Category Archives: Colonialism

Threading the Needle

Audio HERE.

My sermon this morning:

Needle

Call to worship:  (from Jeremiah 6:16)

Leader: “Stand at the crossroads and look;

Congregation: ask for the ancient paths,

Leader: ask where the good way is, and walk in it,

All: and you will find rest for your souls.”

 

Ancient Witness:

Mark 10:17-26

As Jesus was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus said to him, “Why do you call me good? No one is good but God alone. You know the commandments: ‘You shall not murder; You shall not commit adultery; You shall not steal; You shall not bear false witness; You shall not defraud; Honor your father and mother.'” He said to him, “Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.” Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” When he heard this, he was shocked and went away grieving, for he had many possessions. Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” And the disciples were perplexed at these words. But Jesus said to them again, “Children, how hard it is to enter the kingdom of God! It is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for someone who is rich to enter the kingdom of God.” They were greatly astounded and said to one another, “Then who can be saved?”

She was one of my heroes as a child: LaWanda Krumery was one of the kindest people I ever knew.  She loved us kids, served as our Sunday school teacher, made the best taco salad at the church potlucks, and was my favorite person to sit next to during services: she would pull out her handkerchief from her purse, and roll and twist it into the form of a doll—keeping me entertained and quiet whilst dad preached. She laughed easily and always had a twinkle in her eye.

It was that congregation’s tradition to take hymn requests for the music of the Sunday night sermons.  Each request was often accompanied by a testimony (a public witness of that person’s spiritual journey).  When she was asked to select the hymn, it never failed: Wanda would choose ‘Deeper Deeper’ and explained her choice to the entire congregation that the line “Deeper, deeper, in the love of Jesus daily let me go; higher, higher in the school of wisdom; more of grace to know” was God’s calling on her life.  She wanted to love more deeply, and be more gracious. I will always associate that hymn with her.

But twice this jovial, kind woman scared my brother and me.  During Sunday school she brought my brother to tears because she talked about the need to ask Jesus into your heart (she said while pointing to her heart).  Bill’s face fell at this requirement–the tears began to flow freely.  What’s the matter, Billy? She’d asked.  Between sobs he managed to get out “I can’t ask Jesus into my heart” he said “Because I don’t have one of those.” –he pointed where she’d been pointing: to her voluptuous chest.  Wanda later told my dad he needed to ‘have a talk with the boy.’ J

The second time she scared us, I was sitting on the floor of her Sunday School class in a store front church in East St. Louis, learning about the rich young man who wanted to go to heaven, and Jesus saying that it was easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for the wealthy to enter the kingdom of God.  Maybe it was my steady diet of Bugs Bunny at the time, but gross cartoonish imagery went through my mind: what it would take to shove a camel through the eye of a needle.  I was aghast.  And the violence and impossibility of it all was overwhelming. I couldn’t make that bloody imagery mesh with the loving and generous woman I knew. I also couldn’t quite mesh the conditions laid out in the text with the unconditional love I knew she strived for. The tension was too much for a little girl to hold: I placed that scripture in my ‘pigeon-hole of suspended judgment’—a location where I stored lots of the perplexing paradoxes that growing up the church fostered– and cautiously went about my business.

But I grew up in a tradition that took scripture quite seriously. This text simply wasn’t allowed to lie fallow for long.  This troubling text haunted me when my parents were missionaries in Papua New Guinea.  While we weren’t wealthy by western standards, we certainly lived at a different and much higher standard than those to whom we ministered. Even if it was meager, we were salaried and living amongst subsistence farmers.  We were expatriate whites in a country of colonized Blacks. We were educated. Our passports carried a seal which promised even the protection of the US government. We had a safety net. We were privileged.  And in that sense, we were wealthy. I felt doomed.

As the text confronted me in my teens, I began to seek explanations of the harsh language which emanated from the mouth of Jesus.  “Easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle”? What did God have against the wealthy? Could the wealthy not also be pure of heart? I knew the poor, and I knew better than to idealize them.

So I began to look for ways of explaining the texts which would relieve me of this anxiety: And based on the plethora of commentaries out there on the subject, it seems I wasn’t the only one who found this text troublesome.

