PEANUT BUTTER JELLY TIME!!!
I have quite a visual right now. No, it’s not just the dancing banana but rather what it must have looked like to see me hopping around the room, raising the roof and switching from foot to foot. It was during the StartingBloc Boston Institute this past February, and a vote the day before had provided the opportunity for me and three others to talk for 10 minutes about projects in which we were engaged. I spoke about the Bayonnais Peanut Butter Project, opening with an invitation for everyone to shake it to the “Peanut Butter Jelly Time” song.
The Bayonnais Peanut Butter Project, for those unfamiliar with it, was inspired by Project Peanut Butter’s work in Africa. When I learned that it is common not to eat a day out of the week in Bayonnais, that day likely to multiply during the dry season, peanut butter came to mind as a protein-rich foodstuff that is readily available, long-lasting, tasty, and fulfilling. (Even in the US peanut butter is the best item to bring to a food drive; it’s nutritious, kid’s love it, and its lipid base repels spoiling bacteria.) Peanuts are grown in Bayonnais and are available throughout the year, though prices may fluctuate as much as 100% depending on the season. Other ingredients, namely salt, sugar, and cinnamon, are relatively inexpensive and easy to find.
Thus, all we needed to start the project was some start-up funding (IOH Methodist Church, SCDS, and private), a mechanical grinder (approx. $500), and a well-respected, locally-hired project director to manage production, distribution, and nutritional education. Finding the grinder was the first obstacle, but eventually we purchased one in Port-au-Prince. At this point, I had communicated my concerns to OFCB: choosing the right project manager was critical, and I needed to know, for fundraising purposes, at what price we would subsidize the peanut butter; at what price would locals, who do not yet understand the importance of protein, buy it?
There are cultural factors in our village as well, including the simple fact that people aren’t used to buying peanut butter, even though it is a product with which they are familiar. Moreover, take someone living on the borderline of spirit-crushing poverty who has “x” amount of dollars: $x will get them this much starch (sorgham or corn, for example), or $x will get them this much peanut butter. It’s highly likely the starch, greater in quantity, will trump the protein, a common problem in many poor countries.
At this point I stepped back, acknowledging that I was too involved, that if the project had any chance of lasting success, the Haitians would have to have ownership of it. In January, while I was busily completing premedical coursework in Savannah, GA, the Bayonnais Peanut Butter Project gained steam. I returned last week to find a widely popular and well-managed project run out of one half of a small room next to the bank. There are five different volumes sold at prices ranging from roughly $1 to $5, the largest represented a former 32-ounce wide-lid mayonnaise jar. As far as demographics are concerned, students and professors comprise the greatest number of buyers, followed by various adults buying for themselves and family; some send jars all the way to Port-au-Prince! The manager says some days no one may come in, but other days as many as 8 people may visit, buying as many as 4 volumes each. I can’t explain my excitement at learning that students are regularly eating it in the morning before school! One of my greater hopes was realized in hearing one girl say it improves her attention span in the classroom. Professors will take some with bread if they don’t get a chance to eat lunch. Others have moved up to the peanut butter and banana sandwich; wait till we introduce bee-keeping and honey! Approximately 374 containers have been distributed since January.
Unfortunately, I have to taint all of this wonderful news with one unknown. After starting the project, I learned about a nasty little bugger named aphlatoxin. It is a mycobacterium that may contaminate many staples, including peanuts, especially when they are not properly sorted and stored. Though substantial research regarding its affects on humans is lacking, there is ample information to validate its harmful toxicity, which may compromise immunity and nutrition as well as contributing to liver cancer. Of course, this would be completely counterproductive, especially to big-bellied, red-haired children who are already protein-deficiently one step behind. Nonetheless, aphlatoxin is in the peanut butter we eat here in the US; there’s no getting around it. The question is, “How much?” Various international standards greatly minimize exposure, so don’t go boycotting the PB@J! I’ve spoken with several organizations, including Meds and Food for Kids and Partners in Health, who have informed me of effective preventative techniques and testing procedures. (I’ve shared preventative farming techniques with a local agronomist in Bayonnais.) I look forward to testing the aphlatoxin content of our peanut butter when I return in July.
Back to the good news: we successfully brought a peanut-shelling kit, engineered by the Full Belly Project, to Bayonnais. The fiberglass mold and metal parts provided are enough to make several of these cement machines. Once OFCB identifies a metalsmith who can replicate the needed parts, a small business may begin. Only a few organizations in the country have such molds, and most–if not all–are not using them for microenterprise. Thus, we have a huge market to which to cater with a relatively small and inexpensive product. Moreover, if made properly, the machine serves as the first round of sorting for aphlatoxin-contaminated peanuts, for they fall through unshelled due to their moisture content. Also, because it hurts one’s fingers to shell peanuts for a long time, it is not uncommon for people to moisten the peanuts so as to minimize the wear and tear on their hands; moisture in a Carribean climate, however, is a welcome mat for aphlatoxin. Therefore, the FBP peanut sheller is a two-fold blow to this malicious mycobacterium.
Should OFCB successfully implement a peanut sheller business, profits may substantially support the Bayonnais Peanut Butter Project, which depends upon financial assistance due to its inherent subsidies. Currently, BPBP at least leans in the direction of sustainability; we’re not giving out peanut butter for free. In a country where many tons of food aid rotted in national ports, it’s also worth noting the significance of a system in which foreign dollars translate directly into on-the-ground, locally-produced nutritious food. Currently, the project account holds $530. I’m going to try my best to fit fundraising in somewhere between my sister’s wedding, Organic Chemistry II, the MCAT, and medical school applications this summer. If you or anyone else may be interested in assisting, please let me know. Also, stay tuned for whenever Google announces the top 100 projects of their 10 to the 100th Competition; I submitted a nationally-scaled proposal.
Libone manages sales and distribution of the peanut butter, which is shown in various containers to his right. The transparent wall affords a quick visual inventory. The peanut butter you see here is what remains of the fourth round of production. When they make more, the table will be covered with jars.
I just returned from eight days in Bayonnais with an 18-member college team, my first trip back in over six months. Though leadership demands set a fast pace for the week, causing me to forgo several house visits and conversations, I had an incredible experience. Fortunately, I was able to assure friends that I would be back in July for a few weeks. Group reflections the final evening testified to God’s moving deep within many lives, and I was surprised by how far away I felt from my first visit to Bayonnais. So much has happened since then. . . so much reconstruction of identity and perspectives characterizes the other side of that turning point, the other side of showing up in Bayonnais.
“TAKE TIME TO SHOW UP”
The phrase has been working on me for some time following a conversation with a dear friend. Though we may obsess about agendas, about how and what we are going to serve, sometimes we are called to enter into the uncertainty of simply showing up. What is the significance of showing up in Bayonnais? Why not take the thousands of dollars our large group spent on last week’s experience and send the money rather than ourselves? . . . We could substantially support the food budget or easily start a high school graduate on his or her first year of college. What justifies our showing up?
These are hard questions not to be taken lightly; I ask because I know others struggle with them. Having lived in Bayonnais, I do have an opinion, and I’d appreciate your patience as I attempt to articulate a response.
Watch this video because it is highly informative, but take notice of the final exchange, for it speaks to our subject. I lived in the mountains of Haiti for seven months, and I can still only scratch the surface of what it meant for a smiling white American to give two most valuable possessions, namely time and presence, to a people who often feel forgotten.
