A Good Rebuke from a Good Friend

(Ben´s response to what I wrote about bad Bible interpretation. It speaks very well for itself)

Since I’m supposedly a theologian extraordinaire and I’ve already talked with the author about most of this, I offer some counterpoint: One must remember and be aware of the fact the great strength and great weakness of our Anabaptist heritage is our literal interpretation of Scripture. This has led at times to prophetic portraits of Christian ethics and community, and has at other times created really bad stuff which borders on cultic esotericism. We can at least laud our charismatic young sister for believing in the authority of the Scripture, even if she doesn’t possess sufficient hermeneutic principles to avoid bordering on heresy. (Although, in saying that, I also have to laud the preacher at the cult who continually repeated that everything he said was based on Scripture.)

One must also remember that this charismatic young woman has a strange polarization of Christian witnesses influencing her hermeneutics: mainly a legalistic authoritarian tradition and a Pentecostal-esque fervor which is almost inevitable in South American evangelical Protestantism. Does that excuse bad teaching? Not exactly, but it’s important to remember that that neither she nor her mentors were in any moment knowingly leading others astray through faulty and wrong Bible teaching. They were doing the best they could with the best that they had, which is pretty valuable in the ethics of the Kingdom.

Allow me to clarify something more: the principles which this sister was using bad Biblical exposition to teach were very important points which the group needed to hear. She used a great deal of discretion to guide the group into greater intentionality in worship; most of things she purported make a lot of sense when compared, for example, with 1 Corinthians 14. Obviously proper ends require proper means, but I was greatly comforted by the fact that her message was pertinent and timely in addressing the situation of praise and worship team.What I would like to highlight is that “orthodoxy” (even just the word) rings pretty clangily without a thoroughly established context of love. Good doctrine is essential; but good doctrine is pointless without love. Of course I’m quick to admit that without a good doctrinal base, love becomes perverted and even impossible. But if the chief end of man to love God and enjoy him forever, orthodoxy can do no more than provide the necessary direction for that love.

Orthodoxy without love does not create orthopraxy. Quite contrarily, it creates the vilest of character qualities, the subtleties of which C.S. Lewis is so good at describing in many of his works. So I am willing to suggest that Jason’s equation may be a bit wrong. I’ve even seen that bad doctrine is often transformed by a genuine love for God into pretty good practice. I think the promise about the Holy Ghost teaching us what we need to know really holds true, and that through her deep devotion to the One and True God of Scriptures, our charismatic young worship leader is being led by the Counselor into the whole Truth. Of course, that Spirit-leading will almost necessarily involve me and other Biblicist brothers and sisters who are willing to humbly speak the truth in love. But thankfully, even if we’re too concerned for orthodoxy that we’re impeded in loving our sister, the Spirit is capable of innumerable other means, and will keep the Church, his body of believers, strangely saintly.

Pay a Visit

If you’re in Medina today, you might stop in and pay a visit to my mom. She’s in the hospital there, in room 308 bed 1, and should be at least through the late afternoon (of today, Friday, May 30). She might be a little grouchy with you, but don’t worry about it— you’d probably be grouchy, too, if you’d been through all she’s been through the past year and especially the past week. Even if you haven’t talked to her in a year, though, now would be a good time. Pay a visit, bring some flowers, show some love, pray with her. She needs good affection from folks. Give her a hug and a smile, and if she still isn’t happy, tell her I sent you and the hug is from me.

Lessons Learned from Bad Bible Interpretation

Sorry about this one. It was definately written without much love, and even without confronting the person who misused the Bible. I stand by what I said- bad Bible interpretation is bad Bible interpretation and heresy is heresy, but I apologize for the spirit in which I said it. Next time I´ll be more direct and deal with things more openly.

Very humbly with all apoplogies,
Jason

Snow, Soccer, and Hell

Ice skates. Sled. Skis. Snowboard. This past week I had the privilege of teaching some 25 Paraguayan third graders English words for snow sports. Why any English textbook would include such a flurry of arbitrary words I have not the slightest idea; but behold, such has been my struggle with destiny these past few days. The situation wasn’t helped, of course, by the fact that half the words about snowy things weren’t even mentioned in my Spanish-English dictionary. Trying to find the correct translation, therefore, took the form of me performing complex charades as to how these instruments of winter frivolity practically function along with a base commentary of broken, utterly confusing Spanish. I must have looked like I lost my mind pretending to snowboard and speaking in Spanish tongues to so many kids who have never even seen a snowflake.