The most common interpretations of the text revolve around attempts to soften the blow of Jesus’ words by minimizing the metaphor.  There are two prominent ways of thinking about the parable of the “camel through the eye of the needle”—‘Traditional’ explanations noted the narrow gates going into city walls.  After dark, when the main gates were closed, travelers and merchants would have to use smaller gates, a sort of a door within the door, through which only small camels could enter only by supposedly crawling on their knees. Traders and travelers would have to have the bags taken off the sides of the camel, unpacked, with the riches removed, in order to fit through such a narrow gate.  Since Jesus also speaks of entering through the straight gate, this could be what he had in mind.  Although there is no historical/archeological evidence of such a gate existing. And as one Roman Catholic commentator wrote “This I understand now as a wishfully interpreted gate in Jerusalem conjured up by Sunday school teachers.”—designed to soften the tone of Jesus’ instructions.

Other scholarship considers that the Aramaic word for camel is very similar to the word for rope and that it was translated as a mistake.  This opens up an interesting thought:  for a rope to pass through the eye of a sewing needle, it must be unwound, simplified, reduced to the threads that constitute it.    As God is compassionate, merciful, and forgiving, the analysis of the parable remained clear.  The wealthy will have to unpack their distracting lifestyle, humble themselves, simplify themselves, focus their vision in order to walk the narrow way that leads to eternal life.

I felt some relief.  I could deal with pietism: give me something formulaic about faith; something I could apprehend and comprehend (in the sense of grasping or laying hold of something). “Tell me what I must do to be saved”—to echo the words of the rich young man.

But a broader textual study of the phrase “eye of the needle” within different religious traditions of the time reveals a different story:

  • The Babylonian (Syrian) Talmud makes use of a very similar phrase with equal emphasis on the hyperbole: stating that something is as impossible as a palm tree of gold, or an elephant passing through the eye of a needle.
  • The Qumran (7.40) contains the phrase: “To those who reject our teachings and treat them with arrogance, no opening will there be of the gates of heaven, nor will they enter the garden, until the camel can pass through the eye of the needle…”

This phrase appears to be common parlance to indicate the difficulty or improbability of something occurring.  And in all instances, there seems to be a hint of humor contained therein: a little tongue in cheek.  A modern equivalent might be for us to talk about the difficulty of something to be like “herding cats” or “nailing Jell-O to a tree”.

But a Jewish Midrash on the Song of Songs uses the phrase to speak of God’s willingness and ability beyond comparison, to accomplish intimacy between God and creation: “The Holy One said, open for me a door as big as a needle’s eye and I will open for you a door through which may enter tents and [camels?].”  And again in a Midrash on Genesis the needle’s eye was mentioned in that “A needle’s eye is not too narrow for two friends, but a world isn’t big enough for two enemies…” Here in the Jewish midrash, we see that the needle’s eye was used not as a parable for the impossibility of a given task, but rather to emphasize the possibility!  Give me an opening the size of a needle’s eye, and I’ll throw the doors open wide!  Given Jesus’ penchant for quoting the Jewish scriptures of his day, it is highly likely that it was in this sense that Jesus uttered the phrase.  Indeed, if we read the final verse of the section that Tim read earlier as the Ancient Witness, we hear Jesus proclaim “With God, all things are possible.”
All these years I’ve read that text with the emPHAsis on the wrong sylLABle!

Let’s return to the narrative for a closer reading:

As Jesus was setting out on a journey, a man ran up and knelt before him, and asked him, “Good Teacher, what must I do to inherit eternal life?” Jesus said to him, “You know the commandments… ” He said to him, “Teacher, I have kept all these since my youth.” Jesus, looking at him, loved him and said, “You lack one thing; go, sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, then come, follow me.”

As we listen to the instructions of Jesus to the rich man with an eye towards possibility (instead of impossibility) we pay closer attention to the posture of Jesus as he uttered this phrase.  The text tells us that Jesus said it lovingly—without a hint of judgment.  If anything, one can read compassion in the tone.  And the instructions were simple and clear.

First, an acknowledgement of place: You lack one thing.  One thing: not a litany of sins for which you must confess and make restitution.  Instead it is the acknowledgement that one who seemingly has EVERYTHING, lacks one thing.

The only claim the young man had made was that he’d kept the commandments.  And there is no indication that Jesus doesn’t take him at his word on that.  But what stands out to this reader of the text is the very ego-centric response “I have kept all these since my youth.” You see, it is only from a very privileged and self-sufficient position (AKA the rich young man) that we can assume that have arrived by our own volition.  Only the privileged are blind to the help they receive from others.

