An invitation to FAST FROM WHITENESS

Our addiction to whiteness grips us more strongly than any vice or drug. So this 4^th of July, an invitation to set it aside and see what new doors open.

It is the 4^th of July. In 2020 it seems that the greatest act of patriotism imaginable is now is to kneel, instead of stand, before the flag, in recognition that the penned values of our nation have yet to be realized.

My religious foundation teaches the importance of repentance. Repentance is not guilt. Guilt indulges in self-imposed or external punishment to ease the pain of guilt. Repentance leans into the pain, following the path to healing through all awkwardness and heavy questioning, self- and communal-reflection – the long, slow path that calls for forgiveness, sacrifice and realization that we clench position, capital and the sense of “being right” in hidden ways we cannot even imagine. That we need a more magnanimous spirit to search us and bring our darkness into the light. I need this healing repentance somethin’ regular, for the self-righteousness I harbor toward my colleagues, my partner, my brothers and sisters…

And we need it now especially as a nation.

I was raised in the good life of white moderatism. It all seemed so rational, with the “bad guys” an abstract force beyond us. We maintained the seemingly-good systems around us, which always treated us well-enough, such that we were never forced to question their fairness. It was rational to follow along. But if those systems had rarely treated you fairly, it would be irrationality to follow along.

I came of age in churches that spoke more about the sexual purity of its membership, than the sexual assault that happens to workers in the vegetable fields that feed us. If we maintain our sense of goodness by keeping the painful inequities of the world out rather than repenting for our complicity in them, we fortify the mirage. Even the college religious community that I loved and love so dearly kept much at bay. There I learned a white version of history, a white version of religion, a white version of community. We spent significant time learning about John and Charles Wesley, but little about Richard Allen, or even Martin Luther King Jr. But of course that is the white history we inherited, and our imagination had not been sufficiently jolted to recognize that racism, including the racist church, is as American as anything.

It is hard to acknowledge how these seemingly good places and institutions have been complacent in decades—centuries—of harm because they were good to me. How could my undergraduate university and the institutions that formed it, which had been good to me be complicit in such un-good to others? My last home in Minneapolis was blocks from the site of George Floyd’s murder. As many of my white friends recount the horror of the week after Floyd’s death, I recognize the process of privilege thinned – the assumptions of safety, of goodness all questioned. “I thought Minnesota was good.” expressed one born-and-raised friend.

Before we shatter the white supremacy that has gripped our nation for over 400 years, I think we have to shatter the idea that we are good. Goodness and whiteness have become so intertwined they are invisible to us. If it’s true that 75% of white people don’t have a single black friend (real friend), then we only know one version of goodness – unfortunately, that version has stood at the sidelines supporting the subjugation, enslavement, legal rape, psychological destruction, dismemberment of families and lifelong humiliation of other races.

I’ve been exhausted these weeks. Friends have asked me for insight, for input -- like many, most days I’m too overwhelmed by daily responsibilities, or just FEELING and paralysis to do something constructive. How do I confront racist injustice in my neighborhood, my churches, my workplace, my country and myself all at the same time?  So we keep writing letters, we keep noticing and not letting complicity in systemic white supremacy go on without being called out, we keep taking to the streets, voting, and listening. But to do all these well, we have to step away from our whiteness long enough to feel with others. When you are born, as I was, with all the necessary comforts and privilege to be what you want to be in this world, it is so difficult to imagine the opposite. So my response this 4^th of July is to call for a fast from whiteness.

Like any other obsessive vice—coffee, social media, sex—that may not be on the whole bad or unlawful, sometimes setting it aside for a time enables a clearer view of reality and of yourself. Make a clean break for a time—like learning a new language by full immersion—give up speaking one language to take on another. The invitation is as much to myself as everyone: Let us immerse ourselves in non-whiteness for a season, and see what we learn. Let us fast from:

·       Films directed, produced and written by white artists

·       News and media by white writers and anchors

·       Books and literature by white authors

·       Restaurants by white chefs and owners

·       Music by white songwriters

·       History written by white historians

·       Sermons by white preachers

·       Communities dominated by white leaders

Most of the above are givens if you’re white. But 2020 calls for enlarged imagination. 2020 calls for repentance and fasting. Let us fast from white dominance to see what calls for repentance and opportunities for healing arise.

A Thousand Little Things (that makes 12)

Here I am.

Back in Bolivia.  One last time.

At least, one last time returning back to my house, my bedroom — all of which I built up from bareness. The cozy homeyness and basic furnishings that I’ve slowly acquired over two and a half years time.

"Critical Mass" is a global biking initiative (bikes traverse the city every
last Friday monthly).  Cochabamba's crew is small but enthusiastic!

My current return to Bolivia is about preparing to leave. Savoring the thousands little things that make life here so dear:  buying red bananas in the street from the slow-coasting truck, “Plaaaataaano!  maaaandarriiinas! paaapaya!” all morning long from a muffled loudspeaker.  I don’t even have to get off my bike to purchase my dozen bananas and 25 oranges.  “Papaya no hay,” says the driver-seller, “only if there’s an excess of papaya are we carrying them on the truck.”  Floods in the Beni have driven up the price and scarcity of typically ubiquitous papayas.