Yes, there are certain cultural and linguistic boundaries that just cannot be crossed; gaps of understanding that utterly prohibit the communication of ideas. And it’s not just a problem with Paraguayans, either. Coming from a part of the world where soccer gets the media’s attention only every four years with the World Cup, I haven’t the slightest clue about futbol culture or how so many people can waste so much time being so wrapped up in it. When my students ask me which soccer team I prefer (in Paraguay, Cerro o Olympia? In Argentina, Boca o River?), I respond with a shrug of the shoulders and say I don’t really care or know about it at all. Cultural boundaries there certainly are. Entirely different worldviews persist. A hopeless lack of communication remains.

It all reminds me of the difference in thinking between Christians, those who are being transformed by lives of faith in God through Jesus Christ, and mundanos, those who are staying in the world for the sake of living for the pleasures of the world. The scriptures in so many places describe how there is a complete chasm between the thinking of a Christian guided by the Holy Spirit and the thinking of a non-Christian guided by the flesh. “What partnership has righteousness with lawlessness? Or what fellowship has light with darkness? What accord has Christ with Belial? Or what portion does a believer share with an unbeliever?” “For at one time you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Walk as children of light.” The difference, really, is light and dark, day and night, Heaven and Hell. One cannot even be touched by the other; there is not even the slightest point of connection. Just as my students haven’t the smallest idea about snow and how snow-things work and I haven’t the slightest idea or desire to know about the many complexities of soccer, as believers we too must strive to maintain a purity of light in our relationship with God so that we may not know or even want to know about the darkness that can swallow us up.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he wasn’t worth a thing. A thirty year-old drug addict and dealer living five houses down, he only left home at night to do his dirty business and to play his dirty games. During the day he had little touch with the outside world; so little that, after hearing of his death, his own nephew went to school and played the afternoon as if nothing had happened. No, no one was surprised it happened.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he smoked pot, inhaled cocaine, and even burnt crack. After a while, his drug addiction took the best years of his life and all of his money, leading him to petty thievery of cell phones, fancy shoes, and of more serious breaking into homes for blenders, televisions, and jewelry. I heard it said that he once even stole a camera from a pastor to pay for his ravenous addictions. Stealing from a pastor? No, he definitely wasn’t worth a thing.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he left behind a ten-year old son, although no one knew about the boy or his mother. His own sister said she had no idea where the pair lived, but she did know for sure that her family hadn’t contacted either of them about his death. Not that they would have cared about it anyways; after all, the two never received a penny of support from his deadbeat days. Now that he’s gone, nothing will really change for them.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he was murdered in a nearby city around three a.m in the morning: shot five times, three in the head and two in the chest. It was a quick, easy, and efficient job right next to a popular soccer field, in a narrow passageway where there wasn’t much room to argue. People whispered that it was done to finish off a business transaction turned bad, a sort of life payment in the place of some missing cash. They put a doily over his forehead to cover the wound and cotton balls in his nose so the fluids wouldn’t leak out. It was all a very practical matter.

But oh, how she cried.

They said he went to the morgue early in the morning and finally came home in a hearse at three o’clock in the afternoon. His messed-up friends came by to visit him later on in the evening for one last time, not even knowing if this house was the right one. He’s the brown one, they said. Is that his funeral there? Yeah, I’m pretty certain that’s him inside.

But oh, how she cried.

They said that when she heard the news she went crazy, startling the neighborhood out of its siesta with her screaming and wailing. Five hours later she was the chief mourner and most pitiable of all seated around the coffin. Although considerably comforted by so many little pink pills, she still cried out at regular intervals, “Oh, my only son, my only son. My beloved son. God, why have you abandoned me?”

But oh, how she cried. My, how his momma cried.

