The Haves and The Have-Nots

Tommy Grimm
Katikamu Parish, Uganda

Throughout my time in Uganda, it’s been difficult to see students often divided between the have’s and have-not’s. There are the boarders, who live at the school in the dormitories, and the day-scholars, who walk to and from school every morning and evening. The boarders use the school classrooms to study every night with dependable light and power. Many day-scholars walk long distances, have household responsibilities like cooking and cleaning, and have to study by lantern at night (when there’s money for kerosene!). I’ve heard many day-scholars say they wish they were boarders.

There are the students who eat at lunchtime, and those who do not. I hate seeing students littered along the school perimeter, standing despondently, while other students line up expectedly with plates in hand in front of the school kitchen. Boarders are required to pay the meal fees, but for many day-scholars, the lunch fee is the first thing sacrificed among the educational expenses.

There are the students with parents, and those without them. There was a visitation day a couple weeks ago, when parents have the opportunity to visit their students at school, to meet their teachers, and to inquire about their children’s grades. Some parents could be seen walking across the campus with bags full of cookies, fruit, and supplies (accompanied with a pocket full of money for the lucky kid, no doubt). Poorer parents brought nothing but rice and meat to share with their child for one meal, providing a break from the regular meal of cornmeal and beans. Some kids didn’t have any parents show up, either because there wasn’t enough money for the travel expenses, or because there is no mother and father, and the guardian has too many obligations to visit. One girl who I’ve become good friends with told me that she usually stays in the dormitory the whole day; the sight of all the mothers makes the memory of her deceased mother too painful.

The examples are legion. There are those who have party clothes for a special occasion, and those stuck in their school uniforms. Those who have money to enter the school dance, and those peering in from the windows outside. Those who have strong enough grades to attend university, and those whose prospects upon graduating are dim.

I hate this reality, but I’ve found it inevitable, even in my interactions with students. When I walk through campus, there are those students whom I recognize, and those whom I don’t. I only know the names of a fraction of the students, despite my best efforts. And then there are the ones everyone knows I’m closest to, and everyone else. I try not to play favorites as much as I can, but I can’t be friends with over one-thousand students. I don’t want to exaggerate my importance to the students, but I know they notice whether the American knows their name or not. They ask me why it is I don’t know their name!

Needless to say, this dichotomy is uncomfortable for me. However, for the students, it’s a part of life. There’s no agony over the separation—for them, of course there are the rich and the poor, the beautiful and the ugly, the sons and daughters and the orphans. It’s a reality they become accustomed to at a young age. You can’t hide differences in a small village with open doors and shared possessions. What I’ve been left grappling with is not how these striking disparities exist in Africa and not in America, but how they’re casually disclosed in Africa and well-hidden in America. Life is unfair, but I’d rather forget that, and I’m able to back home. For a church to embrace the rich and poor, the privileged and the marginalized, maybe what’s is needed is not only a hopeful imagination to envision a different world, but also a dogged courage among those on top to face reality, with all of its needs and indictments.

(The above picture was taken in a nearby village at an annual Catholic celebration for a Ugandan martyr born there. I’m with Nagalema Grace, a student at the primary school where I teach. Grace has become a great friend to me.)

Convicted in Paus Preto

Last week I visited a quilombola. A quilombola is a completely black community. Historically, run-away slaves established quilombolas during the Colonial period. The communities were self-sustaining and the community members were trained in defense, allowing them to defend themselves from slave owners who tried to re-enslave them. The particular quilombola that I visited, Paus Pretos, is not a historical quilombola; it is not a site where runaway slaves set up their own community. Rather, it is actually more like a segregated ghetto; the government forced a number of black families into this part of the town and just called it a quilombola. The name of the community, Paus Pretos is a demeaning name given by those outside of the community. “Preto” means black, “paus” actually means wood but is more commonly used as a derogatory word for the male genitalia.