Alpacas and Mount Sajama

The fruit trucks (or sometimes cars with the back hatch open) drive a few miles an hour announcing their produce to the barrio (cover your mouth with your fist, then shout “Papaya, Mandarina, Platano…” and you’ll get the idea).  They’re some of the cheapest fruit you’ll find since it’s so direct from the growers.  For all I know, the truck just got off the highway with this morning’s harvest, three hours (and a mountain pass) down the road.  The fruit-truck seller in my barrio knows me. When I moved two years ago, the seller in my former neighborhood asked where I’d gone.  Buying off the trucks is one of the daily simple things that makes me love this place.  

Passing thousand year old tombs on our trek in Parque Sajama.

What are the small patterns that you cling to and love in your life?  The walk home from work, the woman on the bench at the park you pass who never fails to give you a smile, though you don’t know her name.  The man from whom you buy your flowers, who always throws in “a little extra” though you hardly spend enough to justify it.  Hearing the school band play from your window—the music’s rarely good but you hear their growth and feel their camaraderie.  What are those small golden things?  And what happens when they’re taken away?

Hanging off the Chilean border at 5000m

Urinate on Chile (comically supporting the anti-Chile sentiment of Bolivians)

As I think about the people I leave behind, and the challenges of maintaining friendships at such distance, I’m tremendously sad.  I’m leaving a life and a community here.  But for now—perhaps because I’m “transitioning back” simultaneously while preparing to leave, my mind is caught on those thousand little golden things that trigger my smile. 

[Those thousand little things of everyday trigger my smile, but not always the camera.  Posted photos (mostly) are of more notable not-so-every-day events.]

Biking through the beautiful "campo" en Tarija

A true vacation.  Thomas & I toast in Tarija wine-country.

Eating small crustaceans in Tarija

I got on the 106 Trufi this morning after my usual run to Tiquipaya, the farming community just west of Cochabamba.  I ran slower than usual, feeling the change in altitude between Minnesota and the 8500ft Cochabamba valley. I stretched my calves and quadriceps at my routine corner where the country meets the city, waiting to flag down a less packed trufi so I could secretly stretch in the back seat during the 15 minute ride back to the city (Cochambambinos are Minnesotan in that way— far too shy to look back in direct curiosity, What IS that sweaty gringa doing back there?).

  

A bit of the everyday (sort of): making cookies with Raymundo
(his first time ever, to celebrate his first oven/stove!)

Not so everyday.  I was convinced into doing the craziest of marathons:
26.2 miles (42km) in La Paz (12,500ft / 3600m), climbing up to 4095m.
I was not quite as energetic 26 miles later.

The trufi I climb into is a sort of large hatch-back, like a Subaru Forrester. Its size doesn’t deter Bolivians from happily cramming nine people into the three narrow rows of seats, double what we’d call full capacity in the US.  With children included, I’ve seen these small vehicles hold twelve, without ever a complaint.  The other reason I like the back seat is to watch the passengers climb in and out (a pretty awkwardly amusing process considering how tightly we’re packed in).  It makes little sense to me, but most people will cram three in the front seat (shared with the driver) or middle seat (where only half a butt cheek of passenger number 3 will fit) before they choose to be the second passenger in the back.  Which means there’s always plenty to watch.  

In true Bolivian style, including his (large) bag of coca leaves to
"pijchar" along the 42km route.

The only time I’ve witnessed three full sets of hips successfully jammed into the back seat was aided by significant force.  One evening months ago I flagged down a trufi and scouted out the only empty space: spot #3 in the back.  Typically passenger #3 in the back sits forward on the back seat since three pairs of hips (particularly female hips) will never condense into that supposed three-person bench.  That evening instead of scooting over as usual, the two persons in back moved to either side, passively demanding I occupy the middle space. Inconveniently I crawled over passengers and floor objects, a process cumbersome as it is timely.  “La puerta, por favor” I say, begging that someone close the side door, since with my ass in the air, my head on the ceiling and my hand still grasping my grocery bag, there’s no way I’ll reach the door.  Impatient and satisfied with my degree of settling in, the driver jerked forward into traffic, thrusting me into my seat, but more impressively: wedging me between the two pairs of hips on either side.  We three sat stunned and awed: something we hadn’t before thought possible—it’s a miracle! Securely wedged as we were, we could be the example for generations of the capacity for Bolivian squish, since no attempt to pry us free would have success until our bodies began to atrophy and decay.

Finally with the finish line in site: turns out I'm gonna make it afterall

After this morning’s run, I’m passenger number 2 in the back row seat (passing up rows 1 and 2 for their less superior hamstring-stretching potential), next to a cholita with seriously broad “cheeks.”  She gets off after a few minutes; I hop out to allow her exit and hand her the brooms which had been at our feet.  She extends an effusive “gracias” and I’m delighted by our brief but tender encounter.  And now I can really get to my hamstrings. 