Mother´s Day

This Wednesday Paraguay will recognize Mother’s Day. Why this country doesn’t celebrate on Sunday when everyone has a day off like in the United States I cannot imagine, but the fact remains that moms all across the country here will be honored on Wednesday and not on Sunday. This didn’t stop the church, though, from celebrating Mother’s Day yesterday when every healthy and sane mother and mother-county remembered the holiday. Pastor Pedro preached a sermon on the importance and celebration of mothers, but on families more generally because so many youth from the neighborhood and school have mothers who have left the home or are away in other countries. Generally speaking, the Paraguayan family is a disaster these days with one or both parents deserting or working in other cities and the children left to fend for themselves. Thus, like some cruel politically-correct joke, the church and school both celebrate “family day” out of recognition that our families come in all sorts, shapes, and sizes because of human sin and relational brokenness.

The reality of their political correctness, though, hits close to home for many and for that reason their celebration of “family day” instead of Mother’s Day really is a mercy for the church and neighborhood rather than a concession to progressive culture. On both Saturday night and Sunday morning, the pastors brought to light that many Paraguayans, even some from the church, are left without any parents or relatives at all. For that reason, on both days they preached the necessity and importance of being a part of the Family of God, that kinfolk of faith united in one Father through Jesus Christ. .Thus, they said, when we become believers we have brothers and sisters, mothers and fathers, and all manner of other relationships within the church. For a couple youth in the church who really have no one looking after them except the church, the message rang especially true. Deserted or abused by their parents, they know and depend full-well on the spiritual family of God for so much of their physical, emotional, spiritual, and even financial needs.

To celebrate Mother’s Day, my own Paraguayan spiritual son/brother Christian and I went to go visit his biological family on the other side of Asuncion. Needless to say, it wasn’t a good part of town. I was a very terrified white and overdressed American with bulging khaki pockets as we walked through the back alley ways to the place where his grandmother had raised a dozen children. When we finally arrived the house, I was pleasantly reminded me of the shack where the Beverly Hilbillilies lived before they found black gold, although this house was in the middle of a semi-urban poor quarter and not the beautiful hills of West Virginia. We carefully entered, and for the first time ever in my life I saw first-hand how a family could maltreat an unwanted child. Only his grandmother smiled to see him, his own mother only recognizing him with a nod. His aunts and uncles, some only a couple years older than him, didn’t even greet Christian. It was sad—really sad—to see how no one cared that he was there and, although I was his official caretaker and the first person ever from his church family to visit his former home, only an uncle who married into the family asked how Christian was doing in his studies and life in general (and that was only out of polite conversation with me). Although they invited us to eat well, it was an awkward afternoon for both Christian and I. After seeing Christian’s family, the irreligious way they live, and the scummy way they treated him, I can say with a thankful breath of relief that it’s a very good thing he left home.

After the visit, we continued our cheery trip in Christian’s old neighborhood with a tour of Ycua, the place where five years ago burned to the ground a mega grocery-store. .The tragedy of the story is that store management, when faced with the prospect of thieves stealing in the chaos of a fire, ordered guards to lock all the entryways and exits, prohibiting anyone from leaving and securing the death of several hundred trapped inside. Whole families perished in what at the time was internationally reported as the worst super-market disaster ever. Five years later, the story haunts all of Paraguay as a cautionary tale against the worst of human greed and selfishness in the face of danger and disaster.

Today, only the outer walls of the supermarket still stand. Beneath and along the side the building , though, are hundreds of hallowed memorials recognizing those who perished in the fire along with long histories hung up recounting the survivors’ search for justice in the aftermath of the catastrophe. There was a place underneath too, in what used to be the parking garage, that held articles showing the force of the fire along with personal items of those who lost their lives. It all was a very moving memorial, where the ghosts of those who mercilessly died in the flames still haunted every small space. We were able to enter the shell-of-a-building in the late afternoon, when the now-twisted iron supports that once held up the roof looked in the fading sunlight like tortured rusty skeletons of ancient sea-snakes. We passed through what used to be customer bathrooms, and I could still see and touch with my fingers the soot on the tile walls from smoke that killed hundreds of innocent people. Feeling like the place merited some sign of recognition on part and not knowing what else to do, I drew a cross in the soot and said a prayer.

