My New Home

Here's a video of where I am staying now, for anyone who is curious.  I'm enjoying it so far!

http://www.facebook.com/group.php?gid=104016656318334&v=app_2392950137#!/video/video.php?v=752838503691&oid=104016656318334

Safe

"All around you, people will be tiptoeing through life, just to arrive at death safely.  But dear children, do not tiptoe.  Run, hop, skip, or dance, just don't tiptoe."

I put this quote (from The Irresistible Revolution, by Shane Claiborne) as my Facebook status a couple months ago because it resonated deeply within me.  Growing up in Colombia, safety was always an issue.  We were warned to maintain a low profile, not draw attention to ourselves, and not go to certain parts of town.  From a young age I felt frustrated with the sensation of walking on eggshells-of treading carefully on the ground God had called us to for fear of the consequences of our presence.  I had forgotten that sensation, in my comfortable eight years in the United States.  Now, as an adult it’s all coming back to me.  Countless times before coming to South Africa, people asked me if it was safe for me to go live in a township.  Even living here people ask me all the time why I would choose to live here and warn me of the danger: don’t walk here, don’t go there.  Not that I should throw caution to the wind and wander around the township at night with dollar bills sticking out of my pockets, but I have reached the point where I no longer want to reassure people that I am safe.  Because I am not.  I cannot guarantee that someone will not see where I live and decide that because I am a rich white person I am a good target.  Then again, I couldn’t guarantee that in Greensboro, or in Miami, or in Toronto.  When did Jesus ever tell us that following Him was going to be safe?  It wasn’t safe for John the Baptist, for Paul, for Peter, for Stephen, or for countless martyrs throughout the years.  It wasn’t even safe for Him.  Why would I be any different?  Why should I spend my life seeking comfort and security and call it God’s blessing, when the very example of my Savior tells me otherwise? 

Erwin McManus, in his book The Barbarian Way, says, “Instead of finding confidence to live as we should regardless of our circumstances, we…choose the path of least resistance, least difficulty, least sacrifice.  Instead of concluding it is best to be wherever God wants us to be, we have decided that wherever it is best for us to be is where God wants us.  Actually, God’s will for us is less about our comfort than it is about our contribution.  God would never choose for us safety at the cost of significance.  God created you so that your life would count…”

No, dear friends, I do not have a death wish; I kinda want to live for quite a bit longer, and this is not an indictment against anyone who is living “comfortably.”  God gives us all different paths to follow, and I do not claim to have found my own, much less a prescription for anyone else’s.  All I know is that I don’t want to have a “safe” faith.  I don’t want to tiptoe carefully through life.  I want to dive into whatever God has for me, though the thought scares me to no end and I find it easier said than done.  I want to follow Jesus, whether He leads me to suburbia, USA or the ghettos and slums of the world; whether I live for 100 years or 30.  I don’t want to choose safety over significance.  I don’t want to arrive at death at a ripe old age and say, “well, at least my life was safe.”  I want to get there, look back on my life, and say, “It mattered!  It mattered that I lived!  It mattered how I lived!”  God, give me the courage.

The Move

I have finally moved into the room where I will, Lord willing, be living for the rest of my time in South Africa! After three months of temporary arrangements, is was nice to actually unpack all my things.  It is a separate room behind a home (I will post a video on the facebook page soon).  I use the bath and kitchen in the main house, but the separate room allows me a measure of independence and, most importantly, silence.  I am a very light sleeper, and for the last two months I have been living in a home where an alarm goes off at 4:30 in the morning and people are up and about by 5.  While I love the family that I was living with and am very grateful for the way they took me in, cared for me, and made me feel like part of the family, I am also excited to be able to sleep better and have some personal space.  

I am a social introvert.  On the Myer’s Briggs test I always scored pretty close to the middle between I and E, but on the I side.  The last three months in South Africa have taught me that, in case there was any doubt, I am definitely an I.  I need to be able to have silence and alone time or I start feeling exhausted and ragged.  Before I moved in with Mama Jane and her family, my team leaders talked to me about different cultural considerations when it comes to living with a South African family.  South Africans are very concerned with being good hosts when they have guests.  So if a guest spends a lot of time in their room and not with the family, they may feel like the person is unhappy or does not want to spend time with them.  The concept of “alone time” is not big around here.  So it was difficult for me to get peaceful alone time, not because of anything my family ever did or said, but because whenever I was in my room I was worried that my family would be offended.  Maybe they were more understanding than I give them credit for; I fully acknowledge that my own insecurities and paranoia about offending them were the main problem.  But it was an issue, and the introvert in me is rejoicing to be able to be in my room without feeling guilty.  And the sleepy head in me is rejoicing in waking up naturally and not being woken up by alarms, crying children, and people calling to each other from across the house.

