a moderately bright seventh-grader in that language.)
10. Carbon footprints in the sand: Self-explanatory. We're flying to Chicago then driving five hours to Ft. Wayne, then doing the whole thing in reverse at the end of the week. Will my work be worth its weight in cow-farts?
11. They'll figure it out: This refers to lack of training. I'm less worried here because one of our students, Jena Pair, is leading the trip. Jena is a veteran of multiple Temporary Carey adventures and has already held several meetings with us to deal with just these sorts of issues. Also, my colleague Joe Rangel, who holds a PhD in cross-cultural studies, is helping. In fact, the other member of our team, Sherman Lindley, also an SCS student, has gone on many mission trips with the Baptist Student Ministries. The only real rookie is the undersigned, and I have high hopes that my three colleagues can keep me on point.
When I add it all up, I'm rather inclined, cat-wise, to keep my paws dry, figuring that the fish aren't worth the wetting and the game's not worth the candle. Jesus could tote up my balance sheet at the end of the week and decide I've gone deeper than ever in debt to his grace.
And perhaps - just perhaps - that's the whole purpose of this trip for me: to learn that, do what I will, I'll end up being saved by grace. My floundering romps through ministry may, when the last second ticks off the shot-clock, prove to have been largely arranged by the Trinity for my own amusement. Christ's blood will, it may turn out, have payed not only for my sins but for my good works. Oh, Romans 8.28 has not been revoked and doubtless the Lord will advance the kingdom somehow through my actions - the way a skillful mechanic can use a bent paperclip to fix an engine. But that will be his doing and to his glory. My one shot of any real accomplishment this week, it just may transpire, will be to learn that I can't accomplish anything.
All of this is on my mind as we prepare to leave on our short-term mission trip this Sunday. I'm going because I figure it'll score points with Jesus but I'm not convinced that, on balance, I'll end up running in the black. Mark William Radecke, a professor of religion at Susquehanna Univeristy in Selinsgrove, PA, recently published an excellent article outlining eleven of what he calls "the worst practices" of Temporary Carey mission work. You can read the whole article at www.christiancentury.org/article.lasso?id=8440, but I'll summarize and comment here.
1. Here to ogle: He seems to mean that it's a good idea to get to know people and a bad idea to photograph them for your blog. Well, we're going up north and I confess that watching the Yankees go about their native handicrafts always fascinates me. Seriously, though - I'm not very good at getting to know people in my own culture. I would truly appreciate prayer that I would have - and take - the opportunity to develop relationships.
2. It's all about me: The idea here appears to be that whether I enjoy myself, or even feel the trip has been "productive" is not the point. Radecke cautions against taking an interest in people "only insofar as they can help us achieve something else - which, too often, is feeling good about ourselves and what we're doing." Or, perhaps, hoping we cajole Jesus into feeling that way.
3. Changing the mission trip location each year: Radecke seems to feel that this reduces the opportunity for long-term relationships and increases the touristy mentality of short-term mission work. In other words, "Indiana wants me/Lord I can't go back there." I think for me the greater danger is simply not having a location next year, figuring I've fulfilled the mission trip requirement on my eternal degree plan.
4. Ethnocentrism: I learned that one in Sociology 101 at Glendale Community College. It means thinking other people's way of doing things is wrong because it is different from yours. (Did you know that New Yorkers put milk in your coffee unless you specifically ask them NOT to?) I've always loved the passage in C. S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters where the demonic Yoda tells his protege that he can damage a very devout young woman's faith by working on her unexamined assumption that "the kind of fish-knives used in her father's house were the proper or normal or 'real'kind, while those of the neighbouring families were 'not real fish-knives' at all." This kind of thing is especially hard for Texans, whose culture is, of course, base-line for Western civilization. Pray for me; I'll do my best.
5. Relativism: This is an over-correction for ethnocentrism and is, Radecke points out, a subtle way of not taking another culture seriously. Fortunately, he admits that "two weeks is far too short to understand another society's complexities," and I get only half that time. So I probably won't have to do any heavy rebuking.
6. Engineer's syndrome: This is my term, not Radecke's, but I think I've got it right. It means immediately setting about "fixing" some problem in the local culture. I'm not much good at fixing stuff so this one worries me less.
7. I have, you need: This is the idea of swooping down like the Great White Father and providing food, shelter, etc. in a way that reduce the dignity and undermines the independence of the recipients. I think we're mostly doing VBS type stuff, so unless you count pipe cleaners, we probably won't face this one.
8. Let's see some results: This is the idea of wanting to "finish" something, whereas good mission work takes years. We're not on a building project (the example Radecke uses), but there is that itch to have some conversions I can report back home. I worry about what C. S. Lewis calls "the missionary's holy desire to save souls" that, he points out "has not always been kept quite distinct from arrogant desire, the busybody's itch, to (as he calls it) 'civilize' the (as he calls them) 'natives.'"
9. Where did you go to grad school?: Radecke writes that "it is certainly appropriate to draw on the expertise of local professors, pastors and others with advanced degrees," but points out that Temporary Careys should be more about learning than teaching. Bottom line: pray that I can keep my big mouth shut. (I'm only taking a Spanish Bible, which should limit my compulsion to launch into lectures since, at best, I rank as about a moderately bright seventh-grader in that language.)
