I’ve decided to return to Blog-land, or whatever they call this zone of cyber nerd-dom (p.s. after reading a couple of blogs lately, I really wonder how much of the total blog space is dedicated to people making fun of themselves for blogging, or making fun of blogging by blogging…and I’m adding to it. I would guss an equal portion of blogging would be people apologizing for not blogging in so long, so I won’t do that.)
Obviously a lot of life has past since March. I’m living in San Diego again, and am working as the Campus Chaplain/Missioner at UCSD. I’m trying to restart the campus ministry up there. I just read a history of the Episcopal Church in San Diego by a former bishop talking about how poorly the Church has done such an awful job of reaching out to the campus and how building relationships with the campus is “surely one of the great challenges for the next generation.” Thanks.
See I’m getting a little bored of being the “young guy.” I am the youngest person on the professional staff of the diocese by over 20 years. I am the youngest person working in campus ministry at UCSD by nearly that margin. It gets old. I also dislike dating, who invented this system for meeting potential loves…it sucks.
I like living in San Diego though. I have a lot of friends here. The city rocks. My apartment makes me smile because it has hardwood floors and HUGE windows. I make enough to have digital cable (hooray for project runway) and wireless internet. I live 20 minutes from Mexico so weeks like this when I desperately miss Latin America…means an escape to the land of langosta is easy. I get to go down twice a month (or more, it’s becoming a lot more) to visit my kiddos at Dorcas House.
I keep traveling a lot. Last month I went to Iowa, San Francisco, and New Mexico. I’m sick of planes, but in a couple of weeks I get to go to Colorado for the holidays! I’m going to stand on a frozen lake drinking frozen margaritas and watching fireworks for New Years. I’m going to ski with my best friends. It makes me happy.
I am newly addicted to Grey’s Anatomy, and am really excited that Scrubs has come back on. I’m pretty mad that they’re conflicting with each other though. I used to hate TV, but I’m blaming TV for becoming much better in recent years.
There are pictures the one on the top of this post is from Santa Fe. We had a really nice Thanksgiving there. I got to see some good friends and the family didn’t kill eachother. It was great. That’s all for now.
Friday, December 08, 2006
Saturday, March 11, 2006
And All Manner of Things Shall Be Well
Amazement grips me as 4000 worshipers from around the world join together under one tent to commit themselves to two weeks of common life, common prayer, common purpose. I landed on February 13th in Porto Alegre, Brazil with Lyra Harris my Honduran compadre in the YASC program. We had spent the past week working with a lively group of dentists and doctors from Dallas. They pulled teeth; we translated phrases like “alright, we will pull your last three teeth now,” and “please spit in this cup and not on the floor.” It was quite the experience. We flew together from San Pedro Sula to Miami. We had a several hour layover and headed straight for Miami Beach: I really never understood how much of a luxury a few hours in a US independent bookstore and eating a meal at an organic sandwich place can be. That night we boarded a plane to Sao Paolo. We made it into Porto Alegre nearly 20 hours after leaving San Pedro.
We met up with the other Young Adult Service Corps volunteers serving around Latin America: Adam, who IS the Anglican presence in the Cidade de Deus (The City of God) in Rio de Janeiro; Denise, the Diocesan Secretary for Cuernavaca, Mexico; Angela, who is assisting medical missionaries in Panama. Lyra has spent the past year working in San Pedro Sula with the Honduran Diocese’s relief and development program. The five of us were given the opportunity to come to Porto Alegre to reflect together on our program and to take part in the World Council of Churches. We spent many nights discussing the various joys and challenges we face in our positions. Many of us feel frustrated with the lack of direction we have found in our host countries. Similarly though we have learned patience and flexibility, and finding joy in the small things. I can’t emphasize enough the spiritual support I found in this group of people. Hearing my own frustrations echoed in the lives of others helped me find peace. Seeing my descriptions of the best moments in Hondurans met with knowing smiles helped to reaffirm why I have come. For three weeks we were community, koinonia in the best and fullest sense.
The conference itself was an incredibly powerful experience. People from literally every part of the world had come together to share story and to pray for a better world. We particularly enjoyed getting to know some of the Palestinian youth who had come to the conference. Our conversations with Kahlil, who grew up in Gaza, explaining how our Jewish friends at home had faced anti-Semitism, while listening to his stories of oppression under Israeli rule, really stretched our minds and spirits. We went to presentations on Sexuality and the World Church, AIDS, Dalit (Indian Untouchables) theology, water rights, Korean unification, and many other topics. We watched African dancers, listened to musicians from Somoa, saw art exhibitions from Chinese Christian groups.
The Anglican experience of the conference was particularly deep. We spent a great deal of time with Anglicans from around the planet. On the first Friday, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams came and addressed first the Anglicans and then the Assembly. At the Anglican meeting I asked him a question having to do with my thesis from last Spring. He responded emphatically that he does not want to be any kind of pope. I felt vindicated. We met Anglicans from around the globe. I particularly enjoyed getting to know a group of Canadians working with the Primate’s World Relief Development fund. Lyra and I became friends with a very nice Anglican youth delegate from Nigeria named Emmanuel. Later we found out that he is Archbishop Peter Akinola’s son. We were incredibly impressed with Emmanuel’s thoughtful and open-minded responses to our questions about human sexuality and the position of the Nigerian Church. The highlight of the whole conference probably came when Desmond Tutu addressed the Assembly. His simple message that God’s Dream is that “All are included,” served as a perfect summary for our time at the Assembly.
As the conference wrapped up, Lyra, Denise, Angela, and I prepared to travel to Rio de Janeiro for Carnival. We rode planes and busses for several hours before meeting up with our new friend Laura who just happened to have an extra hotel reservation in the city. We spent the days laying on Ipanema and Copa Cabana beaches. We saw the view from Corcovado and the Cristo Redentor statue. We spent the nights dancing in the streets in the local parades and watching the insanity of the Sambodromo on TV. Most of our experiences there can be expressed best in pictures, and there are several online. It was an amazing experience to celebrate the end of such and incredible time in Brazil in Rio.
Now I have come back to Honduras. I am here for two more months which I will spend shuttling between the sites in Talanga and Amarateca. I will be teaching English to the older boys, leading bible studies, teaching guitar, and helping to host the occasional volunteer group. I taught my first set of classes out at the farm school this week. It is a welcome break to be out of the noise and pollution of Tegucigalpa. The boys and staff are all incredibly eager to learn, and although the materials we have are pathetic, we are making progress. I am looking forward to the week off I will have during Holy Week. I’m hoping to find a traditional small town that still performs the full set of processions. Before I know it, May will come bringing my dad and uncle Chris to visit, and then I will be heading home.
