Heard some interesting lyrics this morning, in Audioslave's "Show Me How To Live":

In with the early dawn
moving right along
I couldn't buy an eyeful of sleep
In the aching night
under the satellites
I was not received
With the stolen parts
a telephone in my heart
someone get me a priest
to put my mind to bed
this ringing in my head
Is this a cure or is this a disease?

Nail in my hand
from my creator
you gave me life
now show me how to live

In the afterbirth
on the quiet earth
let the stains remind you
You thought you made a man
you better think again
before my role defines you

Nail in my hand
from my creator
you gave me life
now show me how to live

And in your waiting hands
I will land
and roll out of my skin
and in your final hours
I will stand
ready to begin
ready to begin

sending flowers

I picked these in the alley behind the house, to send to Heather...

privileged kids

Got a good letter from Heather (in Nigeria) this morning...

Tuesday... I spent a whole lot of time just hanging around with the women as they sewed (or just sat around)—which is something I planned to do; I know I really need to learn to feel more comfortable with them if I'm going to teach them and be generally there for them instead of the kids. And I did feel more comfortable. It also gave me some time to observe.

I've been reading a book written for use by Christian development professionals, Walking With the Poor. I'm not very far into it but I have a good general idea of the message from reading ahead! This book emphasizes the need for a Christian worldview on the part of the development promoter—situating the whole situation in the overall story of God's relationship with human beings (rather than in, say, the modernist story of how poverty can be relieved by technology.) Then things like technology (or literacy!) fall into their proper place and do not become "gods".

Another thing it talked about is helping the poor to situate themselves within the story of God—to see their value in God's eyes as His beloved creation and (always potentially) His children. Because often the poor have swallowed lies that the powerful tell them, that they are nothing, unimportant, uneducated, and therefore have nothing meaningful to do with their lives but obey whoever is above them. This is the part of the book that I really connected with—I can see that at Bezer Home.

I started to notice one thing: a difference in the way children are treated. Oh, it may be an illusion, I haven't been here long, but it seems to me that even the women who are there for the classes make a difference between two kinds of children. Some they treat the way I've seen most kids be treated here—like they should be seen and not heard, if not in a verbal sense, at least in an emotional sense. Like they should do what they're told and not argue or they will get a smack. I'm not saying there's no parental affection but it's not real obvious. It's like they're valued but there's a sense that making them too aware of that would be spoiling them. The only ones I've seen real affectionate attention being given to are babies.

But a few kids are treated differently. Mary Beth and Bayo's kids, when they show up. I really wondered about that when I noticed, and whether it was because they were half-white. Then I saw the children of Auntie Sarah, the highest person in the Bezer Home hierarchy besides Mary Beth—she's Nigerian and is a sort of pastor/administrator for the vocational training—and I noticed that her daughter, whom she brings to work, was being treated the same way. The way you're used to seeing kids treated—you know, grown-ups smiling at them, playing with them, laughing affectionately at them.

I've also seen how these... should I say "privileged kids"?... act differently from the others. Act more like kids... more difficult but also more playful, with that childlikeness that makes an adult respond.

And I thought, wow, these women feel like they're worth less than capable, educated, financially stable, HIV-negative people—and they feel like their own children are worth less too.

Now please keep in mind that all this is pure speculation. I have no idea if I was observing accurately.

But as I was thinking these things, Faith Dauda came along. A four-year-old (or so) who came to Hope School, and who that day was probably there with her mom who had come to sew. (I'm not so great at connecting kids with moms yet...) And I smiled at her, and asked if she remembered me, and somehow I just got drawn into having a little time with her. A fun time, where I got her to write what she knew of the alphabet for me, and corrected her mistakes, and praised her, and it was one of those moments you can have with kids where they're learning just because they feel like it and enjoy the attention. (Which is, by the way, what I'm hoping for when I teach these moms how to teach their kids... pray?) The best kind of learning, really, and something I truly enjoy. When she got tired of the alphabet she announced she would draw a motorcar, and she did (kind of) and then she got me to start drawing... it was great, anyway.

And I thought, I want to go on doing this. I thanked God that he had sent me a kid who still behaved like a kid and wasn't scared of me, and given me a chance to treat her like a kid. A "privileged kid." Even if her mom is poor with HIV, for Pete's sake.

And you know, I've been wishing I could still be with the kids, and I've been worried that teaching literacy would mean sitting at Bezer with nothing to do a lot (because I know these women don't usually show up on the dot to appointments!) and now I'm not worried about either of those things. Because anytime I'm sitting there with nothing to do is a perfect time to go find a kid and... treat her like a kid. With learning or fun or hopefully both.

So thank God for Faith Dauda. And will you pray that God shows me how to show the adult women, also, their value in the eyes of God?

