Dan Beirne

Religion is no more responsible for my relationship with God than my kitchen table is responsible for my having a good meal.

The table brings the nutrients to my level, making it more accessible, both for me and for those with whom I might dine, but the food’s nutritional value is not contingent upon neither the perfection nor the flaws of my table.

If you enjoy a good meal, but are frustrated with the current wobbliness of your Table, might I suggest you take a step back and think about both your hunger and the food before you.

Tables can be frustrating yes, especially when we are particularly hungry, but if you are thinking of leaving the Table, please consider the food.  Consider the Chef.  Why starve because of an imperfect Table?  Neither the food nor the Chef are to blame, for we are the ones who have made our Tables, and we are the ones who make them wobble.

So, please, forgive the unstable tables, and move on.  It is time to eat.

In the end, it is always the food that brings us together.

Comfort deprives us of the adversity that forms us as a human being.

Gathering water from the same source, hunting and preparing food, depending upon the same sources of energy and life; these common needs create community.  In order to carry out these basic tasks it requires sometimes a monumental communal effort.  Sometimes doing a load of laundry down by the river involves up to 12 mothers coming together and chatting up a storm as they scrub away.  What we label from afar as “developing,” “third world,” or “poor,” is really a beautiful and harsh reality that necessitates communal living and breeds hospitality and collaboration.  It is a way of life that is more challenging and less comfortable, yes, but the inevitability of it brings together the people therein.

Yet, from the context of privilege,  it is difficult to grasp this element of the impoverished reality.   The white picket fence blocks the view to our neighbor’s yard.

In no other context are we so detached from the tasks of basic survival that would otherwise bring us together in a healthy mutual dependency.

Think of a well.  All of the people in the village come to it to draw water from it; they are brought together by their common need and the singular source of its satiation.  This changes, however, in a context in which you can afford to have water at the turn of a nozzle.  When you are well-off, the well is off.  You no longer draw sustenance from the same source as the rest of the community, and so are removed, in a very significant way, from the life of the village.

However, Community is possible with faucets.  I repeat, community is possible with faucets.  For, though our faucets and taps would convince us otherwise, we are in fact surrounded by wells, and we are filled with thirsts.

Public transportation, an awning during a sudden down poor, elevators, places of Worship, pauses in a conversation, moments of silence; these moments whisper shouts to our inner beings and swell with possibility.  That is why they are frequently so uncomfortable, because they threaten our independence in a way that is unnervingly vulnerable.  We feel the potential for connection, but our accustomedness to independence has left us feeling unprepared.  So, what do we do?  We look to the elevator doors in silence, pull out our cell phones when no one is calling, and clear our throats in discomfort because we know not what else to do.

pause

Our proximity to one another is not an inconvenience to be avoided, it is a resource to be embraced.

Please, embrace the few wells that remain.  Allow yourself to be brought to your neighbor, and celebrate the moments that make it possible.  It is difficult, to be sure, but at least you don’t have to carry your water back home to make it happen.

Enjoy the moments that unite us.  They are few and far between only as much as you let them be, and God is evident in them all.

See you at the well.

Do you know why a soap bubble is round?  A sphere is the most “relaxed” shape that it can take; the shape of least resistance.  No matter the shape of the wand from which it came, star, square, or even a triangle, once released the bubble will immediately wobble its way into a sphere.  This is the result of the air that fills it pushing out on all sides equally, causing it to take the form of a perfect, sparkling sphere.   For a bubble,  to do anything less would be unnatural.

Do you know why you have the character you have?  While you not may feel as “relaxed” as the bubble seems to be, we certainly do share one thing in common with the bubble: we are the result of Breath  moving within us.  However, despite its apparent lack of intelligence, the bubble is in better shape than we are.  The bubble does not resist what it is intended to become, and therefore the bubble is an example to us all.  The sooner we start taking lessons from the bubble on the benefits on not resisting, the sooner we’ll learn how to relax into who we are.