This email has been a very succinct recounting of an incredible spiritual adventure. I can’t begin to recount the amazing experiences let alone the growth and challenge that have occurred in such a short email. I am truly still processing these things for myself. Before I left for Brazil, I finished “Seven Storey Mountain” by Thomas Merton. While I definitely am far from declaring interest in monastic vocation, Merton’s spirituality and total dedication to God struck me. In the midst rich and vibrant experience of Brazil, and indeed during Carnival in Rio, I took Sunday morning to worship at the packed Benedictine monastery in the middle of downtown Rio. The monks have been there for around 500 years, studying, teaching, but most importantly dedicating their lives to the worship of God. Our trip in Brazil ended just as lent begins, and I find myself meditating greatly on the challenge to dedicate all of life to worship, to the singular purpose of God. I hope that wherever this email finds you on your journey, that you are well. I thank God for your love and support.
We met up with the other Young Adult Service Corps volunteers serving around Latin America: Adam, who IS the Anglican presence in the Cidade de Deus (The City of God) in Rio de Janeiro; Denise, the Diocesan Secretary for Cuernavaca, Mexico; Angela, who is assisting medical missionaries in Panama. Lyra has spent the past year working in San Pedro Sula with the Honduran Diocese’s relief and development program. The five of us were given the opportunity to come to Porto Alegre to reflect together on our program and to take part in the World Council of Churches. We spent many nights discussing the various joys and challenges we face in our positions. Many of us feel frustrated with the lack of direction we have found in our host countries. Similarly though we have learned patience and flexibility, and finding joy in the small things. I can’t emphasize enough the spiritual support I found in this group of people. Hearing my own frustrations echoed in the lives of others helped me find peace. Seeing my descriptions of the best moments in Hondurans met with knowing smiles helped to reaffirm why I have come. For three weeks we were community, koinonia in the best and fullest sense.
The conference itself was an incredibly powerful experience. People from literally every part of the world had come together to share story and to pray for a better world. We particularly enjoyed getting to know some of the Palestinian youth who had come to the conference. Our conversations with Kahlil, who grew up in Gaza, explaining how our Jewish friends at home had faced anti-Semitism, while listening to his stories of oppression under Israeli rule, really stretched our minds and spirits. We went to presentations on Sexuality and the World Church, AIDS, Dalit (Indian Untouchables) theology, water rights, Korean unification, and many other topics. We watched African dancers, listened to musicians from Somoa, saw art exhibitions from Chinese Christian groups.
The Anglican experience of the conference was particularly deep. We spent a great deal of time with Anglicans from around the planet. On the first Friday, the Archbishop of Canterbury, Rowan Williams came and addressed first the Anglicans and then the Assembly. At the Anglican meeting I asked him a question having to do with my thesis from last Spring. He responded emphatically that he does not want to be any kind of pope. I felt vindicated. We met Anglicans from around the globe. I particularly enjoyed getting to know a group of Canadians working with the Primate’s World Relief Development fund. Lyra and I became friends with a very nice Anglican youth delegate from Nigeria named Emmanuel. Later we found out that he is Archbishop Peter Akinola’s son. We were incredibly impressed with Emmanuel’s thoughtful and open-minded responses to our questions about human sexuality and the position of the Nigerian Church. The highlight of the whole conference probably came when Desmond Tutu addressed the Assembly. His simple message that God’s Dream is that “All are included,” served as a perfect summary for our time at the Assembly.
As the conference wrapped up, Lyra, Denise, Angela, and I prepared to travel to Rio de Janeiro for Carnival. We rode planes and busses for several hours before meeting up with our new friend Laura who just happened to have an extra hotel reservation in the city. We spent the days laying on Ipanema and Copa Cabana beaches. We saw the view from Corcovado and the Cristo Redentor statue. We spent the nights dancing in the streets in the local parades and watching the insanity of the Sambodromo on TV. Most of our experiences there can be expressed best in pictures, and there are several online. It was an amazing experience to celebrate the end of such and incredible time in Brazil in Rio.
Now I have come back to Honduras. I am here for two more months which I will spend shuttling between the sites in Talanga and Amarateca. I will be teaching English to the older boys, leading bible studies, teaching guitar, and helping to host the occasional volunteer group. I taught my first set of classes out at the farm school this week. It is a welcome break to be out of the noise and pollution of Tegucigalpa. The boys and staff are all incredibly eager to learn, and although the materials we have are pathetic, we are making progress. I am looking forward to the week off I will have during Holy Week. I’m hoping to find a traditional small town that still performs the full set of processions. Before I know it, May will come bringing my dad and uncle Chris to visit, and then I will be heading home.
This email has been a very succinct recounting of an incredible spiritual adventure. I can’t begin to recount the amazing experiences let alone the growth and challenge that have occurred in such a short email. I am truly still processing these things for myself. Before I left for Brazil, I finished “Seven Storey Mountain” by Thomas Merton. While I definitely am far from declaring interest in monastic vocation, Merton’s spirituality and total dedication to God struck me. In the midst rich and vibrant experience of Brazil, and indeed during Carnival in Rio, I took Sunday morning to worship at the packed Benedictine monastery in the middle of downtown Rio. The monks have been there for around 500 years, studying, teaching, but most importantly dedicating their lives to the worship of God. Our trip in Brazil ended just as lent begins, and I find myself meditating greatly on the challenge to dedicate all of life to worship, to the singular purpose of God. I hope that wherever this email finds you on your journey, that you are well. I thank God for your love and support.
Friday, February 17, 2006
WCC Update 1
Wow. I am writing from the World Council of Churches Assembly in Porto Alegre Brazil. I have never been in a place that more closely emulates what I think the Kingdom of God must look like. The beauty of this place, of the diversity of people, of the interchange that is occuring here just blows me away. The definite highlights have been the opening prayer service (though I am sad that the Lima Liturgy can no longer be celbrated), meeting with Rowan Williams Archbishop of Canterbury, spending some time with UCC youth, getting to know the huge group of Palestinian youth who are here to represent their cause, talking with a Syrian Orthodox woman priest, and simply meeting with my fellow Young Adult Service Corps volunteers and discussing our lives in Latin America. This is a short update, but know that the content of a lot of the conference is available online (see the link on the right side of the page). I´ll be putting up pictures soon. It truly is beautiful when Christians can come together to work for justice, peace, and unity.