The people in the community survive without some of the most basic needs. They lack access to water, good education, and a hospital. Their only source of water is rain, they have a contraption that collects the rain water for the community but if it does not rain, there is no water. There is a school in the community, but they do not have enough educators. I spoke with a man who said that his dream was to become a writer, but that he did not know anyone in the city who worked in industry except service or agriculture. Many of the children have disabilities because the nearest hospital is over an hour away (an hour away driving and no one has a car). But even that hospital is small and all the serious issues, for example, being born with a physical disability, has to be taken care of in a hospital in a major city. The closest major city is Maceió which is more than 3 hours away (driving).

It is, perhaps, the hardest thing in the world to see other people’s pain, other people’s needs, other people's dispair and to not be able to do anything about it. I felt so angry, and so frustrated, and so powerless. But the experience convicted me to the core. When I think about my life and the plans I had for it: sitting in the library trying to find a new innovative way to discuss the meaning of I Corinthians, or reading a law book trying to pass the bar, or trying to write a dissertation in Womanist theology. I realized right there in Paus Pretos that none of it matters unless my goal is to help people that are in need. As long as I am sitting by trying to bring myself glory in the name of God, instead helping to create God’s kingdom on earth, I have failed.

Not in the States...

Tommy Grimm
Katikamu Parish, Uganda
7/20/09

I love moments here where I think with a smile, “This would never happen in the States.” (I try to limit the number of times that thought is connected with a scowl.) Yesterday, I was on a ferry traveling back from a visit to an island on Lake Victoria. It was raucous inside, but from anywhere in the cabin, you could hear above the noise a woman singing hymns and gospel songs. As I listened to her belt “I Surrender All,” I considered how in the States, everyone would be either annoyed at her or embarrassed for her. But here in Uganda, it’s hardly unexpected or inappropriate. And if it did bother someone, he would let her know, and she would respond however she wanted, and no one around would feel even a twinge of awkwardness (except perhaps the visiting Westerners). As I wrote a letter to a friend and counted the minutes until I’d be terra firma, I was glad to share the company of Ugandans.

A similar experience occurred a couple of weeks ago. I was on a taxi-van with a couple Duke friends and three Ugandan passengers. An older woman gets on with her four grandchildren. There aren’t enough seats for her grandchildren, and the old ma’s lap clearly isn’t big enough to accommodate all of them. But these children need to get home, and the other passengers don’t have any special right to their squat of space, so the kids just crowd around their grandmother, sitting on the laps of other passengers or cramming between their legs and the seat. Not wanting to be left out, I grab one of them and place them on my lap (another thing I love here, how parents less protective of their kids with strangers). After we got out, my friends and I discussed how that would have been uncommon in the States, how we expect a certain amount of personal space in public settings. (When I see a movie in a crowded theater, I’m constantly thinking about the distribution of my arm rests, whether they’re being equally shared or not). Personal space is unheard of here.

I’m grateful for this extended time in Uganda because, hopefully, it’s stretching my social imagination beyond what I have lived and known in the States for the past twenty-six years. Through experiences like the ones above, I come to question why I have certain expectations and assumptions for who I am and how I interact with my surrounding community. The Church is called to be a peculiar people whose culture is formed around the gospel, but there is no non-enculturated space we can inhabit. Rather, it’s through living among strangers with strange cultures that we see how much we toe our social line and how we might better live out our Kingdom identity.

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.

Faithfully witnessing to the dying in Uganda

Heather Bixler: Hospice Africa, Makindye, Kampala, Uganda

Denise and I have had to grapple with what it means to faithfully witness to those who are dying, particularly as hospice chaplains and volunteers. How do Christian chaplains (or Muslim chaplains, for that matter) who are deeply convicted of the Truth of their faith address the spiritual needs of those patients who are religiously Other? This is the tension of living in a pluralistic society with which chaplains must contend. In fact, it is a tension every Christian who believes in the uniqueness of the Christian story must come to terms with, as well.