A few years ago I ran the Center for Ethics and Values at the Seminary at Northwestern.  I had 3 faculty members and 4 PhD candidates working in the center—all men—and as academics are wont to do, these gentlemen paid little attention to the details.  None of them knew how to load paper in the copy machine.  They had no concept of the time and logistics it took to host a conference.  For as intelligent as these men were, I was often amused at the ‘magical world’ they seemed to live in.  Things just HAPPENED for them.  The storage closet was one of the magicians’ tools.  I recall one day the Head of the Ethics Department standing in front of the closet with the door flung wide, aghast that the item he was looking for wasn’t present.  His frustration was evident. Did you use the last of them? I innocently asked.  Yes, he said.  Did you let anyone know we were out? I asked.  “No.”  You do realize that I don’t read minds.  How did you think I’d know to order more?  “Um… I don’t know.  Things just appear in there. I don’t know how they get there.” Was the response.  From an Oxford PhD.

Only the privileged are blind to the help they receive from others.

Jesus’s admonition to the man to sell his belongings and tend to the poor in the community was a means of stripping away the trappings of privilege or privatized notions of faith (just as the camel has to be unloaded to fit through a narrow gate, or the rope unwound to pass through a needle).

Second, Jesus invites the man to join the community by the invitation to ‘follow me’.  The way of Jesus is a journey. We are pilgrims together on a spiritual journey: sojourners along the Way.  Having “arrived” is never an option within the teachings of Jesus, but instead following the living traditions of Jesus means opening ourselves up to continued growth on the journey, and it means casting aside all privileged notions of privacy and instead joining in the communal pace.  We are pilgrims on the journey, and those who have gone before us light the way.

And here I want to pause to consider our own location as we read this text. While there is a measure of diversity a midst our congregation, there is also evidence that we aren’t quite as diverse as we’ve imagined ourselves to be.  You will remember the results of the search committee’s demographic study indicated this very clearly.  We are largely a congregation of privilege.  And while the usual suspects can be addressed (male privilege, white privilege, north shore privilege, economic privilege, educational privilege, etc.) I think what is most interesting to consider from this text is another form of privilege we both bizarrely sing the praises of, and at the same time frequently ignore: that is the idea that we are ‘exceptional’.   We do believe ourselves to be “exceptional” (i.e., unusual or extraordinary).   We like to define ourselves by what we are not… that is, we aren’t too Christian… we aren’t really Baptist…  we don’t really require anything of our members… etc.

A group may assert exceptionalism, in order to exaggerate the appearance of difference, perhaps to create an atmosphere permissive of a wider latitude of action. The term “exceptionalism” can imply criticism of a tendency to remain separate from others. For example, the reluctance of the United States government to join various international treaties is sometimes called “exceptionalist”, as is an assertion that a person or group refuses to acknowledge, and perhaps communally participate in, a widely-accepted principle or practice.

When Jesus asks the privileged man to dispossess himself, he merely asked that man to do what the other followers of Jesus had committed to: equality and participation in the life of the community of pilgrims.  No unusual demands were made.   Grief came for the rich man, when he thought himself somehow to be an exception to the rule, that is, unwilling to submit to the discipline what it means to be in community.

Perhaps we need to consider the ease at which we can dismiss the collective wisdom of both those who have gone before and those who walk along side us.  I wonder if our particular interpretation of ‘soul liberty’ has moved us into the realm of the privileged privatized faith?  How do we find balance, allowing for both the individual to work out his or her own faith, and the spiritually formative role of community?

A few years ago I attended a large ‘mega’ church in Oklahoma City.  I had been visiting a friend in town, and happened to also be acquainted with the minister (we’d gone to seminary together). They just built a new building and he was quite keen to show it off.

The building was in the suburbs, and new the sanctuary was large, clean and spacious. There were clearly marked signs pointing to the restrooms, the fellowship hall, and the sanctuary. There were hand sanitizer dispensers outside each door. The bulletin spelled out the order of worship clearly, and gave hints and the customs of the congregation. His staff clearly ran the church like a well-oiled machine. There was theater-style seating, with wide aisles and lots of leg room. The arm rests were padded and I could stretch out my legs comfortably. The minister stood in the pulpit only a few meters from me, but because they also had large projection screens, I could opt to watch the sermon ‘larger than life’. And there were no troublesome hymnals to have to locate or share. The songs were projected up on screens for all to see.

My friend came up after the service SO very proud of his church and asked me my thoughts. In all honesty, all I could think of was “I just went to church and never touched anyone. My hip didn’t rub up against anyone’s hip in the pew. I never had to share a hymnal, or ask for help to locate things. I didn’t even have to look at the live ‘performance’ of either the minister or the worship leaders. I could do it virtually. This has been one of the loneliest church experiences I’ve ever had.”