Thursday, February 02, 2006
The Difference Three Weeks Makes
Last I wrote I was frustrated, struggling, unsure, and flying back to Tegucigalpa. Over the course of the past three weeks not everything has changed, but a lot of important shifts have occurred. My turbulent spirit has found some islands of peace. There have been moments of great joy. Things are looking up. I write from the balcony at the Marriott, a beautiful sunset is just wrapping up. The air is warm, and Bob Marley’s voice is floating in from somewhere nearby. It is good to be in Honduras.
Three days after I arrived, a group of volunteers from the University of San Diego, my alma-mater, landed in Tegucigalpa. A blend of service, reflection, and adventure awaited us. We spent the first days painting the school building at the main El Hogar site in Tegucigalpa. Reggaeton and several rounds of the hip-hop classic “My Humps” were the soundtrack. We danced, we painted, and we struggled to communicate with a group of 14-20 year old students from the Technical Institute who were working with us. In Tegucigalpa we visited the home of one of the boys to have a glimpse of the poverty from which the students at El Hogar come. We spent the nights playing basketball with the boys, matching games with the little ones, and challenging each other to endless rounds of Apples to Apples. We also took a tour of downtown Tegucigalpa, and I played the worst pool games of my life one night we spent out in the city.
After five days in Tegucigalpa painting, we traveled to Tela on the North Coast. An extremely delayed bus brought us to the TelaMar hotel, where we were greeted not by the peaceful emptiness I have always found there in the past, but by around 200 French Canadian tourists. Though, there were free Piña Coladas as we waited to check in… We spent the next day traveling to Triunfo de La Cruz, a town partially destroyed by this Fall’s Tropical Storm Gamma, and kayaking through a nearby Mangrove swamp. Though we failed to see the monkeys we were all hoping for, even a monkey-less kayak in a tropical swamp proved to be worthwhile. Crossing a river that did not exist before the storm and seeing the destruction left behind also proved to be powerful. It did my spirit great good to watch the USD students seeing Honduras with fresh eyes and open hearts. It was a great blessing to have fantastic conversations, plenty of laughter, and to work with people so committed to learning and justice.
After we returned to Tegucigalpa and the rest of the group left, my good friend Cheryl Clark and I headed to El Salvador. I had been wanting to see the country for a very long time. Having read biographies of Bishop Oscar Romero, the nine Jesuit theologians of the UCA, and countless others who gave their lives as martyrs in the Salvadoran war, the trip was part adventure, part pilgrimage. Two observations struck me more than anything else: On Sunday we worshiped in the crypt of the Cathedral where Bishop Romero’s tomb lies. Knowing that the government was potentially preparing to assassinate him Romero said, “If I die, I will rise again in my people.” The mass in the crypt celebrated Salvadoran martyrs and I have never felt the Church so alive. In Salvador the people know that God is with the poor, that God desires the liberation of all people and it inspires them to empowered worship. Still we were downstairs in a basement, while upstairs in the immaculately decorated sanctuary the Opus Dei bishop baptized the babies of the Salvadoran elite. Even in El Salvador, the alive part of the Church is underground.
The other observation that really struck me came when I visited the sites of the martyrdoms of Bishop Romero and the nine Jesuit theologians assassinated because they were stirring rebellion the people that God desired their liberation from poverty. In England and Rome I visited the sites of some important martyrdoms: St. Paul, Beckett, St. Peter. Something about a martyr who died within the past 30 years moved me in ways that the historical saints could not. The peace of both the UCA (Universidad Centro-Americana) and the Divina Providencia hospital (site of the chapel where Bishop Romero was shot) captured me more than anything. Both sites were beautiful and peaceful islands within the craziness of a Central American capital city. I was absolutely moved by the powerful peace that exists now in places where some of the most radical contemporary crimes against the gospel occurred. It was almost as if God was saying, “Yes you can kill my prophets, but you won’t accomplish much. My peace abides.”
I came back from El Salvador with the deep realization that I still have much to learn. I have elected to stay in Honduras until May as I originally planned. I know this still isn’t enough time to learn all I have to learn, but for now it is a commitment to keep listening. I have accepted a position with Camp Stevens, and Episcopal Camp and Conference Center in Julian California which will last from this summer through next. I am very excited to spend the year in the “mountains” outside of San Diego with what seems to be a great group of people. As I write I am spending my days preparing to leave for the World Council of Churches’ Assembly in Porto Alegre Brazil. I plan to update my blog a couple of times from Porto Alegre, but probably won’t send another email until I come back to Honduras.
Three days after I arrived, a group of volunteers from the University of San Diego, my alma-mater, landed in Tegucigalpa. A blend of service, reflection, and adventure awaited us. We spent the first days painting the school building at the main El Hogar site in Tegucigalpa. Reggaeton and several rounds of the hip-hop classic “My Humps” were the soundtrack. We danced, we painted, and we struggled to communicate with a group of 14-20 year old students from the Technical Institute who were working with us. In Tegucigalpa we visited the home of one of the boys to have a glimpse of the poverty from which the students at El Hogar come. We spent the nights playing basketball with the boys, matching games with the little ones, and challenging each other to endless rounds of Apples to Apples. We also took a tour of downtown Tegucigalpa, and I played the worst pool games of my life one night we spent out in the city.
After five days in Tegucigalpa painting, we traveled to Tela on the North Coast. An extremely delayed bus brought us to the TelaMar hotel, where we were greeted not by the peaceful emptiness I have always found there in the past, but by around 200 French Canadian tourists. Though, there were free Piña Coladas as we waited to check in… We spent the next day traveling to Triunfo de La Cruz, a town partially destroyed by this Fall’s Tropical Storm Gamma, and kayaking through a nearby Mangrove swamp. Though we failed to see the monkeys we were all hoping for, even a monkey-less kayak in a tropical swamp proved to be worthwhile. Crossing a river that did not exist before the storm and seeing the destruction left behind also proved to be powerful. It did my spirit great good to watch the USD students seeing Honduras with fresh eyes and open hearts. It was a great blessing to have fantastic conversations, plenty of laughter, and to work with people so committed to learning and justice.
After we returned to Tegucigalpa and the rest of the group left, my good friend Cheryl Clark and I headed to El Salvador. I had been wanting to see the country for a very long time. Having read biographies of Bishop Oscar Romero, the nine Jesuit theologians of the UCA, and countless others who gave their lives as martyrs in the Salvadoran war, the trip was part adventure, part pilgrimage. Two observations struck me more than anything else: On Sunday we worshiped in the crypt of the Cathedral where Bishop Romero’s tomb lies. Knowing that the government was potentially preparing to assassinate him Romero said, “If I die, I will rise again in my people.” The mass in the crypt celebrated Salvadoran martyrs and I have never felt the Church so alive. In Salvador the people know that God is with the poor, that God desires the liberation of all people and it inspires them to empowered worship. Still we were downstairs in a basement, while upstairs in the immaculately decorated sanctuary the Opus Dei bishop baptized the babies of the Salvadoran elite. Even in El Salvador, the alive part of the Church is underground.