I wonder if we even know what that would look like, if we were to let ourselves go to the forces at move within us.  Imagine what that would feel like.  Imagine what that would look like.  Imagine the shape the world would wobble into, the instant we let go of the wands that seek to alter our form.

Paraphrase from The Little Prince:

A wild fox and a young prince with golden hair happen upon one another in the dessert, and they become friends.  The fox initiates the friendship by reflecting on the following:

“My life is monotonous.  I hunt chickens, and men hunt me.  All the chickens look alike, and all men look alike.  Needless to say, I am a little bored.  But, if you were to domesticate me, my life would be radiant…You see the wheat fields?  I do not eat bread.  For me, wheat is of no use, the wheat fields say nothing to me.  It is really sad!  But you have hair the color of gold, and if you were to domesticate me, it would be marvelous!  The wheat fields would remind me of your golden hair, and I would love the sound of the wind through their stalks…”

(Days later, the prince has domesticated the fox, and must be on his way.)

“Ah, I am going to cry!” said the fox.
“If you cry, it will be your fault,” said the little Prince, “I did not want to do you any harm, but you insisted that I domesticate you.”
“True.” said the fox.
“But, you are going to cry!” said the little Prince.
“So it is.” responded the fox.
“So? You’ve gained nothing.”
“Yes I have,” said the fox, “it is in the color of the wheat fields…”

§

I have recently returned home after two years of living as a missionary in El Salvador, Central America.  And now, saddened by some of the most difficult good-byes of my life, and uplifted by the opportunity to have grown so close, I look to the wheat fields in search of El Salvador.

I am home again, and while that wonderful truth brings me both comfort and relief, I cannot deny that I also feel somewhat removed.  Much like when I first arrived in El Salvador 2 years ago, I find myself searching for signs of the home I just left.  Actually managing to discover a home away from home is a profoundly satisfying experience, but after having done so in a land that was once entirely foreign, it feels strange to find myself doing the same in a land that is entirely known.   At times I feel like I have two homes, and other times I feel I have no home at all.

That is why I appreciate the wisdom of the fox, and his golden wheat fields.

I do have a home, and it is the same home I have always had.  Only, I am coming to see it with greater depth and appreciation than ever before.  With every encounter in a new culture, every laugh shared in a foreign place, and every wound tended to by unfamiliar hands, one gains glimpses deeper and deeper into the vastness of what we call home.   These special experiences illuminate certain unexpected elements of our surroundings, bringing them into our realm of attention and sentiments, like the wheat fields for the Fox.  What was formerly an insignificant part of our surroundings, has now come to mean the world to us.

Perhaps the most curious thing about this transition back home is that I find myself looking for traces of my Salvadoran home here, in Chicago, while not to long ago I was doing the same thing upon my arrival in El Salvador.

In the midst of this odd reversal, I can’t help but empathize with the Fox, and give thanks to God for the vastness of home.  For, in both the sugar cane mountains and the corn field planes I have been blessed to find hope in the fields around me.  “I would love the sound of the wind through their stalks,” he said.  It fills me with the undeniable sensation of home.

How to be quiet

I walked in the clouds yesterday.  Literally.  I was on a camping trip with a youth group, and we climbed to the top of a mountain, and it happened to be among the clouds.  I could not help but put on my “metaphorical thinking cap” and analyze what this mountain top experience might mean for me.  I thought.  I prayed.  I tried to find the words in Spanish to explain to my new buddies what I was feeling while this white wind whipped through my dreads.  It was really quite exciting.  Every once and a while, I would listen too.  I would listen to the wind.  It spoke to me. It told me, very clearly, “Shut up!”

As I stood up there, trying to be metaphorical, it was as if the wind were saying, “I’m just wind!  Stop thinking so much, and shut up!”  I was perched on a rocky ledge overlooking Honduras (at least, I was told it overlooked Honduras-I couldn’t see it…I was in a cloud), swallowed up by the atmosphere, wind screaming all around me, and my mind was searching vigorously for whatever it is minds search for.  But, I could not concentrate.  This blasted wind was interrupting my thought process.  I think I even tried to drown out the noise around me in order to think more about the noise around me. It was ridiculous, and that’s why the wind was telling me to shut up.