It is experiences like this which make me love life in the city: the hassle and the congestion, the inconvenience and the need to deal with that which is less desirable or uncomfortable.  It seems that ‘church’ should also be that way: I want to touch and be touched. Even when it means risk. I want to get my hands dirty.

And as a theologian, I had to consider this when joining the church.  This is the question I had to face: was I willing to let this minister, and this congregation, form me spiritually?  Could I trust them to do so?

I’ll close with an ancient Buddhist story where the Buddha talked about the role of community in our spiritual journeys. The Buddha’s faithful attendant, Ananda, asked about the importance of having wholesome companions. Ananda asked the Buddha whether having noble friends and companions wasn’t half of the holy life. The Buddha replied: “Do not say so, Ananda. Noble friends and companions are the whole of the holy life.” (SN 45.2, Bhikkhu Bodhi)   Friends, let us truly be companions together on this spiritual journey: open to each other’s gifts and critique.

The call to commitment (an adaptation of W. S. Merwin’s poem “Separation”)
“Your presence has gone through me
Like thread through a needle.
Everything I do is stitched with its color.” 

 

Benediction

Go in peace, disturbed only by that which strips us of our pretense and privilege, and open to the gentle influence of the Spirit in whom we live and move and have our being.

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Baby, I’m a White girl…

I struggled with race when we first moved back to the States from Papua New Guinea. I naively didn’t think it was so much a Black/White thing (although it certainly was), as the fact that I kept expecting African-Americans to be culturally the same as my dark-skinned friends from New Guinea.  I was constantly imposing a set of expectations and social ‘rules’ on African-Americans which simply weren’t theirs to keep.  It caused frequent ruptures and misunderstandings. My particular form of latent racism came with a certain brand of colonialism (borne from life as a White missionary child in a Black country).

I was gifted my freshman year of college by finding myself living on a floor in the dormitory which was predominantly African-American. My cultural expectations were quickly exposed, and quickly addressed.  Those girls would not tolerate my racism.  And I’m better for it.

Virlinda (also known as ‘Vi’ (pronounced VEE)) was all over my case. Any time I said something which exposed my privilege, she’d not let me linger in oblivion, but would interrupt, getting up in my face and demand, “Say ‘Baby, I’m a White girl.'”  At first I’d just stand there, staring dumbly.  She would get more animated and more obnoxious. “Say ‘Baby, I’m a White girl.'”  The line got repeated ad nauseum until I would finally give in and repeat aloud “Baby, I’m a White girl.”  Then she’d grin real big and continue on with whatever we were doing.

It came so frequently I began to dream it: “Say ‘Baby, I’m a White girl.'”

It became my mantra for the year: “Baby, I’m a White girl.” Virlinda wouldn’t let me lose site of the privilege I brought to each and every discussion, each and every interaction, each and every transaction.  For a period of time I hated her.  Then I loved her.

What an education! Thank you, Vi.

Baby, I’m a White girl.

A group of us from the dorm at a college football game.  Virlinda is in the front row, on the left.

A group of us from the dorm at a college football game. Virlinda is in the front row, on the left.

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Driving Miss Donna….

Suddenly this image was all I could think of...

Suddenly this image was all I could think of…

I’ve traveled for work the past two weeks, and am jet lagged and tired. This morning was me in slow motion: unmotivated to go to work, dreading the commute on the train.  I opted to hail a cab, convincing myself that it was a treat well earned–that I’d been working hard and deserved such a luxury.  It took less than 2 minutes to hail a cab.

As I settled into the back seat, I was relieved to see that this cab had a barrier wall between me and the driver: a padded lower portion keeps my knees from bumping the seat ahead of me; whilst a Plexiglas upper portion allows me to see, but prohibits easy conversation.  Again, I was tired.  I rambled off the address to my office building without even a glance towards the front seat and situated my purse and computer bag. I like to know where everything is, so my phone is handy, and so I’m less likely to forget a bag and leave it in the car when I make my exit. I really didn’t pay attention until the driver repeated the address back to me, and said “Is that right, ma’am?”

I cringed.  “Ma’am” is usually a moniker bestowed upon me by a twenty-something. I thought about my graying hair and sighed.  Then looking up, realized that the polite driver was an elderly Black man.  “Yes, thank you, sir.” I mumbled, embarrassed.  And something made me glance at his hands: white gloves.  My elderly Black cab driver was wearing black dress pants, a starched white shirt and collar, and yes… white driving gloves.  He suddenly had my full attention.  And the irony of the past week with the George Zimmerman trial came sweeping over me.  All I could think about was that scene from “Driving Miss Daisy”.  AUGH.  I was the privileged white woman being chauffeured around by a Black man!

