relativity of life

It seems wherever I go something tragic happens concerning the government. Although Argentina is not on the brink of a civil war like Thailand, the death of their ex- president has caused some tension amongst the people. The current president, who is the wife of the ex- president, was seen in many people's opinions as a puppet for her husband's political agenda. While not everyone of course was happy with the course of the country, many people have seen him as a balance between the right and left that have created a theme of polarization throughout central/ south america.
A few weeks ago,I watched on television the funeral of the ex-president. Hugo Chavez greeted the president as she stood beside her husband's coffin, the eclectic group of south american presidents symbolized some kind of superficial attempt for unity during this sorrowful time.
One of my assignments during this time is studying the history of governments for the last 50 years and how the church has responded. I think what is difficult is learning that the previous black and white dichotomy in my mind associating good/bad with certain political ideologies was very detached from the reality of what has happened in these country.
Although many groups start off with what seem to be admirable ideals, the reality of human nature always corrupts and blurs what seemed to be such clear visions. Honestly, the real difficulty is pressing on. Many people see the relativity of government, therefore, completely disassociate themselves with what is happening around them.
This translates into the same problem I have found myself in having worked with an organization that serves the poor. In the past, I have taken a lot of pride in serving the poor and have struggled with resentment towards the excessive American lifestyle. But recently, I cant help but be overwhelmed with the relativity of poverty. For instance, (i have to warm you-im an over analyzer, and although this may seem like im going a little too far, I think it is something to legitimately think about.) It is common to see people selling jewelry, sweaters, and other objects they have usually made by hand. In the past, I would take pride in purchasing these goods; afterall, I knew that the money was going back into the community and the person was not being exploited in any manner to make it. But the reality is, and of course this is a generalization, many of those people do paco. This drug, which is a cocaine paste, has become very popular in Argentina. This isnt an assumption I am making just because these people are poor; it is common knowledge.
But what if I go into a store, buy something that was made out of the country, know that the money is mainly flowing out of the country, but I am supporting the man who works at the counter and needs to support his family? My point is not that helping the poor only extends their misery, or that the inability for small local businesses to start because they cant even to begin with larger foreign corporations is justified, my point is to show you the relativity of the system. It is a fact I think is important to acknowledge.
This unfortunately brings me back to my days studying philosophy in college. How can we not collapse into complete relativism concerning our involvement in serving locally and also politically? Are we simply fueled by our own interests? Is everything a power game masked in rhetoric that makes us feel justified for claiming what we want?
This is my conclusion: I must acknowledge that there is a sense of relativity to things. I think this is important to in order to rid ourselves of self- righteousness. So that I do not think I am better for everyone else for working with prostitutes- so that others do not think they are justified in not helping others because they are entitled to what they have.
But it is in this realization that we can find freedom.
After concluding that the world is in a state of entropy,and that for many people life is only a power-play, we can come to terms with our humanity in the best possible way.
Humans, like one writer has put it, are neither angels nor animals. I think that fighting this realivity is what not only being human, but even moreso being a christian, is about.
Because Christ encompasses every ideal that separates us from the barbarism of animals, how true is it that our only salvation lies in living in his footprints.
One of the bests gifts we have been given is the gift of communion. How I ponder over the brilliance and beauty of this holy communion of the human with the divine.
We must not evade the reality of the brokenness of the world, we must not become discouraged when things no longer seem so black and white, because it is this acknowledgment that should make us run even quicker to the cross which embodies the only salvation we can receive from this world.

unsent letter: to the little boy of bangkok

This is a letter I am having published in the winter issue of "mission magazine." This letter was not written for shock value- this letter was written to share someone's story.

I will never forget the first night we met. I remember the suffocating humidity the notorious summer heat brought with it, like the pit of a furnace that was inescapable. I hope you did not think I was rude for staring at you when we first met. Friend, you were standing on the street of a red- light district and I had never seen a young boy like you before. Remember how I stood before you frozen? I can not help but think how silly this American girl was. I will never forget your frail body, the purple bruises on your arms, and the look of absolute desperation on your face. Someone had dressed you up in a tight pink dress and stilettos. I walked away the first time because I didn’t know what to do. I don’t think you realized I was standing across the street watching you dance. Dear friend, why was someone making you dress like that? You told me they were making you do it so you would have food to eat. But your body was so emancipated; I have wondered if they ever fed you. They drugged you didn’t they? I could see it in your eyes.