There are some Christians (and other religious groups) that operate under the assumption that they are the sole instruments of salvation for those with whom they come in contact, and that if they don’t “save” them before they die, they will be condemned to hell for all eternity. Frankly, I find this anthropocentric soteriology unsettling, not to mention theological untenable. The goal of hospice care is not to win the souls of the dying before it’s too late. As a Christian caring for the dying, I am called to recognize them as the mysteriously “blessed” of the beatitudes – the weak, the mourning, the sad and broken and poor. And with those people, I both encounter and proclaim Christ.

I think that most hospice workers would say that impinging their beliefs, however True, upon a dying patient is wrong. Urging a patient to “accept the truth” as they lay dying rather than resting in the knowledge that our (and their) salvation lies in the hands of a crucified and risen Lord (who, through his own death, raised us all to life) borders dangerously on the edge of self righteousness. I do believe Christ can be “betrayed” by completely eliminating him from the death bed conversation. But I also believe that our attempt at orchestrating death bed conversions, particularly for patients who have already made peace with God and are ready to die with dignity, is also betrayal of Christ. To assume that the main access to faith is purely cognitive and didactic is in and of itself a diminution of the Christian message.

My job is not to secure their place in heaven, because in my theological opinion, Christ did that on the cross two thousand years ago (see Karl Barth). Instead, my job is to care for them, to listen attentively and without judgment, to answer honestly when asked, to speak truth when truth is ready to be heard, to change bandages on incurable wounds and hold trembling hands, to experience their suffering as my own, but ultimately, to give as Christ has given to me. And I firmly believe that those who are “on their way out” so to speak are in a far better place to ponder (and perhaps understand) the Truth of God’s saving work, not to mention the power of the Resurrection, than a healthy, able-bodied, able-minded Duke Divinity MDiv student like myself. So, I’m not sure if we need to equip ourselves with a sophisticated account of how God’s saves people in Christ in order to minister to the dying. What hospice workers, and chaplains, need most are those habits of being and doing that witness to the Kingdom of God to those already broken by the fallen world. I think Catholic lay-woman, doctor and hospice worker, Shelia Cassidy, says it best:

“I believe that those who work with the handicapped, the dispossessed and the dying have very expensive ringside seats at the fight: we have a close up view of players who are stripped of sophistication and pretence, of the comforting outer garments with which men cover their nakedness, their vulnerability and their shame. Surely then, we have a duty to report back the truth of what we see: that the facts are friendly; that the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor – that the kingdom of God is among us, and that herein lies our hope.” (Sharing the Darkness: Spirituality of Caring, 3)

Witnessing the Christian message involves becoming the Christian message, Christ’s hands and feet. We as the Church are called to embody Christ through our actions as a sign to the broken, fallen world. In the words of St Francis of Assisi, we are called to go forth and proclaim the good news of the gospel wherever we go, and “when necessary, use words.” As Michael Cartwright states, “what Christians throughout the world can do – with confidence and humility – is to bear witness to the good news by fostering the kinds of habits and practices that enable would-be disciples of Jesus Christ to remember the saints and the martyrs.” If we truly believe that God has created all, loves all, and seeks relationship with all, we can safely speak of this as the universal spiritual need of human beings to be in relationship with God. And if we want to truly and faithfully witness to that God, we can do so by our ethos, as signs pointing to God through our care, particularly our care of those deemed useless by society (the dying).

St Francis’ prayer is, I believe, a perfect prayer for those who work in Hospice: “Grant that I may so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.” Could it be that the simple, embodied acts of patient consolation, humble understanding, and compassionate love proclaim the True Hope in found in Christ to those dying? I think St Francis would say so. And could it be that, in turn, caring for the poor and weak and broken-bodied assists us in working out our own salvation, coming face to face with the True Hope found in Christ? I think St Francis would say so, as well.