The other observation that really struck me came when I visited the sites of the martyrdoms of Bishop Romero and the nine Jesuit theologians assassinated because they were stirring rebellion the people that God desired their liberation from poverty. In England and Rome I visited the sites of some important martyrdoms: St. Paul, Beckett, St. Peter. Something about a martyr who died within the past 30 years moved me in ways that the historical saints could not. The peace of both the UCA (Universidad Centro-Americana) and the Divina Providencia hospital (site of the chapel where Bishop Romero was shot) captured me more than anything. Both sites were beautiful and peaceful islands within the craziness of a Central American capital city. I was absolutely moved by the powerful peace that exists now in places where some of the most radical contemporary crimes against the gospel occurred. It was almost as if God was saying, “Yes you can kill my prophets, but you won’t accomplish much. My peace abides.”
I came back from El Salvador with the deep realization that I still have much to learn. I have elected to stay in Honduras until May as I originally planned. I know this still isn’t enough time to learn all I have to learn, but for now it is a commitment to keep listening. I have accepted a position with Camp Stevens, and Episcopal Camp and Conference Center in Julian California which will last from this summer through next. I am very excited to spend the year in the “mountains” outside of San Diego with what seems to be a great group of people. As I write I am spending my days preparing to leave for the World Council of Churches’ Assembly in Porto Alegre Brazil. I plan to update my blog a couple of times from Porto Alegre, but probably won’t send another email until I come back to Honduras.
Friday, January 13, 2006
Direction
“I wish I could go back to college” sings one of the characters in Avenue Q, a Broadway musical my sister and brother introduced me to while I was home for Christmas. The song continues “what would I give, to go back and live, in a dorm with a meal plan again?” I do miss college; life outside is harder. There are so many more questions which are so much less theoretical. What do I do with the next few months of my life? Which jobs do I apply for? interview for? take? How do I prioritize the people in my life? How do I afford all of the things I want to do? How do I head in a direction that seems organic to who I am? Who nominated me for adulthood? Do I still have time to decline?
I spent a lot of November and early December in Honduras very frustrated. At times I have wondered why El Hogar agreed to have me come. It has seemed like they have very little actual work for me to do there. The boys are phenomenal. I’ve enjoyed every project I have been involved with, but I have felt under-utilized. I feel like I spend too much time with too little to do. I have been bored, lonely, exasperated. This started me thinking about what my options were after El Hogar, what I would do next.
Of course there were moments of joy and success as well. The bible study with the boys from the technical institute took off. It has been a blast to spend time with them. Thanksgiving weekend was filled with eating a great dinner at my friend Kim’s house with a bunch of North Americans and then spending the weekend poolside in San Pedro Sula with Lyra. My friend Ben, a Fulbright scholar researching youth gangs in Teguc., and I chilled on the Caribbean beach in Tela one weekend and played a hilarious round of golf on the muddiest course on the planet, which we had all to ourselves (save for the man hundreds of feet in the air harvesting fruit from the trees lining the sides of the third green). I had a great deal of fun in those weeks, but I was more than ready to head home for Christmas and have a break from the frustration, pollution, and intensity of Honduras.
I arrived home to Denver and immediately became sick with what I have dubbed “third world intestinal disorder.” I was glad I made it home before this erupted, so to speak, but had a couple of miserable first days in Colorado. After the sickness cleared I spent time with my best friends from home. We watched movies on my couch, played pool at bars in Denver, and went skiing on the best snow Colorado has seen in years. It was a blast. Paul Bochan, my friend and travel buddy from all of last year, came to visit and ski. I spent a weekend with my brother at the camp staff reunion for Camp Chief Ouray where I have worked the past three summers. We rang in the New Year with fireworks on a frozen lake surrounded by snow-covered mountains. After another bout with illness (during which my sister introduced me to the glories of the “Gilmore Girls”), I became a Godfather to my baby cousin Braden when he was baptized by my mom. My break was filled with family, friends, good times, good conversations, and just general Colorado-love.
All of these adventures seemed to occur on borrowed time though and soon it was back to reality. While home I had interviews for three different jobs. A couple of them would end my time in Honduras early to bring me back to Colorado or to D.C. Another would have me living at a camp in Julian (outside San Diego) starting in June or August. As I write, I do not know which jobs will actually be offered to me, or which I will take. I have some ideas, but no concrete answers. I don’t know if I will be able to find a sense of usefulness in Honduras to last me until I leave. I am sitting on the plane back to Tegucigalpa, and I don’t know how much longer I will be in Honduras. I am okay with this, or at least I need to keep telling myself that I am okay with it. It will be good to get back and see the boys. USD, my college, is sending a volunteer group this week and it will be very fun to play host to friends. The first weeks back will be fun, but I am still looking for direction, praying for direction. I’m starting to think I always will be. Maybe that’s the way life outside of college works.
I spent a lot of November and early December in Honduras very frustrated. At times I have wondered why El Hogar agreed to have me come. It has seemed like they have very little actual work for me to do there. The boys are phenomenal. I’ve enjoyed every project I have been involved with, but I have felt under-utilized. I feel like I spend too much time with too little to do. I have been bored, lonely, exasperated. This started me thinking about what my options were after El Hogar, what I would do next.
Of course there were moments of joy and success as well. The bible study with the boys from the technical institute took off. It has been a blast to spend time with them. Thanksgiving weekend was filled with eating a great dinner at my friend Kim’s house with a bunch of North Americans and then spending the weekend poolside in San Pedro Sula with Lyra. My friend Ben, a Fulbright scholar researching youth gangs in Teguc., and I chilled on the Caribbean beach in Tela one weekend and played a hilarious round of golf on the muddiest course on the planet, which we had all to ourselves (save for the man hundreds of feet in the air harvesting fruit from the trees lining the sides of the third green). I had a great deal of fun in those weeks, but I was more than ready to head home for Christmas and have a break from the frustration, pollution, and intensity of Honduras.
I arrived home to Denver and immediately became sick with what I have dubbed “third world intestinal disorder.” I was glad I made it home before this erupted, so to speak, but had a couple of miserable first days in Colorado. After the sickness cleared I spent time with my best friends from home. We watched movies on my couch, played pool at bars in Denver, and went skiing on the best snow Colorado has seen in years. It was a blast. Paul Bochan, my friend and travel buddy from all of last year, came to visit and ski. I spent a weekend with my brother at the camp staff reunion for Camp Chief Ouray where I have worked the past three summers. We rang in the New Year with fireworks on a frozen lake surrounded by snow-covered mountains. After another bout with illness (during which my sister introduced me to the glories of the “Gilmore Girls”), I became a Godfather to my baby cousin Braden when he was baptized by my mom. My break was filled with family, friends, good times, good conversations, and just general Colorado-love.