I was supposed to be stoic. “Stay calm and discrete” I told myself when I saw what they were doing to you. But as I noticed you sit down, curling your knees into your chest, and the stream of tears that smeared the hot pink make-up someone had painted on your face, I could no longer restrain myself from coming to you. When I sat beside you and put my arms around your tiny waist, I did not mean to cause such a scene by crying. I remember the warmth of your body as you learned into me, like a cub seeking refuge in its mother’s protection. I held you so tightly like I was never going to let go. Do you recall how the tourists lined down the street, gathered around, and watch me hold you? Why did that woman take a picture of us? That look in your eyes pierced my heart, when you looked up at me and didn’t know why I was crying. I spoke words rapidly over you as I cradled your grotesque body on display for the world. I was praying to God that He would take your life or deliver you from this place.

Young boy, this is why I was crying with you: because in realizing your suffering, part of me came alive. As the death of winter yields the lilies of spring, so in your brokenness I saw the true face of humanity. Unlike other boys who are consumed with their little league games, you little boy only worried about surviving through the night. Like the lamb before the slaughter, you were the innocence of this world spit upon. It was in your eyes that I saw the depravity of mankind. In the middle of a street where thousands of women sell their bodies, I was crying for the world.

I was supposed to come to Nana that night dispensing hope to those I encountered. I was supposed to be the light in the dark; I was supposed to be the stereotypical American who fixes the world. How ignorant I was. But you my boy were the Christ; you were the innocence ravaged and degraded. Your body was scarred with the desires of man’s flesh, and your eyes spoke of the raw wounds where salt was rubbed into in an attempt to break your strong spirit. I knew though that you had not been defeated.

Do you want to know what is wrong with people? No answer I give can justify what has happened to you. The best explanation I can give is that we all long to have the heart of a child. There is something beautiful about the undefiled perspective that is so fascinated by the world. But the world is not what it seems, something we all discover. It is the absence of innocence that drives some to rob it from others.

You didn’t want me to leave that night. I remember you called me “mother.” I had to leave I told myself that night. I thought I would be putting you life in greater risk if I stayed. I still tell myself that before I go to sleep now and see your face. I felt dirty that night I went home. It was as if I for a moment was able to carry your brokenness. I could not cleanse my body of it. I still haven’t.

And it is for this that I must apologize. I was so angry at what those people did to you; but now I wonder if I was just as guilty for walking away from you that night. Beautiful boy, like Pontius Pilot, do I also carry blood on my hands for deserting you? Maybe the problem with the world is not only the cruelty that drives some to rape an innocent child, but also the apathetic that do nothing. Maybe the problem with the world is that too many people overlook the importance of improving the quality of one life.

Beautiful boy:

In the darkness of death, my heart has been resurrected. Your pain will be my fire in which your story will be retold. In what seemed to be the silence of God, your voice will be echoed eternally.

Caroline

wordmadeflesh.org

nightlightinternational.com

buenos aires

It is hard to believe I have been in Argentina now for over two weeks. Culture shock seems to blur all the days together. Learning the subway system, buses, and streets is overwhelming. Monday through Thursday mornings I have Spanish class, then I spend the rest of the day either in the Kairos office or with Dr. Padilla. This morning I just finished constructing a paper from which Dr. Padilla will use to write a chapter to an upcoming book. He is also having me read about the political revolutions throughout central america and the response of the church.
Some of the stories I have read are shocking. I wonder how could so much injustice happen so close to home without any international recognition? These stories make me neither sympathetic to the fascist governments nor the marxist revolutionists, but make my heart break for the atrocities committed by both sides in the name of "justice." What a thin line mankind walks when he deems his actions justified at the cost of another's life.
Although working in Bangkok was a life changing experience, my hope is that now I will be able to make a difference in another way. I feel convicted to always serve, but I also think it is important to take a step back and re-evaluate my life to see if I am being effective in the best possible way. I know this is a vague statement, but I hope in due time it will make more sense.

"Enter the New Country"

This is an excerpt from Henri Nouwen's "The Inner Voice of Love." I have found the way Nouwen articulates leaving old spiritual homes as an insightful parallel for leaving a physical home. (Especially when dealing with culture shock!)