The Six Lessons Taught In School

1. The lesson of "the class"
2. The lesson of bells
3. The lesson of authority
4. The lesson of curriculum
5. The lesson of grades
6. The lesson of constant surveillance

the dreaded word

Responsibility. I'm reminded of it again now because I find myself between an overly responsible person and someone reluctant to take any responsibility for their own life, trying to help them make sense of their relationship.

But for the past couple years I've been trying to eliminate the word "responsible" from my vocabulary. There's even been times when I've been called responsible and I asked that the person take it back. I don't want to be responsible. I don't think it's a good thing.

In conversations with Heather I've tried to replace the concept of "responsibility" with love instead. But I'm not sure that's clear enough. The problem I have with responsibility is not just semantics but the underlying idea, and all the connotations that go with that word. According to the Merriam-Webster definition, responsibility basically means having to respond, or answer for something. Which doesn't sound so bad. But who are we answering to? And what for? And are we even able to answer—should we be expected to answer?

The word has strong legal and political connotations, having to do with duty and office, answering to authorities or constituents, and paying penalties when we fail in our responsibilities. In these cases, the duties and penalties are determined by the people in power, and it is often hard to find a direct connection to God or a higher morality. Sometimes though, "responsible" is used to mean the ability to decide right and wrong. This would seem to refer to our responsibility for our actions before God, to whom we must all answer. This may be the closest to a meaningful use of the word.

Yet we are often held (or hold ourselves) responsible for things we cannot control. For the safety or happiness of another person, for instance, when there are so many factors in their life that we couldn't possibly understand or manage. Part of the meaning of responsibility includes "being the primary cause," and there is so little that we are truly the cause for.

And even that which we really are the cause for—our own choices and actions—do we really intend to take responsibility for those before God?

If so, we are in for a terrible surprise. Anyone who tries to stand before God and answer for their actions is going to experience a terrifying moment. Even the vaguest thought of it can produce deep anxiety. One of the clearest and best teachings in Christianity (emphasized especially by the more evangelical churches) is that we place the responsibility for our lives squarely on Jesus. Or rather, he takes this weight on himself for us. God takes responsibility for our life if we give that life to him.

In a redeemed life, the responsibility is God's. Just as in the whole of the created world, the responsibility is God's. He is the only one who can possibly answer for it; he is the only one who is the primary cause.


Of course, "responsible" also has some good connotations. Like dependability, trustworthiness. But I think the better word for that is "conscientious." Acting according to conscience, morally, carefully. With love. That's what can be expected of us, to obey what God speaks to us, to act with care, and to direct the trust of others to God. To encourage others to depend on God, just as we do.

Don't call me responsible (and definitely don't try to lay responsibilities on me). But I will do my best to be conscientious, loving. And I'll expect the same of you.

tunes

Made an interesting discovery recently. A new internet radio station, Last.fm. There's no commercials, and you tell it what bands you want to listen to—and if you don't like a song that comes on you can skip it and listen to something else. The station also remembers the songs you do listen to so it can get better at picking music you like. Pretty cool.

And it's free. I'd pretty much stopped listening to music, since I didn't have a player (or any tapes or CDs). But, like many of the luxuries of life, I give something up just to find it given back to me. I'm really enjoying music again.

tough love?

One thing I've appreciated about being back here at Reba Place (though that wasn't my plan for this fall) is the chance to do things differently. There were several frustrations during the years I lived and worked here before, which I didn't always handle well. But now I find the difficult experiences of the year away have helped me. I find myself responding differently now, and better, I think.

Probably the main area of change is in my response to the wrongdoing of others. I remember journaling about that just before I left here. Now I find myself able to change my behavior in relation to the wrongdoer, and even able to talk with them about what seems to be a problem.

I suppose this might be called "tough love." But that term has been used to justify much that is not love at all, but exercise of power, coercion, control over others. Probably a better term for what I've been doing is conscientious objection. Not long ago I wrote about it in a discussion forum, and this pretty well describes how I've been trying to act now:

...I do think there can be a definite "co-dependency," when we're helping not so much for the other person, but to reinforce our own "savior" image, or trying to find our own self-worth in how much another person needs us. I like how the Al-Anon program focuses on healing our own spiritual problems, rather than focusing on the alcoholic's problems. Working on purifying our own motives is something Jesus definitely teaches.

And I definitely think we are always to forgive, or at least pray for God to help us forgive eventually.

But forgiveness doesn't mean we should ignore the self-destructive behavior. I guess I think the loving response in this case would be something like a conscientous objection, refusing to participate in something that will help the person continue on the path of destruction.

Jesus was always giving, but didn't always give what people asked him for. I think we should always strive to give the alcoholic sufferer help in finding their way back to health, but not give them the means to continue feeding their sickness.


...I agree with you about the need to respond to the abuser [or wrongdoer], against the abuse, for their sake (as well as others).

You wrote:

BUT this seems to directly contradict Jesus' supreme act on the cross where he totally alllowed people to abuse Him unto death. And how do you stop someone from being abusive (emotional, intellectual, physical, etc.)? This amounts to attempting to control another human, and must be done with some means of force.