An aguayo strangely in a kewiña tree, on a hike above Cochabamba

The 106 Trufi always carries an eclectic mix of cholitas, young professionals and working class. A healthy cross-section of modern Bolivia.  You’re as apt to hear Quechua spoken as Spanish, since Tiquipaya (where the 106 runs) was traditionally an indigenous farming community (though quickly, lamentably changing).  In the 106 we share intimate space but our ways of living are distinct; beginning a friendship would be more difficult than squeezing the other half of your bum onto the seat. Compressed as tightly as we are, one might think we had more in common.  Hips together, worlds apart.  I say thanks for this moment—this is not “my” Bolivia, but this moment I count as mine.  I breathe in and love where I am, and the privilege of squish.  The fresh morning air from the open windows coaxes me to transition from my meditative run among farms and cows to the work day ahead in the busy city.  Another passenger flags the car and jumps in up front, scooting the passenger seat occupant onto the makeshift bridge-seat between driver and shotgun.  I smile and count: that makes 12.  

Overlooking Cochabamba on a run/hike in the northern cordillera foothills.

9 months later: Gringa on the Granja

I’ve had trouble writing since I left Bolivia in September 2013 and returned 3 months later. 

So much transition that processing it all has struggled to keep up.  What’s more, reflection at the time tended to happened communally: over coffee and dinner with friends and family during my intensely packed, wonderful three months at home, and in reuniting with friends back in Bolivia. 

Home for the month of May 2014 (photo taken May 5th. Happy Spring.)

It was hard to know what to write after returning to Bolivia. I felt my encounter with Bolivia stagnate, the sharp learning curve plateauing. Additionally, I found myself in a fog—overwhelmed by personal, locational, spiritual, vocational, financial, cultural challenges—life was reduced to feeding and bathing myself, the basics.  Aware of how all the “noise” inhibited necessary reflection about “next steps” (to leave or stay: in Bolivia, in my romantic relationship, in the church, in my profession), I made the decision to return to Minnesota a few months after leaving, anticipating work on a farm “up north” near the Lake Superior shore.

Happy May schlepping up the hill to Round River Farm

In April I boarded American Airlines flight 922, Santa Cruz, Boliva - Miami for the second time.  I boarded without tears this time, nor the bombardment of emotions that flooded me in September 2013 after twenty months outside the United States.  After less than five months away, this take off was nearly casual.

My first trip home taught me well: prepare yourself for Miami.  It’s a violent city for re-entry, and a decent dinner at the airport cost two full days of Bolivian salary (a lesson learned the hard way).  This time, I packed dinner.  Comforted by andean quinoa and habas, I awaited my final leg. “Flight 1621 to Minneapolis is now boarding.”  I relived my first re-entry, like replaying a first kiss:  touch down in the midwest, walk through the same doors, wait at the same luggage claim, drive home with same dear friend.  I’m getting good at this.

Canoeing on the still half-frozen lake at Round River Farm, mid-May.
Two weeks later, we were swimming in it.

The highways stand out.  They’re the first thing you see outside an airport. The big green signs clearly mark where to go in ½ mile.  Instead of the simplest two-lane highways (all there in Bolivia, despite the prolific traffic) upon exiting an American airport one encounters two, three, even five lanes all going the same direction.  Uninhibited by potholes, semis loaded with oranges, a train of two-story buses, nor the oncoming opposite lane traffic, the american freeways travel at incredible speed, all fluid and easy.

I arrive home to a warm house full of friends, hugs, hot soup, and please—give me some kind of non-Bolivian cheese!  We laugh and chat until my eyelids surrender to gravity.  Hello northern hemisphere bed. 

Thomas & I drill-gun warring as we rebuild greenhouses, in full armor:
2 pairs pants & 5 layers on top. Don't be fooled by that blue sky.

This trip back is different.  Instead of unpacking for a three month stay, it’s a quick week of visits in Minneapolis before heading further north—north, where spring hasn’t yet received the memo.  And this trip is different.  A week into my stay I return to MSP to pick up another recent Bolivian arrival:  Thomas McDonagh steps onto American soil for the first time.  “The Minnesotans on the plane sure were friendly” he offers casually, unaware of their Minnesota Nice reputation. “They let me borrow their cellphone, chatted me up with all sorts of questions, and were very amused I’d never heard of Target.”

Traditional pancake breakfast after putting up the plastic on the greenhouses
Lise and David Abazs (and me).

Thanks to two fresh feet of snow at Round River Farm in Finland, Minnesota, Thomas and I linger a few extra days in the city.  His flight purchase was last minute — I near expected to spend the month at the farm alone, simultaneously avoiding the anxiety of introducing this man who has become so integral in my daily life.  Navigating the shock of presenting “my partner” I slowly grew comfortable in my new northern couple identity.  I was beginning to like it.