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You have an idea of what the new country looks like. Still, you are very much at home, although not truly at peace, in the old country. You know the ways of the old country, its joys and pains, its happy and sad moments. You have spent most of your days there. Even though you know that you have not found there what your heart most desires, you remain quite attached to it. It has become part of your very bones.
Now you have come to realize that you must leave it and enter the new country, where your Beloved dwells. You know that what helped and guided you in the old country no longer works, but what else do you have to go by? You are being asked to trust that you will find what you need in the new country. That requires the death of what has become so precious to you: influence, success,yes, even affection and praise.
Trust is so hard, since you have nothing to fall back on. Still, trust is what is essential.
The new country is where you are called to go, and the only way to go there is naked and vulnerable.
It seems that you keep crossing and recrossing the border. For a while you experience a real joy in the new country. But then you feel afraid and start longing again for all you left behind, so you go back to the old country. To your dismay, you discover that the old country has lost its charm. Risk a few more steps into the new country, trusting that each time you enter it, you will feel more comfortable and be able to stay longer.

Summer Reading List

1. My Name Is Asher Lev by Chaim Potok
2. The Dawkins Delusion by Alister McGrath
3. God is Back: How the Global Revival of Faith is Changing the World
4. Disappointed with God by Philip Yancy
5. Home Tonight: Further Reflections on the Parable of the Prodigal Son
by Henri Nouwen
6. A Voice in the Wind by Francine Rivers
7. An Echo in the Darkness by Francine Rivers
8. As Sure as the Dawn by Francine Rivers

the lost american

A few weeks ago I decided to search houston for an orthodox anglican church. Becoming more partial to Anglo- Catholic theology, I thought that experiencing a 'unique to me' service would help expand my idea of what different denominations give to christianity.
The church was a nice new building leading me to conclude that it had recently been built. The variety of up scale cars said that this congregation was not 'ghetto.'
Walking in, I expected a group of proper anglo houstonians getting ready for another sunday service. But was I wrong. I strolled into a church service with hundreds of africans. With their tall fancy hats and colorful dresses, I knew that I had found a church beyond anything I had experienced. It's as if I had stepped out of Memorial straight into Nigeria. I waited to entered as the priest slowly made his way down the isle.
What was so intriguing to me about the service was the mix of anglican traditions with some african spice. Although the congregation was eyeing me throughout the whole service, I was eventually accepted and met with smiles. As I looked around I noticed small children sitting in the church pews with their hands folded in their laps with a sens of solemn reverence and joy. What a rare thing to find children who are willing to quitely sit through a sermon cheerfully.
The old priest who was speaking was no taller than five feet. He stood before the congregation in his long robe beside the podium so that he would not be hidden by it. Althought he spoke fluent english, his nigerian accent was so strong it took some getting use to.
The topic of his sermon was identity within community. He urged his brothers and sisters in America to submit to the laws of their new country, but to never forget their culture. Throughout his talk I in some ways became envious of these people. They had much respect for the United States but refused to conform to the american identity. They were Nigerian. They were a different people. This was their community. Called to reach out to those around them, they were to never forget that their first duty was to their people.
I felt a mild revelation that sunday. The American identity is not what it seems.
The other day I was watching President Obama on the View and I thought he made a very interesting comment. When questioned about his race, whether or not he identified himself as a white or black, he simply replied that he only saw himself as an american.
A very diplomatic answer.
But what truly is an american? What is our identity now? It seems that we have become so pluralistic that who we are has become a vaccum of peoples. Although the initial desire to become tolerant of others was a admirable undertaking, we do not know how to be defined at all.
Perhaps this is why their has been such an increase in more violent organizations that offer unity to groups. Fundamentalism in both Christianity and Islam has become feared amongst many people but why the draw?
I think its because we are so hungry to identify with something. We no longer have a way to define ourselves except by that which we create ourselves. This is true even in most protestant churches today.
Overseas I sometimes became jealous of the cultures I encountered. Although some of their practices seemed somewhat pagan to me, I yearned for the community they offered each other. But as an American, I know that even if I ever live there, I would never quite fit it.
And so here we are as Americans, the lost sourjourners gravitating towards anything that will give us meaning, creating some empty definition that we know is not true.
I wonder if it is too late to establish ourselves; is who we are totally lost in our inability to stand up for anything? Or, have we forever been lost to the wind, blowing any direction we are pushed?