It dawned on me then, as my thoughts were failing me, that some moments are not intended for photographs, poems, or short stories.  Some moments speak for themselves.  Now, you may be saying to your self, “Hah! What a fool he is.  That’s like saying ‘I hate cake’ when you’ve got a mouth full of it.”  And, if you are saying that, you do have a good point, I know this did end up in a short story, but hear me out.  I tried to pray while I was up there, and the wind just got louder.  I tried to think and the clouds literally shoved me aside.  I was getting my butt kicked up there.  Nature wanted nothing to do with my mind’s ramblings; it wanted me to be quiet.  So, I smiled.  There was nothing that I needed to do to that scenario to sift out its wonder.  Nothing needed to be added, interpreted, thought out, or even realized.  Any time I tried to do something of that sort, the clouds would smack me up side the head and tell me to shut up anyways, so I finally submitted to the orders of the atmosphere.  I watched the sky trace the contours of the land, I listened to the wind, and finally, I shut up.  The silence was beautiful.

§

Sometimes I exert so much energy thinking on the things around me that I deny them the opportunity to speak for themselves.  I think that is why at times, God humbles us, people surprise us, and the wind tells us to shut our traps.

I had another silencing experience yesterday, but it was closer to sea level, and this time, the wind moved through my friend.  I sat with a coworker and a teenager from the youth group, and listened as they accounted their struggles through the war.  My coworker, one of the youth group leaders, told me how we had done all that he wanted to do in this campout.  We had gotten here safely, hiked the mountain, had a campfire…check, check, check, all was done.  He went on to say, however, that all of this was sh**.  “I felt that I accomplished the goal of this trip before we even did any of this sh**,” he said as his words began to slow with sincerity, “when I walked for over an hour to pick up Heraldo here, so that he could come camping; that is what this trip is all about.”

Now, walking a few kilometers to walk a teenager to a camp sight may not sound like much, but consider the story of the teenager.  About 12 years ago, during the war, Heraldo had been beaten and left to die.  His mother and older brother were killed, and he was meant to die as well.  “Gracias a Dios,” (“Thanks be to God,” as they so faithfully say here), “I was able to escape and get some medical attention.”  He continued, “I believe that if God saved me, He has something for me to do.”  Heraldo used to be in a gang, a terribly dangerous thing to be involved in in El Salvador, #1 in the world for gang violence.  But now he is attending school, and comes to the youth group at his church.  He had a test yesterday morning, and was not able to make it to the church on time to leave for the campout.  Rayo, my coworker, happily walked a few kilometers to meet him, allowing him to take his test, and still attend the camping trip.  They walked here together, and later enjoyed the chill of the clouds, and the warmth of the campfire with the rest of us.  That is what Rayo was talking about.  That is the type of thing this trip is to fulfill; everything else is sh** in comparison.

While the two of them accounted the reality of these struggles, I could not help but feel…small.  I felt like a spectator, an outsider, a foreigner.  Our conversation was headed into territory that I hadn’t been to before, and I timidly followed my friends into this rocky topic.  It was so intense, so real, that when the conversation ended, it felt as if a bubble had been burst, the moment had passed, and time had resumed its normal course.  It was a volatile atmosphere, and for a few moments, I was swallowed up in it.

A few minutes after time had carried on, Rayo pulled me aside and looked me dead in the eye.  He said, with a sternness that startled me, “We have just shared with you something that is very much…ours. You are privileged to have heard it, and what we just had there in that moment, you may never have again.”  I felt like I had just treaded on holy ground.  In fact, that is exactly what had happened.  All I could say was, “Yes.  Thank you, Rayo, for sharing this with me.”