Getting Ahead

Katikamu Catholic Parish, Uganda
Tommy Grimm

The other day, I had a conversation with a Ugandan friend about how difficult it is to “get ahead” here. She has a stable job, for which she’s thankful, but would like to return to school to become more proficient with computers so that she can find work that pays more. But school is expensive, and the culture here isn’t conducive to saving money. She told me about how she tries to put a little money away each month, but there’s always one person or another coming to her with pressing needs, begging for money for a child’s lunch at school, for medical bills, for a family member’s burial fees, or for a host of other needs, mundane and extraordinary. She said that time and again her heart is moved, and she gives away what little she has saved up. I remember reading in the book Africans and Money Matters that because resources are so limited in Africa (in general), there’s a high social value on sharing what one has. Anyone who abstains from this practice is ostracized from the community.

As I listened to my friend, I thought of Jesus’ parable in Luke of the rich fool (Lk 12:13-21). Jesus warns the crowd to “take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions” (v. 15). He then tells a story about a man whose land produced a bountiful harvest. Faced with a significant surplus, the man decided to build larger barns to house his financial boon. The man believed this would provide for a leisurely retirement, or at least an extended vacation. However, that very evening, the man dies and “[his] soul is required of [him]” (v. 20).

I’ve often wondered what it would look like to live according to this parable. Saving a nest egg and accounting for the inevitable rainy day is part of our financial mantra in the West. If someone doesn’t comply with our system, choosing not to pay for insurance or save for retirement, we resent having to pay for their poor planning. The goal is to achieve financial independence. Jesus, on the other hand, seems to advocate a community of financial interdependence through generous giving, in which members trust in their Father to provide for them—which often comes through the gifts of others, just as God had provided for the needs of countless others through this Ugandan woman I was talking to. It might keep her from getting ahead in financial standing, but it might also be providing her with “moneybags that do not grow old—with a treasure in the heavens” (Lk 12:33).

A Lesson in Culture II: Furro Love (Tiffany Thomas: Maceio, Brazil)

June is a party month in Brazil. Throughout the month, there are many (and I mean MANY) parties to celebrate the saints. These saint holidays began as Catholic holidays but are now permanent markers of the culture and everyone celebrates the saint holidays, despite religious affiliation. The most popular way to celebrate the saint holidays is to have a Furro party. At Furro parties, people dress in the traditional garb and dance the traditional dances of the culture. The word ´´Furro´´ is a rather new term that developed in the midst of WWII. During WWII, the US built a base in Brazil and in an attempt to make the American soldiers feel welcome at the Saint parties, the people put signs outside of the doors that read, ´´For All Parties.´´ Over the years ´´For All´´ has been shortened and Brazilianized to ´´Farro.´´ I have been to quite a few Furro parties this past month. And I can say that times have not changed since WWII. The people have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome at their parties. They have this welcoming attitude not just at parties, but always. I have never experienced hospitality like I have experienced it here. These people have taught me to break down the barriers that I put up against strangers and outsiders. They have shown me how to love all people, not just the ones that I am close to. We have been filled with God´s love and this love is for all.

Complex Complexion: Musings on Race in Brazil

From a Discussion about race with a 25 yr old Brazilian woman:

Janile: I am branca [white]. But because I have mixed ancestry and my skin isn’t so white I am really morena [brown/mixed]. But because my skin is not so dark I am considered white.

Me: what am I?

Janile: You are negra but no one would call you negra. Black people take offense to being called negro. It isn’t offensive, it is a racial category but all black people call themselves moreno, not negro. I think they should call themselves negro because that’s what they are.


From a discussion with Pastor about race:

Pastor: what is the black to white ratio in your church at home?

Tiffany: it is 99.999 % black. What is it at your church?

Pastor: Ehh, everybody is mixed.