Yet (as I was just talking with a friend about last night): Is the only way to respond or stand up to abuse a forceful/coercive one? Is it even necessary to "stop" the abuse--which, as you point out, Jesus did not do--or are we called to reject and denounce it, while still loving the other and respecting their freedom?

You also rightly recognize that the abused often cooperates with the abuser (often due to abusive relationships they've been raised in). The abuser treats us like dirt, and we act like dirt. Jesus didn't fight back, but he didn't act like dirt either. He stood up and told them what they were doing was wrong. He conscientiously objected when they tried to pressure him to cooperate. And he didn't run away when they threatened. He even intentionally "turned towards Jerusalem," going where they were stongest, yet showing them no fear. For their sake (and for ours). Because he knew they could not hurt him ("why fear those who can only kill the body?") and he loved them.

Can't we stand up to abuse in similar ways? Through refusal to cooperate, refusal to accept the abuser's portrayal of us, refusal to jump when they say jump? A sort of conscientious objection...

I recently came across this painting by Georgia O'Keefe again. It's called Black Cross. I remember having a print of it hanging in my room when I was in seminary.

"so that gradually we may disappear"

Working so much with Bob this past week (basically I'm on call all day and night), I've been reminded of these words from Jean Vanier's The Broken Body:

In a special way,
for those of us called to live or work
with very broken people,
our purpose is to help them rise up
and discover and exercise their own gifts,
to discover their beauty and their capacity
to love and to serve.

The danger for those who are serving the poor
is to hold them back
by doing too much for them,
like parents who do too much
for their child with a handicap.
It is always easier to do things for people
than to help them find their dignity, and self-respect,
by doing things for themselves.
When we do too much,
not helping others to grow
or take responsibility for themselves,
are we not just serving ourselves?
—seeking power and a pedestal?
To serve broken people
means helping them, like a mother helps her child,
to discover their own gifts and beauty,
helping them to a greater independence,
so that gradually we may disappear.

becoming like them

I chanted these lines during prayer yesterday:

The idols of the nations are silver and gold, the work of men's hands.
They have mouths, but they speak not, they have eyes, but they see not,
they have ears, but they hear not, nor is there any breath in their mouths.
Those who make them and all who trust them shall become like them. (Ps 135.15-18)

And they stuck with me, since I've been thinking about idolatry lately. So what does this mean in our modern forms of idolatry?

One of the main things I've noticed about the idolatry of our institutions and organizations is that we try to imagine them as new beings, with lives of their own. I've heard someone describe an organization just like that, that it's natural for it to be born and grow and then weaken and die. As if it's a person. And I mentioned how Walter Wink emphasized "redeeming" our institutions, as if, like a human being, it had a soul. Institutions do not have souls. They are human creations (or imaginings) and we do not create living beings with souls; only God does that. Our organizations are not persons, they do not feel, they do not love.

There does exist one (and only one) corporate being that is living, that is a person. That is the body of Christ. Perhaps it's our longing for this that leads us to imagine our humanly constructed corporate structures as living beings. But these have no life, and can only falsely substitute for the real thing.

I think this impersonalism of our organizations, our institutional idols, is then passed on to those who believe in them. "Those who make them and all who trust them shall become like them."

I've seen this in effect in many ways, for example: In organizations, the usual way of handling differences or disputes between people is to make rules. The personal way to handle problems between people would be reconciliation, having the two get together and let each other know what behavior is a problem and then making adjustments because of the mutual concern they have for each other. But institutions prefer impersonal rules. If a certain behavior is a problem, then from now on there is a rule, that behavior (in general) is not allowed, or from now on everyone will do it this way, etc. And if someone breaks the rule then it's no longer an interpersonal problem, it is a problem of someone disobeying a rule. It's between that person and the rules (and whoever enforces the rules). The personal aspects—forgiveness and reconciliation, very important parts of our relationships—have been removed.

Another form of this impersonalizing is the creation of institutional roles or "positions." Instead of a community made up of a web of interpersonal relationships, each person committed to the others by their love for that unique person, we substitute organizational "relationships." This is easily seen in organizations with clear hierarchies, but it's a part of all organizations. For example, when we join an organization (even membership in a church) we make commitments, not to the actual persons involved, but to the institution. We promise to support the institution. We accept the institutional leaders. In any organization, the actual persons who make up the organization change over time, leaders change, the roles and positions remain but the people who fill them don't stay the same. Does this change our commitment though? It should, if the community was based on actual personal relationships. But in institutions there's a tendency to see people less as persons and more as the office they hold; our relationship (to leaders or other members) is established by membership, not by any particular personal connection we have with them.

As we give ourselves more and more to this, we become more and more depersonalized. More and more like our institutions. "Those who make them and all who trust them shall become like them."



Actually, this morning's Dilbert helped get me on this topic...