I spent the next few minutes, or hour, staring into the fire.  My friends had already stepped back into the moment as it was, laughing and playing the guitar; I was not ready.  I could not do it.  I found myself without words and still feeling rather small.  I have been in many situations where I listened to someone going through a difficult time, but never has it been in Spanish, and never has it been rooted in the gruesome irrationality of war.  I felt like I had nothing to offer.  I wanted to share, timidly, that I too have suffered, but that was not my time, nor was it my place.  I was silenced.  All I could do was listen.  So, that is what I did.

That was a powerful moment, and my instincts to speak and query were definitely curbed.  I learned about how to listen; about how to be quiet.  I learned how to take in those things that need to speak for themselves.  It startled me, yes, but it was just loud enough to shut me up, and just gentle enough to keep me from blowing over the edge. There is now a sense of solidarity between these two friends of mine and me because of what we shared in that moment.  It is not an overwhelming sensation, and I have no metaphors to back it up; no parallels to draw.  I just know that it is there, and it asks me only to listen.   So, I shall do it the justice of doing just that, and stop here.

Hut envy and comfy-place-ency

When I was in Namibia, our study abroad program included three different home-stays, and the intensity of cultural immersion heightened with each one.  This process of cultural steeping ended in a third and final home-stay in the northern tribal lands of Namibia.  It was rural and it was intense.  We had taken language classes in their language, Oshiwambo, to be able to communicate with our new families, and we lived with them for 9 days.  We students were both nervous and excited about this climactic cultural experience, and in light of this mix of emotions, some of us experienced an interesting phenomenon.  Our community coordinator called it “Hut envy,” and it is something that I am rediscovering here in El Salvador.

“Hut envy” describes the jealousy that some group members had for those who were in far more intense situations.  While the scenario was rural for all of us, some were housed in mansions, and some in corrugated steel homes, and even more in actual mud and hay huts.  Having come so far in their experience and in their travels, the ones in the mansions were actually disappointed; they wanted a hut.  They wanted the full experience.  While I was one of the fortunate ones in Namibia, content with my home and huts, the tables seem to have turned with my living situation in El Salvador.  I am by no means living in a hut.  In fact, by many standards, my home could be considered a mansion.  I was not looking to be in a mansion, and now on a much larger and less temporal scale, “hut envy” has caught up to me.

This had not occurred to me really until I had a recent conversation with a friend of mine who is in the Peace Corps here in El Salvador.  She is living in a rural scenario in the country, and she is with her community nearly 24/7.  She expressed discontent because she was living in such a nice place in her community.  She felt like she should be living in closer solidarity with the people she works with.  I scoffed, as I thought about the four bedroom house I was living in alone in the city, far from those whom I work with, “How do you think I feel, man!?”  The conversation abruptly ended.   I suppose I won, but I did not enjoy the victory.

How odd it is to turn ones nose up at quality in pursuit of something less.  I suppose that is what solidarity does to a person.  It does not makes sense, to be sure, but putting oneself in the shoes of another can only be so metaphorical before it requires one to untie their shoes.  Solidarity is not just a nice idea, and I do not intend to spend two years in this country just talking about it.

Now, with that said, another question arises.  I am not about to move out of my house and into the heart of my community.  For, my community is the city, and the heart of this bustling city is downtown, and downtown San Salvador is one of the most dangerous places in the Americas.  It would not only be risky to carry out such a gesture of solidarity, but it would also appear downright irresponsible.  Again, this may just be what solidarity does to a person, but this begs the question, where is the line to be drawn?  When does solidarity morph into irresponsibility, and safety and security into complacency?

While I am admittedly at a loss for an answer to that question, I do know that feeling guilty about my current living situation will yield nothing of worth.  A friend of mine who has been here in El Salvador for around 5 years (in a very nice house, by the way) shared with me his thoughts on this subject.  I told him that someone had been coming to my door asking for money, and I had helped him out, but I felt…off about it.  My friend smiled as he appeared to recall his own experiences with this type of situation.  He said, “Now if you’re feeling guilty just cause you’ve got a nice place and he doesn’t…that is not using God’s gifts to serve in His kingdom.”  It was an unexpectedly God-oriented answer, but I think he is right.  Feeling guilty about what God has given me does nothing but smother the radiance of gratitude, and in turn, extinguish the generosity that would be its yield.