It was time to load up the station wagon. We made one final stop at Fleet Farm, picking out our new wellies—knee-high rubber boots that rarely left our feet that month.  We’d need them in the first minutes of our arrival: to cross the ice-cold, flooded river toward Round River Farm.  

David and Lise Abazs walk the ½ mile up the road to their home and farm seasonally: November through April—this year till May 17th.  Lise left snow shoes for Thomas and I across the river at the bottom of the hill.  Schlepping our month’s belongings—clothes, bedding, a guitar and few pots and pans—we waddled up the hill in our racket feet, pausing to admire the sunset, and with each fall in deep snow.

Hours of digging later (with a few clumps of still-frozen soil),
we're nearly ready to rake beds and plant seedlings.

Before going away for a retreat, it’s easy to have grandiose expectations of the enlightenment that awaits.  I felt this temptation last in April:  I’m about to go home and retreat to a remote farm for a month. Surely this will illuminate all my life’s quandaries.  I will undoubtedly return with clarity, wisdom, perhaps even shinier hair and whiter teeth.  I quickly caught myself:  Lower your expectations, Julie. You may well return as uncertain as you are now.

And sometimes a respite outdoes your expectations.  The hours at Round River Farm spent building, drilling, digging, raking, planting, watering…chopping, lighting, stoking…roasting, washing, sautéing…resting, watching thunderstorms, pouring another pot of tea, bundling up for another cold night and throwing another log on the fire…became a meditation.  My back ached and my hands were calloused—but my heart and mind got the better end of the deal.  The ritual labor of each day nurtured my relationship with Thomas, and the many life decisions pending.  In concrete terms, here is some of what came to the surface during my time in Minnesota:

Successfully precipitating Spring, Thomas waters lettuce in greenhouse 2.

▪️It’s time to come home.  Bolivia is not my home. I never came to Bolivia to stay.  I came to return different.  After two and half years, it’s time to come home.

▪️ I’m going to visit Thomas and his family in Ireland.  His trip to the States was incredibly illuminating for us.  It changed the ballgame. What’s more it convinced me of the importance of visiting his home culture, as he did mine.

Weapons of Mass Production: Thomas beating swords into plowshares.
Spring finally greening up on the Abazs homestead.

▪️ It’s time to go back to school.  After a decade of life experience, I’m hungry for concrete skills and knowledge to deepen my impact and engagement with the world.  My student hat goes back on in the coming year.

These may seem simple, but for me they’re grand shifts and a relieving clarity of decisions made.  I’m excited and nervous to become an in-house American again.  Thank you for sharing the unexpected elongation of these many months with me.  Thanks for giving me so many reasons to come home.

I leave you with a meditation from Round River Farm: a poem Thomas wrote for my birthday, the day we said goodbye to the Abazs and Round River.

A Different Kind Of Tired

Shuffling up that hill in rubber boots and snow shoes—crunching, sloshing and slipping.  Winter had yet to loosen her grip here. 

“Come to RoundRiver farm for the spring” you had told me. 

“I think we might be in the wrong place.” 

So, first things first “what do you guys fight about?” and “can you cut logs for firewood?” Nice to meet you too David. 

Remember now, the gas at the cabin ain’t righty-tighty, it’s a lefty. 

And the fir trees, they’re the flat and friendly ones, unlike their spruced up cousins. 

The weeks went by and the greenhouses were built in such record time that we were now three weeks behind and one day ahead.  

Julie was becoming a dab hand at the bed raking, while Thomas’ coffee making skills flourished. 

But the trees remained bare, almost desolate. 

And then it began. The chirping, the tweeting, the buzzing, the croaking and the hopping. 

As the temperature crept upward, the forest–heavily pregnant with new life—began to unleash the energy she had stored over the long winter. In two short weeks the sparse smattering of dark evergreen were joined by the lighter, brighter greens of the new season.  

Winter seemed to leapfrog straight over spring into summer.  

At David’s side we learned that it’s not rocket science, it’s a thousand small things done well.  When I remember Lise, one word will predominate: ‘nurture.’ 

Together they taught us that you can dream as big as you want once you have your feet on the ground and your hands in the soil.  

But the main reason we love the Abazs so much is because they remember to lie on the ground together to watch the clouds go by. 

Thomas falls captive to Wendell Berry (thanks John Strand
and Katie Sherman for the introduction to Berry and to the Abazs!)

By Thomas, for Julie.

May 2014

We only suffer one day of black flies at the farm (lucky timing),
but we're awfully grateful for our face-nets which helped us plant
over 20 apple trees without losing our minds and our blood.

A Theology of Gringo

Part of the challenge of living abroad, making a home in a different place and culture is not merely the outward clashes, but obviously the inward clashes awakened by the surrounding world and experiences.

The following is no doubt a product of the past year and a half of those collisions that have made me need to confess, to judge, to grieve, to celebrate, and mostly to throw up my hands in human weakness, confusion and limitation.  If beauty, love and mystery maintain a the thread of faith in me on one end of the spectrum, the "throwing up my hands" frustratingly does so on the other.  There has to be more than our own limited selves – we can taste that there is.