Classical music streamed through the cab, along with the chilly draft from the air conditioner. Gosh, it is cold in this cab, I thought.  Oh! That’s why he’s wearing the gloves!  He’s got the air turned on high for me, and he’s suffering in the front seat.  I leaned forward and said “Are your hands cold? Is that why you are wearing gloves?  Because you can turn the air conditioner off if you’d like. I’ll be fine.”  Somehow my comment felt benevolent to me.  I was being gracious.  “No ma’am,” he said. “I like the air conditioner. I wear these gloves because my hands hurt on the steering wheel.  Friction or something.  At the end of the day, my hands just ache if I don’t wear them.”  Gosh, Donna.  It isn’t about you. Get over yourself. 

Gratefully he heard my comments as concern for him, and he opened up.  It seems he’s originally from Nigeria. “I am a wealthy man, you see,” he said. “I live in the U.S. for 6 months, and then at my home in Nigeria for 6 months.”  He pulled out a packet of photos he had on the seat next to him.  “I own 5 acres and have it all walled in.  My home is in there. I have 8 bedrooms, and each has its own running water.  I have my garden there, and my cattle.  Everything I need is there.” He laughs heartily. “I play classical piano.” He nods towards the radio.  “My children all like that hip hop music” but he says that his music has “endurance.”  “My composers are 300-400 years old and they are still being played on the radio.  Theirs will be gone in 3 or 4 years.”

His story begins to unfold: “I became a captain in the Nigerian army on October 1, 1960–the day Nigeria gained independence from the United Kingdom. I am a man of discipline, and it has served me well. I have married, have achieved a Ph.D. in Chemistry, taught as professor, and raised  4 children.  And as of May 2002 my youngest child finished college.  Now I am a wealthy man. I sit in my car, in the air conditioning all day, listening to classical music, and people put money in my pocket to drive them around.  This is not work.  I am a wealthy man. I love life. Life is beautiful.”

This amazing 85 year old man dressed with dignity because it was befitting to him.  Not, as I imagined in my narrow perspective, to fulfill the role or stereotype of ‘servant’.

I have much to learn.

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A recent cultural shock…

I have spent the last week in S. Florida on a business trip.  My whole Chicago office (five people) went to Ft. Lauderdale to meet with our team members there (15 people).  I have been aware in past meetings of the cultural gaps between these groups, so I made a point to note them as they occurred this week.  I have struggled trying to synthesize this material in order to present it in a some cohesive fashion.  But I realize that the cultural differences and resulting culture shock have left me mute.  I don’t know how to wrap my head around them, therefore I will simply list them here.

  1. No mention of Trayvon Martin.  In the week leading up to the closing arguments and verdict on the George Zimmerman/Trayvon Martin case, not one of the Florida residents discussed the case with us–even though the trial was showing 24/7  on the lobby monitors.  This case has been of particular interest over the past year with the Chicago group, and we’ve spent hours over lunches, breaks, etc. talking about racism, what constitutes justice, etc.  It has impacted our lives.  But even after the closing arguments were made, not a single word was mentioned of the case by any of my Florida colleagues.
  2. There is a bizarre combination of machismo and hyperfeminity in the S. Florida office.  The men’s interests were either ‘gay’ (focus on bodies, musicals, and trash talk gossip) or machismo (motorcycles, sea runners, muscles, etc.).  The women wore full make up, mini skirt suits raised up to there and cut down to there, and platform five inch heels: they hobbled awkwardly from meeting to meeting.  The Chicago group wanted to talk politics, reform, ecology, poverty, postcolonialism, consumerism,  philosophy, and religion.  The Chicago women wore slacks, flat shoes, minimal make up: and our feminist hackles were raised over women who hobbled themselves for fashion.
  3.  There was an utter lack of sensitivity to colonialist discourse.  Our boss was downplaying the possibility of any raises or additional perks this year, and said as a means of making her point:  “You know, the natives in third world countries are happy to get a t-shirt.  They don’t expect more than a t-shirt.  They get a t-shirt and think that’s pretty cool.  You need to think like those third world people.”  And later we listened to a presentation about ‘smart tribes’, creature/critter mentality, idea monkeys, and the need for dom/sub swapping (dominant/submissive swapping roles).  The entire Chicago team sat there with mouths agape.  One colleague from Columbia was jokingly referred to as ‘the Drug Lord’.  The Florida team laughed heartily: apparently this is an ongoing joke.
  4. TV: this ice breaker left me cold.  In one of the ice breaker exercises, we were asked to name what guilty pleasure TV show we watched.  The S. Florida team named various reality TV shows.  The Chicago team responded with confusion: “I don’t watch much besides the news and sports”; “I don’t own a TV”; “I have kids… I don’t have time for TV”; “I have a TV but I made my own rabbit ears and they don’t work very well…”; and “It has been years since I sat down and watched TV.”   To which one of our S. Florida colleagues replied, “If you don’t have TV, what do you watch?”  We were speechless. Finally one of the young women from the Chicago group said “I don’t watch anything. I do things–I go out, participate in community theater, I read.”
  5. Reading.  The comment about Chicagoans reading resulted in a certain form of defensiveness from the S. Florida group.  Our boss said “Folk here read. We have readers in our group. But then we go and watch the movie made about the book.”  And once again, the Chicago group just gaped.
  6. Guns.  For the evening entertainment, the S. Florida group discussed the possibility of going to a realistic police training firing range where you can load a video feed of the streets of your home town, and shoot at people. “It is SO cool!”  The Chicago team refused.
  7. Materialism. The focus on acquisition of goods was overwhelming. Waste was viewed as the ultimate luxury. Our boss bragged about having thrown a corporate party with a budget of half a million dollars. “We found this really cute candy store in Manhattan.  It was perfect. The CEO said “Make it happen” so we rented it for the event.  The owner was concerned about his goods, so the CEO just bought out the store to put the owner at ease.  Then we could eat all the candy we wanted.”   The Chicago group were once again nothing short of stunned at the opulence and waste, especially in light of the layoffs we’d been through and the intention with which we strive to not be consumers (wearing second hand clothes, recycling, reusing, etc.).

