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soul - ache - ideas, sounds and images between the already and the not-yet

on rethinking home and hope

via new.facebook.com

I've written here before about the work of Paul and Judy Ridgway who are working in and among orphanages in Bulgaria. Jen and I have gone over there 3 times in the last two years and every time I struggle to put words to the experience. We're not alone in this task, others have gone with us, and one of the teenagers leaves Monday to spend a month helping take shoes to the orphanages and work alongside the Ridgways. (prayers welcome for you praying folk reading this--I know he'd appreciate it).

I'm not expert on the socio-political structure of Bulgaria, and the last thing anybody needs is some well-intentioned Westerner saying "Now here's your problem..." I have learned some things when we've been over there, however, that I'd like to share here, and hope that maybe they are challenging and helpful to you as they have been to me.

Bulgaria is an Eastern European country that up until the fall of communism was functionally under Soviet control. There are civic buildings in remote mountain cities that depict the faces of Bulgarian leaders and solider on one building and mirror-images of Lenin and Kruschev on the other. Soviet statues and monuments litter the countryside, as grass begins to cover a very dark time in Bulgaria's history. 

The visage of Soviet politics still lies under the creeping democracy, though it is more routinely experienced in the iron fist of the new regime--organized crime and political corruption. After being a member of the EU for only two years, Bulgaria has had it's EU funded projects frozen until it combats what the EU has labeled as "widespread politcal corruption on the national and local levels."

But there's more than just the daunting task of a country emerging from underneath an oppresive regime--there is the distinct impression that things ought to be cosmopolitan--European, as much as MTV can be European, but nonetheless trendy, affluent and successful. There is the fear that the best and brightest students will leave the country and go elsewhere to make more money. 

Beneath all these tensions lies the most pervasive problem in any culture--conflicting people groups. While many Bulgarians can rightly claim a distinctly Eastern European heritage, the country is dotted with pocket communities of Roma, or, as they are more normally known, Gypsies.

When I was growing up, Gypsies were portrayed in television and film as deceitful hucksters and theieves, seeking only to scam you of precious money or goods. Maybe I shouldn't have been suprised when we returned when one (traditionally open-minded) senior adult said "Did you leave with your watch?" I was shocked, outraged--I wanted to yell at him and tell him that was not the people I had met--the people I had met had been ghettoized--the "home" they had was not really "home". They were a displaced people, in a sense.

It turns out the administration under Communism didn't know what to do with the Gypsies spread across Eastern Europe. A "Trail of Tears" forced exodus was too complex, and a further holocaust would draw too much attention. The solution was to leave them where they were--to build shanty towns buildings with no running water or electricity. If this sounds like the rural South during Reconstruction you're starting to get the right idea.

If you're thinking what I was thinking when I first heard this, you might say "Well, at least they have a place--that's not so bad." The problem is the stereotype of the Gypsy people--a meandering, nomadic community--well, there's some real truth to that.

To the Roma people the community is the home, for good or ill. Home is not permanent, nor was it ever intended to be. 

This is not ideal, in many ways, as there are, in any community, a number of nefarious folks who will exploit the system and take advantage. In some places, these patterns have become routine--brothers selling sisters into prostitution. This, in and of itself is tragic, but, as is often the case even in rural America, poverty can be a terminal disease--people only act out of what they know or have been reared in.

And so now there are Gypsy villages all across Bulgaria, very few with schools or basic hygiene. There is even a large community in downtown Sofia, the burgeoning capitol so eager to enter the 21st century. 

I can't pretend to know all the issues involved in working in and among the Roma, but thankfully there are many there who do. One of our translators posted the video above on Facebook. It's a short film at only 13 minutes or so, but it draws attention to the many issues in working among the Gypsy population in Bulgaria. It also shows the power of the indigenous local church to work to bring the kingdom of God and shine light in places traditionally characterized by darkness. I share it here and invite you to learn along with me--that we might pray and talk and struggle and question what it means to be the presence of Christ everywhere.

I think the tendency for any of us is to think that this kind of thing is simply out our hands--that there's nothing we can do. Martin Luther King Jr. famously said "Injustice anywhere is a threat to justice everywhere." Teodor (the pastor in the video) says something similar, but he brings Jesus into the equation.

I have to admit, I don't know the answer here, but I think I can more fairly ask "What do I do?" after I've opened my self up to learning more about it.

So if anybody out there is game to watch and listen, talk and struggle, here's a chance-

what can we do?

how can we help?

(now taking suggestions....)

