Arrival and Orientation

I have been in Indonesia now for 5 days. Much has happened in such a short time. After a long journey from Medan—through towns, forests, and a pot-hole covered road—I arrived in Balige. I was tired from the day’s journey, and the previous day’s journey from the US to Indonesia. As I stepped out of the car at the school, the students gathered and sang in beautiful harmony. Light rain fell, and I listened to them with joy.

The few days that I have been here have been spent getting oriented to the culture—of the school, in Indonesia, and of the Batak people. The students have a rhythm to their days, taking care of daily tasks, morning worship, class time, lunch, and studies. It will be quiet at the school for the next week, as the students are now on Easter holiday. I will use the time to continue with my orientation, to experience more Indonesian culture, and explore the Lake Toba region.

Below is a video of the students singing the day I arrived.

Here are a few more photos:

Deaconess School

Dancing the Tor Tor at the Batak Museum

Balige

Horas from Indonesia

This post is a brief hello to say that I have made it and am doing well on my 3rd day here. After 28 hours of travel time, I finally arrived in Medan (Indonesia’s 3rd largest city and provincial capital of North Sumatra) on Sunday morning, April 1st. We spent the night there and then traveled by car to Balige on Monday. Because of traffic and a windy road with potholes, the journey took about 7 hours.

Enjoy these two photos below. First, one in Medan, then one of some of the students singing as I arrived at the HKBP Deaconess School. Stories, more photos, and video (I hope) to come.

enjoying fresh coconut

the students sing their greetings

Tags: Balige, Indonesia, Medan, Sumatra

A Blessed Sending

Last night I was blessed to be in the company of my church community for the last time (for at least 2 years). As with the blessing of the waiting time earlier this month, and as we have done for many Apostles on their own journeys, my community laid hands upon me and prayed for this new venture and calling.

For more than seven years I have called Church of the Apostles home. What an amazing time—the Living Room storefront, starting the Fremont Abbey, intentional community houses, retreats, discernment groups, and partying in the Resurrection; we created liturgy, had faith, shared doubt, lived uncertain futures, had some miscommunications, celebrated, felt our brokenness, lived new life—so much life together. Though I am leaving the physical connection to friends and worship space, I am still an Apostle. This parting is both ending and beginning.

Click the link below to see below for a few more pictures from the sending:

Tags: blessing, COTA

Finally

Hello there. This is a quick entry to say that I now have a ticket and will depart on March 30th, one week from today. That is coming up very soon, but I am ready. I am grateful things are moving along now.

On Disfigurement and Grace

STORY
I stepped off the light rail into the damp afternoon air. I craned my neck, looking for a friend, when a man who had been in the same train car from downtown Portland approached me. We hadn’t spoken on the ride. In fact, I had been listening to my “Lent” playlist on my iPod, lost in my own world of thought.
He first remarked about the drizzle that fell lightly on us. What happened to the sun? Of course it rains when we’re off the train. I smiled.
Then he said this: “I like your smile. Hey, you know, I’m an honest person, so I hope you don’t mind me saying, when I first saw you, I wanted to feel sorry for you.” He motioned to his face, a reference to the disfiguring tumors on mine. “But I see life in you. It’s in your eyes.”
“Thanks, sir. I don’t mind at all.” In fact, I was glad he noticed; I hadn’t that day. We bid each other bye, and walked our separate ways. This wasn’t the first time for such an encounter. However, it was a fleeting moment of grace, which I savored and filed in the back of my mind.
Two days later another knotty tumor appeared on the right side of my face; one more to add to the collection, an even more disfigured face to get used to.

DISFIGUREMENT
Now awaiting the word on what series of flights have been booked to Indonesia, I share this piece of me with you, dear readers, as it is a part of me wherever on this earth I go, whatever that calling may be—and it is very visible.