So I write all this to say that I’ve not experienced that kind of culture shock in a while.

But no… that’s not true.

I was down in Southern Illinois for the 4th of July and we attended the fireworks at the county airport.  We parked our little car on the grassy lot, and were quickly surrounded by large four-door over-sized pickup trucks: guys sitting in the back in lawn chairs, drinking beer, spitting tobacco, throwing fire crackers and smoke bombs off the tailgate, Toby Keith blaring offensive lyrics from ginormous speakers.  I felt in a foreign land.

And now I don’t know how to go on.   There is much disparity in these states we call ‘United”.

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This morning I brought my cab driver to tears…

"This is the story of a cab driver. Not of a white, American woman."

“This is the story of immigrant cab drivers.  Not of a white, American woman.”

My cab driver this morning was pretty quiet, until he asked me what route I wanted to take (about 10 minutes into the fare).  I told him “I don’t care… you guys know better than I do what the traffic and construction is like in the city.  Take whatever route you think is best.”  That somehow seemed to open us up for conversation.

He began asking me the usual: if I’d always lived in Chicago, why I moved here, etc.  I find these questions are often an inroad for these immigrant men to talk about their own lives, so I’m always happy to oblige.  I answer their questions and then turn the same questions back on them.  He mentioned he was from India, but had lived in the U.S. now almost 20 years.

“What do you do for a living, ma’am?” was the next question.  “I work in technology.  Educational technology.”  He nodded in acknowledgement, then remarked about the scarcity of jobs these days, and asked if I thought getting an education was worth it any more, with college tuition now so high, and income so uncertain.  I responded with my industry standard (as someone who works in a for-profit educational institution) “I think the youth are going to have to focus on professions instead of liberal arts.”  And then I paused, because I was feeling a bit dishonest. “Liberal arts are important, and give you a broader perspective on life.  But it is very hard to start out in such deep debt.  I don’t know.  To be honest, my heart says kids should definitely get an education, but my head knows it is very hard to pay for.”

He looked at me skeptically in the rear view mirror.  “Look,” I said, “You are talking to a woman who did doctoral work, but is working in a completely different field now just so she can pay her student loans.”  He seemed surprised.  “You have a doctorate in technology?!?!” he asked with more than a hint of incredulity.  No, I reassured him. I studied theology.

He stared straight ahead and said nothing more.  Then I noticed his shoulders began to shake. A hand reached up and he wiped his eyes.  Finally, he simply pulled over, apologizing the whole time.  And that’s when I realized he was laughing.

“You spent 20 years studying theology and you manage a technology group?!” he roared, cracking up.  “That is the best thing I’ve heard in a long time.  This is the story of immigrant cab drivers.  Not of a white American women.”

And I had to laugh too.