 

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Filed under  //   bulgaria   gypsy   home   hope   justice   martin luther king jr.   sofia baptist church  
Posted March 3, 2009
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on the inauguration and moving from west to east (or the 45 1/2 year march)

The passing of my grandmother and Jen's surgery last week prevented me from writing about arguably the most historic event of my lifetime--the inauguration of President Barack Hussein Obama as the 44th President of the United States of America. It's a staggering moment for our nation, as the President's own self-deprecating wit suggested on the Tonight Show during the campaign--"Nobody with a name like mine should ever run for office."

There are a hundred different ways to look at this event, and, a week later, I'm still debating whether or not the thoughts that ran through my head that day have yet to be expressed in the ever-flowing stream of media coverage. In truth, I don't think they have, or at least I haven't found them with the help of Google, so here goes nothing and please let me know if I'm ripping somebody off unknowingly.

   
Click here to download:
on_the_inauguration_and_moving.zip (179 KB)

On August 28, 1963 somewhere between 200,000 and 300,000 men, women, children and elderly converged on Washington D.C. in an historic march for "jobs, justice, and peace." Though the march centered around the creation and consideration of persons of all races for employment, the lasting contribution has been the March's incalculable effect on the creation and passing of the Civil Rights Act in 1964 and Martin Luther King's famous "I Have a Dream" speech, given from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial, under the perpetual gaze of the man who signed the Emancipation Proclamation, a marbleized Lincoln hewn from the quarries of Tate, Georgia--20 miles from where I sit writing this post.

Martin famously declared the plight of the African-American and though that phrase postdates him, the rights of black persons as Americans rings loud and clear:

Five score years ago, a great American, in whose symbolic shadow we stand signed the Emancipation Proclamation. This momentous decree came as a great beacon light of hope to millions of Negro slaves who had been seared in the flames of withering injustice. It came as a joyous daybreak to end the long night of captivity.

But one hundred years later, we must face the tragic fact that the Negro is still not free. One hundred years later, the life of the Negro is still sadly crippled by the manacles of segregation and the chains of discrimination. One hundred years later, the Negro lives on a lonely island of poverty in the midst of a vast ocean of material prosperity. One hundred years later, the Negro is still languishing in the corners of American society and finds himself an exile in his own land. So we have come here today to dramatize an appalling condition.

In a sense we have come to our nation's capital to cash a check. When the architects of our republic wrote the magnificent words of the Constitution and the declaration of Independence, they were signing a promissory note to which every American was to fall heir. This note was a promise that all men would be guaranteed the inalienable rights of life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness.

The message was clear--the promissory note laid forth in the Emancipation Proclamation had been marked "insufficient funds." On that fateful August day in 1963 Martin and the voice of a million others demanded payment. 

To be clear, Martin's dream was hardly fulfilled then, even as it has only partially been fulfilled now. Though great strides have been made, racism and bigotry are still upon us, and we do well to wonder whether or not the table of Dr. King's dream would in 2008 include space for the Arab, the Muslim, the Gay, the Lesbian.

There have been innumerable conversations on whether or not the election of President Obama signifies the fulfillment of Dr. King's vision, or merely another payment in a lengthy installment plan of equality. Some have argued Obama's political pedigree belies the revolutionary role of the prophet King while others (notably the prominent African-American scholar Henry Louis-Gates Jr.  ) see it as another key event in the ongoing march to freedom.

I am ill-equipped to assume a position in that lengthy conversation, so I can only offer an outsider's perspective. As Jen and I watched the inauguration at a local sports bar, I couldn't help but be struck by the images of folks gathered on the National Mall--that 1.9 mile long, 100 yard wide strip of land that connects the Capitol, the Washington Monument and the Lincoln Memorial.

I couldn't help but think of the steps of the Capitol, laid by slaves, and the improbable make-up of the man who stood there to take the Oath of Office.

But most of all I couldn't stop thinking about how long it took to walk almost two miles.

45 years, 5 months and 23 days. 

To walk 1.9 miles--from the steps of the Lincoln Memorial to the steps of the U.S. Capitol.

As Jen and I were listening to NPR on the way back to work we heard them interview a history teacher and veteran civil rights worker who attended the March on Washington.

"It was exciting to turn from the West to the East--the West is--has always been--that symbol of hope and possibility--the idea that there was always something more out there. But to look East and to see it come to fruition is really something that I can't put into words."