I remember the first time a mission team came down during my stay. When they stood up to introduce themselves to the community, I hesitated as whispers and giggles tickled the crowd. “Peter is Haitian,” one of my highest compliments, accompanied the acknowledgment that I didn’t need to go up that day. Many teams would come and go, and while their time in Haiti was always transformative to say the least, they never saw the ripples following their departure, never saw the ways in which pieces of their lives had been sewn into the fabric of the community. “How is Rob?” and “I had a dream about Katie last night. . .” didn’t reach their ears unless I remembered to forward them through the Internet. Many visitors don’t understand that in the same way they carry faces of new friends back home in their hearts, their own faces remain imprinted upon Haitian hearts in Bayonnais.
MUTUAL EXPOSURE
What happens during a stay in Haiti? I can not think of a single mission group that has not been humbled by the following observation: “I came to help others, but I received so much more than I offered. . .” In other words, “I came to serve, but I found myself served.” Pay attention to these words, for they point to one of the most profound and unexpected truths about life.
Jesus did not consider equality with God as something to be exploited, but rather humbled himself as a servant, taking human form and becoming obedient unto death, even death on a cross. . . Therefore God exalted his name, that upon hearing it every knee would bow, in heaven and on earth, and that all would proclaim him as Lord! (Phil 2: 6-11) Notice the “V” shape of God’s stepping down and subsequent exaltation. Resurrection is built into God’s design. When we die to ourselves, even in small ways, there is life on the other side–even if it is sometimes punctuated by a Saturday of waiting. Unfortunately, so often we lack the courage to take the risk, to put ourselves out there, to show up. . . and sometimes, when by grace our words attain the quality of deeds (Weisel) and we do, we may not even realize we have done so.
I wonder if this has something to do with what happens in Haiti. . . I wonder if the new life on the other side of the week eclipses the reality of how much stepping down may have actually occurred on that short flight. When we signed up for the trip, we may not have appreciated the questions that awaited us on the ground, questions that would grow in quantity and quality, challenging our way of life and perhaps even shaping our very identities. Awareness, it seems, is not a pre-requesite for the death-to-self that precedes resurrection, the simple decision to lovingly show up in another’s life–wherever it may be–pregnant with possibility.
We need to acknowledge that we are participating in each other’s lives, that our decisions, however small and seemingly insignificant, shape our shared world. Again, so often we are unaware of the impressions we leave upon others. If you wake up early in the morning and sit on the front porch of the Helen Hunter building, you’re likely to behold a painfully beautiful scene: women, brooms in hand and jovial in spirit, sweeping dirt. . . sweeping dirt. . . their floor is dirt and leaves impede its cleanliness. . . These women have taught me more about dignity than anyone else, yet they are oblivious to such teaching and its significance for me. It would take me a while to discern what it meant for a young child to make eye contact with the Blan passing by in the truck. That momentary attention spiced with a quick smile could move mountains in that little soul. God works through us in small but significant ways. Add them up and you have a miracle, for as Beuchner writes, “A miracle is when the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. A miracle is where one plus one equals a thousand.”
The miracle is one of mutual exposure. Certain potential is primed within us, only able to be developed by the light of another person, by the light of God. However, we must risk getting close enough to receive that light; this may mean getting dirty and probably means renouncing cherished stereotypes, for these only thrive at a distance. In the light of Jesus’ example, a picture slowly appears. . . though the image may look different to each of us, we find ourselves united under the timeless question it poses:
Do we have the humility to receive the life of God and the courage to live it?
GOLDEN TICKET
We watched Charlie and the Chocolate Factory during cinema night last week–yes, the creepy one with Johnny Depp. One particular scene arrested me. Charlie has found the last golden ticket, the park-pass of his dreams, yet he informs his impoverished family that he won’t be going to the Chocolate Factory. A woman had offered him $500 earlier that afternoon, and Charlie knows his family needs the money. . . Silence lingers, much as it may have following the italicized question above in the second paragraph. Then Grandpa George, who had cynically bet against Charlie’s hopes earlier in the film, imparts wisdom:
“There’s plenty of money out there. They print more every day. But this ticket, there’s only five of them in the whole world, and that’s all there’s ever going to be. Only a dummy would give this up for something as common as money. Are you a dummy?”
Forgive me for sounding like a self-help book, but there’s only one of you. Consider the words of Marianne Williamson: “Our deepest fear is not that we are inadequate. Our deepest fear is that we are powerful beyond measure. It is our light, not our darkness that most frightens us. . . You are a child of God. Your playing small does not serve the world. There is nothing enlightened about shrinking so that other people won’t feel insecure around you. We are all meant to shine, as children do. We were born to make manifest the glory of God that is within us. It’s not just in some of us; it’s in everyone. And as we let our own light shine, we unconsciously give other people permission to do the same. As we are liberated from our own fear, our presence automatically liberates others.”
Are you willing to at least consider that you are more valuable than you could ever hope or imagine, that you are worth the very life of God? Are you willing to be childlike, fostering imagination such that you don’t place limits upon the Grace of God and how it may move through you? For those still wearing economic blinders, are you willing to appraise the likelihood of the experience inspiring you to raise more resources than you would otherwise have sent in place of yourself? For veterans who go more to be served and forgo trips because they don’t get much out of them anymore, are you willing to acknowledge that it may only be about you when it is not about you? C.S. Lewis writes, “Your real, new self will not come as long as you are looking for it.”
Buechner confesses, “I fend off the world, I avoid getting involved with other people’s needs, so that I can get ahead in the world myself. But at this deeper level, much deeper than conscience, the truth of it is that I need the world. I need the very ones that I keep at a distance. I need to love and be loved by the very ones from whom I hide myself behind this face. I need them not so that I can ease my conscience but so that I can be myself.”
Go because you are willing to appreciate the value of a golden ticket. Go because your wholeness and theirs depends upon it. Go because He went before us and goes with us. Just Go.
May we all have the courage to show up in people’s lives, wherever we find them, for there too will we find ourselves.
After much difficulty finding a peanut butter machine in Port-au-Prince and a period of waiting for peanut season, the Bayonnais Peanut Butter Project has officially begun! Many thanks to Savannah Country Day School and the Isle of Hope United Methodist Church for their support which has made all of this possible. Stay tuned for more details on how the project is addressing hunger and malnutrition in Bayonnais, as well as an update on whether or not Google chooses a similar nationally-scaled peanut butter project for the second round of its 10 to the 100th competition.
A special thank you to Myers Park United Methodist Church and all others who made this timely and novel delivery of food aid possible. To quote one of the leaders of OFCB who writes to thank David Nichols and Kevin Wright for their participation in this event shortly after hurricanes Hanna and Ike:
“We think you do not have the ability to understand and explain it to the people of the states what was happening in Bayonnais today, they are used to seeing such things in their area. People were not happy because of the rice first of all, but of seeing helicopter landing in Bayonnais for a really first time and see how you sacrifice yourselves to visit us. . . What you do has two meanings: you feed people who are very, very and very very hungry and you give them hope to know that God is Good if they can see that happening in here. . . By the way, say THANKS in capital letters to the rest of the States for us. We are going to keep contact with you in order to know what to do, in order to wait for you for the day of tomorrow.”
