Walk Away, Grieving. (Tiffany Thomas: Maceio, Brazil)

When he heard this, he was shocked and walked away grieving, for He had many possessions. Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” – Mark 10:22-23

When reading the gospels, I have always skipped over the story of the rich young ruler. Of course, I read it but I don’t linger in the verses or meditate on its meaning. It is a story (depicted as a historical event, not a parable) in which a young, wealthy man kneels before Jesus and asks what he must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus tells the young man to follow the commandments. Unsatisfied with this answer, the young man states that he has followed the commandments. He was looking for more than following the basic rules; he wanted to do something that would give him purpose and eternal fulfillment. Jesus looks at him and says, ”You lack one thing; go sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” The man declines this proposal, making him the only one in the Gospels to refuse the invitation to follow Jesus.

This story was ringing in my ears as I went to stay at a beautiful beach house this past weekend. In order to get to the beach and the beautiful houses built around it, you have to pass by a huge favela. A favela is the area where the marginalized poor are forced to live. A couple of weeks ago, I visited this particular favela:

It was a very hot June day, the sun was high in the sky. We drove into an area that looked like a normal, middle-class neighborhood. We parked, and I thought to myself, “If this is the favela, the people are living just fine.” We walked behind a row of houses and stopped at a very steep cliff. From the cliff, when I looked straight down, I could see into a huge valley where hundreds of small shacks are stacked vertically on top of each other. There was a stone path that led one from the top of the cliff to the shacks. There was no rail. There was no wall. If you slipped you could fall vertically into the valley or onto a roof of a shack. We were shocked when our Pastor began to make his way down the steep cliff. He jumped from stone to stone and motioned us to follow him. My heart was in my throat the entire time I descended the hill. Before I could celebrate my small victory of making it down alive, I was struck by sheer sadness of the place. The shacks were so close together. There were places were the dirt path just ended and you had to jump down to another dirt path. I was saddened even more when I entered one of the shacks. It had exactly two rooms. When I entered the first room, I found myself in a small, dark, damp room consisting of one large mattress and one small wooden chair. After walking three steps, I was in the other room. This room seemed to be the kitchen, the only clue being the small refrigerator in the corner of the room. There were dirt-stained clothes hanging to dry from a clothes line running through the center of the room. There was trash falling out of the small trash can onto the dirt floor. The walls in this room were not complete; there was a large square hole where a window should have been. The family that lived in the house was warm and welcoming. There was an elderly woman, a younger woman who was pregnant, a toddler, and three other children (ages ranging from 6- 9). The children were wonderful, but as I played with them questions began to run through my head. First, I wondered why the children were not in school, as it was 11:00 AM on a Wednesday. Second, I looked at the one mattress and wondered where did everyone sleep? When did this woman have enough privacy to conceive a child?

I was full of so many questions as we left. I was trying to figure out what could be done, what should be done. But before my idealist notions could begin creating a Brazillian Utopia, I was snatched back into reality. The pastor informed me that I would be staying with a family in a favela for a week. When I heard this, I could not believe it. The words just would not register in my mind. I would be staying in a two-room shack with one bed for an entire family? I would be staying in a house that lacked complete walls? From that moment on, my mind pondered all of the different dangers that awaited a young American girl who ventured to stay in a Favela after dark. After much fret and fear, I finally told my host mother that I was not willing to say in a Favela. I did not feel safe. I would not willingly put myself in that situation. I could agree to spend the day there, but by nightfall I need to be safely out of the community. My host mother spoke with the pastor and I have not even seen a favela since then, except the one I pass by when I am headed to the beach.

They write books about people like me, people who claim to be in solidarity with the poor but refuse to actually experience and understand their reality. The story of the young rich ruler is my story. The young rich ruler is me. I study theology because, like the young rich ruler, I want to do more than just follow the basic rules; I want to do something that will give me purpose and eternal fulfillment. Like the young rich ruler, I have bowed before Christ, claiming to dedicate my life to his mission. But, I cared more about my belongings and my person than I cared about the mission of Christ. Jesus is there in the Favela. Jesus is there in the two-room shack. I refused to follow him there. I could only walk away, grieving.