Race is a very complex subject in Brazil; it is almost incomprehensible. It is difficult for me to understand the complexities of race in Brazil because race in the United States is very objective. In the US, during the slave era and immediately following, laws were made to keep European Colonists (and their descendents) from mixing with the slaves (and their descendants). Of course, mixing did take place and laws were made to regulate the lives of those of mixed ancestry, referred to by many as “the one drop rule.” Law dictated that anyone with any definable or discernable African ancestry was considered black, and thus subject to the oppression and subjugation reserved for black people. No matter how light you were, if you descended from black people, you were black. This division in the US society birthed the black culture. The black culture extends far beyond skin color. When I say, “I am black” I am not just talking about my complexion. I am talking about an identity with a community of people with a shared history.
But in Brazil it is different. First, Brazilians classify race differently than Americans. There are three commonly used terms to talk about race: “Bronco” for white, “Moreno” for brown or mixed, and “Negro” for black (excluding the terms for people of Indigenous “Indios” or Asian descent “Pardo” which together make up less than 1% of the population*). Classifying race is done by the color of skin, rather than ancestry. A person with two black parents could be classified as white. As my conversation with the Brazilian woman suggests, race classification is very fluid. Second, racial mixing is very common. Unlike in the US, racial mixing is considered a good practice. Because intermixing is a common and a generally accepted practice, many Brazilians assert that race does not exist (as seen from the conversation with the Pastor). The statistics that haunt Brazil would scream the contrary. The majority of the poor in Brazil are nonwhite, and, the majority of those who are educated are white.* The question I have been pondering is: how is it that race does not exist but racism does?
Race does exist in Brazil. I, and my colleagues, have experienced race while being here in Brazil. When we walk down the street, our beautiful dark skin seems to glow, attracting all of the eyes of passersby, as if we were mythical creatures read about only in books but never seen in real life. The first question many people ask upon meeting us is, “Are you from Bahia?” Bahia is a state that has a high concentration of black people. When we were in a small village, little children followed us around making African tribal sounds because they assumed we were from Africa. I can attest to the fact that race does exist. Moreover, racism is an issue. I have seen, with my own eyes, the positive correlation between dark skin and poverty. My goal is to develop the vocabulary to have a serious conversation with the Pastor about race in Brazil.

* Telles, Edward. Race In Another America: The Significance of Skin Color in Brazil. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2004.

Fighting the Fear

If I were to do an honest analysis of myself I would have to state that I have a lot of growing to do as a minister. Effective ministry is the ability to make human connections with conviction, enthusiasm, and boldness. I have conviction. I have enthusiasm. I lack boldness, particularly when the humans I am supposed to connect with are different from me. When I meet people who are sick, deformed, dirty, my first instinct is to back away, not to move forward with open arms. It takes a lot of courage for me to do the opposite of what my instincts are telling me to do. Two particular incidents allowed me to see this weakness within myself:


I had the opportunity to visit a boy who suffered from cleft-lip and palate, his lips and teeth were completely misshapen. He was a very pleasant boy and he loved to sing. He was very excited to have visitors and he performed two or three songs for us. For the majority of the visit I looked down at the floor, studying the dirt. I did not stare at him because I did not want to be rude. More importantly, I looked down in order to control the impulse to run away. But I realized that in looking down at the floor I was being more hurtful and harmful in the situation than I would if I stared at him. So, I worked up the nerve to look into his eyes. His eyes were so bright and he was so happy. I could see that he was genuinely happy to have company and to be able to sing for an audience. When I finally put my self aside, I gained a connection with an amazing boy that I would not have had otherwise.

Also, I had the opportunity to meet the oldest woman in Cha Preta, Brazil. She was 103 years old. When we went to meet her I was petrified by her appearance. She was very thin and frail, and, there was just an empty socket where her right eye should have been. After glancing at her from the living room, my legs became cemented to floor and I could not bring myself to enter the bedroom. But the pastor insisted that I come in and take a picture with her. I swallowed my fear, entered the room, and said hello. She said hello back and articulated delight to meet Americans. Then, we took a picture together. I’m thankful for the opportunity to meet her and make a connection with her because she died the next day.