I have a genetic disease called Neurofibromatosis (NF). A more detailed explanation of NF can be found at the Children’s Tumor Foundation. Brief facts: NF type 1 affects 1 in every 3,000 births; NF2, 1 in every 25,000. Although it is genetic, and parents with NF (types 1 and 2) have a 50% chance of passing it on to each child, half of all cases are a result of a spontaneous mutation. NF1 can cause birthmarks, tumors, freckling, and learning disabilities among other manifestations. There is no cure, no drug yet to slow or prevent tumor growth. Neither is there any prediction of severity or when or where a tumor might grow; they can grow anywhere there are nerves.

I have NF1 with dozens of tumors all over my body, all of which are benign, and most of which are small and underneath the skin. The largest and most visible is the grouping of tumors on the right side of my face.

GRACE
I come from a culture where inner beauty is a nice idea, but that’s not necessarily the signals most often sent to me: I should have more stuff, acquire more wealth, and be thin and beautifully blemish-free; money can buy you all this happiness. Me, well, I’m full of outer blemishes, so I’ve learned to cling to grace daily.

I have difficulty accepting a theology that says God made me right down to my DNA. Who, then, slipped in that faulty gene? Who turns the switch to allow a new tumor? I’ll spend my lifetime supporting research to eradicate this disease—then probably some other gene will mutate to form a new disorder for the world.

Anne Lamott writes about David Roche, a inspiration speaker and man with a disfigured face, in her book, Plan B: Further Thoughts On Faith. Unable to reproduce the whole story, here’s a snippet (p. 111):

There he is, standing in front of a crowd, and everyone can see that just about the worst thing that could happen to a person physically has happened to him. Yet he’s enjoying himself immensely, talking about ten seconds of grace he felt here, ten seconds he felt there, how those moments filled him and how he makes them last a little longer. Everyone watching gets happy because he’s giving instruction on how this could happen for them, too, this militant self-acceptance.

No, I wasn’t given this disease as a test, but I can live to the fullest and notice those raw moments of grace, just like David. I wish I didn’t have the tumors, or that I didn’t have to face a lifetime of wonder when and where the next one will appear. But I will, and I am compelled to share those grace-filled meetings, my love of life and God, and the courage in spite of disfigurement.

I share this as who I bring as a missionary. I may not write of this again, as I will soon be sharing other stories. As I have most of my life, I will be noticing (and writing) moments of grace while I’m teaching English in Indonesia. But most importantly, I mean to share this today: out of brokenness, beauty and wholeness; out of death, life. Is that not part of our faith as Christians? You, too, have brokenness in need of healing.

And now you know what it is on my face when you see photos of me.

Tags: God, grace, Neurofibromatosis, NF, story, tumor

L I M I N A L__S P A C E

LIMINAL SPACE

clickety-clack, clickety-clack
this train ride at the threshold
has no time of arrival
and no certainty of where it will stop.

clickety-clack, clickety-clack
let the rhythm of the rails take hold.
stare out the window
hour after hour
and think: oh, the places you’ll go!
welcome to the liminal space,
an expansive neither here nor there.

clickety-clack, clickety-clack
what more to do
but let go and sit back.
come, make yourself at home.
let the rhythm of the rails take hold
here in the liminal space.

I wrote the above as a result of my train ride from Seattle to Portland yesterday. It’s not even what I’d consider a finished poem (and I don’t write poetry often), but I share as part of my process. I’ve taken that route many times before, and I know: whether rain, shine, fog, or in that case, snow, there is never a shortage of beautiful views from the tracks. The above photo is of the south end of the Puget Sound. From the train I watched the snow fall into the Sound. It struck me odd that it is mid-March, and snowing in a region where little snow falls, and yet I’m told on that very day it was above 70 degrees in South Dakota.

Sometimes, things don’t turn out as we expect. It’s mid-March and the mild winter has some things topsy-turvy. It is mid-March and I am not in Indonesia as I once expected. I use the words “liminal space” to describe where I am. It is a place at the threshold, between two worlds. Soon, I hope I will cross over the threshold (via the Pacific Ocean and the International Date Line) into a new life.