And now, some photos

And now, to move on from a post that for many of you may have been very awkward (but for me was very cathartic), some photos!



http://www.facebook.com/album.php?aid=2114388&l=9d496&id=1407506

Dear Mom,

I’d like to take the time to publicly send you all my love today and to wish you all my best this Mother’s Day. I’m pretty sure everyone who reads this or knows anything about our family at all knows that we’ve passed through an unimaginably rough year in our now-very-public private lives. Most all of our family’s dirty laundry has been hung out on the line for all the neighbors and all the family and all the church to see, and it isn’t pretty. What made the humiliating spectacle even worse, though, is that at times I was the one spreading the dirt. I cursed you to your face, I screamed obscenities at home, and I spoke terrible things behind your back. I said that our relationship would never be the same, and I even imagined it would have been better if you had died. I did my best to heap up even more abuses and shame upon what was already a very publicly shameful situation. When all the other hypocrites were throwing rocks at you, I myself picked up the biggest stones and hurled them in self-righteous anger.

Throughout all my rage and betrayal, though, you constantly stayed my mom. When I wished you to leave home and drop off the planet, you said you still loved me. When I pleaded to God and you for a different and normal family, you said you’d always be there for me no matter how unnormal either of us ever got. When I rebelled, you showed me patience; when I threw a tantrum at things I couldn’t control, you again proved yourself the parent. With the very love of God you said to me and us all, “Forgive them, for they know not what they do.” Through everything you were steadfastly my mom, steadfastly looked out for me, and steadfastly welcomed me back to be your son.

Please, mom, forgive me for the way I treated you. I love you, and I’m sorry to you and the world and to God for what happened. I miss you incredibly now that I’m a full hemisphere away, and I really dream about the day when I’ll see you again. I’ve cried many times thinking of you since I’ve been here, and I pray for you every day. Words can’t describe your faithful love and all the good service you’ve rendered to me. You’re my only mom: you always will be, too, no matter what, and your faithfulness to me this past year has proven that. For these reasons and so many more I publicly rise up and bless you today and give you thanks for all your love and forgiveness. I value our friendship more than you’ll ever know.

Sincerely,

Jason

Random Thoughts

Some random thoughts, not big enough to warrant a complete blog entry:

I was rudely woken up last night at hourly intervals by loud packs of barking dogs, and this morning when I left behind the protective innocence of my apartment I realized why: a bitch in heat was roaming through the neighborhood with a good half dozen hounds following her scent, and all the poor un-neutured dogs that were cruelly penned up inside fences just couldn’t bear the thought of being alone so they sang together in a great united chorus of sexual angst. I’ll never take the work of the SPCA and dog warden for granted again.

There’s nothing more beautiful or tasty than a freshly picked mandarin from the mandarin tree in your back yard. I ate two this morning after my morning run. I think I shall move to Florida some day.

I discovered recently there’s huge cheap avocadoes in Paraguay. Many people let the precious fruit fall to the ground to rot away without thinking about how special it is that they have avocadoes at all. Those who do eat avocadoes here eat them sweet, all mashed up with sugar. I’m convinced that if I continue much longer to take advantage of the bargain-priced oil-based fruits, I’m going to die by avocado.

For the first six months I was here, I heard huge flocks of what sounded to be seagulls flying overhead. How strange, I thought, that there should be seagulls in a completely landlocked, river-bound country. When I started to pay better attention, though, I realized that the flocks weren’t seagulls, but instead massive groups of very awkward parrots flalloping together in the wind. I’m pretty sure I heard one of them calling me a silly gringo, and I realized I was still in a very special tropical place.

Life is short, and so are Paraguayan funerals. The father and step-mother of my fellow English teacher at Adonai passed away in a terrible car accident this past week, and both were buried within about 24 hours of their respective deaths (while she died on-the-scene, he died the day after from wounds in the hospital). I was talking to another teacher—a firefighter/EMT who has visited the public morgue plenty of times—who told me they don’t use body-refrigerators here. The sad part of it all is that, because the funeral preparations and actual service went by so quickly, none of the teachers that I know of had the chance to go to the funeral or even offer their condolences. Oscar and Karen tried to go the morning of the internment, but found they were already an hour late. You might say a prayer for Prof. Monica and her family.