Graceful Speech. (Tiffany Thomas: Maceio, Brazil)

But the LORD said to me, "Do not say, 'I am only a child.' You must go to everyone I send you to and say whatever I command you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you," declares the Lord. – Jeremiah 1:7 & 8

No one can deny the vast importance of speaking in ministry. From Sunday morning sermons, Wednesday night bible studies, pastoral counseling, ministry is seemingly centered on the ability to speak. I accepted my call to ministry at the age of fifteen. From the moment I articulated my call to ministry, I have worked in the church. I began teaching bible studies, preaching, and leading the youth group at the age of fifteen. I became a licentiate preacher at the age of 19. Over the years, I have been trained in the art of speaking. I have been trained to work with words as an artist works with paint. Ministry, for me, equated to always having the right thing to say.

Going abroad to Brazil has shattered my very arrogant concept of ministry. As the spoken language is Portuguese and I only understand enough of it to get by, I seem to never have the right thing to say. My syntax, grammar, sentence structure would make a toddler laugh. I scramble for words like a middle school adolescent scrambles for her books when she has fallen down the stairs: hurriedly, embarrassed, and ashamed. I have never been so afraid and anxious at the thought of speaking. But speak I must. Despite the language deficiency, I have come to Brazil to do ministry. I have come to establish relationships and to be a part of a religious community. I must speak! So I speak. I struggle for words; I use my hands; I keep a dictionary in-hand. But I speak.

This experience of working very hard to communicate has taught me that communication is not based solely on words, but also on love and on grace. I marvel at how many people I have gotten to know, home many beautiful conversations I have had, despite my lack in language. Communication is taking place, not because of my profound way with words, but because of the love of the people who are patient with me, and the grace of God that provides all of us with understanding. This experience has humbled me immensely. It has taught me to put more trust in God’s grace, rather than my own abilities.

Living Without A Door (Tiffany Thomas: Maceio, Brazil)

My bedroom door has always been an important part of my life. I used my door as a communication tool; I often slammed it to show my anger and discontent. It was a source of privacy because I shut my door when I wanted to be alone. Finally, my door was a source of security in which I could only go to sleep at night if my door was closed. I currently live in a house in which my bedroom lacks a door. When I realized this, I was certain that I simply could not live wihtout a door. How would I change clothes? How would I have personal time? Most importantly, how would I sleep?! I needed privacy. I needed security. I needed a door.

Living without a door has been one of the most enlightening experiences. First, as it turns out, I can sleep just without a door. Also, living without a door grants total access to my personal space. People come into my room whenever they please, without knocking (as I write this in my journal, my host mother just came in to open the window to give me more light). They come in to retrieve things from the closet, to look in the mirror, but mostly, they come in to chat and to hang out with me. They come in to see how I am doing and to practice their English skills. Initially, I was very uncomfortable and I wondered how they functioned without a bedroom door. Where was the privacy? Where was the ´´me time´´? But I have found that my bedroom is a microcosm of this community. The people live in a community without doors. While the apartments have actual doors, neighbors run in and out of each other´s houses without knocking, children eat with different families, and everyone gathers together inside and outside of the homes to talk, dance, and watch tv. Everyone in this community is so familiar with each other that I thought that they were all related in someway. I finally asked my host mother about the other people that always come into the house, ´´Voces son familia?´´ (are you all family?). She responded, ´´Familia da Igreja´´ (family of the church). I was in awe when I realized that everyone in this building attends the same church. That´s right folks, I am witnessing real and actual church community. I thought that this was something that only took place in the biblical book of Acts. I thought that this was something that Christians could attempt to do but never accomplish, like counting to infinity. But I have found that Christian community can exist when we get rid of the desire to be closed off, when we let people into our personal space, when we treat our Christian brothers and sisters as actual brothers and sisters. Christian community can exist when we decide to live without doors.