October 12th through 17th I had the opportunity to visit my Haitian family in Bayonnais. It took two and a half days to greet people, catching up on how they were doing post-Hanna/Ike. Trying to schedule meetings was somewhat laughable, as anyone at any given moment might well pull me to the side for an hour-long conversation. To each his/her own struggles; often poverty dynamics previously complex were now more complicated. Any crops located near a water source took a significant toll. Rocks and gravel stole the value of most arable land along the river, leaving owners with nothing. Most piggy banks and goat investments drowned in flood waters, and many lost houses or portions thereof. Nonetheless, as is characteristic of Bayonnaisiens, there is hope and gratitude in their eyes. Beside fear and trembling there is trust in a faithful God who provides–One who provides novel food-bearing machines from the sky, One who provides life despite whirlwinds.
We drove to Gonaives one day so that I could see the damage in Haiti’s New Orleans. Passing the colorful cement buildings of a small cemetery, Actionnel poignantly remarked, “You see, the dead have better houses than the living.” Indeed, only the foundations of many houses survived the waters in one area on the outskirts of the city. I saw huge Mapoo trees–dwelling places of Satan in Voodoo tradition–that had been uprooted despite his best efforts and carried downstream. Occasional cars “buried like potatoes” testified to the unwelcome presence of mud–thick, sticky mud that clings to the inside of one’s bucket or wheelbarrow until tediously scraped by hand. Reeds and debris clothed the metal armature of rooftops, skeletal hopes that opportunity will someday provide a second floor. Two paintings I had purchased from Michel Style were “altered” to say the least. The seaside location where I drew “‘Silence de la Mer’” no longer exists, and the large boat is nowhere to be found. Lake Jeanne, born in 2004 of hurricane Jeanne, has now expanded to Lake Hanna/Ike, and while most of the waters have receded in the city, she still floods a very large portion of land along what was Route 1.
All in all, however, I was impressed by the amount of work that had been accomplished. (Of course, I’m judging by Haitian standards relevant to available resources.) The most impressive feat was a section of road near the restored market in Bayonnais that had washed out completely; I nearly asked how they got a Caterpillar up there before learning that all the work had been done by hand! Most roads in Gonaives are now operable. Nonetheless, the circumstances are extremely difficult in both locations; both places have a very long way to go and continue to need our support.
My proposed trip in September having been thwarted by Hanna, it was very important for me to return at this time. It had been five months since my departure in May. Friends were pleased to find that I had not forgotten my Kreyol, offering more comments than ever that I am indeed “Haitian.” All reminded me that 6 days was too short, and I agreed, yet somehow they magically went by very slowly. I told everyone why I could not stay this fall, and I uncomfortably received too much applause for deciding to pursue medicine. Leaving Haiti I felt a very profound and unexpected peace, a peace that I am simply not supposed to be living there right now. As much as it hurts to be far from where much of my heart resides, it feels right to be in the United States investing in education at this time.
I’ll end with two videos taken by Michel Style, art teacher and photography student who documented a food distribution following Hanna and Ike. He told me that the aid came from Venezuela, but neither police nor UN troops were present to maintain order. Someone simply dropped off the food in a vacant marketplace and let the people have at it. (This first video shows the white truck that delivered the food having difficulty driving in the mud.)
“There’s nothing like poverty to get you into heaven.” This Patty Griffin lyric seems to have been stuck on repeat in my head this past week. I imagine her tongue pressed softly in cheek as her passes on the guitar betray the gravity–and its rub–on the underside of the statement. I hear Chaim Potok’s fictional character, Asher Lev saying, “I [do] not know. But I [sense] it as truth.”
What did Jesus mean when he said, “Blessed are the poor?”
This ubiquitous question has followed me all around Bayonnais and remains with me here in the United States. I’ve been waiting to attempt a response; it isn’t that I haven’t had much to say but that I don’t know how to say much of it. However, I can say that there is a powerful truth involved, and it very well may lie at the heart of God’s mystery. Blame it on Blaise or the artist in me, but I think the best textual approach to such wonders is via the circumference, talking around it and pointing to it with metaphor.
“‘Straight to the point’
can ricochet,
unconvincing.
Circumlocution, analogy,
parables, ambiguities, provide
context, stepping stones.”
–Denise Levertov, Poetics of Faith
COMMUNICATION
Before Haiti, we need to go to Russia where I spent ten days in July on a mission trip with First Presbyterian Church of Charlotte, NC. Imagine a modest room filled with vegetation whose daily bread passes freely through the windows’ iron bars, a layer of protection for Hope Baptist Church against an aggressive and persecutory society. It is the sabbath, and Pastor Pavol glows from behind a podium-pulpit. The Spirit in his eyes is enough to convert jet-lag to attentiveness. However, I am interested less in the English translation than I am in what he’s saying, what I don’t and do understand. . . those funny, unfamiliar sounds, stereotypically cast a uniform gray in the past, are now as green as the plants, and I’m comfortable in the familiar warmth of his welcoming expressions.
“No eye has seen, no ear has heard, and no mind has imagined the things that God has prepared for those who love him.” (1 Corinthians 2:9)
Pavol loves God, and because he does, you feel God’s love. This is a mystery.
Now to Davidson College in North Carolina where I risked some self-esteem to a public speaking class in the basement of Chambers. Don’t ask me where this figure comes from, but I learned that approximately 20% of communication is verbal, the other 80% nonverbal. (Let’s not consider this electronic blogging medium for the moment.) Think about how much you gather from someone’s eyes and how they look at you. Think about all the information we willingly or unwittingly divulge through a myriad of facial expressions and gestures. Actions, no matter how subtle, can often speak louder than words.
How does God speak to us, and how are we to share what He says with others? Concerning others, many say sow the gospel, using words if necessary, in order to stress the living of Love, the Word of God, noun-truth enfleshed as a verb. Regarding God, if Scripture amounts to a “verbal” 20%, then what of God’s nonverbals? Frederick Buechner is currently one of my favorite authors, not only for the integrity of his spiritual search but for the manner in which he articulates God’s moving in the everydayness of our lives.
“I happen to believe in God because here and there over the years certain things happened. Not one particularly untoward thing happened, just certain things. To be more accurate, the things that happened never really were quite certain and hence, I suppose, their queer power.” (Frederick Buechner, The Alphabet of Grace)
Read the title of my blog, yet God didn’t whisper in my ear, “Hey, Peter. Go to Haiti.” No, God used four days in Bayonnais to tell me, through my experiencing the integration of all my passions and gifts in the community, “Peter, you asked for the abundant life. Come here. You have much to learn.” It is not unlike God’s using Jean Vanier’s words to tell Henri Nouwen to go to L’Arche Daybreak, “Go and live among the poor in spirit, and they will heal you.” (Henri Nouwen, In The Name of Jesus)
“Peter, go and live among the poor of Bayonnais, and they will heal you.”
HEALING
My readers will be familiar with the following question: “How do you receive a full plate of food from a friend (Isaac) whom you know didn’t eat three days the week before?” Your well-fed stomach is not hungry. You understand that this is likely the only substantial meal of the day for the family, and you realize that you have been given a more than equal portion. Polite refusals are met with with the same; reasoned refusals are met with an 80% that says, “You do not understand how important it is for my family and I that you share this meal with us.”
It’s humbling not to speak the language in Russia, and it’s humbling to be chez Isaac, pressured to receive such a radical act of generosity. All I can say is that this gesture pushed a wealthy American into poverty so that he might be healed, and here I approach the current limits of my 20%.