In light of this unexpected lesson, I am moved to consider what exactly I am doing with God’s gifts, and whether or not that has anything to do with His kingdom.  This brings “hut envy” to mind again.  When it comes down to it, “hut envy” is a superficial issue; jealousy based on the physical aspects of one’s living situation.  What was really at the heart of those home-stay experiences for all of us was not the material with which our houses were made, but rather the character of the families with which we stayed.  It was a matter of community, family, and God, and that is something that stands true at home in the States, here in El Salvador, and every where else in the world.  And, when I think of that, it puts in perspective the ridiculousness of hut envy and its equally ludicrous counterpart, “mansion guilt.”  It frees me from their unproductive binds, and allows me to do something more with what I’ve got before me.

It is certainly not an easy balance, but when it is achieved, we neither waste what has been given us, nor neglect the potential for these things to serve others.  It frees up God’s gifts to be used for God’s kingdom, and makes a wonderful living out of any hut or mansion.

Foreign Identity

2/27/09

San Salvador, El Salvador:

I read something once that I have come to find quite accurate in my life here in El Salvador,

There is nothing that makes you feel more like a native of your own country, than going to live somewhere where no one else is.

–Bill Bryson

This paraphrased quote really speaks a lot of truth to the sense of identity one develops as they form a life outside of the nation they call home.  It is a heightening of the senses, in a way, as one becomes more aware of the things that make them distinctly who they are.  There are many elements of American life, of my life at home, that are missing here.  Yet, the moment I catch a glimpse, a taste, or even a scent of something uniquely home, this perhaps formerly common element of life at home becomes a powerful catalyst to my being made aware of exactly who I am, and where I come from.  This “Foreign Identity,” as I’ve come to call it, is the irony behind the comfort I feel in always being at your side, though in truth, I am so many miles away.

I do believe, however, that this ironic phenomenon expands beyond mere patriotism, and identity with one’s country.  For, while I do tend to perk up a bit more than I used to at the rare sight of the American flag, and I certainly enjoy the occasional taste of a good ol’ American style burger, this growing sense of identity with home that I feel is not limited to things that are just found within the Chicago suburbs, or the United States.  In fact, I have felt things that have made me feel at home that would be completely out of place in Naperville, Illinois, but it is still the same sense of warm recognition that takes place.  For, when I hear a Salvadoran orphan sing a song, or walk into my kitchen at home and smell my mom’s cooking, the sensation is almost one in the same. It feels like home, because it feels like Love.

This is not to say that any of these new experiences will ever succeed in replacing or making up for the things I miss from home.  Rather, I am simply suggesting that the comforts we relish from home are comforting because they are derived from a sense of safety, security, and love that is just as sought after and appealing in our own homes as they are in the homes of those in the opposite hemisphere.  And, in the rich diversity of our planet, this common love finds an equally diverse means of expression, making itself known in a way that the people of every unique context may access, and understand.  Just as “Te amo” means “I love you” in Spanish just as much as it does in English, the same is true for our innately human actions; we speak the same messages with the vocabulary of our context.

This is where my mother’s cooking comes in.  While I reiterate that nothing here will ever take the place of my home, nor its unique characteristics, I have begun to recognize how this part of the world speaks the very same messages that my home first taught me.  My mom’s chicken and dumplings may taste nothing like the tortillas and beans that my friends offer me here, but home and love are in the cooking nonetheless.  That is why I can honestly say that I feel close to you, despite the miles between us.  For, along with the language barrier and other obstacles, the illusion of difference has melted away to reveal a humanity and fellowship that has God written all over it.  And, when I feel this, when I catch even a glimpse of such refreshing familiarity, I can not help but smile and rejoice, finding myself in the midst of a homely embrace that I thought I left behind more than a year ago.  It is truly beautiful, and I thank God for such Divine Craftiness, and I thank all of you for showing me how it works.