All of these adventures seemed to occur on borrowed time though and soon it was back to reality. While home I had interviews for three different jobs. A couple of them would end my time in Honduras early to bring me back to Colorado or to D.C. Another would have me living at a camp in Julian (outside San Diego) starting in June or August. As I write, I do not know which jobs will actually be offered to me, or which I will take. I have some ideas, but no concrete answers. I don’t know if I will be able to find a sense of usefulness in Honduras to last me until I leave. I am sitting on the plane back to Tegucigalpa, and I don’t know how much longer I will be in Honduras. I am okay with this, or at least I need to keep telling myself that I am okay with it. It will be good to get back and see the boys. USD, my college, is sending a volunteer group this week and it will be very fun to play host to friends. The first weeks back will be fun, but I am still looking for direction, praying for direction. I’m starting to think I always will be. Maybe that’s the way life outside of college works.
Friday, November 18, 2005
La Vida
Life settles in. It can seem like a bad habit. Adventurous travel, like that recounted in my past two letters, makes for more enthralling reading. I hope though, even if I warn you that this month I haven’t traveled more the 40 kilometers outside of Tegucigalpa, you won’t stop reading out of boredom. After spending last fall gallivanting around Europe I admit I looked forward to the traveling aspects of this year more than anything else. But in the last month I have learned to treasure the gifts and challenges of regular mundane day to day life here at El Hogar. In this letter I hope to share with you a few of the moments of triumph, introspection, frustration, and miraculous joy I have experienced.
Remembering to turn the key counterclockwise generally comes as the first challenge of the day. The lock on the Leones (Lions) house was mounted upside down. After a series of clicks the door swings open to a dark green room punctuated by white towels and sheets piled on the floor. The boys begin to stir and soon a line of small bodies waits for the next available shower. As I sit on the porch outside, the boys begin the chores of collecting laundry, arranging the beds, mopping the floor. I walk inside to prod them along and survey the progress. They are patient with my Spanish; I am patient with their games. We help each other get the house ready for the day. Within a half hour we are sitting at the breakfast table and I am explaining once again the miracle of a teabag as I sip my Earl Grey. It may seem strange to find grace in such a simple routine, but I am very grateful for my 10 and 11 year old morning friends. More often than not they start my day with laughter, which is always something to be thankful for.
I didn’t realize that poverty had a smell. Thousands of piles of trash constantly burn throughout the city. The acrid smoke hangs oppressively over the tenements. The chemical fumes of melting plastic mix with the thick smoke from wet fruit rinds, the poorer the neighborhood, the thicker the air. My lungs burn as I inevitably inhale fumes which smell like someone decided to throw a barbeque in the DuPont mixing room. The pollution goes hand in hand with urban poverty. Asthma and lung conditions are among the most frequent medical problems of the poor, conditions which go untreated because the quality of medical care is so poor and access is so limited. Mostly I am struck that in these days of rapid urbanization, one knows by smell her station in life. Clean air is a luxury.
I work out at the Marriott Hotel. I also have been given free access to their wireless internet. I write these words sitting in the beautiful coffee shop adjacent to the lobby. The Marriott stands as an island of luxury in the midst of Tegucigalpa, and the owner has been very generous to El Hogar in many respects, (including providing my highly discounted gym membership). What catches me off guard here is the attention to service. In the gym someone always brings around moist towels. The man who opens the front door knows me by name. The average client here makes more money in a day than the average Honduran sees in a year. I am troubled by the mix of gratitude I have that the people here have been so welcoming and the preoccupation I feel each time I enter that most Hondurans will never experience this luxury, that I am being served by people whose families may not have enough to eat.
Tears fade into the still newly dry concrete floor of Maria’s home in Via Nueva. These are tears of gratitude. A group from the San Juan Evangelista Church, myself, Lyra Harris (a friend and fellow YASC volunteer), Revda. Elvia, and Bishop Allen Bartlett have just finished a home blessing ceremony. The building was constructed with funds given by churches in the states. I am struck by the rank bourgeoisie assumptions the “Blessing of a Home” ceremony in the Book of Common Prayer. The number of rooms to bless assumed in the service is enormous…there are but three in Maria’s house. Nevertheless we condense the service. I help Bishop Bartlett through the Spanish pronunciation and attempt to translate conversation between him and the women of the community. Though the whole ordeal is very ramshackle, the gratitude is overwhelming. As the bridge person between the two languages, the two cultures, the two realities I receive a great deal of thanks. Maria hugs me as she tells me to share her thanks with the foreign bishop. Bishop Bartlett says I have “saved his life” which is quite the exaggeration. I feel so grateful to be a part of this moment, to witness first hand the work of God amongst people of such different backgrounds and realities, to be of use in the interchange. I think the joyful and grateful energy is just a foretaste of what is possible when the Church around the globe chooses to walk together and share common life. I pray for more moments like these.
I have never witnessed an event more thoroughly celebrated than the El Hogar graduations this weekend. My work alone occupied so much time, and robbed me of enough sleep, to initiate a chest cold. Intricate decorations were constructed. Large portions of the El Hogar and Amarateca campuses were re-painted. A couple of sponsors were flown in from Pennsylvania. There were masses, music, Powerpoint presentations, speeches, rewards, freshly laundered robes, lessons in tie-tying, a guest choir, and the food, my God, the food. Perhaps the most touching moments were the speeches of thanks and encouragement from the boys’ mothers. We North Americans speculated how long these women had searched for the perfect dress, most likely on loan from a friend, how long they had saved the cab fare to make it into the center. There words of thanks were humbling, their congratulations to their sons shattering. In their tears you could see that they knew their sons, receiving their diplomas for primary school or technical certificates, already had such a better chance in life than they ever had been given.
There are many pictures from graduation on the web, but I want to explain two in particular. The first is of Margee, Susan, Luis Eduardo, and Yimi. Margee and Susan are the Madrinas, the sponsors, of these two boys. They flew in from Pennsylvania to be there when the boys graduated. Over the past few years they have sent financial support for the boys’ schooling and living expenses. They have also written back and forth with the boys and sent pictures. I spent much of the weekend with Margee and Susan translating. I was inspired by their honest love for these boys they knew only from a few visits and letters, by their commitment to their lives. It was overwhelming to see the gratitude from the boys and their families for the support these women had given.
