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?
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.