This is undoubtedly part of what is driving me mad: the disillusionment.  For the most part we ignore it; it's too damn uncomfortable and unpleasant to think on.  Besides, what really can we do?

Speaking generally—maybe stereotypically—about Christians (I pick on them because I know them best, but feel free to insert your team), some read of Jesus and his followers and think: "Wow! how great! let's do it! Go team Jesus!"  Let's give it all!  Let's go all in!  Take all of me, Jesus! You're all I need, Jesus!  I love you more than anything, Jesus!  I'll follow you wherever you go, Jesus!"  Or so the songs go.  

The songs were a common tune sung by an early would-be Jesus follower: "I will follow you wherever you go."  (Oooh, La-la-laa!)   And Jesus said to him, "Foxes have holes, and the birds of the air have nests; but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head."

So I read this idealistic, extremist, frustrating, or (depending on how you interpret it) passionate passage and moments later I realize that all my spiritual companions, and most of my spiritual mentors and heroes are rich.  I hardly know anyone—if anyone at all—who actually lives in or has fully embraced the poverty of our supposed leader.  My Christian brothers and sisters have homes and drive cars; they drink lattes and go on vacations.  They certainly have a somewhere to lay their heads.  We live in the very comfort that Jesus warned the supposed idealist that he would not find at Jesus' side.

Perhaps because his ministry only lasted three years Jesus was able to sustain a degree of homeless wandering and simplicity (though, as we know, the man knew how to party, enjoy a good few glasses of wine and a fine meal. Perhaps—had he in a different time—lattes would also have been mentioned in the scriptures).  For nearly all of us, his example of a wandering "give-it-all" lifestyle is not sustainable.  Or, perhaps more accurately: most of us have no clue if it is or not. How would we know? Proclaiming it in a catchy tune among raised arms, in worship led by the passionate, cute guitarist—is something else.  Because even if we claim Jesus and our faith as the most important thing in our lives, inevitably clutched in the other hand is all the comfort and privilege on which we depend daily.  How can we know if our passion for God is the driving force of our lives when it sits on such a plush setting?

I want to believe the declarations we sing out.  But when I allow my eyes to drift to reality, I see my world of Christian friends and celebrities who eat, sleep and live in relative luxury.  We prioritize our basic comforts (and more-than-comforts); consequently we know next to nothing about the virtue (if it can be called that) of plain, simple poverty, which Jesus seemed to value in and of itself (see Luke 1:52-53, 4:18-19, 16:19-31, Matt 5:3-6, Prov 22:22-23, among many others).  Because of our privilege we coddle a disability in understanding the gospel.  In our inability to release our material wealth, social standing and ethnic power, do we augment that disability tenfold?

I want so much to qualify our wealth:  "No, it's ok—wealth isn't evil! There are plenty of wealthy people who've been considered men and women of God. It's ok to be wealthy and have power—as long as we don't find our identity there. I'm willing to give up whatever God asks me, but I don't think God is asking me to do that."  Or simply, "I was born into this—what am I supposed to do?"    Maybe all that qualifying carries truth.  But blind spots are called such because they're impossible to see. 

"Luxury" is also a loose term, one that necessarily must be defined in comparison.  One finds luxury of differing varieties in both a well furnished home and a simple, beautiful campsite.  However, compare my home to that of poor Bolivians living in the south of Cochabamba and the distinction is clear. Naturally human beings create comfort. Basic comfort is a part of mere survival, both pure physical and emotional (even psychological and spiritual).  As the research shows there's a huge difference between the happiness and well-being of (an American) earning $5,000/year and one earning $50,000/year, but little difference between that of an American earning $50,000/year and one earning $5,000,000/year.1 Since the beginning of time we weave comfort and beauty into our daily lives.  We build our homes, teepees, adobe huts or cabanas in beautiful locations.  We cut wood, kill animals, harvest cotton and wool to make comfortable places to sit, rest and keep warm.  We heat water and milk and flavor it creatively to warm our bodies—and maybe too our souls.  I write this now on a comfortable couch sitting in front of a crackling fireplace.  After a long, hard week, I believe it's doing me some good.  Call it luxury, call it gringo comfort, call it rest. Call it fire and a place to sit – the oldest things in human civilization. 

In the high Himalayan village of Lamac, a residing British anthropologist asked a young man to show her the poorest home in the village.  The man thought for a moment in silence, and finally replied, "We don't have any poor homes here."  Ten years later, after globalization had pushed its way into the remote village, carrying with it the animal greed bred by images and products of supposed western wealth, comfort and style, the anthropologist heard the same young man begging a tourist, "Please help us here in Lamac—we're so poor."

Born Into Exploitation

On my long descent by land and river from Colombia to Bolivia, my friend and travel companion fell ill in Peru. As a result, I hiked the Cordillera Huayhuash with a Peruvian, a campesino, who (in departure from his military family) had chosen to study tourism. Wilson (who is Quechua, but his name is obviously not) became a professional guide.  The work paid him decently for many years, enabling him to buy rural land, chickens, and build his adobe home.  With recent increased competition and decrease in tourism, the work has dried up.  Without other options to support his family, he is looking to work in the mines. 