The second picture is of me and Marco. Marco graduated from the primary school at El Hogar last weekend. A few weeks ago Marco had to leave. He had consistently exhibited a lack of respect for certain teachers. To me Marco had been a constant support. He was often the first to say good morning to me, and in my first awkward weeks he had patience with me and always sought to make me smile. Additionally Marco happens to be one of the most intelligent 14 year olds I have ever met, and he is fantastically talented at music. Watching Marco leave a few weeks ago I was filled with dread. There are boys who have to leave El Hogar. In order to preserve the education and experience of the whole group, some troublemakers must be removed. As I sat on the balcony watching Marco leave the center, it was not clear if he would ever return. I cried. I cried because such a gifted kid should have every opportunity available to him. I cried because I felt powerless against the system which consistently deprives kids like Marco, because the boys at El Hogar are the exception to the rule of continuously cycling poverty. As it turns out, Marco has another shot. After his break from El Hogar he was able to convince the directors to give him a shot at the Technical Institute in January. Redemption can be overwhelming. I hugged him, said I was proud, and begged him to take full advantage of the opportunity. I thanked God for putting up with my naïve requests for exactly this to occur.
As I said, this letter isn’t full of travel stories. But it witnesses to the emotional, intellectual, and spiritual adventure that is day to day life here for me. I continue to look forward to what the days ahead bring. As Tegucigalpa prepares for Christmas the decorations are overwhelmingly gaudy, but there is electricity in the air. I get to travel home to Colorado for Christmas itself, but look forward to the coming month of preparation here in Honduras, to seeing Tegucigalpa turned into one giant semi-tropical snow globe. I hope this letter finds each of you well. I thank God for your love and support. As always feel free to email me any responses, questions, encouragement, or tomatoes.
May God bless you each richly in your journey,
Michael
Remembering to turn the key counterclockwise generally comes as the first challenge of the day. The lock on the Leones (Lions) house was mounted upside down. After a series of clicks the door swings open to a dark green room punctuated by white towels and sheets piled on the floor. The boys begin to stir and soon a line of small bodies waits for the next available shower. As I sit on the porch outside, the boys begin the chores of collecting laundry, arranging the beds, mopping the floor. I walk inside to prod them along and survey the progress. They are patient with my Spanish; I am patient with their games. We help each other get the house ready for the day. Within a half hour we are sitting at the breakfast table and I am explaining once again the miracle of a teabag as I sip my Earl Grey. It may seem strange to find grace in such a simple routine, but I am very grateful for my 10 and 11 year old morning friends. More often than not they start my day with laughter, which is always something to be thankful for.
I didn’t realize that poverty had a smell. Thousands of piles of trash constantly burn throughout the city. The acrid smoke hangs oppressively over the tenements. The chemical fumes of melting plastic mix with the thick smoke from wet fruit rinds, the poorer the neighborhood, the thicker the air. My lungs burn as I inevitably inhale fumes which smell like someone decided to throw a barbeque in the DuPont mixing room. The pollution goes hand in hand with urban poverty. Asthma and lung conditions are among the most frequent medical problems of the poor, conditions which go untreated because the quality of medical care is so poor and access is so limited. Mostly I am struck that in these days of rapid urbanization, one knows by smell her station in life. Clean air is a luxury.
I work out at the Marriott Hotel. I also have been given free access to their wireless internet. I write these words sitting in the beautiful coffee shop adjacent to the lobby. The Marriott stands as an island of luxury in the midst of Tegucigalpa, and the owner has been very generous to El Hogar in many respects, (including providing my highly discounted gym membership). What catches me off guard here is the attention to service. In the gym someone always brings around moist towels. The man who opens the front door knows me by name. The average client here makes more money in a day than the average Honduran sees in a year. I am troubled by the mix of gratitude I have that the people here have been so welcoming and the preoccupation I feel each time I enter that most Hondurans will never experience this luxury, that I am being served by people whose families may not have enough to eat.
Tears fade into the still newly dry concrete floor of Maria’s home in Via Nueva. These are tears of gratitude. A group from the San Juan Evangelista Church, myself, Lyra Harris (a friend and fellow YASC volunteer), Revda. Elvia, and Bishop Allen Bartlett have just finished a home blessing ceremony. The building was constructed with funds given by churches in the states. I am struck by the rank bourgeoisie assumptions the “Blessing of a Home” ceremony in the Book of Common Prayer. The number of rooms to bless assumed in the service is enormous…there are but three in Maria’s house. Nevertheless we condense the service. I help Bishop Bartlett through the Spanish pronunciation and attempt to translate conversation between him and the women of the community. Though the whole ordeal is very ramshackle, the gratitude is overwhelming. As the bridge person between the two languages, the two cultures, the two realities I receive a great deal of thanks. Maria hugs me as she tells me to share her thanks with the foreign bishop. Bishop Bartlett says I have “saved his life” which is quite the exaggeration. I feel so grateful to be a part of this moment, to witness first hand the work of God amongst people of such different backgrounds and realities, to be of use in the interchange. I think the joyful and grateful energy is just a foretaste of what is possible when the Church around the globe chooses to walk together and share common life. I pray for more moments like these.
I have never witnessed an event more thoroughly celebrated than the El Hogar graduations this weekend. My work alone occupied so much time, and robbed me of enough sleep, to initiate a chest cold. Intricate decorations were constructed. Large portions of the El Hogar and Amarateca campuses were re-painted. A couple of sponsors were flown in from Pennsylvania. There were masses, music, Powerpoint presentations, speeches, rewards, freshly laundered robes, lessons in tie-tying, a guest choir, and the food, my God, the food. Perhaps the most touching moments were the speeches of thanks and encouragement from the boys’ mothers. We North Americans speculated how long these women had searched for the perfect dress, most likely on loan from a friend, how long they had saved the cab fare to make it into the center. There words of thanks were humbling, their congratulations to their sons shattering. In their tears you could see that they knew their sons, receiving their diplomas for primary school or technical certificates, already had such a better chance in life than they ever had been given.
There are many pictures from graduation on the web, but I want to explain two in particular. The first is of Margee, Susan, Luis Eduardo, and Yimi. Margee and Susan are the Madrinas, the sponsors, of these two boys. They flew in from Pennsylvania to be there when the boys graduated. Over the past few years they have sent financial support for the boys’ schooling and living expenses. They have also written back and forth with the boys and sent pictures. I spent much of the weekend with Margee and Susan translating. I was inspired by their honest love for these boys they knew only from a few visits and letters, by their commitment to their lives. It was overwhelming to see the gratitude from the boys and their families for the support these women had given.
