I was angsting over this post until a lizard came to see what was taking so long. I pulled myself together; he waddled away with dignity. I finished up with nostalgia for when there were 5 good things about this apartment.
This came out of a conversation with a friend who was facing another disappointment out of many here. She's had victories and joys here as well – don't get me wrong – but her optimistic trust has taken a hit, and I've seen how this has changed her words and perceptions over the past few months. Her easy altruism has been one of the traits I've most admired about her, and to hear that openness change to guarded anger and pain at times has been sad.
“I felt bad for them, helped them out again, and this is like a slap in the face. I just felt so hurt. I was played again – each time I think it will be different, and it's not. I feel so stupid. Why would they do that?”
These are the conversations that locals may never hear or, if they do, may never understand - because while colonialism has made them feel sub-human, aid has made them see foreigners as super-human. So they never understand that while this friend could have been incredibly generous, caring, and loyal for a long, long time, they lost her because of their desperation. And now the relationship is broken and both sides have different reasons why.
“How many times should I trust them? And why should I?”
I believe the cheaters know what they're doing – because they find creative ways to cover it up. Another opinion is that this culture values money and time differently than in the West. The results are the same in the end - cheaters do their best to avoid getting caught out, or some truly do not believe they have done anything wrong in 'redistributing' from foreigners.
On the Western side, there is the superficial anger that foreigners are only worth as much as their bank accounts – a gritting of the teeth to hold back truth, muffled by guilt for a murderous, exploitative past. Deeper than that, there is a hurt, a spiked lump in the throat that a friend may be calculating your use, that you made the wrong choice to help, that you were made to look like an idiot. And then anger below that again – a more dangerous kind because it remains mainly subconscious – an anger that stalks like a ravening lion and remembers the difference between them and us long after you think you've forgiven them.
“So what do you want me to do? You think I should keep being stupid?! Keep handing out money?!”
I hoped she would change. She is not the sort of person to demand control and results, but maybe walking more closely with her colleague to prevent the misuse of money would be her sacrifice to build trust. And theirs would be a measure of their freedom. She understood, but disliked the impression of mistrust and superiority this might entail.
If you feel like you've come out on top, you aren't doing it right. You have to feel like you gave everything up. And it was worth it. And if you aren't ready to learn to walk that walk, then don't give them money, because it makes fools of you both.
This is scary because it means I will have to change, I will have to find a way to connect, even though it may be well out of my skill set or interest. There are no rules, no verses, no stone tablets for this, and it's too much work. I would rather do my part by handing over money, shrug cynically when they can't manage theirs, and get angry when they demand more. I would rather tell them what they have to change to fit our model – they have to learn honesty and integrity, and we'll be less trusting in the future. This is not incarnational, and this is not the way I want to live. Even scientific principles support this view – for every change that I wish to effect, there should be an equal and opposite evolution in me.
And I'm coming to this realisation kicking and screaming. If my life were the Footprints in the Sand story, the past months would be a series of long grooves where Jesus dragged me by one foot while I clawed to stay put. I don't like people. You can't make me give them chances. You can't make me love them. You gave me Rules - I'm just trying to follow them. Don't you understand that this is for love of you?!
“But how will that change anything?! Micromanaging one person won't make a difference!”
I hate this statement more than any other. It denies the power and worth of any single human being created in the image of God. As though we are nothing but a hive mind – powerless but for our adherence to our roles and useless in singularity. It also allows us to write off one person in favour of another because of their jobs, their skin colours, their pasts, or their cultures.
Change cannot be guaranteed by the scores of people who listen to and agree with your 10-Step Method to Life. I think it is measured by that one utterly forgettable person whom you made to feel worthwhile and dignified one day because they may act the same way to others the next. It is measured by the level of anger in your voice when you talk about trust and relationships, because this will affect the way you trust and relate to others in the future. It is remembering that in giving a traitor, a liar, a thief another chance, you are availing yourself of the grace at the foot of the cross and inviting others to kneel with you. That's change I can count on.
That's why the 'making a difference' lie has to be unpacked until we remember that one person is enough. She's worth the effort you're making. He deserves your time. You owe it to yourself to be a person of integrity with the generosity, care, and loyalty that you have cultivated to adulthood. To deny the Spirit of God in you, in them, is to deny your own brothers grace, to deny them the salvation of which you are not a keeper.