These two incidents showed me that a shepherd cannot be afraid of sheep. There is no place and there is no time for fear.

*The accompanying pictures have been removed out of respect for the people. I do not want to confuse presentation with exploitation. For further information about the Cleft-lip and Palate condition please visit www.hopkinsmedicine.org/craniofacial/Gateway/CleftLip.cfm*

A Lesson in Culture Part I: Afro-Brazilian Worship

I recently had the opportunity to observe an Umbanda worship ceremony. The Umbanda religion is a mixture of ancient tribal African beliefs as well as Christian beliefs. The worship service I attended was extremely fascinating. The service took place in a house with a large open room in the front. In the corners of the room were two altars that stood opposite one-another. The altar on the left consisted of red objects and images that I am unfamiliar with. The altar on the right consisted of statues of Jesus, Mary, and various saints of the Christian tradition. The participants of the service were primarily females of various ages. The leader of the group was a woman dressed in white; she was introduced to me as a Holy Woman. They began the worship service by kneeling at the altar to the right. Next, they began chanting and singing in a circle. Afterward, they began to dance and sing in a circle until a deity or spirit possessed one of them. When a person became possessed, they moved to the center and began to prophesy to and greet each person in the room. John the Baptist was one of the spirits possessed a woman and greeted me. Unfortunately, due to the language barrier, I have no idea what he said. I really wish I had a better understanding of Portuguese!

I am not sure what to make of the worship service but I am glad that I was able to witness it. I want to say I believe that the worshipers were actually communing with deities and spirits but I do not believe. I want to believe because I am so fascinated with and envious of their cultural memory. They have held on to a belief and a tradition that extends back to Africa, prior to slavery. I am inspired to see their African roots prevailing despite hundreds of years of slavery and oppression. I, too, long to remember Africa.

Cha Preta I

This past weekend I went to a small city called Cha Preta. The name literally translates “black land” because many years ago there was a fire that caused many of the trees to look black. I stayed in a house that doubled as a church. The whole experience was very difficult. The house/church was poorly structured so when it rained (which was often because it is currently the winter/rainy season) water would leak into the rooms. This caused everything to be damp all of the time. Furthermore, it caused an infestation of mosquitoes. I know I accumulated over thirty mosquito bites during my five-day stay. Also, on Saturday morning the water ran out in the whole city so there was no running water, which made bathing and using the bathroom a challenge. Eating and drinking became a challenge as well because of the sudden lack of cleanliness due to the lack of water. My co-interns and I heavily discussed the idea of leaving the city due to the health and sanitation concerns but we decided to stay and I am glad we did. I kept thinking about the people who lived there. The people who were enduring living conditions worse than us. People who didn’t even have running water to lose. People who did not have the option to leave. These thoughts in mind gave me the strength to stay one more night. Being there made me consider a few things:

1. Why am I here?
When we met the different people in the city one of the first questions was always, “why are you here?” That is such a good question. It made me analyze and articulate my purpose and intentions for not only Cha Preta but also my visit to Brazil as a whole. It made me realize that I was there not to get an impression of what life is like in Brazil or to give an impression as to what Americans are like; I was there to make an impact. Moving from impression to impact was difficult because there is a temptation on both sides to focus on the spectacle aspect of the visit. When we arrived to the city is was if we were a traveling circus that had just come into town. The people, young children to old adults, followed us around and just stared at us. We invited the people into the church to talk to us and they refused. They preferred to stand outside and watch us as if were a live show. Initially, I was really irritated that they were watching me as if I were this unknown exotic creature, there for their amusement. I then realized how hypocritical I was being. I entered into their city, walked around their town, and entered their houses with no intention to actually stay and help with their various needs. My intention was to look and leave. But in the short amount of time there, I feel I was able to make an impact rather than an impression. The people finally began to respond to our attempts to talk to them. They eventually came inside the church to talk to us rather gaping from a safe distance. We also ventured out to be with them in the streets. I played soccer with the kids and I taught a couple of the older kids to play American football (who knew growing up a tomboy would become a ministerial tool?). When it was time to leave many of the children and adults said they were sad that we were leaving and made us promise to return.

