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.
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.
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.
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.
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.
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) bordersdangerously 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.
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).
Field Education provides an opportunity for students to discern their vocational identity through contextual learning. Settings vary, from parish to non-profit and from domestic to international.