How do I communicate life in Haiti? How do I speak to the blessings of the poor? I am limited. Much you have to feel out for yourself through your own skin, for I don’t know how to talk about the intuitive nonverbals that have placed extraordinary emphasis on Jesus’ benediction. For you see, in admiring the radical dependence the Bayonnnaisiens have on God, one walks a fine line in romanticizing their poverty, a direct or indirect suggestion that in some way it is good they are poor. (A good friend reminds me to beware this value judgement.) The fact is: their poverty is absolutely horrible and even morally reprehensible. A dependence upon God doesn’t justify a family not eating for thee days, let alone one dying, and it doesn’t justify much of the world remaining relatively unmoved by radical suffering on either side of the national fence.
INTERMISSION
INTERMISSION
(Back when I didn’t speak Creole very well. . . )
INTERMISSION
INTERMISSION
Although I am well-travelled and some may consider me a man of mystery, I am not Austin Powers–thank goodness! Over the past few years, however, I’ve gained a greater appreciation for the mysteries of Jesus’ teachings. As we must die to truly live, we must become poor to inherit true wealth. It seems the poor have less road to travel. We may qualify our poverty, referencing Matthew’s “in spirit” or Luke’s austerity, but don’t spiritual and physical poverty inform one another? Perhaps they are not as different as we often make them out to be.
LESS ROAD TO TRAVEL
At some point in our lives we must all ask a difficult question, silently or otherwise, and our response is critical to the salvation of not only our own lives but also the lives those around us:
What makes me important?
What is it that makes me valuable, worthwhile, and meaningful as Peter Daniel? There seem to be two initial approaches to this question of identity, both of which are tragic if used as the foundation for one’s self. First, peer affirmation declares that my importance as an individual is proportional to what other people think about me. Second, and connected to the first, my accomplishments, accolades, and successes amount to what Nouwen terms as “relevance,” which is why I am meaningful. Both are problematic in that they promise value only conditionally; you are only worthwhile to the extent that you can earn and prove that worth. Unfortunately, this is one of the loudest voices in our culture.
Ours is a culture that shouts you need more than you have, when most of us have more than we need. Our capitalist market bombards us with endless stimuli, all of which are bent on convincing us we’re inadequate. If we buy into it, we ironically change from consumer to commodity. Most of us struggle in some sense with body image, feeling that we would be more important if we could just loose some of that flab, be more fit and attractive; many consider physical attractiveness a currency in relationships. Often those who are most attractive have the highest standards and upkeep, but then there are those for whom it is more natural, secondary, and low-maintenance.
“I have a friend who has a big pancake face and feathery brown hair, with patches of scalp showing. She has peasanty patato features, and she’s too tall, and totally inelegant. But she loves her life. She’s chosen a life of prayer, service, and travel. She’s always in a sort of infuriating state of wonder, of appreciating what is, instead of fretting about what she wishes was. But she’s great-looking–everyone thinks so–because of the expressions on her face and the way she looks at you.
She is radiant with spirituality and humor; she was dealt the same basic cards we all were, but somehow she could see that the cards were marked, so she put them down and refused to play. You can’t win with marked cards.” (Anne Lamott, Grace (Eventually): Thoughts on Faith)
Sex is a loud voice in our culture because it’s an easy sell, and it often leads to harmful addictions that involve objectifying others as a means of sensual gratification. One may also use social status or education as a means of condescension; in fact, there’s all kinds of social capital–the list goes on. In our culture, it’s easier to play the game than it is to step out of it. We succumb quickly to judging others, pitting ourselves against them, and finding ways to treat them as less because we are insecure about our own identities. Constantly collecting and storing, we become scavengers for our own egos and often at the expense of our brothers and sisters. We’ll travel Samsara’s wheel of expectation and disappointment until we ground ourselves elsewhere.
Elsewhere needs to be a place free of conditions in which one’s meaning and worth are not earned but rather given. God sent Jesus to communicate His love. His vulnerability on the cross is an 80% which says, “I love you. You are the beloved.” (Nouwen) We can’t get our minds around the truth that there are many “the beloved”s; neither can we get our minds around the truth that ours is a God with and without names, so let us be careful not to sacrifice Him again to perceived theological correctness. (”Theology is the first step towards secularization.” A friend threw me that bone and I’ve chewed it for a while–spend some time with it.)
Grace is inherently undeserved; there’s nothing you can do to earn it. If you don’t at least initially find this a bit unsettling, then you are likely a saint or haven’t yet grasped its meaning. In grace, God says that you are known deeply, loved deeply, and worth His very life. Grace is the loveliest gift of all. Grace is especially beautiful given its absolute sufficiency. It’s the bittersweet apple that led to pride and the illusive need to be greater than the greatest, greater than the beloved. “Pride gets no pleasure out of having something, only out of having more of it than the next man…It is the comparison that makes you proud: the pleasure of being above the rest. Once the element of comparison has gone, pride has gone.” (C.S. Lewis, Mere Christianity) Pride taught us to forsake dependence for independence. Back to the garden. . .
BACK TO THE SUBJECT
If we must own poverty in order to truly ground ourselves in grace and belovedness, in order to settle into unconditional love, perhaps the poor are blessed because they have less to step down from, less to get in the way, less to wade through in claiming their identity as the beloved. “Peter, go and live among the poor of Bayonnais, and they will heal you.” Perhaps being with the poor has helped me to claim my own poverty. By stepping down from a pedestal of peer affirmation, accomplishments, and relevance, I’m learning what it looks like in the context of my life to live out of grace.
Now many people will conveniently misunderstand, package, and displace some of these ideas, for it’s easier to see things in black and white, good and bad. I’m not suggesting by any means that peer affirmation and accomplishments are bad. They are juicy fruits that often accompany living a good life. I’m suggesting we treat them as manna and collect only for today. Resist the temptation to stuff your pockets. Depending on God is risky, and risk is scary because you are not in control, but it is the only way I know of living an abundant and truly meaningful life.
“[Living with mentally handicapped people] was and, in many ways, is still the most important experience of my new life, because it forced me to discover my true identity. These broken, wounded, and completely unpretentious people forced me to let go of my relevant self–the self that can do things, show things, prove things, build things–and forced me to reclaim that unadorned self in which I am completely vulnerable, open to receive and give love regardless of any accomplishments.
I am telling you this because I am deeply convinced that the Christian leader of the future is called to be completely irrelevant and to stand in this world with nothing to offer but his or her own vulnerable self. That is the way Jesus came to reveal God’s love. The greatest message that we have to carry, as ministers of God’s Word and followers of Jesus, is that God loves us not because of what we do or accomplish, but because God has created and redeemed us in love and has chosen us to proclaim that love as the true source of human life.” (Henri Nouwen, In The Name of Jesus)
“ONE PLUS ONE”
A summation of my 7 months in Haiti this past academic year may be found between the following words:
“A miracle is when the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. A miracle is where one plus one equals a thousand.” (Buechner, Alphabet of Grace)
At the end of my first blog post in September of 2007, you’ll find the following quotation from Buechner’s Now and Then:
“When you find something in a human face that calls out to you, not just for help but in some sense for yourself, how far do you go in answering that call, how far can you go, seeing that you have your own life to get on with as much as he has his?”
I still do not know the answer to this question.