The second picture is of me and Marco. Marco graduated from the primary school at El Hogar last weekend. A few weeks ago Marco had to leave. He had consistently exhibited a lack of respect for certain teachers. To me Marco had been a constant support. He was often the first to say good morning to me, and in my first awkward weeks he had patience with me and always sought to make me smile. Additionally Marco happens to be one of the most intelligent 14 year olds I have ever met, and he is fantastically talented at music. Watching Marco leave a few weeks ago I was filled with dread. There are boys who have to leave El Hogar. In order to preserve the education and experience of the whole group, some troublemakers must be removed. As I sat on the balcony watching Marco leave the center, it was not clear if he would ever return. I cried. I cried because such a gifted kid should have every opportunity available to him. I cried because I felt powerless against the system which consistently deprives kids like Marco, because the boys at El Hogar are the exception to the rule of continuously cycling poverty. As it turns out, Marco has another shot. After his break from El Hogar he was able to convince the directors to give him a shot at the Technical Institute in January. Redemption can be overwhelming. I hugged him, said I was proud, and begged him to take full advantage of the opportunity. I thanked God for putting up with my naïve requests for exactly this to occur.
As I said, this letter isn’t full of travel stories. But it witnesses to the emotional, intellectual, and spiritual adventure that is day to day life here for me. I continue to look forward to what the days ahead bring. As Tegucigalpa prepares for Christmas the decorations are overwhelmingly gaudy, but there is electricity in the air. I get to travel home to Colorado for Christmas itself, but look forward to the coming month of preparation here in Honduras, to seeing Tegucigalpa turned into one giant semi-tropical snow globe. I hope this letter finds each of you well. I thank God for your love and support. As always feel free to email me any responses, questions, encouragement, or tomatoes.
May God bless you each richly in your journey,
Michael
Activist-Chic
“Regalame una de estas”…give me one of those. A tiny hand pulls at the white elastic around my wrist, stretching the band near its breaking point. When I reply that I can’t, or won’t, his face lengthens with disappointment. He lets go and the bracelet snaps back to my arm like a rubber band. It stings. The question is constant. Each boy here wants one of the colored bands that dangle constantly from my arm: Yellow in support of Lance Armstrong’s cancer organization; Pink, the fight against breast cancer; White, the One band, the fight against AIDS and Global Poverty.
Buying the bands I felt like I was supporting an important cause. My dollar or two would contribute to the end of suffering. More than that, wearing the bands felt like evangelism. I looked forward to questions about the cheap plastic I chose to wear. “Yes, I wear this tacky band to remind me that people are suffering.” I wanted to wear my activist commitment for the world to see. I wanted to be in your face about my conviction. Like the bicycle and blue suit of a Mormon Missionary these bracelets would mark me as someone with a message.
In the time since my righteous purchases last year I began to notice a disturbing trend. Working at a YMCA camp this summer I routinely came across rich suburban kids with 20 or so bands covering their lower arms. I discovered that more than half of these did not support a worthy charity. Nike, the company which so honorably had marketed the original Yellow Band, now produced similar bracelets in every color but yellow emblazoned with their logo, as did Adidas, Puma, and probably Wal-Mart. The money from those sales ends up in the pockets of rich executives. The revelation was disheartening.
These bracelets had been integral marker for an identity I had spent my college years developing. I am progressive. I care about social justice. I think globally and act locally. I drink fair trade coffee and try my best to wear organic cotton. Now they hung like status symbols on children whose parents drove expensive SUVs, worked in corrupt businesses, and probably made campaign contributions to Wayne Allard and George Bush. My political statement had become consumer fashion.
Still I wore my liberal elastic jewelry. I felt like one of those fans who follow an underground musician from coffee house to skeezy club with great dedication, until one day that musician becomes mainstream. The musician “sells out.” Suddenly the songs don’t sound the same, especially as groups of teenage girls scream them on the escalator at the mall. But you have to keep listening. Though my bands wouldn’t necessarily command the awkward attention I initially anticipated, they still held meaning for me.
Then I moved to Honduras. For the same reason I bought the white bracelet, I signed up for a program through the Episcopal Church which would take me to live amongst the poorest of the world. Now I find myself in an orphanage/school sitting on the thin border between city and slum in Tegucigalpa. The boys here often come from sickening circumstances, sickening in the sense that when someone from my social situation enters the world of one of these boys, they often feel physically ill.
Two tiny children recently arrived. They came from what could only be described as a corrugated metal hovel. The only available water was brown from sewage contamination. Each day they had nothing to eat but a tortilla or two. They were not in school. Now they have come to live at El Hogar de Amor y Esperanza the Home of Love and Hope. The other day, one asked for a bracelet.
I bought these bands to demonstrate my commitment to justice and change. I bought them to mark me off as one of the few, the proud, the liberals. Now some of the very people to whom I wanted to show my commitment want nothing more from me than one of these bracelets. The boys see these bracelets as nothing more than another item of decadent consumer fashion. They say, “I have the extra money to spend on a name brand.” Cheap plastic bling.
And they want one. Like they want a Ferrari, expensive clothes, a huge house, a personal jet, and everything else MTV tells them will make them happy. A friend who also volunteers here in Honduras says that for Hondurans the American Dream is alive. I would revise her statement. The American Consumer Myth is alive, and it is intoxicating. Some Hondurans think that if they can make it across the border they can have everything they see constantly on television. Wearing a plastic band around your wrist like the Hollywood stars and Soccer heroes you can be a step closer to happy.
As I write these words three bracelets still hang on my left wrist. I don’t pretend to have the answer. The attention I now receive because I wear them is far from what I desired when I bought them. I wanted these bands to inspire guilt in the rich and powerful, not jealousy from those who could not afford them. They were to be a message to those who had too much, not a reminder to the poor of how little they had. Still I can’t bring myself to take them off. I put them on for a reason, for a cause, three causes.
I thought about spending two hundred dollars to buy each boy a One bracelet while I am home in the States for Christmas. The image of two hundred poor boys wearing bands demonstrating their commitment to end global poverty was thought provoking. But in the end I decided that giving every boy a band in the end would probably be a waste. If every boy had one, no one would feel special, so they would probably be lost or discarded rather than worn. The bracelets only have meaning if just a few people have them.
Buying the bands I felt like I was supporting an important cause. My dollar or two would contribute to the end of suffering. More than that, wearing the bands felt like evangelism. I looked forward to questions about the cheap plastic I chose to wear. “Yes, I wear this tacky band to remind me that people are suffering.” I wanted to wear my activist commitment for the world to see. I wanted to be in your face about my conviction. Like the bicycle and blue suit of a Mormon Missionary these bracelets would mark me as someone with a message.