Anyone can hurt you - even your best friend, even your father. I suppose this awareness makes me more wary of others. I don't mind; I am also less disappointed, or I get over my disappointment faster than idealists. So in one sense, I feel as though I am standing on a precipice, looking down at a fall so deep that I could never survive, that my faith could never survive. How can I believe in the law of the Bible and yet love sinners over and over again? How can I have faith in the one God and truth and seek after the Holy Spirit and trust sinners who continue in their sin? At the same time, if no one is acceptable under the law, how can anyone enter the kingdom of God? Right: Jesus. And if Jesus died for me when I hated him, when I still hate him in my actions and thoughts, how can I prevent other sinners from entering his grace? When did I add that to the job description of a disciple?
Grandpa wrote a book about this sort of love – I didn't want to read it. Everyone should read it. I hate it. I need it. The Pharisee in me cries out against the acceptance of culture and practices that I find inferior. And yet I have seen that love covers all that sin and shows a new way, a new thing, a river in the desert. I don't want to see that this way feels more right than the way I have lived my life for twenty-eight years (okay, maybe I was optimistic for the first six or seven).
Because it means I will have to change my words, my perceptions, my narrative. In psychology, we call that therapy, and I'm not supposed to need it.
Faith is our walk in this desert. To love and hate family at the same time, to know that you are a sinner and that you are also saved, to be of flesh and die to it to have eternal life, to be in the world and not of the world. Do you know how impossible this feels sometimes? I'm not saying that if I weren't a Christian, I'd be a mass murderer, but how can you not see that the overwhelming darkness of this world is so much greater than the light? In a recent discussion with a friend, she wondered if spirituality was just our desperate search for a higher power, a greater meaning when none may exist. I find this hard to believe. It's so much, so much, easier to believe that there is no God. If it were possible, I think I would rather believe this than having known God, seeing Him in others, and yet watching them hurt themselves and each other over and over again. Because it hurts me every time. But I can't. I'm stuck in this middle ground – the darkest – knowing that the Light of the world is there with me.
Psalm 23 means something different in this Light. The valley of the shadow of death is life. All of it. The birth of your daughter, the death of your grandmother; the fissure of your church, your marriage to the love of your life. This is the valley; we walk in it all the time, and the threat of death is always there – a physical one from Adam, and a spiritual one that we can choose for ourselves. I'm starting to believe the latter can come from hard questions and harder answers. Its opposite is a soft heart and softer grace.
On one side is that terrible angel. And on the other, a Lamb.
This came out of a conversation with a friend who was facing another disappointment out of many here. She's had victories and joys here as well – don't get me wrong – but her optimistic trust has taken a hit, and I've seen how this has changed her words and perceptions over the past few months. Her easy altruism has been one of the traits I've most admired about her, and to hear that openness change to guarded anger and pain at times has been sad.
“I felt bad for them, helped them out again, and this is like a slap in the face. I just felt so hurt. I was played again – each time I think it will be different, and it's not. I feel so stupid. Why would they do that?”
These are the conversations that locals may never hear or, if they do, may never understand - because while colonialism has made them feel sub-human, aid has made them see foreigners as super-human. So they never understand that while this friend could have been incredibly generous, caring, and loyal for a long, long time, they lost her because of their desperation. And now the relationship is broken and both sides have different reasons why.
“How many times should I trust them? And why should I?”
I believe the cheaters know what they're doing – because they find creative ways to cover it up. Another opinion is that this culture values money and time differently than in the West. The results are the same in the end - cheaters do their best to avoid getting caught out, or some truly do not believe they have done anything wrong in 'redistributing' from foreigners.
On the Western side, there is the superficial anger that foreigners are only worth as much as their bank accounts – a gritting of the teeth to hold back truth, muffled by guilt for a murderous, exploitative past. Deeper than that, there is a hurt, a spiked lump in the throat that a friend may be calculating your use, that you made the wrong choice to help, that you were made to look like an idiot. And then anger below that again – a more dangerous kind because it remains mainly subconscious – an anger that stalks like a ravening lion and remembers the difference between them and us long after you think you've forgiven them.
“So what do you want me to do? You think I should keep being stupid?! Keep handing out money?!”
I hoped she would change. She is not the sort of person to demand control and results, but maybe walking more closely with her colleague to prevent the misuse of money would be her sacrifice to build trust. And theirs would be a measure of their freedom. She understood, but disliked the impression of mistrust and superiority this might entail.
If you feel like you've come out on top, you aren't doing it right. You have to feel like you gave everything up. And it was worth it. And if you aren't ready to learn to walk that walk, then don't give them money, because it makes fools of you both.