In forty-five and almost one-half years, we've almost gotten there. And maybe "almost" is the key word. Everyone from Jesse Jackson to Colin Powell has said that if Dr. King were alive to see this day he would most assuredly have rejoiced, and promptly taken President Obama by the sleeve and said "Now we've got to work some things out."

Inequality prevails, school systems and neighborhoods remain segregated by race and socio-economic standing.

One out of every three African-American men is in prison or under judicial constraint, a tragic fact born out in the overwhelming prosecution rate of young African-American men when compared to Caucasian men of the same age facing the same charges.

Though guaranteed legal rights as citizens, ethnic minorities such as Mexicans and Muslims face bigotry and racial profiling similar in scope to African-Americans in the 1960's.

We have undoubtedly come far--even if it's only at a clip of half-a-mile per decade--but there is still aways to go.

As Americans we are on the move, but how much more as Christian Americans? 

We march as Dr. King did--not to the Capitol or the White House, not to the halls of justice, nor to the ivory towers of academia. We are marching to Zion.

We are marching towards the Kingdom of equality--where love for God and love for neighbor know no limit.

We march with and for those who "might not make it with us" but who have seen the Promised Land.

We march a slow and grueling walk toward a Kingdom well beyond these native shores.

We march on to lay hold of that for which Christ Jesus first laid hold of us--that we might all be known not as children of men, but as sons and daughters of God, members of one Holy family.

Sing Down by Kyle Matthews  
(download)

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Filed under  //   human rights   martin luther king jr.   obama  
Posted January 27, 2009
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on defining neighbor (or shoeboxes and Samaritans, literally and figuratively)

This weekend was a marathon of sorts, moving from one activity to another. Saturday night I joined 15 other folks from church and we made our way to the Operation Christmas Child Processing Center on the southside of Atlanta, strangely enough, about 2 miles from where Jen grew up.

For the uninitiated, Operation Christmas Child is a ministry of Samaritan's Purse , a non-profit ministry founded by Franklin Graham, the most aesthetically similar child to Billy Graham. The idea is to take an average size shoe-box, fill it up with Christmas knick-knacks and goodies to send to a child overseas who has never, or at least rarely, received a Christmas present. Millions of boxes are sent to Ghana, Bulgaria, and the other ends of the earth. Then they go to a drop-off point, and ultimately a distribution center, hence my whereabouts in the latter hours of Saturday evening.

The logistics behind the thing are mind-boggling, particularly since over 80% of the workforce is volunteer labor. A lady across from me was from Arkansas, her church making the trip to work just two shifts at the center before making the 10-hour trek back home.

We were in the pre-sort line, where we supposed to examine the content of each box and look for a card or check that might contain the requested donation of $7 per box shipping fee, then rubber-band the box and artfully stack it on a palette of other boxes of like and un-like size. (This feat alone is impressive, and given the way myself and a fellow church-member were stacking, I instantly understood the whole Tower of Babel fascination--I was sad when they wouldn't let us make it more than 6 feet tall.)

It was not our job to remove "inappropriate items" though I wish it had been. There was no shortage of oddities, from a plastic American flag to toy soldiers and an action figure Jesus. I drew solace in knowing there was another well-oiled assembly line of volunteers ready to complete the task. After the first flashlight I saw, I immediately got excited---what if someone put a hand-crank LED flashlight in the box? That could do some real good for the child and his family? Which instantly sent me into a Willy Wonka Workshop of sustainability--flashlights and water purification tablets, seeds and-wait, no seeds through customs...I would have to think about this. Sewing kits? Shoes and sandals? The possibilities seemed endless, though I'm sure the kids would still prefer a few dollar-store toys and a coloring book or two.

About halfway through our shift (8ish) we were all told to stop what we were doing and hold a box. They said to think about the child receiving that box and to pray silently over it. Then the lady with the microphone told a disturbing story. She said there was a Russian boy named Arthur who received a shoe-box and was part of the "Shoe-box Club" that the national ministry had set-up as an after-school program. Arthur stayed for the club one afternoon, but went to a small school in Beslan in North Ossetia when it was seized by Chechen rebels. Arthur was among the 186 children killed in the massacre in 2004. She went on to say he had recently completed a page at the Shoe-box Club saying he knew Jesus and he knew he would live with Jesus in heaven.
She finished the story and, in the midst of a 250,000 square foot warehouse you could hear a pin drop. Sensing the awkwardness of the moment, she said something like "Arthur's in heaven with Jesus" then uttered the interrogative "Amen?", inspiring a round of half-hearted clapping before calling on another volunteer director to pray.