Mining.  In South America.  Other than prostitution, I can't think of any worse possible form of earning one's keep.  I cringed when Wilson told me. "What else can I do?" he said, "así es la vida."  Like prostitution, mining in the Andes is often communal poison, much like it was in 1840s San Francisco.  Greedy, desperate people create a makeshift town to support the illegal mining of gold, poisoning their rivers and themselves.  Or, the Chinese, the Americans or the Canadians enter legally; they underpay campesinos for 20 years to bankroll their stocks, and once the tin, the silver, the gold, the copper—the money—dries up, they pull out, leaving behind the chemicalized water and soil, and the spirit of greed they've cultivated so well.  Only now, with nothing to fill greed's unremitting hunger, the community turns on itself.

On a recent detour around blockades I was forced to pass through a remote Bolivian mining town.  We arrived and felt an almost palpable evil:  something predatory, animalistic.  These towns are not safe, especially for women—more horrid for children.  But they successfully extract what humans have (almost arbitrarily) decided is one of the world's greatest treasures from the earth, which in turn means money, money, money.  Eventually the minerals pass from the hands of the poor to the hands, teeth, necks, earlobes, fingers and homes of the rich.  We smile and swoon, naively pleased with our possession. 

Wilson objects to mining in every respect. As a lover of nature and a man proud of his Quechua heritage, he has no desire to "sell out" to the foreigners who don't give a damn about the land and people he calls home.  He is a smart man, compassionate, ethical, devoted and skilled in his work. But to the mines he will go; what other option does he have?

Wilson isn't naive about the unequal reality of our world, the way exploitation enables people like me to buy copper, tomatoes, coffee, batteries, gasoline, bananas, clothes, diamonds, weapons, tires, pharmaceuticals— nearly every thing—at affordable prices, so that we can invest our money where it matters most: our schools, our homes, our health, our education, our safety, our infrastructure, our homeland security, our economy, our military, our happiness, our excellence.  Nor is Wilson unrealistic about human willingness to give up privilege for the sake of those who suffer.  Yes, I know it's not good for the environment.  Yes, I know the company exploits people. But how much harm will one more Coca-Cola, one more iPhone, one more t-shirt, one more gallon of gas really do?  We are consumer-prisoners, as Wilson will become prisoner to the centuries-long tradition of mining in South America.

Blind Leading the Blind

Can we, being part of the top 10% wealthiest in the world, be trusted?  How does our dependence on wealth color our self-assessment and judgment?  Regardless of how earnestly wealthy Christians try to be directed by the Holy Spirit of God, we've all still got our goods—not to mention our social standing, class, gender and ethnic power.  We remain comfortably perched above global exploitation.  Is that just "the path" Jesus has called us lucky ones down? Or have we neglected something in the "I'll follow you wherever you go" tune?

The truth is that my friends and I will maintain our comfort probably our entire lives.  I am coming to accept selling the gospel short in this respect: there is a simplicity and dependency and humility that I will likely never know.  God forgive me.

Knowing what we do about Jesus' social and class standing, it is difficult to trust an American Church that is run by a wealthy, privileged class—what could they possibly have in common with Jesus?  The question of faith in the real world is not merely "Does God exist and can He/She be trusted and loved?" but, "Who—claiming to speak for God—can possibly be trusted?"

I continue to be troubled by this question on a continent where the dominating Christian influences are either an American-brand Evangelicalism or Catholicism.  Latino Evangelicals sing emotive American songs and read The Purpose Driven Life, (a book written by a rich American, pastor of a rich, white, ruling-class church).  The largest Christian influence in Latin America of course is Catholicism—still laced with the colonialism that raped and manipulated the continent.  The Catholic institution maintains its affair with the ruling classes and (often) corrupt powers that be. This is a church that put to death a movement birthed within its own Latino community which (finally) acknowledged the endemic oppression within their society, courageously spoke about it and (more importantly) acted to change it.  In my own Christian university, the movement of Liberation Theology was pooh-poohed as a religious offshoot that had lost its spiritual soul in favor of social and material action.  But are not social and material action the actual expression of theology?

Teaching on how the hearts of women and men will be evaluated, Jesus welcomes into his home those who have welcomed others: "Come, you that are blessed by my Father, inherit the kingdom prepared for you from the foundation of the world; for I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you gave me clothing, I was sick and you took care of me, I was in prison and you visited me."

In many American churches and seminaries, the verdict would sound more like: Yes, you gave food to the hungry, also something warm to drink, a coat, company, a bed, service and care ...which is all well and good...but, you know, you seem to have lost your theological center.