Tags: poem, threshold, train, waiting

The Single Story and Mission

In my previous post, I wrote about the danger of the single story through the words of Chimamanda Adichie, a Nigerian author. Adichie says, “The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.” I will continue my exploration this theme, focusing on the role of the single story in mission. If you have not seen the video from my previous post, I encourage you to watch it.

I also see it beneficial to use the terms majority world and minority world. The majority world is just that—the majority of peoples on this earth are in what has also been called the third world, developing world, or global south. I use “majority” because not only do the represent the majority of humankind, but the majority of Christians, too.

The narrative from the minority world, of North American and European superiority and African (or aboriginal) helplessness, is part of history and still exists. It is a tough subject to speak about because it is sometimes perpetuated through well-meaning campaigns and people with good intentions. Unfortunately good intentions do not mean they are always right. Some so-called good intentions have resulted in disempowerment, colonization, genocide, and abuse (for one example, read about the history of Indian Residential Schools in Canada, and remember, the US did the same, all in the name of “helping” and spreading Christian values). And most recently, voices of young white men from the US have been given more power and deference than voices of Ugandan people, in a misguided campaign to “raise awareness” aimed at Uganda (though it was not of Christian mission, it is part of the narrative. Learn more here and here).

Because Christianity carried the theological banner of God-is-on-my-side with good (and sometimes not so good) intentions, they spread to the majority world, and with them the Gospel and cultural superiority. Here, I’m not debating the merits of spreading Gospel, nor am I saying all were bad people. Nevertheless, objects of Western Christian missionaries were seen as heathen and unsophisticated, and that story told and re-told to a wide audience in the minority world. This, I believe, is the single story that needs to be broken in order for reconciliation to rise. Those to whom missionaries went were not, and are not, objects—they are people, with their own complex and vibrant cultures, systems of belief, hopes, and ideas for the future.

These are strong words that some may have not heard before, and others might want to critique; but I believe it is a necessary story to tell, though I acknowledge my own limited perspective is not the whole of the matter. There are many good things being done all over the world by many people, but I have to stress that they don’t entirely depend upon the minority world, your pity, or the number of views certain videos receive.

In spite of injustices past and present, there are more than 2 billion Christians all over the world, living out their lives of faith. What I mean when I talk about mission today can be summed up in the description of accompaniment from the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America (ELCA):

Walking together in solidarity that practices interdependence and mutuality. In this walk, gifts, resources and experiences are shared with mutual advice and admonition to deepen and expand our work within God’s mission. Accompaniment is both a lens for seeing the world and a way to engage one another in global mission. Through the lens of accompaniment, we see that relationships are at the core of global mission.

The ELCA has a more in-depth description of accompaniment on their website, as well as a look at the changing context of mission, which highlights what mission was in the early 20th century, and what it embodies now (from a Lutheran perspective). I encourage you to visit those links, as I am relating my perspective.

When the peoples of the world, whom God loves unconditionally, are stripped of their voices and usurped of their power, the danger of a single story arises and injustice is perpetuated. However, through faith and relationship based on interdependence, God’s work of reconciliation can happen, thus reframing the narrative: no longer is it our (mine vs. yours) story—it is God’s story, and God’s story abounds in grace, encompassing everyone.

So, what does that look like? Stay tuned, I hope to write more on moving toward accompaniment in mission.

The Danger of a Single Story

My season of waiting continues. Even though I am still in the US waiting for a visa to Indonesia, I can share important stories. Today I will share a video I first encountered a few years ago, which is from a TED conference in 2009 (click to learn more about TED).

In the video below, novelist Chimamanda Adichie speaks about the danger of a single story. From the description on the TED website: “Our lives, our cultures, are composed of many overlapping stories. Novelist Chimamanda Adichie tells the story of how she found her authentic cultural voice — and warns that if we hear only a single story about another person or country, we risk a critical misunderstanding.”