I am grateful to Mama Jane and her five children, who welcomed me without reserve, took care of me, treated me as part of the family, and loved me.  They are certainly the “people of peace” that we are called to seek out in our neighborhoods (Luke 10:5-6), and were a blessing to me.  Thankfully, they are just three houses down the road, so I can still visit and hang out with them.  And then return to my nice private room for a good night’s sleep.

Being White

All my life in Colombia I knew what it was like to stand out.  So I thought I was prepared for living in a township, where I knew I would stick out like a sore thumb.  But I had noooooooooo idea.  Unless I leave the township, I pretty much never see another white person.  I understand I am a strange sight around here, and people are bound to notice and react, so I try to be a good sport about saying hi to people, giving random strangers hugs (which is slightly uncomfortable, but what are you going to do when they just run up and hug you?), refusing to give out my number, and having everyone flip out when I manage to greet them in Sotho or catch the taxi on my own.  I get it, no other white people venture into the township, so people are naturally curious.

The frustrating part is that I just can’t seem to get beyond that.  I feel like I am completely defined by the color of my skin, and nothing else.  No matter how much I want to be seen as just another person in the community, who chops vegetables and washes dishes and walks on the same dusty, muddy streets I am always an anomaly. Even people I consider my friends seem to see me at best as someone they can show off to their friends (“look, I have a white friend”), and at worst someone to obtain things and favors from.  It’s hard to relate to people when they hold you a world apart.

I just finished reading The Poisonwood Bible, by Barbara Kingsolver, for the second time in as many weeks.  I finished it, and then immediately re-read it, partly out of boredom (things have slowed down in the after-Christmas-but-before-everyone-is-back stage), partly out of lack of other reading material, and partly out of a desire to be able to focus more on the details now that I knew the ending.  The book is told from the perspective of a woman and her four daughters who are dragged to the Congo in the 1960s by their husband and father to be missionaries in a tiny village in the middle of nowhere.  I won’t go into more details, but it’s a good read, if anyone out there is looking for recommendations.  There was one quote, by one of the daughters that I could completely relate to:

“I crave to stop bearing all the wounds of this place on my own narrow body.  But I also want to be a person who stays, who goes on feeling anguish where anguish is due.  I want to belong somewhere, damn it.  To scrub the hundred years’ war off this white skin till there’s nothing left and I can walk out among my neighbors wearing raw sinew and bone, like they do.” 

This daughter struggles with the complete alienation she feels from those around her due simply to the color of her skin.  She mourns the fact that her race places her constantly on the wrong side of the struggles around her.  In the end this daughter finds that in simply living and suffering along with her neighbors, eventually time erases the whiteness.  There are steps in that direction as people get to know me and realize I can eat their food, go to their churches, and greet them in their language.  But I guess I’m waiting for that time too, when people are able to see me simply as a friend or neighbor, and not the out of place, well intentioned white girl down the street. 

Funeral

*I wrote this yesterday, and the sun was shining again today :)*

The sun is shining for the first time since last Saturday.  Summer in South Africa is rainy season, and though the rains were late in coming, they came with a vengeance.  I confess (and this may shock some of you), that I did not mind having the coolness the rain brought for a little while.  But this morning, as I dragged myself out of bed at 6 to attend the funeral of my neighbor across the street, I was not very happy for the rain.  I never met him, but here funerals, like so many other events, are a community event.  Mama Jane and I were over there yesterday chopping cabbage for three hours.  Petunia had only recently been talking about how it is so significant for the community for you to attend events-seeing you at their weddings and funerals means you are one of them.  I kept reminding myself of that as I grudgingly pulled on more clothing than I’ve had to wear since I got to South Africa two months and one week ago.