God bless you my friends, I look forward to running into you again.

Her little tapping foot.

I am not sure at what point it was that I was overtaken by her, but I think it was sometime around when I saw her little tapping foot.  When I first saw her, she was sitting on the ground, sharing a song she knew in English with her new English speaking friends.  She sung like an angel, and pigtails were her halo.  Later, she led a musical group of eight other youth, all older than she, and despite her seven years, she sang with a boldness and grace that captivated me.  Confidence beamed from every aspect of her posture.  Her back was arched, and her left arm hung still at her side, and her right hand held the microphone with the steadiness of Liberty herself.  Then, I noticed her foot.  It was tapping to the beat.  No more than a size four, and it drove the rhythm of this entire experience.  I was taken aback, and much to my surprise, no more than ten minutes into setting foot in this place, tears rose to my eyes.

They were not tears of sadness.

In nearly an instant, this little angel, Rosa, reminded of something that I had learned in Namibia.  She reminded me that poverty is merely a word.  It is a word that describes a financial situation, a condition of living, but it does nothing to describe the people found there within.  Poverty is what you see in statistics and uncomfortable commercials showing you images of starvation.  It is something that people live, something that people suffer, but it is not something that people are.  It is a sight to which our initial response can only be, “How terrible.”  But, when in and among the life and company of those who suffer from poverty, and when the physical conditions are no longer allowed to define their state of being, poverty is the last thing that is felt.  Life abounds.  Hope, and faith and spirit radiate, and it is all a spectacle to which one’s initial response can only be, “How wonderful.  How truly wonderful.”

For, when you meet a poor individual in their home, and eat the food they have to offer, and sip drink they have to provide, when you see the resilience and faith with which they and there family survive, and you look into their eyes and see a smile, you will think twice the next time you refer to them as “poor.”

That is why I cried when I saw Rosa’s little tapping foot.  She sang like an angel and smiled afterward, as if the whole world were not saying that her situation was terrible.  She is poor, without a home, and possibly without parents, but she is in no way whatsoever without hope.  I was so happy for her, so proud of her for tapping her foot and singing, because in doing so she was not letting the noise of the world get to her.  She had no idea how wonderfully strong she was being.  Each little pat of her untied shoe drowned out a world of noise and overbearing clamor.  She was bold, and afterward, she sat on my lap without even asking.  I love that girl.

-§-

Love is better than charity for the same reason that breathing is better than life support; charity and life support can get the job done, but in the end there is no substitute for true love and a deep breath.  I say this because charity as we see it today has been deprived of its roots.  In the true nature of the word, charity is a beautiful concept, no different from that of love,[1] but in our modern practice she is too often limited to a dollar amount and passing gestures of good will.  Sometimes, we are even charitable just because we feel bad about another person’s situation.  We do it to feel better.  That does no justice to Charity’s true character.   When truly allowed to take root in one’s heart, and yield its fruit, it becomes very evident that charity has nothing at all to do with feeling bad.  Rather, it has everything to do with feeling the goodness of life, and finding love to be the most natural and satisfying response.

The truth is, no one ever said that charity or compassion meant feeling bad for someone.  I would, in fact, argue the opposite.  I think that real charity comes about when we feel good for someone.  The Hebrew word for compassion, for example, literally means to “have a womb” for someone.[2] We feel for one another as if all have been born of our own bodies.  We just need to open ourselves up to the opportunity to feel so deeply.  That is when charity really comes into play.  When you laugh with someone, play with their child, or eat from the same plate, there is a connection established that implies emotion and investment.  These are the fodder of love, and when established, one has opened themselves up to truly feel good for another.  And, once this goodness is inside, one cannot help but do something charitable in response.  It is in this drive, this charitable inertia, that Charity is done justice, and her true character is revealed.  This is the charity that brings life.