MEDICAL SCHOOL
The human body is a miracle whose whole is certainly greater than the sum of its parts. I’m looking forward to studying both in the near future. I’ve committed to post-bac premedical classes in order to take the MCAT and apply to medical school in the fall of 2009. Unfortunately, I’ve had to restrict my anticipated 2 months in Haiti this fall to 4 days in order to accommodate physics and chemistry courses; this decision was very difficult to make because I’d been looking forward to returning to the rhythms of life in Bayonnais. Fortunately, I should have plenty of time between acceptance to medical school and the start of classes in 2010 to return to Haiti for significant period of time.
I’ve chosen to be pursue medicine because it is relevant to the needs of Bayonnais and the world at large, and I would like to combine physical healing with the spiritual and emotional healing that tend to come more naturally to me. Anyone who knows me well knows I’ve thought this through and have sought the words of many peers and mentors in this process of discernment and deliberation. (Thank you to all who offered listening ears and honest words.) While I may have to place my artwork to the side during medical school, my long-term priority is time and a flexible schedule that will enable me not only to travel to Haiti but to make artistic creation a very significant part of my life. My vocation as an artist remains fixed as the wisdom of a friend’s mother comes to mind, “You may have it all, just maybe not at the same time.”
EPILOGUE
(. . . of this book-post, not the blog; Peter will go back to Haiti.)
The first day of art class I asked my students what they wanted to learn. Their response: to draw things as they look. Why, that’s simple, though it may take a lifetime to master. All you must do is learn to see light, but in order to do so you’re going to have to let go of some baggage, let go of your conventional ways of seeing things. (For example, if you draw both of my eyes the same, you didn’t see how the line above my right hangs lower than that of my left.) This is not an easy thing to do, as we mistakingly think these possessions make life easier, but they really just get in the way of seeing the subject; it’s not easy because it’s risky and you’re not sure how the drawing will turn out. Monet once said he wished he could become blind and learn to see again in order to rid himself of associations, to see light truly and how it touches form. You don’t have to dispose of these possessions, as you may come back to the conventions later in order to say something, but your art will be severely limited if you never let go and learn to see without them.
Christ says, “I am the light of the world.” If we are to see this light truly, to see that it touches all forms including others and ourselves, we must also let go of some baggage and claim our poverty. “It seems that the prodigal had to lose everything to come into touch with the ground of his being;” consider also that the elder son may have just as far to travel in staying home. (Nouwen, The Return of the Prodigal Son)
Jesus asked Peter, as He asks each of us, “Do you love me?” If we wish to live abundantly, we must say more than 20%. He calls us to risk more than words, for if we do, we’ll glow like Pavol, our foliage green as the plants at Hope Baptist.
(A little ridiculous and cheesy, yes, but switch God’s role and listen again.)
“Knowing the heart of Jesus and loving him are the same thing. . . The desire to be relevant and successful will gradually disappear, and our only desire will be to say with our whole being to our brothers and sisters of the human race, ‘You are loved. There is no reason to be afraid. . . ‘“ (Nouwen, In The Name of Jesus)
(post started May 10th)
I am in the Miami airport, and my thoughts are clouded. The first wave of “culture shock” has me in a bit of a daze. I can already tell that this homecoming will be different from the last in December, for this time it involves a home-leaving as well. I didn’t necessarily expect for friends to become family, and I’m sensing the geographical and relational tensions between the US and Haiti may be long-term ones in my life. Fortunately, I could afford a response to, “When are you coming back?” September, “si Bondye vle.” (if God wills it–a typical Haitian parting response.) I hope to find sponsorship this summer to go back for at least 2 or 3 months in the fall while preparing for seminary, med school, or other.
SEXUAL EDUCATION
The first official sexual education seminar was a marked event last week. Isolated conversations with guys and girls convinced me of the extreme importance of touching the subject before my departure. Unfortunately, not as many students showed up as I would have liked, due in part to lack of notification, as rain had semi-cancelled school the day before when the seminar was announced. Nonetheless, we had a good 20 or so of each gender–late teens to late twenties.
Ladies first, fellas. Starting with the women, each class lasted roughly an hour and a half. The primary goal of each session was to get people talking and thinking about a taboo subject that greatly impacts their poverty. Needless to say, I was very pleased to be flooded with questions and conversation. The structure: a Powerpoint presentation followed by discussion. The Powerpoint presentation characterized diseases such as HIV/AIDS, trichtomoniasis, ghonneria, syphilis, and herpes, talked about the primary importance of the condom and its correct usage (yes, we did the banana demonstration), addressed awareness of and responses to manipulation (particularly towards females), broke several long-standing and popular myths about what may or may not spread disease or make a baby, and finally engaged potential spiritual consequences of sexual activity outside of marriage.
After 3 hours, I was spent.
Some interesting fruit: I learned that parents almost never talk to their children about sexual matters. The women’s only foreknowledge concerning their first menstrual cycle stemmed from overheard conversations. The silence of many fathers conspires with their actions, which offer no paradigm of faithfulness to their wives, to provide bad examples of family leadership. I also learned of a widespread belief that condoms can spread disease. (WHAT?!) This question referenced uncertainty as to the nature of the “grease” on the inside of the condom; I made very clear that spermicide does not transmit disease, that the choice not to wear a condom actually rejects the only means of protection against STDs. (My theory is that someone invented this lie in order not to use a condom, manipulating the other for an experience that would feel a little better.) All in all, the first sex-ed class was well received by the full attention of its participants, one of whom talked to me afterwards about creating a small group to continue the conversation with the youth.
BEACH
ICB (Institution Classique de Bayonnais) offers an annual field trip to the beach for its students, provided they’ve saved $50 (H) to claim a “seat” on the bus. To be honest, the 3 hour trip to the beach was one of my more miserable experiences in Haiti, competing with one sleepless, malarial night with Gonaives mosquitoes for “most miserable.” It was somewhat of an uncomfortable complement to be treated more Haitian with regard to personal space on a bus some 10-15 bodies past the maximum occupancy of 54. (Actually, I was offered remarkable kindness; they showed every effort to make comfortable room for me.) An introvert who does not appreciate very loud noises, I did my best to surrender “beating them” to “joining them” while people cheered at the top of their lungs. Though I was a bit of a grumpy party-pooper on the way to the beach, I shook it off upon arrival and had a blast! Students, many of whom had never seen the beach and/or did not know how to swim, had the time of their lives. Whether bathing in sand, dancing, or wading in the water, a good time was had by all.
A notable encounter was that with a platoon of Nepalese UN troops on recreation. It’s funny to think of my tired smiles gracing the photo albums of some 20 soldiers who wanted a picture with the American. It’s equally funny to look at the photos I took with them. Many awkward but enjoyable conversations later, I left with vacation invitations and addresses for new-found friends in Nepal. A language barrier prevented much talk of life as a UN soldier in Haiti, though I did learn their station in Mirebalais was pretty quiet.
LEAVING BAYONNAIS
Goodbyes never really hit me at the time they are said; rather, they tend to become real during the absence that follows. Nonetheless, these goodbyes were difficult. We celebrated student participation and achievement in the art, photography, computer, and blogging classes with fresh cake and cold soft drinks. I, along with several students, gave speeches as is customary in such ceremonies. I reminded them that their greatest “thank you” would come not in the form of money or gifts, as so many had expressed wishes to provide, but in taking seriously the responsibility that comes with education, namely the responsibility to share it with others. Many students reminded me of the blessing of my presence in Bayonnais and of what that presence has meant for their lives.