neither yellow nor blue

"Grief melts away/Like snow in May,/ As if there were no such cold thing." - George Herbert, "The Flower"
Even the peak of the Texas summer heat can not be compared with the months of Thai humidity. Its almost been a month since I have returned home, and instead of feeling like my life overseas was a dream, the faces and experiences of Bangkok have left such an impression on my heart to remind me that my life there was in a sense, the closest to human reality I have ever experienced.
Someone explained culture shock once as the country you have been raised in as "yellow" and the country you visit as being "blue." After your experience you are neither yellow nor blue, but fade into a deep green. Every culture is imprinted so deeply on your very being, that to deny the effect of one or the other would be to almost deny a certain aspect of yourself.
What a difficult thing to come home and not be the same, and even harder, to realize that those around you have changed. Sometimes it would be so much easier if time could sit still, so much easier if we could just come to terms where are life has been. But those moments of complete stillness are an illusion. Life is always moving and to evade this truth is to be in denial of the very essence of what life is: an accumlation of events.
Its so easy to get trapped in what we wish our life could have been, so tempting to visit those vivid memories that we feel like have defined us. The challenge of life is to press forward. To appreciate your experiences, but to sail on embracing what comes.
One of the hardest lessons for me to learn is that I can not change people and that I am not the world's savior. I am a mere sojourner wandering through life trying to find some definite purpose.
Oh God, I think to myself all the time, let my life be meaningful. Help me never to forget these images, even if they eat away at me. And most of all, help me to remember that quality is more important than quantity. Help me to remember that my purpose will be fulfilled in pouring myself out into the little things that everyone else over looks.
Because after all, for theirs is the kingdom.

bangkok book list

Here is a list of books I read in Bangkok. All of these books have played a minor role in my ever changing perspective of the world.
1.Setting Love in Order- Mario Bergner
2.First They Killed My Father- Loung Ung
3.The Human Condition- Thomas Keating
4.Simple Spirituality- Chris Heuertz
5.Friendship at the Margins- Chris Heuertz
6.The Road to Lost Innocence- Somaly Mam
7.The Inner Voice of Love- Henri Nouwen
8.The Lotus and the Cross- Ravi Zacharias
9.Cross Cultural Servanthood- Duane Elmer
10.Out of the Silent Planet- C.S. Lewis
11.The Healing Presence:Healing the Soul Through Union with Christ- Leanne Payne
12.New Monasticism- Jonathan Wilson- Hartgrove
13.The Cost of Discipleship- Dietrich Bonhoeffer
14.Living Together- Dietrich Bonhoeffer
15. Making Room: Recovering Hospitality as a Christian Tradition- Christine Pohl
16. Simply Christian- N.T. Wright
17. Exclusion and Embrace: A Theological Exploration of Identity, Otherness, and Reconciliation- Miroslav Volf
18. From Brokenness to Community- Jean Vanier
19.The Way of the Heart- Henri Nouwen
20.Companion to the Poor- Viv Grigg
21.Sexually Exploited Children: Working to Protect and Heal- Phyllis Kilbourn (Having an extremely hard time finishing this book)
22. Rich Christians in an Age of Hunger- Ron Sider
23. Culture Shock/Thailand
24. Compassion: A Reflection on the Christian Life- Henri Nouwen
25. The Atonement Child- Francine Rivers

protests

This morning my team visited one of the main detention centers in Bangkok. The detention center is unlike any place I have ever visited. We arrived an hour early to check in, then waited with other refugee workers and families for the only hour visitors are allowed to meet with the detainees. After submitting my passport, I was directed to a small area with about 50 other people around a fence. The detainees were slowly released and the shouting match began. With about 150 detainees on one side of the fence, and approximately 50 visitors on the other, it was very difficult to communicate clearly with our friends. Today I met a ten year old boy from Sri Lanka. He explained to me that he had been there for about two months and had no idea when he would be released. Another Sir Lankan family we met had been there three years. After talking to the little boy for a few minutes, he asked me to come back and visit him. I apologized and explained to him that I was returning to America in a few days. The little boy frowned, obviously disappointed.
I was probably the first foreigner who took the time to speak with him in weeks. Day by day, this little boy goes through the same routine of getting up every morning in a room with hundreds of other men hoping that some white person will come and speak on his behalf.
Thailand, a hot spot for human trafficking, is flooded with hundreds of thousands of immigrants every year in hopes of better lives. Who can blame them for wanting more? Who can blame the Thai government for wanting to protect its citizens from the social and economical turmoil the immigrants may provoke? Its such a depressing situation.
Immigration is one of the many issues plaguing Thailand right now. Within the last three weeks, the protests have become so heated that the Thai people fear a civil war. Over the last four months, our team has slowly been prohibited from visiting many of the business districts because the protests have become so violent. With military pouring into every corner of Bangkok, last week our team was confined to our street. Last Wednesday, one of the red shirt leaders finally stepped down causing mass chaos amongst the protesters. Everything was immediately shut down.
Although the city has finally seemed to calm down, the impact of the protests are still weighing heavy on the hearts of the Thai people. A place that was once referred to as "the land of smiles," is now filled with only solemn stares. It has been an amazing experience to witness a vibrant country lose its life. Its hard to imagine that in a few days I will be leaving this country I have grown to love. But as in every great tragedy, there is always a glimpse of hope. There is always a young generation waiting to become something new, and there will always be salvation waiting for those who have been broken.