What a cab driver from Kashmir taught me about hockey…

Jun 8, 2013; Chicago, IL, USA; Chicago Blackhawks right wing Patrick Kane (88) celebrates with center Andrew Shaw (65) after scoring the game-winning goal during the second overtime in game five of the Western Conference

Jun 8, 2013; Chicago, IL, USA; Chicago Blackhawks right wing Patrick Kane (88) celebrates with center Andrew Shaw (65) after scoring the game-winning goal during the second overtime in game five of the Western Conference

I got stuck in traffic on Lake Shore Drive Tuesday night, the first night of the Stanley Cup finals between the Bruins and the Blackhawks.  My cabbie was visibly frustrated as time passed with little movement.  He counts on multiple fares each hour to meet the cost of renting the cab each day, let alone make a profit.  Sitting for over an hour in traffic doesn’t bode well for his income for the day.  I caught him watching me in the rear view mirror. He’d been pretty quiet thus far in the trip.

I smiled and told him to put me on the clock, instead of charging me by the mile.  He smiled REAL big and said “You understand taxi drivers, yes?” I laughed and said, “Well, I understand what it is like to be struggling to make a living wage.  And I want to be fair with your time.”

We chatted about the usual ‘stuff’ then, the ice apparently broken by reliving his financial anxiety.  We talked about places we’d lived, and about the city of Chicago.  I asked him if he was a hockey fan (seeing that night’s traffic was due to the first game of the Stanley Cup finals).  He shook his head no, but then said “Wait.  That’s not fair. Let me explain…”

“I do not care for the violence, ma’am.  I have seen too much violence in my life.  But then, it is not any more violent than any other sport, is it?  At any rate, it is not a sport I grew up with. But I must confess that I rejoiced when Patrick Kane made that goal last week.  That goal paid a million people.”

I looked at him quizzically.  He smiled. “You see, he scored that goal, and hotel workers, airline workers, cab drivers, restaurants… all of Chicago benefited.  That goal set in motion (like a trigger or a catalyst) a series of events which will ensure that we have plenty of work, and good income. For that goal, I thank Allah.”

And I smiled, pondering the thought that it takes more than a village: it takes a hockey goal.

First world problems…

A new found friend has taken up the mantle of victim advocate in Gender Based Violence (GBV) in the capital city of Port Moresby, Papua New Guinea.  She is wielding the weapons at her disposal against patriarchal traditions which are both native to her land and imposed from certain Western ideals.  As such, she is actively on the web setting up groups for discussion, message boards, etc. and is posting images of women who have suffered unimaginable brutality.  She’s emailed and discussed curriculum options for weekend seminars, and requested resources. She recently emailed me privately some photos: they are graphic and haunting–including fresh wounds from axes and bush knives, burns from hot irons, broken bones and bruises from beatings, amputations, and even images of a woman being burned to death and a beheading.

I am honored to be trusted with such images–honored and deeply humbled.

And traumatized.

Since receiving the photos I’ve not been able to sleep.  Days have passed and the images dog me, sneaking up when I least expect it. It isn’t that the level of violence is new to me: I witnessed ravages as such as a child growing up among the poor and prostitutes in the capital. I grew up not knowing that wounds weren’t normal–that amputations weren’t just a matter of course.  Rape was a real possibility (even if I’d gotten the logistics confused as a child).  I understood scars as women’s history written large on their bodies.    Yet as an adult, with feminist-educated eyes and a wealth of theological study behind me, the images sting anew: the status of women hasn’t changed much in 30 years.

And my initial response is silence.  I cannot bear the weight of these images alone, yet cannot share them–I don’t wish this sort of haunting upon anyone, especially those who for whom Western media has cushioned such blows (we don’t show dead bodies on TV or in our newspapers, they are censored out of our common news sources).  We witness domestic violence through movies–comforted that it is merely makeup we are viewing, and not real wounds.

I go talk to my therapist.  And I find I don’t care to introduce such atrocities to her psyche either.  I pour my heart out in frustration, but hold the pictures close to my proverbial chest.

I tell my best friend of them, and of the impossibility of sharing their burden.  He listens, pained at my frustration.  He allows me to hold them at a distance.  And finally, he offers to see them.  “I’m willing.”  And tears begin to flow freely.  And I consider it.

But I can’t help thinking back to my friend in PNG and the life-risking work she is doing on behalf of the women there.  How can I tell her that because of her pictures, I’ve been traumatized? That her emails have sent me to therapy?  That while she lives and breathes this atmosphere of violence, I spend $150 to talk to a therapist? That I fret because I’ve lost 3 nights of sleep? That I feel utterly inadequate and ridiculous?

Yet I live and work in this world: surrounded by high rises, wealth, and opulence.