This is scary because it means I will have to change, I will have to find a way to connect, even though it may be well out of my skill set or interest. There are no rules, no verses, no stone tablets for this, and it's too much work. I would rather do my part by handing over money, shrug cynically when they can't manage theirs, and get angry when they demand more. I would rather tell them what they have to change to fit our model – they have to learn honesty and integrity, and we'll be less trusting in the future. This is not incarnational, and this is not the way I want to live. Even scientific principles support this view – for every change that I wish to effect, there should be an equal and opposite evolution in me.
And I'm coming to this realisation kicking and screaming. If my life were the Footprints in the Sand story, the past months would be a series of long grooves where Jesus dragged me by one foot while I clawed to stay put. I don't like people. You can't make me give them chances. You can't make me love them. You gave me Rules - I'm just trying to follow them. Don't you understand that this is for love of you?!
“But how will that change anything?! Micromanaging one person won't make a difference!”
I hate this statement more than any other. It denies the power and worth of any single human being created in the image of God. As though we are nothing but a hive mind – powerless but for our adherence to our roles and useless in singularity. It also allows us to write off one person in favour of another because of their jobs, their skin colours, their pasts, or their cultures.
Change cannot be guaranteed by the scores of people who listen to and agree with your 10-Step Method to Life. I think it is measured by that one utterly forgettable person whom you made to feel worthwhile and dignified one day because they may act the same way to others the next. It is measured by the level of anger in your voice when you talk about trust and relationships, because this will affect the way you trust and relate to others in the future. It is remembering that in giving a traitor, a liar, a thief another chance, you are availing yourself of the grace at the foot of the cross and inviting others to kneel with you. That's change I can count on.
That's why the 'making a difference' lie has to be unpacked until we remember that one person is enough. She's worth the effort you're making. He deserves your time. You owe it to yourself to be a person of integrity with the generosity, care, and loyalty that you have cultivated to adulthood. To deny the Spirit of God in you, in them, is to deny your own brothers grace, to deny them the salvation of which you are not a keeper.
Anyone can hurt you - even your best friend, even your father. I suppose this awareness makes me more wary of others. I don't mind; I am also less disappointed, or I get over my disappointment faster than idealists. So in one sense, I feel as though I am standing on a precipice, looking down at a fall so deep that I could never survive, that my faith could never survive. How can I believe in the law of the Bible and yet love sinners over and over again? How can I have faith in the one God and truth and seek after the Holy Spirit and trust sinners who continue in their sin? At the same time, if no one is acceptable under the law, how can anyone enter the kingdom of God? Right: Jesus. And if Jesus died for me when I hated him, when I still hate him in my actions and thoughts, how can I prevent other sinners from entering his grace? When did I add that to the job description of a disciple?
Grandpa wrote a book about this sort of love – I didn't want to read it. Everyone should read it. I hate it. I need it. The Pharisee in me cries out against the acceptance of culture and practices that I find inferior. And yet I have seen that love covers all that sin and shows a new way, a new thing, a river in the desert. I don't want to see that this way feels more right than the way I have lived my life for twenty-eight years (okay, maybe I was optimistic for the first six or seven).
Because it means I will have to change my words, my perceptions, my narrative. In psychology, we call that therapy, and I'm not supposed to need it.
Faith is our walk in this desert. To love and hate family at the same time, to know that you are a sinner and that you are also saved, to be of flesh and die to it to have eternal life, to be in the world and not of the world. Do you know how impossible this feels sometimes? I'm not saying that if I weren't a Christian, I'd be a mass murderer, but how can you not see that the overwhelming darkness of this world is so much greater than the light? In a recent discussion with a friend, she wondered if spirituality was just our desperate search for a higher power, a greater meaning when none may exist. I find this hard to believe. It's so much, so much, easier to believe that there is no God. If it were possible, I think I would rather believe this than having known God, seeing Him in others, and yet watching them hurt themselves and each other over and over again. Because it hurts me every time. But I can't. I'm stuck in this middle ground – the darkest – knowing that the Light of the world is there with me.
Psalm 23 means something different in this Light. The valley of the shadow of death is life. All of it. The birth of your daughter, the death of your grandmother; the fissure of your church, your marriage to the love of your life. This is the valley; we walk in it all the time, and the threat of death is always there – a physical one from Adam, and a spiritual one that we can choose for ourselves. I'm starting to believe the latter can come from hard questions and harder answers. Its opposite is a soft heart and softer grace.
On one side is that terrible angel. And on the other, a Lamb.
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At the risk of sounding desperate - PLEASE WRITE TO ME!