I hold onto so much

No one told me that each week working on the streets would increasingly become more difficult. Something about seeing the same people week after week makes them oddly more human. Its so easy to file away the faces I see on the streets as mere statistics. Its so easy to build walls by labelling them as victims of someone elses crimes. But it is so difficult to realize that many of these women are just like me. Many of these women once had hopes and dreams only to be crushed by the harsh realities of their circumstances. Many of these children want to play with the popular action figures they see through the store windows. It is so easy to believe that just because someone has been raised in a different culture, they are some how less human.
A few nights ago I was sitting in a food court reading a book about world hunger. Page after page, I read tragic stories of the lives of children cut short because of starvation followed by charts and statics of these children's impoverished countries.Suddenly, I looked up and noticed a little thai girl sit across from me. Sometimes this girl drops by our house to play when she is not begging on the streets. I looked up and smiled at her with my world hunger book in one hand and a big cup of ice cream in the other. I tried communicating with her using my limited thai, but eventually we just ended up staring at each other across the table. Her eyes moved from me to my ice cream. I wondered how long it had been since she had eaten ice cream. I wondered how long it had been since she had eaten anything at all. Honestly, at first I was a little annoyed. I wanted to eat and read in peace. But then I was quickly convicted. My heart broke as I thought to myself, "Here I am reading about world hunger and stuffing myself with ice cream across the table from a child who actually is hungry. I pointed to the bakery and bought her a snack. How ironic. And then it the question hit me: In some small way, Am I somehow responsible for world hunger? What a beautiful analogy for americans in relation to world hunger. Sitting across an ocean from a world of starving children, we ignorantly turn our heads and eat our sweets. But it starts with me. Almost every day I pass by a man whose body has been badly burned. His only source of income is the generousity of strangers. I have never given this man any money. Why not? Because I rather eat donuts and coffee. Oh God, forgive me.
The CEO of Word Made FLesh, Chris Heuertz tells a story about a little girl named Deepa he met in India. "Deepa is twelve years old. I can't even begin to imagine the life she and her sister have been forced to endure. Today, she is orphaned. Her entire immediate family has died from AIDS. When she was younger, Deepa's mother died from AIDS. A couple years ago when Phileena and I were in India visiting Deepa, her little sister, Charu, was still alive but very sick and dying from AIDS herself. We found out on that trip to the WMF children's home in Chennai that at that time Deepa's father was also dying from AIDS.
It was a hot South Indian summer afternoon. Deepa and Charu's father came to visit his daughters. He looked terrible. In the weeks leading up to the visit, his health had gotten progressively worse. He would frequently be found passed out in the communal toilet in his slum- sometimes lying in his own diarrhea. The man was obviously in the final stages of the disease. I thought his two little girls were going to splinter his frail bones when they jumped up onto his lap that afternoon. A couple days after his visit, I got a call. Deepa's father had comitteed suicide. The humiliation, the pain and the decay of his body pushed him over the edge. He took his life to bring an end to his suffering. As you can imagine, his daughters were heartbroken. Phileena and I rushed to the home to find Deepa and Charu weeping. We held these little ones close, prayed with them, tried to encourage them with Scripture and promised we'd be there for them when they needed us. Our hearts were broken. In the sad series of goodbyes that our lives seem to offer us, it came time for Phileena and me to once again pack up and leave Chennai. We spent our last day with the children at the home. Deepa and Charu stayed close to us the entire day. When everyone had hugged and exchanged goodbyes, tears streamed down all of our faces. We walked past the gates of the home, turned around one last time to wave, and noticed Deepa and run inside. Before we could close the gate, she came running out of the home with a single yellow rose bud in hand. We couldnt hold back the tears. After her father had died, they cleaned our his slum and discovered that his only possession was a dismal potted rose bush with a solitary bud. Deepa stood there, her face soaked in tears, holding out the flower to Phileena. How could we take it? It was her inheritance, the last reminder of her deceased parents. Today, I take that flower with me everywhere, showing it as often as I can to illustrate this little, tender, revoluntary heart. How do we follow Deepa to God's heart? Where do we find the courage to let a little orphaned girl's tragedy compel us to name the complexities in our faith that keep us from generosity and obedience?"