2. What can I do?
When I saw the devastation of the city I became very discouraged by my desire to fix the problems. I walked the streets of the people and saw their problems. I broke a shoe trying to get down the dirt road of the poor communities. I saw, first hand, how badly they needed streets and sidewalks. They needed clean and running water. They needed a hospital. They needed a facility to cater to the high concentration of people with physical and mental disabilities. They needed teachers. They needed so much. And my first response was to calculate the need and to figure out how to provide the solutions. If I just had enough money, I could fix these problems. If I just had enough people, I could fix this city. But then I realized that even assuming that I could get enough money to rebuild this city [which is a VERY liberal assumption] what about the people in the next city? What about the people living in my city? What about the people all over the world? I realized that no matter what I do, it won’t be enough. So then I began to think, “Why do anything?” It was very discouraging but I think it was a lesson in humility and was very helpful. I am not God. I can’t heal the whole world. But I can do my part. I can’t ever do everything but may I never be content to do nothing.

Accepting Hospitality as a Spiritual Practice

In Lauren Winner's book, Mudhouse Sabbath: An Invitation to a Life of Spiritual Discipline, she states that hospitality is a spiritual practice. She proposes that being hospitable to others is a tool to gain spiritual growth. I would like to add to her proposition: accepting the hospitality of others is also a spiritual practice. Being a stranger in a foreign land is quite an arduous task. I have always considered myself independent and self-sustaining. Accepting others' kindness and hospitality is very difficult and has forced me to do two things:

1. Conquer the Inner Five Year Old

My mother has always traveled a lot and when she left for more than two days I came down with a form of homesickness that I have coined “momsickness.” When I was “momsick” everybody suffered. One particularly acute case of “momsickness” took place when I was five years old and my mother left for California for a week. While she was gone, my brother and I stayed with a friend of the family. I really liked the woman but I was so unhappy that I could not accept her attempts to make my stay more comfortable. I refused to eat the food she cooked, I kept a foul temperament, and I cried all of the time. I can still see the hurt in her face when I refused to eat the dinner that she cooked for me.
Here in Brazil, I feel the momsick child in me rising up and I have been trying very hard to conquer it. I first realized that I was developing homesickness when my appetite vanished. One of the ways that Brazilians show their hospitality is by feeding me. A LOT. Breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner. The snacks are large enough to be considered meals and dinner is eaten very late, anywhere between 8:00 -11:00 pm. I have been struggling to accept their hospitality by eating everything that is put in front of me. I am not hungry. I haven’t been hungry for days. But I eat couscous at 9:00 am and chocolate cake at 12:00 am and everything in the middle (including really strange things that I would much rather not put into my mouth) because in their offering, they are being hospitable. And in my accepting I am trying to show my gratitude.

2. Conquer the Introvert

I consider myself an introvert with extroverted tendencies. I am naturally shy and quiet, and I like to keep to myself. Over the years I have trained myself to fight these natural inclinations and I have learned the art of conversation and charisma. I have taught myself to be outgoing. I have always prided myself on my ability to walk into a room and begin and maintain a conversation with anyone. But the language barrier here in Brazil has severely hampered my ability to be outgoing. It is easier to follow my natural inclinations to be quiet than to attempt to communicate. It is easy to be present and yet not present. It is easy to be in my own world, completely disconnected from the conversation or the people I am with. Conquering the introvert requires new learning, new skills, new talents, new ways of communicating despite the lack of knowledge of the language. And it requires new presence. It is tuning into a conversation even when the only words I understand are “he,” “she,” “and,” “go,” “is,” and “there.” When I figure out how to do this, I will be sure to report my findings.