In what I've read and know of Jesus, he seems rather uninterested by theology, except when it is tied to action and new life.  One of the most theological conversations Jesus has (with a Pharisee, a religious teacher who comes to seek Jesus in the middle of the night for theological clarification) ends as such:  But those who do what is true come to the light, so that it may be clearly seen that their deeds have been done in God. 2

Though Jesus critiques the Pharisee for his lack of faith and understanding, he concludes compassionately with the most important points:  that God loved the world enough to give up his Son, so that ultimately those who believe in Him and do what is true will come into God's light.3  Action is their theology.  As it was for countless nuns and priests of the Liberation Theology movement who were murdered or expelled by the very church proclaiming to uphold the life, vision and mission of Christ.  Those Jesus rejects in the "Judgment of the Sheep and the Goats"4 presumably had very good and orthodox theology—in fact, they were certain they did.  Yet Jesus found them empty; there was nothing in them that he knew.

I presume we quiet and pooh-pooh Liberation Theology because it's embarrassing to us, because it accuses us.  It shows us that the theology we claim to follow was practiced by those that our government, churches and institutions murdered or silenced.  It exposes our theological life to be one of ideas, doctrines and opinions—not one of living practice and suffering.  I won't say that Liberation Theology is superior to any other gospel being preached.  Like all, it has its shortsightedness, especially as—in its popularized form—it emphasized pure social and economic revolution, even violent revolution, as what interested God most.  Jesus was inescapably political, but the liberation from oppression and suffering that he preached was broader than relationship to the State.  In fact, Jesus was the disappointment of many Jewish expectations because he was not the warrior social liberator they wanted.  His political action was one of overthrow by suffering, not by assuming power. 

Despite whatever shortsightedness, Liberation Theology at least sincerely acknowledges the warped material reality in which we live and insists that it matters.  After a year a half in Bolivia my soul is parched for such sincerity, even as I still treat it as an academic or theological subject: naturally, I'm cognitively tortured by how messed up the world is (but I still ignore children begging on the street because they make me confused and uncomfortable). 

Luck would have that my current boss is an ex-priest.  He was expelled from the Catholic Church due to his involvement with the political left.  He kept his life, but went into hiding after his expulsion—during which time he wrote his first book (he has since authored several others, mostly history texts, and is a well-respected historian throughout Bolivia).  After learning of my theological background and interest, he signed and gifted me a copy of De Nazaret a Ñanchahuazú (From Nazareth to Ñancahuazú, Ñancahuazú being the death place of Che Guevara).  Reading my boss' book on Liberation Theology has been a balm—it is a voice admitting that the surrounding social reality has profound spiritual implications.  To me, the book is a relief from the illusion. It is honest about the slim chances we have at "slipping through the eye of the needle" as a herd of big wealthy camels. At least we're not completely ignoring reality, even if we still lack the courage and power to change it.  

Class Clash

My struggle is not just being troubled by the 'have and have-nots' in the world, but ultimately my identification with the haves. When I do not have enough money for a fancy $6 dinner (it's Bolivia), for organic coffee for the week, or the $30 to go on a trip with my friends, it makes me sad, embarrassed or angry.  Going without is not a muscle I know how to flex very well, at least not over the long-term.

My first year out of college I made over $20,000.  Living in San Francisco, I bowed to a corporate job while I'll kick-started my acting career and began "adult life."  Since then, my income has steadily declined.  I haven't broken the 20K mark since. Every tax season, my jaw drops:  "Seriously? I survived on that for an entire year? But I didn't feel poor..."

I've definitely shed my share of tears wondering how next month's rent would get paid or how on earth I would get myself to a desperately needed doctor's appointment.  I've kicked myself for going out to dinner when I knew I couldn't really afford it.  But I was a single, childless, American artist, with no outstanding debt, nor a mortgage—how bad could it be? I always found the cash to go out for beers, to buy myself new (or hipster used) clothes, the occasional latte and airfare.  Despite my "technical" classification of lower-middle class, I lived well.  I told myself that really I lived quite simply:  I biked to work, I grew some of my own vegetables, I always washed and re-used ziploc bags. I mean, heck—I was poor enough to receive socialized state healthcare—I must really be on Jesus' side! 

Now, caught between the 1st and 3rd world, I realize:  I can't do it.  I want the standard of living to which I am accustomed.  I want to buy good healthy food every week (and coffee and chocolate.) I want to have nice cookware and hang pretty textiles on the wall.  I want to take fun trips and go out for a glass of wine.  Living now on a Bolivian $200/month salary doesn't appease me.  I hate my financial limitations—especially when I find myself among higher-earning friends who don't worry about whether or not they can afford that cup of coffee or that lunch out. One look at my hair, eyes and skin, taxi drivers and fruit-sellers assume I can pay a little more. I'm a gringa, pues!  But I've spent the past months counting my pennies (well, Bolivianos), caught between my gringa self and my non-gringa income.

So after a few months of this, I'm giving up. I want to live like the gringa I am. The extra $100/month I can borrow from mommy and daddy, and can pay back after a handful of hours work in the States, so why not! "Live it up! I deserve it!" My Bolivian colleagues, of course, don't have that option.  But they do have families to support on their single $200/month income.