In the time since my righteous purchases last year I began to notice a disturbing trend. Working at a YMCA camp this summer I routinely came across rich suburban kids with 20 or so bands covering their lower arms. I discovered that more than half of these did not support a worthy charity. Nike, the company which so honorably had marketed the original Yellow Band, now produced similar bracelets in every color but yellow emblazoned with their logo, as did Adidas, Puma, and probably Wal-Mart. The money from those sales ends up in the pockets of rich executives. The revelation was disheartening.
These bracelets had been integral marker for an identity I had spent my college years developing. I am progressive. I care about social justice. I think globally and act locally. I drink fair trade coffee and try my best to wear organic cotton. Now they hung like status symbols on children whose parents drove expensive SUVs, worked in corrupt businesses, and probably made campaign contributions to Wayne Allard and George Bush. My political statement had become consumer fashion.
Still I wore my liberal elastic jewelry. I felt like one of those fans who follow an underground musician from coffee house to skeezy club with great dedication, until one day that musician becomes mainstream. The musician “sells out.” Suddenly the songs don’t sound the same, especially as groups of teenage girls scream them on the escalator at the mall. But you have to keep listening. Though my bands wouldn’t necessarily command the awkward attention I initially anticipated, they still held meaning for me.
Then I moved to Honduras. For the same reason I bought the white bracelet, I signed up for a program through the Episcopal Church which would take me to live amongst the poorest of the world. Now I find myself in an orphanage/school sitting on the thin border between city and slum in Tegucigalpa. The boys here often come from sickening circumstances, sickening in the sense that when someone from my social situation enters the world of one of these boys, they often feel physically ill.
Two tiny children recently arrived. They came from what could only be described as a corrugated metal hovel. The only available water was brown from sewage contamination. Each day they had nothing to eat but a tortilla or two. They were not in school. Now they have come to live at El Hogar de Amor y Esperanza the Home of Love and Hope. The other day, one asked for a bracelet.
I bought these bands to demonstrate my commitment to justice and change. I bought them to mark me off as one of the few, the proud, the liberals. Now some of the very people to whom I wanted to show my commitment want nothing more from me than one of these bracelets. The boys see these bracelets as nothing more than another item of decadent consumer fashion. They say, “I have the extra money to spend on a name brand.” Cheap plastic bling.
And they want one. Like they want a Ferrari, expensive clothes, a huge house, a personal jet, and everything else MTV tells them will make them happy. A friend who also volunteers here in Honduras says that for Hondurans the American Dream is alive. I would revise her statement. The American Consumer Myth is alive, and it is intoxicating. Some Hondurans think that if they can make it across the border they can have everything they see constantly on television. Wearing a plastic band around your wrist like the Hollywood stars and Soccer heroes you can be a step closer to happy.
As I write these words three bracelets still hang on my left wrist. I don’t pretend to have the answer. The attention I now receive because I wear them is far from what I desired when I bought them. I wanted these bands to inspire guilt in the rich and powerful, not jealousy from those who could not afford them. They were to be a message to those who had too much, not a reminder to the poor of how little they had. Still I can’t bring myself to take them off. I put them on for a reason, for a cause, three causes.
I thought about spending two hundred dollars to buy each boy a One bracelet while I am home in the States for Christmas. The image of two hundred poor boys wearing bands demonstrating their commitment to end global poverty was thought provoking. But in the end I decided that giving every boy a band in the end would probably be a waste. If every boy had one, no one would feel special, so they would probably be lost or discarded rather than worn. The bracelets only have meaning if just a few people have them.
Friday, November 11, 2005
Mother God
This evening I called my mother on the telephone disappointed. I hadn’t made the final cut in a scholarship competition. She jocularly assured me that “God has a plan.” When I scoffed she said, “You know I don’t mean that. I don’t say that to people.” This was comforting because I despise that phrase. In a world with so much suffering and pain, saying “God has a plan” can be biting. The immediate response to these words is “If God is loving, how could this loss be in God’s plan?”
I think the real trouble is that the usual image of “God with a plan” is very distant. Be-Robed white haired bearded Santa-God sits on a cloud. In his hands he holds a feather quill and a parchment scroll. Chuckling to himself, he spells out each individual’s life, welding together various celebrations and traumas like a well crafted character plot. This image can be comforting; God is always in control. But in our times of suffering we can feel extremely far from this God. This God seems so far separated from suffering. How could an all powerful God sitting on a puffy white cloud allow us to experience so much pain?
The problem exists with this limited divine image. What if, instead of thinking of God the Father all knowingly planning our lives in every detail, we opened ourselves to thinking of God the harried mother of a bunch of toddlers? Our God could have frizzy hair because she hasn’t had time to properly groom herself because she has spent so much energy caring for her children. God knows what things will hurt us, but can’t always keep our fingers away from the stove. She can only come with ice to cool the burn and wipe our tears with her sleeve.
I also think this model provides a new way to think about our love for God. Loving God, the big man in the sky, can seem a strange task. Loving God, the woman stressed out by caring for her children, seems so much more real. This love we can share over coffee and relate how we are both worried about the state of the world. We can share mutual words of comfort. We can ease the divine stress. How radical to think that we can care for God? How does this change our prayer life? Perhaps more than seeing prayer as our opportunity for rest, we can think that God relishes a break from the business and busy-ness of modern life: a much needed chance to sit with a beloved friend and unwind.
No model for God can fully explain who God is. The definition of divinity is that it is infinitely indefinable, but we must use images to relate to God. In times when we experience loss we can push beyond the limits of our traditional images for the divine. Talking of God as a stressed mother seems almost blasphemous in how much it subverts our traditional images. I think this is true because we want to define the all powerful God with our terms of power. A struggling, suffering, feminine God doesn’t appeal to our sense of power. It does however seem closer to the God we meet in Jesus. Jesus demonstrates that he knows what it is to suffer. Jesus experiences the basic stresses of life: dealing with his mother, frustrating friends who don’t understand him, struggling to communicate who he is. He also experiences the extremes of human suffering in his death on the cross. This redefines what it is to be powerful for God. God’s most powerful act is accomplished in God’s most extreme suffering. In the Gospels we meet a God who knows human suffering. We can find solace in the God who knows our struggles. But above all we can find comfort knowing that as much as we need God, as much as we desire accompaniment in this sometimes difficult journey, God also wants the chance to be with us. God put herself through suffering to be with us. God wants to be there to wipe our tears. God wants someone to talk to. God loves us.
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