(Where’s Waldo?)
Art and Photography Classes
Computer and Blogging Classes
Now back at home in Savannah, Ga, I am thrilled to be with my family and friends, though I continue to struggle with intense reverse culture shock. Please pray for guidance as I attempt to process my experience in Haiti and reflect on its implications regarding the direction of my life.
CASTING NETS
Looking back, I’ll sign off with a reflection for a church newsletter the other week:
“As my departure approaches on May 10th, a wealth of mixed emotions have made life intensely real. The people of Bayonnais have led me to the intersection of joy and suffering, and the experience has left me transformed and more alive.
Not so long ago I was curled up in a fetal position on the paint-splattered carpet of my studio, broken by uncertainties and the collective pressure of false standards of success, standards that had been dictating a significant portion of my meaning and self-worth for too long. Beware what prayers may come during dark nights, for it is then that your defenses are down, and God may well come and breathe life into those fragile words. I don’t recall everything that escaped my heart and mouth that night, but I do remember asking God to break me if necessary, to mold me for his purpose even if it hurt, but the kicker was, “send me.” One might think I would have been given the opportunity to say, “Actually, God, I take that back. . .” However, my first day in Haiti was a divine two-by-four to the head, and friends, the certainty of a divine two-by-four is actually quite refreshing. All of my talents were fit for investment in the community, and my brokenness was fit for receiving God’s wisdom from my neighbors in poverty.
Risk is scary but beautiful from the other side. Cast your nets in God’s waters. Commune with the poor, and receive the warm blessings of their fire.”
STARK FINANCES
It is difficult for me to balance occasionally giving a friend needed money to support his wife and new baby with teaching him financial planning and fiscal responsibility. He receives $450 (Haitian; roughly $63 US) per month for directing a local project. I asked him to sit down with his wife and plan how they would feed their family of five for a month; the following is the grocery list:
$200: 10 cans of rice (1/2 can per day, supplemented by some homegrown crops)
$120: 3 cans of beans
$60: 1 gallon of oil
$25: vegetables
$20: 3 sacks of Maggi cubes (bouillon cubes)
We had to cut out the last $25, which had been allocated for meat, in order to have some savings aside. The oil will have to be used sparingly, and we talked about different ways to flavor the rice when it’s only been boiled in water. Given he does not have to pay taxes, all his money is going to food, and unfortunately, if this month follows the pattern of the previous ones, it will not be enough. Though my friend’s income is on the lower side of the spectrum, it is a job, which is more than most people here have.
It hurts me say this, but it is my responsibility to communicate Haitian life, and in order to do so I must present the following juxtaposition:
25,000 Gds: a cock-fight bet; two people throw throw down a total of 50,000 Gds on a single fight; this may happen a couple times a month in Bayonnais.
50 Gds: the selling price for many prostitutes in Gonaives; this price may drop as low as 25 Gds in some brothels.
Please pray for my friend, Facile because his father died yesterday afternoon. It is especially painful to me because I remember Facile mentioning his father being sick when we took the video for his blog; his family didn’t have the money to send him to the hospital. Thank you to the anonymous donor supporting my work here, for I was able to use some discretionary funding to send a neighbor’s wife to the hospital recently.
GOD IS GOOD; GOD IS GREAT
I was blessed with the challenge of preaching Sunday morning in Creole/French. My topic: human suffering and the will of God, for questions of this nature have become increasingly active during my time here. The sermon, which ended up lasting over 40 minutes, drew upon many beloved sources, including professors at Davidson, pastors in Charlotte, cherished theologians and philosophers, and my friends and family. I was a quilter, throwing in a patch or two of my own, and the assemblage has brought much catharsis. By request, I’ll offer abridged reflections below tailored to a non-Haitian audience. “God is good, God is great, let us thank Him . . .” Most know the prayer. The kicker is how can God who is both good and great allow his children to suffer? In order to address this question–which we can’t ultimately answer–we need to examine the will of God, which brings us back to the beginning, to creation. Pieces of James Weldon Johnson’s “The Creation” provide an insightful reference:
“God stepped out on space. God looked around and said, “I’m lonely. I’ll make me a world.” God smiled and the light broke. God rolled light around in his hands and made the sun. God stepped down and walked, and where he trod his footsteps hollowed valleys out. God walked around. God looked around and said, “I’m lonely still.” Then God sat down on the side of a hill where he could think; by a deep, wide river he sat down; with his head in his hands God thought and thought, till he thought, “I’ll make me a man!” Up from the bed of the river God scooped some clay; and by the bank of the river he kneeled down; and there the great God Almighty, who lit the sun and fixed it in the sky, who flung the stars to the most far corner of the night, who rounded the earth in the middle of his hand–This great God, like a mother bending over her baby kneeled down in the dust toiling over a lump of clay till he shaped it in his own image and blew into it the breath of life.”
In his image. . . God had to make an important decision: whether or not to give man freedom. He could have made man a puppet, attached by stings to divine will; man would never get hurt and man would always return God’s love. . . but would that be love? No. Like the loving father of the prodigal son, God risked his heart by letting go. In giving man free will, in creating man in his image as a creator himself, God gives birth to Love but also makes suffering possible, for we all know too well the consequences of man’s poor creations.
Man bites the apple. Satan didn’t shove it in his mouth, so man can’t escape responsibility for his action. (I think Satan is the personification–and perhaps incarnation–of Pride by the way.) The fact is: we all bite apples; we all make poor decisions that are life-taking rather than life-giving; we all participate in nailing Love to a tree. This identification allows us to become our “brothers’ keepers,” (Gen. 4:8-9) to accept responsibility for poor use of free will–even if it is not our own, to follow Jesus in taking the sins of the world upon ourselves and not blinding the world by taking another eye, to forgive others without the condition of their asking pardon. However, we are but men (rock!), and offering grace is no easy business; thank goodness God is experienced and willing to help. (don’t worry if you didn’t get the “rock” reference)
Offering grace is hard because human suffering can be so radically cruel. A few of examples of man’s poor creations include slavery, the Crusades, the Spanish Inquisition, the Holocaust, and suicide bombers. It is not hard to find man raising himself at the expense of another, objectifying the other as a means for sexual satisfaction or the subject of an entrenched grudge for example. He may wound most deeply with words, failing to follow the golden rule.
Yes, but what about hurricanes, tsunamis, and other evils of nature? I wonder if just as God created Love by risking free will to man, so God created Beauty by risking freedom to nature. The same forces which bring rain to our crops and beautiful sunsets may conspire under certain conditions to make such things as hurricanes and tsunamis. (And if we talk of global warming, we see but one intersection of man and nature’s freedoms going awry.) The design beneath the great evolutionary variety of creation is also responsible for drug-dodging bacteria and incurable diseases. We may argue that the the painful prices of Love and Beauty have God in debt to us; we may even try to sue God for giving freedom, but I believe God’s very presence in the courtroom would rest the prosecution in less than an instant.
God does not send suffering. Read Jesus’ response to the fall of the tower of Siloam (Luke 13:1-5) or identify with Qoheleth’s observations of injustice (Ecclesiastes 7:15). However, God does let suffering happen. God allows people, even innocent youth, to fall subject to the negative sides of His creation’s freedom. “Why?!” we cry silently or otherwise. . .