10. Carbon footprints in the sand: Self-explanatory. We're flying to Chicago then driving five hours to Ft. Wayne, then doing the whole thing in reverse at the end of the week. Will my work be worth its weight in cow-farts?
11. They'll figure it out: This refers to lack of training. I'm less worried here because one of our students, Jena Pair, is leading the trip. Jena is a veteran of multiple Temporary Carey adventures and has already held several meetings with us to deal with just these sorts of issues. Also, my colleague Joe Rangel, who holds a PhD in cross-cultural studies, is helping. In fact, the other member of our team, Sherman Lindley, also an SCS student, has gone on many mission trips with the Baptist Student Ministries. The only real rookie is the undersigned, and I have high hopes that my three colleagues can keep me on point.
When I add it all up, I'm rather inclined, cat-wise, to keep my paws dry, figuring that the fish aren't worth the wetting and the game's not worth the candle. Jesus could tote up my balance sheet at the end of the week and decide I've gone deeper than ever in debt to his grace.
And perhaps - just perhaps - that's the whole purpose of this trip for me: to learn that, do what I will, I'll end up being saved by grace. My floundering romps through ministry may, when the last second ticks off the shot-clock, prove to have been largely arranged by the Trinity for my own amusement. Christ's blood will, it may turn out, have payed not only for my sins but for my good works. Oh, Romans 8.28 has not been revoked and doubtless the Lord will advance the kingdom somehow through my actions - the way a skillful mechanic can use a bent paperclip to fix an engine. But that will be his doing and to his glory. My one shot of any real accomplishment this week, it just may transpire, will be to learn that I can't accomplish anything.
Thursday, July 15, 2010
Mission Action or Mission Distraction?
With the trip only three days away now, I'm a little concerned about my own motives in taking a short-term mission trip. (Neurosis can look a lot like humility if you spin it correctly.) I was reading C. S. Lewis' Screwtape Letters last night and came across the following demonic advice in chapter six: "The great thing is to direct the malice to his immediate neighbours whom he meets every day and to thrust his benevolence out to the remote circumference, to people he does not know."
Well now, that's a point, isn't it? Reminds me of the ladies' missionary society meeting in To Kill a Mockingbird where Mrs. Grace Merriweather rhapsodizes about her undying devotion to the "Mruna" tribesmen of Africa but can talk with cold indifference about the unjust trial of a local black man.
What I mean is this: I'm spending considerable time and money to go to Indiana to teach English as a second language and help with a sort of Vacation Bible School. Yet one of my students runs a literacy program at the First Baptist Church ten minutes from my home and I've never volunteered, and my own church has VBS every summer, a program that I consistently grace with my absence. Well and good if this trip helps me discover a talent (or, less likely still, an enjoyment) for that kind of work and motivates me to seek it out at home. Less beneficial if my one week inoculation of charity renders me immune to local carriers of the virus. Am I more willing to serve God in Fort Wayne because I know that while God is there all the time, I will only be there for five days?
I'm not trying to come up with excuses not to go. (And anyway the tickets are non-refundable.) I'm trying to discover the excuses I already have for not - in an important sense - coming back.
Well now, that's a point, isn't it? Reminds me of the ladies' missionary society meeting in To Kill a Mockingbird where Mrs. Grace Merriweather rhapsodizes about her undying devotion to the "Mruna" tribesmen of Africa but can talk with cold indifference about the unjust trial of a local black man.
What I mean is this: I'm spending considerable time and money to go to Indiana to teach English as a second language and help with a sort of Vacation Bible School. Yet one of my students runs a literacy program at the First Baptist Church ten minutes from my home and I've never volunteered, and my own church has VBS every summer, a program that I consistently grace with my absence. Well and good if this trip helps me discover a talent (or, less likely still, an enjoyment) for that kind of work and motivates me to seek it out at home. Less beneficial if my one week inoculation of charity renders me immune to local carriers of the virus. Am I more willing to serve God in Fort Wayne because I know that while God is there all the time, I will only be there for five days?
I'm not trying to come up with excuses not to go. (And anyway the tickets are non-refundable.) I'm trying to discover the excuses I already have for not - in an important sense - coming back.
Wednesday, July 14, 2010
Why "The Temporary Carey"?
Baptists don't canonize, but if we did William Carey would rank near the top of a very short list of candidates. At an associational meeting in 1792 he preached the "deathless sermon" from Isaiah 54.2, calling on Christians to take the gospel to foreign shores. At the end of the service they took up a collection - which they stored in one of the minister's snuff tins! Before it was over, Carey left England for India where, without colleagues, precedents, training or funds he founded the modern missionary movement.
Well, I'm no William Carey.
Starting next Sunday, however, I will avail myself of a small slice of his great heritage by going on a short-term mission trip. Under the leadership of one of our seminary students, Jena Pair, and my colleague Dr. Joe Rangel (both highly experienced in this kind of work) I will accompany students and faculty from the South Texas School of Christian Studies (www.stscs.org) on a trip to Fort Wayne, Indiana, where we will work with refugees from Somalia, Burma, Sudan and several other Asian and African countries. Under the auspices of Experience Mission (www.experiencemission.com) we will teach English classes, conduct Kid's Clubs, and help with service projects.
The purpose of this blog will be to help all who are interested stay informed of how the trip is going and how they can support us through prayer.
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