And Adichie in her own words:

“The single story creates stereotypes, and the problem with stereotypes is not that they are untrue, but that they are incomplete. They make one story become the only story.”
“If I had not grown up in Nigeria, and if all I knew about Africa were from popular images, I too would think that Africa was a place of beautiful landscapes, beautiful animals and incomprehensible people, fighting senseless wars, dying of poverty and AIDS, unable to speak for themselves and waiting to be saved by a kind, white foreigner.”

I encourage you to do more than watch the video below. Take note of the stories around you. What narratives of the diverse continent of Africa (Or any other country or region of this world) are you reading? Who is telling the story? Whose voices are being heard? Whose voices are missing? Ask how can we move from pity toward justice, empowerment, and accompaniment.

Tags: Africa, Chimamanda Adichie, story, TED

Lent and Blessing the Waiting

Since my return from the orientation in Toronto in January, I have been staying with my parents in southeastern Washington state. Recently on a trail, I ran among the dry sagebrush steppe and contemplated the desert and my lenten journey.

How do I form and hold onto a spiritual practice for lent as I continue to wait in this liminal space? I haven’t answered that yet.

All of my belongings not going with me are packed away, leaving me to that which I can carry. I don’t have to take time out of my busy day to think about lent—I have time, lots of time. Well, the newness of waiting has worn off, and as the weeks pass by, it has become increasingly difficult to retain my earlier reflection on the deliciousness of ambiguity. So, it seems, as the liturgical season turns, so has a season in my spirituality. But this desert isn’t desolate.

Over the weekend, I returned to Seattle and said goodbye to my parents. And yesterday evening my church community, Church of the Apostles, blessed my waiting. In our nearly 10 years of existence (I’ve been around for 7 of that), we have laid hands upon many to bless their various journeys near and far. As it is not yet time for me to leave the country, I asked for prayer in my waiting. Standing in this liminal space, and surrounded by my community, hands were laid upon me to bless my waiting.

Today I wonder: what will this week of waiting and wandering bring?

Tags: community, lent, liminal space, prayer, waiting

I’m still waiting, so why not run a half marathon?

I am still waiting. I can’t say that the last three weeks have been easy. Some days I have felt very much like my previous post, taking delight in the blessings; there have been other days, however, when I have felt most anxious. Someday I may unpack this time of waiting, and find important lessons. But right now I just really want to step into a plane, make my series of flights, emerge on Indonesian soil, and get to work.

In these three weeks, there hasn’t been much to do or to write about. Prior to February, I packed away belongings, mentally prepared to leave, and assembled most items to pack. Without a visa or a final date of departure, everything is on hold.

I was out running last Thursday, and it dawned on me that there was a half marathon race in town on Sunday. At the end of my run, I resolved to do it. Even though none of my recent runs came close to the 13.1 mile distance, and the race was only three days away, I had to do it. I knew I could do it, and I did it; one foot in front of the other, stride by stride, mile by mile.

I’m no stranger to distance running—I’ve run multiple marathons and half marathons, so I knew what I was getting into when I signed up. Long distance races are a physical challenge for sure, but the race is also a mental challenge to find the courage to keep on going, and for me, they a profound spiritual experience. My pounding feet on the pavement become a rhythmic psalm of the body; the labored breath of latter miles inhales new life, and exhales pain; the finish line, also the beginning, is an expression of deep joy and gratitude to God for this life.

It is Sunday evening now; I’m a little sore but spiritually centered, ready to enter into the week, whatever it will bring.

By the way, I’m prone to plan vacation time around races. You may see a future post about a marathon/half/10k in places such as Bali, East Timor, Malaysia, Singapore, or Thailand. This is, of course, if my body adjusts to the climate and I have time and space to run.

Tags: running, waiting