Could God be asking me to live more within my means?  Since I haven't heard any audible voice calling me to such sacrifice, why not follow the whim of my wants? Or, can we say that "my means" include the lucky means to easily borrow and repay?  Is it a false identification to live (for a brief moment) on a Bolivian salary "identifying" with the plight of lower-middle class Bolivians? Or just gringo bull?  I will never have a 3rd world perspective. I've already spent too much money in my lifetime to make that possible.

As a spiritual people, just how much "incarnation" do we do?  How far should a person of faith go to identify with the pueblo that God loves?  And if I'm not a missionary—but rather just a gringo that happens to live in a developing country–do I please get a "pass" from that call? 

Not that being a Christian missionary indicates any identification with the poor. Though 1 in 6 people worldwide live in slums, only about 1 in 600 Christians do.5  Learning this statistic sadly came as little surprise to me for various reasons:

One: the missionaries I know in Bolivia have plenty of money.  The big Evangelical school in Cochabamba is, if not the most expensive, one of the priciest schools in town. It's full of children of rich politicians, the area's biggest businessmen, and...missionary kids. (As such, it also has quite the reputation for drinking and marijuana use).  How can Christians seeking to be a witness for Christ in Bolivia so starkly separate themselves from the poor by making access to their privileged school impossible for 98% of the population? 

Two:  Searching for a home to rent in Cochabamba last September, I dipped down below the "Blanco Galindo line" where the rents on the whole are a bit cheaper.  An afternoon bike ride around the neighborhood and I felt my insides collapse—I couldn't do it.  I need green space.  I need...just a little more wealth, a little more gringo-ness.  I know most Cochabambinos live in browner parts of the city, but I don't want to join them.  I want green trees and parks and a safer, prettier biking/running neighborhood.  Let someone else be incarnate to the lower middle classes; I want to be happy.

So in this admission of my own "gringality," my disillusion with both myself and my fellow Christians . . . now what? 

I could invite the love of God to wash over me, allowing God to mold and shape me as God pleases, including a loosened grip on my comforts. Not my will, but thine, my Beloved.  But honestly, I'm more concerned with minimizing my awareness of my privilege.  I don't only want to live with my comforts; I want to limit my thoughts about everyone who isn't as lucky as me.  (I am counting on you, USA, to help put the blinders on while I'm stateside for three months this autumn!)  Obviously a bit of privilege awareness is ok—I am afterall a progressive, hip, world-traveling Christian! Just not too much—not enough to convict me to change.

On one level, it's freeing to admit this.  This is my state and probably the unspoken state of most of us. This is where I/we say "God, don't ask too much–I want most of all to be happy."  On the other hand, I feel myself severing a spiritual world that some few have entered—one of making the Great Mystery the center and source of joy.  I am no doubt limiting God by calibrating the control this Great Creative Love has over my life.

So what does that make me? A typical Christian or 'spiritual person' like any old sinner-spiritual person throughout the ages? Or does it make me tepid—therefore worthy of being "spit out" of God's mouth?6  But if I'm going to be a half-assed Christian, is it worth being Christian at all?

Since my passage into a more spiritually conscious life I've never been particularly deluded about the realities of Christianity and the church. I studied Church History for goodness sake.  Somehow I managed over the years to both love and hate this dysfunctional family the church, which I nonetheless call home.  But something has worn thin this year. Perhaps it is the spiritual energy of South America, the spiritual loneliness I feel as a foreigner, or simply enough years of tiredly putting up with the church's (and my own) hypocrisy.  I'm running out of gas; it takes a lot of energy to care.

In the compelling play Episode One (formerly The Sense of What Should Be) by my former partner, the audience watches Reverend Stanley's demise as he, unable to accept his own spiritual limits (or brokenness, sinfulness, failures, we might call them), simply gives up the struggle.  He assumes that if he's going to be even mildly hypocritical in his spiritual life, why attempt at all?  He leaves his wife and family for a teenage girlfriend and takes up a life of crime and destruction. 

So, that's one option.

Or, I continue to live in my hypocrisy, and accept my state of imperfection, of limitation, of "sinfulness." And because of the supposed love of God, which is grander than all limitations and brokenness, I decide to be ok with the mess, even with my repetitive half-assed-ness. That's another option.

Since the full-on life of crime and destruction doesn't really light my fire, I'm leaning toward option two.  But if I choose it, just how much can I "let slide" in myself? in my spiritual community?  Can I, can the spiritual community, continue to make steps toward the Great Creative Love when we know so much remains unrelentingly clutched in the other hand?

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1 The documentary film Happy

2 New Testament, John chapter 3

3 New Testament, John, chapter 3

4 New Testament, Matthew chapter 25

5 ¹ Christianity in its Global Context, 1970–2020: Society, Religion, and Mission. A report by the Center for the Study of Global Christianity, Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary.  http://wwwgordonconwell.com/netcommunity/CSGCResources/ChristianityinitsGlobalContext.pdf

6 New Testament book of Revelation, chapter 3:15-17.