This is not to say that monthly donations, a quarter in a beggar’s cup, or random acts of kindness are to be frowned upon, but rather that there can be so much more life behind these actions.  That is what Rosa reminded me of.  I’ve done many things just because I would have felt bad if I didn’t, but in her boldness, Rosa showed me that that is not what it is all about.  It is about feeling good.  It is about feeling love.

As I played with Rosa later that day, I spun her on the swing in back, and we made jokes about throwing up after spinning to much.  We laughed and played, and enjoyed the moment.  Never once did I feel bad.  Never once did I look at her and say to myself, “How terrible.”  On the contrary, in that short bit of time that I spent with her, she seemed to brighten up a bit, and so did I.  It felt great, and I plan on going back for more.

I think that is how charity is meant to work.  We take a chance at loving one another, come to see how wonderful it is, and from that point on, neither of us can keep from doing it all over again.  Like a catchy melody with a rhythmic beat, it sticks with you.  And, if you give yourself to it enough, you might not be able to keep your foot from tapping.

It’s a beautiful thing, really.  “Truly wonderful,” I’d even say.

---

[1] In the popular 1^st Corinthians 13:13 verse, “So now, faith, hope, and love abide…” “love” is sometimes translated as “charity.”  They seem to be interchangeable.

[2] Sorry to be “that guy” that breaks out the Biblical languages, but come on…it fits.

Right angles.

In a psychology class I had one time, I remember the professor teaching us about the “carpentered society” that we all live in.  A carpentered society is the architectural context in which almost all edges and structures are geometrically sound.  It is all right angles and straight lines, parallels and equilibrium.  If anything is off it is either an attempt at modern art, or foreign to this frame of mind.

This is an interesting thing in and of itself, but there is even more to it.  If we have grown up in such a context, modern and angled at 90°, then our eyes and our brain are accustomed to taking in the world that way.  We not only seek the right angles and the balance that frame our concepts of normality, but at times we are even unable to process anything else.

The professor continued in his lecture by asking for a volunteer out of the 90 something students.  The elected volunteer walked to the front of the lecture hall with a hesitant smirk on his face, and the professor instructed him to stand where he was and not to move.  They were about 20 feet away from one another.  They faced each other, and the professor told the student, “I am going to hold something out in front of me, and I want you to describe it to me.”

“Ok,” said the student.  Professor held up a circular disk, a little smaller than a CD.

The student said, “It’s a circle.”

“And, may you describe the circle?”

“It’s grey.”

“Thank you.  Now, please turn around.”

Then, with the student’s back turned, and the rest of the class looking on, the professor merely rotated his wrist slightly, turning the circular disc in his hand a quarter turn.  Then he asked the volunteer to turn around and face him again.

“What do you see now?”

“Another disc.”

“And…?”

“It is white, with black stripes.”

“Thank you, you may be seated.”

Now, the rest of the class could not see the disc clearly, but we were certain that it was the same one as before, and we were surprised by the student’s varying descriptions.  The professor, elated by his successful demonstration, went on to explain that our visual processors are accustomed to picking up horizontal, vertical, perpendicular, and parallel information.  If it is on a fine scale, like this disc from a distance, our brain can actually blur any reality that is not presented in a way that it is accustomed to.  When the disc was held at its original angle, the lines were slightly diagonal, but appeared to be a light grey to the student.  His brain did not pick up on the lines because their off-kilter position appeared foreign and therefore un-registered.  It is similar to the effect that pointillism has from a distance; you no longer see individual dots, but an entire masterpiece.  When the disc was rotated slightly, bringing the lines in to a vertical or horizontal position, the student’s brain recognized it, and he was able to correctly identify the disc as striped.  He was no longer blinded by his carpentered perspective.

-§-

If our brains are capable of blinding us on account of a few degrees’ rotation, imagine how much more our perspectives of love and God are inhibited with our Hollywood angles and religious lines.