Damn my first world problems and first world solutions. Damn them.

 

 

tears

On American progress….

My cab driver this morning was a friendly, talkative Nigerian man.  I asked him if he was going to vote tomorrow, and he frowned and shook his head: “I cannot because I won’t get my citizenship until next year.  I’m sorry to be missing this election because I believe it to be very important.  This country is so divided right now–a house against itself.”  I asked him if he had a favorite candidate, and he was quite vocal on which candidate he thought was most trust-worthy, who most clearly is in touch with the poor, and who won’t abuse his power.  He went on to express his anticipation of becoming a US citizen, and how excited he’d be to have the privilege to vote in 2016.  “I never really understood human advancement until I came to this country.  In my country, if there had been this much ideological conflict, there would be bodies everywhere.  Corruption is pervasive and death would reign.  Here, we argue and fight and then life goes on.”

I quieted as I listened to him speak.  I’ll admit that I believe I am lucky to be a citizen of this country, and in large part, what he says is true (at least for me, a white, middle-class woman).  But I get antsy and nervous when someone begins declaring this the greatest of all nations, particularly when that someone is from another land. I looked at his face in the rear view mirror and noted the scars running across his dark cheeks: a tribal ritual declaring his manhood.

I hesitated then finally offered this: “You are right: there are some places in the world where political differences end up in a blood bath. Guns run rampant, and disagreements are settled with weapons.  But here I think the violence is more insidious.  Here, we kill people through neglect by our trickle down theories.  We assume that markets will right themselves.  We are Darwinian in our handling of social problems–we watch the poor die slow deaths in food deserts: deaths of diabetes and cholesterol related illnesses.  We wring our hands in astonishment and murmur to ourselves about the respect for life as we watch folks on the south side kill each other in gun fights, gang fights, and drug deals.  Yet we don’t see how our latent racism contributes to the lack of self-respect and respect for others.  No sir… we don’t have politicians wielding armies or raising weapons over their heads, but we do have violence in our streets.  Violence that is too easy for white middle-class Americans to ignore.  And when we vote  so that an election only benefits a certain portion of the population, we are killing people slowly, in our own insidious way.”

He took a long look at me in the mirror and said “God knows you speak the truth, sister.”

Its a small world after all…

In a cab this morning, the driver told me that he’d never intended to be a cab driver and that really, he was a student. I was caught a bit off guard, and wondered what prompted this personal disclosure.  What are you studying? I asked. “I came from The Congo to Chicago to study Classical theology”. Huh, I said. I came from New Guinea to Chicago to study Postcolonial Theology.

We both had a good chuckle–to the point where he pulled the cab to the side of the road to wipe the tears from his eyes.

And I’ve made a friend.

Global litter…

I had an enlightening conversation this morning with  a Nigerian cab driver who talked about Nigeria prior to discovering its oil, and how oil corrupted his people and his homeland.  He spoke of the hopelessness of his generation and how “Nigerians now litter the world because we have no future in our homeland.”  He described how he’d promised himself that he’d only come to the U.S. for four years, then he would return home–but how much had changed at home in those four years, and how he realized that as much as he missed it, he could never make a life there for a family.  Many of his college mates have been assassinated for trying to evoke positive, moral change on behalf of their country’s poor.  And he expressed disgust at his own betrayal: earning a living dependant upon the very industry which ruined his nation.  He has now been in the U.S. (legitimately) for 34 years.  It was a gut wrenching, heart breaking conversation and tears rolled down his cheeks while he talked.  When I asked how things could change, he sucked air in through his teeth (in that Northern African way…) and said “I believe there is no hope for that land.  To go back and fight the system is certain death. Better to be littered across the globe than to go back.”

I exited the cab sobered, vowing to decrease my dependence upon oil.  But it sobered me in other ways: I was reminded of my own exodus from my native ecclesial land–and how very painful the denominational divorce was for me.  Much like my driver spoke, I’d begun to realize that there was no future for me there–but it never dulled the pain of separation from my ecclesial birth-family.  The nostalgia I’ve felt doesn’t outweigh the gravity of the spiritual danger it imposed–I’m better off having immigrated.  It was a death-dealing situation, and my newly adopted homeland (I immigrated 6 years ago) has been life-giving.

My story isn’t unique and is hardly singular.  Many of the colleagues with whom I went to seminary now minister in other denominations.  And many have cast aside all forms of religiosity in favor of a more benign ‘spirituality’.  We are ecclesial litter, to put it in my driver’s vernacular.  And while we have managed to thrive in other environs, there remains that twinge of homesickness.