I saw a beautiful nun my age on the bus the other day. Although she was completely covered in a modest habit and big flowing dress, she wore very flattering sandal-like shoes. Appreciating her beauty and virginal innocence, I wondered if I had ever appreciated or even could appreciate the natural beauty of chastity and sanctity of a girl completely set apart for God without thinking sexual and lusty thoughts. I wasn’t lusting after her—after all, she was a nun-- but I wasn’t sure and I’m unsure now if I can unselfishly appreciate a girl’s natural beauty.

There are little red ants here about the size of a small matchtip that, like a match, pack quite a burn. There’s a pile of rocks in my backyard that sometimes I like to go digging into, and I always forget until it’s too late that this pile of rocks also has a pile of these pesky little ants. Before I know what’s happening, my bare hand or bare foot or perhaps both my bare hands and both my bare feet are covered in swarms of little stinging ants that, once they bite into you, can only be removed by squishing their tiny heads off. The poison in their peckers, though, leaves itchy pus-filled pocks all over, like the strange bastard children of a pimple who has had a continuing affair with a mosquito bite. Like the consequences of extra-marital affairs, too, the pocks last for way too long, refilling themselves as they do after being popped and itching to eternity.

Teacher and May Day

This past week has been one of celebration and holiday for Paraguayans and me. Yesterday we had the day off from school to celebrate Teacher’s Day, a national holiday break from school and scholarly endeavor to thank those special teachers in charge of our educational present and to call to memory and venerate those special teachers who have touched our already-formed past. Festivities started a day early in school on Tuesday with a special program presented by the children from preschool to high school. Some sang songs in English, others recited poetry in Guarani, but all had only nice things to say about their maestros. It was a beautiful program that once again brought to my very-recently very-discouraged mind the importance of my work here, the impact of teachers, and the grand significance of educational formation.

After the recital-style assembly and presentation for all the teachers, the students left for their individual classrooms to celebrate with their own teachers. The kids and their parents brought in every sort of treat and decoration just like when we had Halloween or Christmas parties at Seville Elementary School, with everything from frosted cakes to fried empanadas to giant bottles of soda to share on the important day. As an itinerant English teacher, I had the chance to visit every classroom that I wanted, dabbling in a piece of cake here and sipping on some soda there. By the end of the morning session, I was sick to my stomach full of so many cookies and sugar drinks and sandwichitos.

At the end of the day, though, my stomach wasn’t the only thing that was full. My bookbag, too, was packed to the brim with regalitos—little gifts—from all my students as a sign of their appreciation for who I am and what I do as a teacher. Among other things, I got a pair of black socks that say “America”, a little pink alarm clock, a purple marker, a nice Parker pen, a bookmark, a calculator, a thermos, and a guampa to drink maté. The day, a super one full of celebration and congratulatory hugs, ended with a beautiful dinner paid for by the school at a churrasqueria- a huge Paraguayan buffet where men with little bowties push around carts that serve the most beautiful and delicious meat in the whole world. Really, the meal was a dream-come-true with all-I-could-eat sausages and stuffed chickens and fancy noodles and fresh salads and ice cream. I took good advantage, and ended up contentedly rolling myself home with several more kilos on my person than before.

Today we’re left with just one more day to celebrate. In Paraguay, Cuba, and all the former Soviet States, May 1 means international workers’ day. Here, celebrating labor means another day off of work in the middle of the week to give credit to workers where their credit is due. Today is a rainy and miserable day outside, though, preventing the soccer tournament and clothes sale that had been planned at the church. And so, instead I sit at home writing and reflecting and sharing a bit about work and school and life in Paraguay. The work I’m doing here, although sometimes I feel like it doesn’t mean a darn thing, is important and that fact that I have work to do, and important character-forming work as teacher(for both the students and me), is a huge blessing for which I am incredibly thankful. God is so good to give me and the whole world useful, creative, and good things to do every day in our work; just as His own work in the whole world, too, always is and in all ways is useful, creative, and Good.