It was quiet because for a second the weight of it all came down to one child. There was an unease as people's theologies tried to catch up with their souls. Everyone tried to resist the implications a broken theology--the eternal fates of the other 185 children who may or may not have been in Shoe-box Club and who may or may-not have written about their faith. And I don't think a single person, in that moment, expected any of those other unnamed children to be anywhere other than where Arthur is. Which was ironic, in a way, because it seems to undermine the nature of the evangelistic arm of the shoe-box. It was never uttered, but the brokenness of humanity and of our own theology was suddenly laid bare in a point of connection with another human being known only by his first name and the sense that maybe we don't have it all figured out. And that God must know the names of those other children too.

I had forgotten until recently that Jesus offers the story of the Good Samaritan as a response to a question. The question is "Who is my neighbor?" to which Jesus responds "A man was going from Jerusalem to Jericho..." For the preacher, the temptation is to use the Samaritan as a paper-doll of our own bigotry, to be adorned with whatever dress, means or lifestyle we malign. In my last post I referenced Martin Luther King's words on the topic. 

Good Samaritan by Martin Luther King, Jr.   
(download)


(whole sermon here)

The real answer that Jesus gives is "everyone is your neighbor." When the Pharisees and the legalists ask "To whom should we show this love you speak about?" Jesus says "Humanity."

As people created in God's image, on our best day, we know in the core of our being that we are connected to something greater. We know that the tragic death of Arthur comes from a culture of conflict and war that we are connected to, so we grieve. We can empathize with anyone, in any situation, regardless of language and cultural barriers. 

This is God's gift to us--that we might know and care for one another in the same way the Creator of all things cares for us. And we could lose it in this busy season if we're not careful.

Beneath the honking horns and angry eyes,
the furrowed brow and the up-turned smile,
may we see the spark of our Creator
who first loved us for love of neighbor.

 

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Filed under  //   compassion   martin luther king jr.   neighbor   samaritans  
Posted December 8, 2008
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life (in pictures)

Yesterday I found out via Google's Official blog that LIFE Magazine is in the process of converting its entire image archive into digital format, all of which will be searchable on Google Images. 

 

Though its heyday was well before my time, I knew about LIFE Magazine because of my grandparents. Both sets were subscribers and they said that LIFE was made of images that captured the spirit of what was going on in the world at that time. I knew of a few of them, but I started to browse through the collection. You can do your own browsing here: http://images.google.com/hosted/life

         
Click here to download:
life_in_pictures.zip (371 KB)


I couldn't believe how a single photo could capture the essence of a single moment in time and space. Whether it's the scarred back of an escaped slave turned Union Soldier in 1863, the Dust Bowl of the Great Depression, a post-apocalypse Hiroshima or a lonely janitor mopping up the blood of Martin Luther King Jr. on the balcony of the Lorraine Motel in Memphis--images can encapsulate a moment. 

A few years ago when I was scoping out seminaries I went to visit Candler School of Theology at Emory University. Noel Erskine, a noted theologian, professor and friend of the King family was speaking. He talked about how he sat at Martin's Funeral and watched Coretta Scott King as one tear slowly dripped down her cheek. At that moment, he said, a photographer seized his camera, took the shot, and as the flashbulb went off, she slumped over in grief. "In that moment he shot her, killed her dead in a moment of acute grief and pain."

The truth is most times we don't think of images as being that powerful. Most of our cell-phones have cameras built in, but we rarely use them. We forget that the image before us represents a single moment in time and space when something happened.

I spent most of this morning cleaning and wiping off pictures in our bedroom. Some are from our wedding (which hardly seems like it was almost 7 years ago), others are pictures of my grandmother in the 40's, or Jen's grandfather's WWII draft card. The last picture above doesn't even have a frame--it just sits on my bookshelf. It's my Great-Grandfather Raymond Brown baptizing my Great-Grandmother in Lake Allatoona, about 20 miles from where I sit typing this.

Our images remind us that we come from somewhere. We didn't stumble into this thing on our own and, as the author of Ecclesiastes knew well, there's nothing new "under the Sun." 

The same hatred that scarred the slave's back ran through the rifle that took Martin's life. 

The same water that I baptize our church members in flowed around my Great-Grandfather and Great-Grandmother.

Our pictures remind us that we are not alone. 

We are part of a bigger story that is still unfolding.

Life always goes on.

 

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Filed under  //   martin luther king jr.   narrative theology   pictures  
Posted November 20, 2008
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