We walked outside and our street had turned into an ankle deep creek.  There was no way around it, we simply had to trudge through it to get to our neighbors house, and then again to get to the bus that was hired to take us to the cemetery.  I may as well have not worn shoes, as my boots, socks, and leggings were immediately soaked through and through.  On top of that, I had left my umbrella at my friend’s house in Pretoria, and the only one Mama Jane had to offer me was her granddaughter’s umbrella.  I must have been quite a site-the only white person there, standing in the cemetery with a tiny pink Hannah Montana umbrella.  It was pretty classic.  The affair only last a couple of hours because all of us did not fit in the tent that was set up for the meal, so they gave it to us to go and sent us home.  I was steeling myself for an at least half day event (I have been to a six hour long graduation and a five and half hour long church service, so it’s not implausible).  We were not able to hear any of the sermon, and I never even managed to speak to the man’s nieces and nephew, whom he raised after they were orphaned by AIDS.  But I was there, which is all that matters to the community.  Yet another lesson in incarnational living-most of the battle is simply showing up.

Learning to Receive

Anybody who knows me, probably knows that I am not very good at receiving.  (I think I've gotten better in recent years, though).  I enjoy my illusion of being independent, and not having to rely on anyone.  I think lately, God is trying to pry that away from me.  In reading the story in Luke 21 of the widow giving her two coins, we were posed with a question I had never considered on reading this passage: how can we affirm the poor in giving the little they have to offer?  It makes me uncomfortable, receiving, especially when I know the sacrifice it requires from others.  Yet after that challenge, I decided to give it a try.  After all, when we receive from others, it affirms that they have something valuable to offer.  One of the commitments in InnerCHANGE is to humility, and God is teaching me to humbly accept that others have something to offer, and that I need them to offer that. 
Whether it is a few rand from my neighbor to thank me for baking him cookies, or a lollipop from kids who have very little money to spare but choose to share it with me, or company on a walk I should not take alone, I am learning to affirm that their gifts are worth giving.  That they have something to offer to others (even a comparatively rich white girl).  Indeed, that they should offer to others. And hopefully, in accepting those things, large and small, God is prying away that illusion that I am self-sufficient, and the prideful feeling that I am the one who has something to offer.  Thank goodness I don't.

Why I Believe in Incarnational Ministry, Part 2

I believe that incarnational ministry leads to being able to more effectively and relevantly serve the poor.  However as InnerCHANGE founder, John Hayes, points out, it is not merely a methodology, it is also a message.  He states, “When we move into a poor neighborhood, we send the message that if love is costly, then those who are the object of such love are worth much.  This is especially important to the poor, who bear the weight of the world’s low opinion of them.  GK Chesterton wrote, ‘No plans or proposals or efficient rearrangements will give back to a broken man his self-respect and sense of speaking with an equal. [But] one gesture will do it.”  A phrase I’ve heard repeatedly is the medium is the message.  Beyond any programs we may implement and activities we may take part in, the mere fact that we have consciously chosen to link our fate to that of our poor brothers and sisters speaks volumes.  If you have to earn the right to be heard, that is a powerful way to earn that right.  When your neighbors see you living with them, suffering with them, and celebrating with them, they are more likely to be willing to hear what we have to say.  

Further, I am convinced that our call to serve the poor goes beyond effective development strategies.  Jesus could have, with simply a thought, healed everyone.  But he didn’t do that.  When a woman who had been bleeding for years touched his cloak and was immediately healed, he could have kept on walking-the job was done. But he wasn’t content with just a physical healing.  He saw her spiritual needs as well.  He stopped and he engaged her.   He wasn’t interested in the role of impersonal “service provider,” but wanted to speak to, touch, and engage those who healed.  In that way the healing was not just physical, but spiritual.  Christ’s ministry was nothing if not relational.  It’s easy to look around at the need and be driven to address it.  You could spend all your time on poverty alleviation programs and strategies.  But that only addresses one need.  That does not transform people, and a transformed community comes from transformed people, not vice versa.   While it can feel like we are not spending our time as effectively when we spend it getting to know our community and living our daily lives among them, I think the message that we communicate through our lives-that they are valuable; that there is good in this community- in the end impacts more deeply.  

So when I feel frustrated that some of my time is spent in mundane activities like cleaning my room, and walking my new “little sister” to day care, I trust the experiences of others and the sense in my own heart that my life is portraying a message that Soshanguve and those in it are worth my time and my life.

Books that informed and inspired this post and part 1: The Urban Halo, by Craig Greenfield; Living Mission: The Vision and Voices of New Friars, edited by Scott Bessenecker; and Sub-Merge, by John Hayes.