“Apres la souffrance: delivrance!” This line from one of Actionnel’s sermons last month affirms that deliverance follows suffering, encouraging others to hang in there. But why must deliverance come in the form of death for so many people stricken by extreme poverty? Why must deliverance for a starving mother of several children in Cite Soleil be leaving a life emptied of hope, constrained to mud cakes, hunger, and sadness?
We know God’s response is via compassion and resurrection, for not only did he sacrifice his son, his very self, on the alter of our pride, but he took the greatest sin, the greatest affront to love, and breathed into it new life; the greatest sin of killing God was resurrected in the salvation of mankind.
We often talk of waiting on God, and it is true that we are a people of Saturdays, a people in between a promise and its fulfillment. However, we do not often talk of God’s waiting on us. (Paradox: divine intervention is and is not limited by our decision of whether or not to participate in love.) The invitation is to love, to receive God’s love and have the grace to offer it to others, for in doing so we manifest the presence of God in this world, we testify to the ordering Word of the universe despite the surrounding disorder. Friends, this Word is love. Life and salvation are received when we choose to participate in love. (John 1:1-4 ; 1st John 4:7-8 ) (Jesus, Martin Luther King, Ghandi, Mother Theresa, Actionnel Fleurisma, riding the bus to show solidarity with school children the day after a suicide bombing on the same route, telling someone they’re meaningful by offering them your time, and treating others as you would like to be treated are all examples of love.)
However, we don’t always act in solidarity, we don’t always give our time; in fact, these days we’re often so busy it’s as if we don’t have any to give. If we make eye contact with the longing gaze of some poor soul confined to poverty, we are likely to break it as quickly as possible, for we are afraid to recognize ourselves as our brother’s keeper. We’re afraid, and too busy, sometimes to even approach this responsibility, even when it is as simple as approaching him or her.
Sunday morning, at the risk of elevating myself and my work in Haiti, I apologized for much of my life and on behalf of so much of the world that is simply advancing too quickly to notice those who have fallen behind. I apologized for all us 3-meal-a-day-ers, who simply can’t understand why someone would use “Clorox” to describe hunger, when we respond with no more than a conciliatory or politically correct gesture because the superficiality of news media will never amount to a human relationship. I asked pardon for all of us when we simply don’t know what we’re doing, and I expressed gratitude for all of us when we try to do what’s right in spite of the world’s confusion.
We don’t know how God moves apart from our decision of whether or not to participate in his work. However, we do know that God moves, and we can wonder at how He balances this movement with touching the freedoms allotted to man and nature, for to touch them too much may mean undermining creation itself, undermining Love and Beauty. (Touching them too much or in the wrong way could also mean enslaving man to a miracle.) We don’t know why God doesn’t always answer our most passionate prayers for which we would sometimes trade our very lives. However, we can trust in a God of love who promises resurrection, who in walking the walk Himself offers eternal compassion. We can try to trust. . . though it is not always easy. . .
God created us in his image with freedom as creators–creators capable of giving life or death. The invitation is to receive and participate in love as exemplified in the life of Jesus, for in so doing we find salvation and life.
Look around and see that you are not alone. How are you going to participate in creation?
Believe it or not, that is abridged. The Creole/French version hit many of the same themes but stayed more down to earth, not lending itself to nearly as many abstractions and playing with local examples and even a Haitian proverb. I didn’t expect it to hurt me to write some of what has become the English version. . . I don’t know if there is any venom, cynicism, or self-righteousness above, but if there is, please know that it would only escape from a wounded heart, one wounded not by subjugation to but by first-hand observation of injustice, by witnessing a thick strata of poor decisions bearing down upon friends who should never have to support such weight.
VOODOO LOVE PRACTICES
Well, this has been a cheery blog, hasn’t it? To lighten the mood, get this: if a guy has unrequited love for a girl and wants to pay a witchdoctor to help him out, placing a spiced ground-hummingbird powder where she has peed will do just the trick. No worries ladies: if your man needs convincing (WARNING: THIS IS REVOLTING), simply offer him a cocktail of sweetened beet juice with a splash of your monthly cycle.
(This post is a few days old because WordPress was having problems that prevented me from accessing my blog.)
The rain is rolling its fingernails on the roof, and I am tired. Last night was unusually long, but it brought new life to Bayonnais, and I was blessed to participate in the delivery of a friend’s second child, a healthy baby boy. Unfortunately, labor pains were not the only pains touching Bayonnais last night, as Actionnel struggled through his body’s response to an ankle broken in a motorcycle accident; I hear he will be bed-ridden for one month. Orange is the color these days as mangoes begin to ripen and fall, bidden or unbidden by expectant creatures below. Given the evangelistic “crusade,” moved outdoors to the soccer field to accommodate its numerous participants, Alleluia is the word of the week; it’s best shouted with at least one hand waving in the air.
BIRTH IN BAYONNAIS
Some of you commented upon a powerful photograph from a recent slide show with the same title. It showed my friend, Gasmy’s very pregnant wife laying on the dirt floor of a bedroom lit by a kerosene lamp. I must confess the title is misleading, for that evening ended up being a false alarm, as did the night before last when some of the water broke and the midwife arrived, deciding to send her to the hospital in Gonaives around four o’clock in the morning. It was an emotional moment for Gasmy, who had fallen on his motorcycle while searching for a tap tap and was unable to accompany her; he followed later after we cleaned and bandaged his knee. She returned to Bayonnais and legitimate contractions began last night while I was receiving medical advice from my dad via Skype. My backpack filled with medical goodies, I entered EMT mode, navigating around a few barking dogs on my way up to the house. Fortunately, just as I was about to start an IV, the midwife (trained in Port-au-Prince) with his 25 yrs experience came through the door. It was fascinating, and scary, to see a birth all the way through in Haiti: fascinating to witness a miracle of life, to watch a seemingly physical contradiction as the baby’s head emerged through such a small opening, to see his tiny eyes open and blink for the first time–I will never forget that; scary because the mother was very weak, and for a while passionate prayers lifted the tin roof as we waited and hoped that she would have enough strength. In a small mud-walled house in Bayonnais, on a dusty dirt floor padded with a ragged straw mat, in a modest room filled with too many people, there are no caesarian sections and Gonaives is a long way away.
CRUSADE
While the Church had its priorities backwards in 1099, many churches in Bayonnais are showing theirs to be otherwise as they assemble to worship God during a weeklong “crusade,” characterized by much singing and enthusiastic preaching for two or more hours every night. It’s quite a spectacle. (Unfortunately, a mission team had to cancel their trip to OFCB this week due to the rioting and security concerns. My security has in no way been threatened or compromised in Bayonnais, and readers should know that schools are open again even in Port-au-Prince.)