The only reality that contains the pleasantries of right angles and architectural perfection is the one that we’ve created for our selves, and it is but a fraction of reality as it truly is.  In order to experience life, love and God in all its fullness and wonder, we need not to look between the lines, or even outside of the box.  Rather, we must stop thinking in lines and boxes all together.  For, to do so is to open ourselves up to an experience and vision that would have otherwise been foreign and un-registered.  To do so is to allow ourselves to see.

These carpentered perspectives are important to take into account because everyone has their own idea and vision of which angle is truly right, and to assume all others to be wrong is not only limiting, but also horribly divisive.  What I see as right could be seen as obtuse to the man to my left, and though the point of focus remains the same, the difference can separate us.  Acknowledging the validity of what we cannot see salvages our unity, and does justice those things too great for our field of vision.

So, now I ask you, stand where you are and tell me, What do you see?  And, now?

Translating

I think I might be reaching the point in this experience in which the good has begun to outweigh the bad sufficiently enough that my initial response to someone’s “So, how’s it going down there?” is actually more positive than negative.  This is not to say that my experience up to this point has been bad, it has just been very challenging, and I have been having trouble recalling the original ambitions that brought me here.  Recently, however, these ambitions are making their way back into my consciousness.  I am starting to feel why I’m here.  I had felt from the start that there was something about this experience that seemed…right, but until recently this had only been a conviction; a feeling.  And now, it is turning into a reality.

I did not have any grand revelation, nor did I hear some booming voice reassuring my being here, but I did get to hold a little girl named Eva in my arms.  I did get to play soccer (and lose) with a bunch of kids in a dusty field.  I ate with a large family, and I had the fantastic experience of not falling asleep to the cacophonic[1] lullaby of a bunch of nocturnal roosters.  This, and so much more, was all part of the experience of the community I spent some time in, and I was thrilled to partake in it.  I got out from behind a desk and went into people’s lives, and now, I feel it.  I feel why I’m here, and I am reminded of why I came.

As if this weren’t enough, I also had the unique experience of translating the experiences of the seven other individuals that visited these same communities.  This was an enormously challenging and draining task, given the quantity of words and the intensity of the communication, but it was so very rewarding.  The people that were visiting these communities have a history with the people that live there.  For years they have helped the children here go to school, and have supported agricultural projects, so that they have enough food for each year.  These humble seven had done the majority of this work from their homes in the states, and they had now come to visit them.  They came to see their faces and shake their hands, and I got to help this beautiful interaction take place.  It was wonderful, and I was honored.

I got to translate things like, “Thank you so much for the help that you provide, for caring enough about us that you would come from so far away just to be with us.  Thank you for sharing in our reality.”  And, from the other perspective, “We hear your challenges, and we understand that you do not have the means to bring clean water to your community…please listen to how we are going to help you get what you need.”  Such simple words carried the profound messages of life, sustainability, and love.  In such a short time, these people had intermingled their realities, and became closer in their solidarity, and I was caught in the middle of it all.

Tired, and on mental overload, I was a bit worn from so many translations, but I could not help but undergo a translation of my own.  I would call it a transformation if it was more fitting, but it really was more of a translation.  For, nothing really changed so much as it just became more clear.  I had felt detached from my aspirations and ambitions because I had been away from the types of situations that usually stir them about.  This experience changed that.  I not only got to experience the joys of cross-cultural community on my own, but I got to help others do the same.  I suddenly found myself in a position that helped other people partake in the very type of scenarios that have changed my life and taught me love.  My fatigue, doubt, and frustration were all translated into a sense of investment and worth that suddenly made sense.  I understand now.  I am an instrument that will help others to take part in the same diverse symphony of fellowship that has moved me so much over the years.  I am here to help people help people, and to see the beauty that unfolds.  I felt like I was in a good place.  I feel that I am in a good place.

Perhaps the most comforting of all these notions is the fact that the love and community that I am discovering here is no different from that which I fell in love with at home.  I learned to love from those back at home, and now I’m learning the same from these people, and we’re all coming into it together.  It is beautiful, and it has God written all over it.

---

[1] Thanks for the word, Padre.