RIGHT BEFORE GOD
I’d like to share an exchange with two neighbors the other day. I was on my way to the river, which is my favorite place to sit and think, read, and create art; I’m preaching in less than two weeks on the subject of human suffering and God’s will, so I had a lot to think about. Passing by Yvolene and Dasemise’s house, I decided to visit their next-door neighbors; they gave me grief once about always visiting the Sylvestre household but never their own. Little did I know how meaningful our conversation would be. I know these men to be worn down from working their fields on low fuel. Their bodies are muscular but have no fat whatsoever, and though the light touching their skin fascinates me as an artist, the injustice hurts. They talk of Clorox and battery acid and not having eaten since the day before yesterday, but their smiles are far from absent. They talk of hunger with a levity that makes me uncomfortable, but I’ve come to see beneath that with time; to a foreign eye, the positive spirit of the people here often overshadows the gravity of the daily realities they face. However, one of the men corrects himself, “No, it is not Clorox. . . I wouldn’t be right with God if I were to call it Clorox. The real Clorox is up there.” He pointed up a mountain. “At least here our children can climb that tree and find some mangoes, or go down to the river and catch a crab. . . and here you could sell the crab. Someone would buy it for cooking. . .” He continued talking, but I couldn’t stop thinking of what he had just said. A man who hadn’t eaten for two days had just corrected himself for verbally stepping on the toes of his neighbors up the mountain. . . Awareness. . . Awareness and compassion. . .
How often has the busyness of my life eclipsed my awareness of what has really been going on around me? How radically has my awareness been changed over the last several months in Bayonnais? How could the rest of my life not grow out of this awareness and the responsibility it entails? . . . Do we sometimes fight back awareness for this very responsibility, the yoke that often seems too much to handle? How often have I averted my gaze from the longing eyes of some poor soul, afraid to recognize myself therein as my brother’s keeper?
Too many times, my friends. . . Too many times. . .
GO CATS!!!
Three cheers for Davidson basketball this season and many more from me and students here in Bayonnais as you can see in the video above. Given my general lack of interest in popular sports, such as basketball, which makes me quite an oddball in North Carolina let me tell you, I’m an unlikely candidate to throw a party to watch the game. However, upon hearing that my alma mater hadn’t been as far as it was since the 60’s, I got very excited and jumped on the opportunity to share a passionate part of American culture with my students and friends. Thanks to CBS.com and a digital projector, we enjoyed the show on the big screen. No thanks to a poor Internet connection, we stared at the “buffering” stats under a vacant black box most of the time, occasionally interrupted by an advertisement but no game. Nonetheless, we indulged in soft drinks (compliments of Actionnel) and Wild Berry Skittles (compliments of mom’s care package). A good time was had by all.
HAIRCUT
I laughed hard yesterday. For the last month or so I’d been debating whether or not to cut my hair, which my students are quite fond of–especially when it’s combed and shiny after I’ve taken a shower. The first resident OFCB Blan, Morgan Dibble, let the local barber do his thing, but the results were less than favorable, so I hear. However, I have to applaud Libone for his crafty use of OFCB’s newly donated electric razor. I laughed hard because the audience of children decided to start playing with my Blan trimmings, putting it on each other’s heads and eventually using mud to stick it to their chins and upper lips, creating disgusting but hilarious goatees, mustaches, and soul patches.
CHEZ ISAAC
I spent one afternoon with my student and friend, Isaac. He had invited me to visit his house where we were critiquing a few of his artworks when his sister noted, “Oh, the dog died.” Apparently it had died only a few minutes before. The black-and-white pup lay still on the ground, its belly surprisingly large. “What happened,” I asked. “He was hungry,” Isaac’s sister replied. When I asked its name the mood lightened, for both sisters started cracking up. “He didn’t have a name yet,” Isaac informed me, laughing a little himself. When I asked if it had any brothers and sisters the girls lost it completely, and I started laughing too, partly because their laugher was contagious and partly at the absurdity of the situation.
You see, I had secretly given three boxes of protein bars to Isaac the week before when he brought to my knowledge that he and his family hadn’t eaten for a few days. (It’s worth noting that I don’t know what it must feel like to ask someone for food, the body’s painful demand translated through humble politeness if it is strong enough to pass one’s pride.) That afternoon the rain came hard as if following Isaac’s prophesy from 30 minutes before, and we took shelter under the melodic percussion of a small tin roof. Because I had mentioned haphazardly that I liked okra, they served me grits with extra okra and a small piece of meat, the meal they were fortunate to enjoy that day, the meal they decided to share with me. They ate quickly. I was uncertain whether to shadow their pace or take my time, punctuating bites with smiles of contentment and gratitude as I–somewhat uncomfortably at first–enjoyed their radical hospitality.
SOMEWHAT UNCOMFORTABLY AT FIRST
I’d like to take a moment to explore this sentiment. I mentioned in a previous post that sometimes you serve others by allowing them to serve you. I think there is a lot of truth in that statement, and I’ve been forced to think about it a lot down here.
I know certain people, myself included, who have refused to accept gifts. It’s one thing to lightly reply, “No, I couldn’t accept that.” Actually, it’s often polite custom to do so before receiving something of value. It’s another thing to adamantly refuse another’s blessing altogether, yet often there are seemingly good reasons to do so. For instance, let’s look at the facts: I not only eat more than my fair share of three meals a day but am also not hungry, and Isaac wants me to receive a full plate of food from a family that didn’t eat for a few days the week before!
However, love doesn’t always care about the facts. Love may break a vessel of expensive ointment over another’s head even though its value could have bought a week’s worth of food for a poor family. Love may treat only one poverty-stricken drug-resistant tuberculosis patient when it would be more cost-effective to treat several victims of another disease. Love may allow itself to be sacrificed on a wooden altar of our pride because the cost of touching free will would nullify its value altogether.
(. . . to think you could kill love by killing it. . . )
Love.
Does it look absurd? Yes!
However, I think we pass by absurdity sometimes when arriving at higher truths. The absurdity at the heart of Sartre and Camus is just that because their existentialism is so ironically close to God. Ivan, in Dostoevsky’s The Brothers Karamazov, relays his brilliantly thought-provoking and painful poem on the the Grand Inquisitor, passionately attacking God and creation, only to receive Alyosha’s response: “‘But . . . that’s absurd!’ he cried, flushing. ‘Your poem is in praise of Jesus, not in blame of Him–as you meant it to be.’”
I’d ask my readers to pardon me for not only going profound, as I have a habit of doing, but absurd in this post. Allow me to return to the humility of allowing someone to serve you, to wash your feet, to die for you. Allowing someone to die for you may be one of the most difficult things in life. Some of you may remember Steven Spielberg’s film, Saving Private Ryan, in which a whole unit of soldiers risk their lives to save one individual whose three brothers had died during World War II; the command came from a high-ranking officer’s compassion for the mother. At the Normandy American Cemetery, this one individual recalls the stinging last words of a dear friend who died on the mission to save his life: “James. . . earn this. Earn it.” With tears in the eyes of this now elderly man, he turns to ask his wife if he’s been a good man.
Earn this. Live your life as not only an acknowledgement of its cost but also for those who paid the cost with their own.
While several sacrificed for one in the film, we have other examples of ones who have sacrificed themselves selflessly for the multitudes: Jesus, Ghandi, Martin Luther King, and Mother Theresa are but a few people who gave their lives for love of others. Jesus, however, doesn’t say, “Earn this,” though perhaps some of us unwittingly wish he did, for then we would have some control in the matter of our meaning and worth, comparatively pitting ourselves against others to validate and justify our earning potential. Unfortunately, we do this anyway, forgetting what has been given.
Somewhat uncomfortably at first. . . We learn to receive, though somewhat uncomfortably at first.
(For my readers who have been harmed by the name, Jesus or by those who confess to follow him, know that I am talking simply of love, for if he is indeed who he says he is, the Word of God made flesh, that word is none other than love.)
Thank you for coming this far. Here are some recent photos:
