Few things honor me more than my relationship with the men and women of Team Arequipa. I love these people, and they are my family. It is a bit misleading, however, to have my blog under their domain name, as I am no longer one of the field workers of Team Arequipa. Therefore, my blog has roosted in a new nest:

Halcyon Flies

Everything's under construction, so forgive the mess and broken-ness for a bit.

Cheers,
b

There is a reason that I have been putting off writing the final installment of my Peru series. We as a family have had to take a step back, take everything into consideration, and make a decision as to whether or not moving to Peru as full-time missionaries is the best direction for us right now. For various personal reasons we have come to the conclusion that the best way to honor God, ourselves, and the mission team is to back off and say "not now." Eralda will be the first to tell you that changing my mind about anything is like turning an oil tanker around with a popsicle stick rudder. Nonetheless, the tanker is turned, and now we must set a new course, which is mostly terrifying.

That being said, I left my last question hanging: "Why in the world would we evangelize among a predominantly Catholic society?" The first answer you will hear from most protestant missionaries is "because the vast majority of the Catholics in Peru are only nominally Catholic." This is a good answer. After all, Paul, the quintessential missionary, was all about bringing people to maturity in Christ.

I would like to offer, however, some additional answers to that question. When George W. Bush sold the Iraq war by claiming we were bringing Democracy to the Middle East, on some level (whether we wanted to admit it or not), something about that idea was appealing. What's so bad about handing control of the Iraqi government over to the Iraqi people? Going into whether or not those were actually the intentions of the Bush administration when we invaded Iraq is beyond the scope of this post, as is going into why we are failing at bringing Democracy to the Middle East. The point is, at some level, it felt right. It felt like we were liberating oppressed people. It felt like we were offering the Iraqi people a chance to take control over their own destiny.

That same sentiment lies behind my reasons for wanting to evangelize in Peru. Off to a pretty bad start, eh? I mean, I just compared evangelizing in Peru to the Iraq war. Step back for a moment, however, and ask this question: can you divorce the idea of being a liberator from the idea of being imperialistic? I think you can. It's tricky though.

Not Replacing One Dictator for Another
You can start by being willing to let what happens as a result of your "liberating" happen organically, within the context of the place you are doing the liberating. To help explain this, I will employ a classic missiological analogy. Imagine the idea of "church" and all it entails to the Bible Belt South as a plant. Now imagine uprooting this plant, roots and all, and then plopping it down on foreign soil, hoping it will spread other plants just like it. This represents the imperialistic approach to missions. Now, set what I just described against the idea of taking a seed (the Gospel, without any preconceptions of "church") and planting in on foreign soil, allowing it to grow into something entirely unique and independent. Something appropriate for the context in which it finds itself.

Only Liberating Those Who Want to be Liberated
You must also think very tactfully about how you are going to go about presenting this seed. Are you going to manipulate people? Are you going to short-circuit their freedom of choice by presenting their current religion in a despicable light, and then presenting your own as the exclusive means by which to attain salvation? If so, then in my opinion you are not only taking advantage of people and brainwashing them, but you are also short-changing the Gospel's power to attract people on its own, without your sheisty car salesman tricks. The Gospel doesn't need to be pedaled like snake oil. If you are representing the Gospel in your life and being sincere enough about your love for your neighbor by being deeply involved in their lives, people will be drawn to you. It will be impossible for them to rub up against you in the milieu of daily life and not catch a whiff of that Aroma of Christ.

If I haven't convinced you that you can be a liberator without being imperialistic, then assume for the sake of argument that this is possible. The next question is, do the people of Peru need liberating? The answer to that question is equally tricky.

Peruvians Have Been Historically Oppressed
To the extent that you can judge these things with statistics, the vast majority of Peruvians are only culturally Catholic (nominal) and belong to a low social class (way below poverty level) which has historically made them vulnerable to political oppression and economic extortion.

Politically
For example, when election time rolls around, the best thing a political party can do for itself is go into a poor neighborhood and promise roads, infrastructure, etc. They then show up on election day with buses and cajole every living being in proximity to hop onboard for a ride to the nearest polling booth. Then, once the results are in, that neighborhood will be unlikely to receive diddly squat. The Catholic church, claiming 90% of the population of Peru as its constituents, is a formidable political force in itself. While I would greatly hesitate to say that the Catholic church has sought the oppression of the poor, it certainly hasn't done much in the 500 years it has culturally dominated Latin America to improve their situation (with the exception of the Liberation Theologists, who were mostly censured by the Vatican).

And Economically
Economically speaking, the government appears to be content to let the rich get richer and the poor get poorer. What sticks in my craw, however, is the idea that one's petitions before God might be better received if a candle is purchased first. One might be protected by a saint if he or she would buy a statuette of St. Christopher for their car. Even their "pagan" religions are mediated through the purchasing of objects.

Between Peruvians and God
So what is the end effect of this? Standing between the average Peruvian and God are sacred things that must be purchased, particular votes that must be cast. God is just another fee to pay. Whatever happened to "come to me all ye who are burdened and heavy laden, for I will give you rest?"

What Liberation Looks Like
What if instead of a corrupt political figure swooping in to win their hearts, the embodiment of love, sacrifice, and "good news for the poor" became incarnate among them, becoming the hero they desperately need? No longer needing to be mediated through the Catholic church or political parties, they are on a level playing field with the rest of humanity. What if instead of spending their money on candles and desiccated llama fetuses, they pooled together their resources to help each other directly? No longer needing to pay the God fee, their prayers are just as valuable as those belonging to the richest Peruvian.

Earlier I asked the question "what does a gringo have to do with the urbanization of southern Peru?" And before I answer that question, I'd like to show some ways in which lower class Peruvians have gone about helping themselves without the gold and golden intentions of foreigners.



In order to save money on food, the wives of an entire community will go into the city and knock on the doors of rich people asking for any leftover groceries. With these groceries, they make enough food for the entire community for one day, selling each meal to themselves for 30 cents. With the money collected for the meals, they go into the market and buy food for the next day, and continue this indefinitely, thereby setting up a communal kitchen.



For the week that a certain group of wives do the cooking, their families do not have to pay for the meals, and each week the cooking duty rotates to a new set of wives, and they keep track of this with a kitchen roster.



Another way in which the Peruvians are helping themselves is through what's called a "Wawa Wasi," which in Quetchua means "Child House."



Inside a Wawa Wasi you will have one woman



watching over the kids of the community while their parents go to work.



Lastly, Peruvians help themselves by taking advantage of the fact that thousands of gringos pour into their cities on the way to Machu Picchu or some other local attraction. They all have family back home, and they all feel obligated to buy little trinkets to affirm how much of a world traveler they are.



So aside from buying trinkets, how can gringos help? The answer to this question is complicated. To begin with, I'd like to make a distinction between two different kinds of "help." The first is relief, which is the most common kind of help foreigners like to give. This comes in the form of money, clothing, food, medical treatment, etc. For a rich gringo with more souvenir money in their pocket than what a lower class Peruvian makes in a month, it only makes sense that this kind of help should occur. Ultimately, however, relief is like a temporary bandaid placed on a festering wound. The second and much more rare form of help is development, which is an attempt at dealing with problems more systemically. The Peace Corps, for instance, tries to focus almost entirely on this form of help. It is rare because it requires a large investment of time. It takes the form of education (like sex education in AIDS-torn Africa), training (like showing Peruvians how to purify their water by leaving a bottle of water in the sun all day), microfinancing, etc. Development is the kind of help we would be interested in. One idea we had was to set up a kind of standard for trinket stores so that the customer can be assured that a percentage of the profit is going toward microfinancing. With these finances, we hope to empower Peruvians to open more communal kitchens and Wawa Wasis. We are open to more ideas.

My next post will be about evangelism. Why in the world would we evangelize among a predominantly Catholic society?

It's difficult to explain to someone why you would want to move your family to a foreign country. Especially when you drop the m-bomb (missionary). I wonder what goes on in their head. Do they think I'm a Western Imperialist trying to plant a Republican colony in foreign soil? Who knows. Over the next week or so, I'll be writing some posts and including some pictures in an attempt to explain why it is we are considering moving to Peru to do mission work.



In the Andes it is high and it is cold. The human body is not accustomed to this environment, and so the tourists are advised to chew Coca leaves or eat Coca candy.



I hope I don't have to take any drug tests soon. If breathing in the Andes is hard, making a living is apparently close to impossible. For this reason, the ancestors of the Incas move to the cities. Arequipa is one of these cities.



The reason why Arequipa, Peru is called "The White City" is contested. Maybe it's because the city's most prominent architecture is made out of white volcanic rock.



Others claim that a colonial era census revealed the city to be populated mostly by white Europeans. Either way, the name tells the same story of oppression. Either way, this man, a warrior of the highlands in another life, hews giant volcanic stones from a cliff face with a car axel.



He does this all day, and if he works efficiently, he can make ten of these blocks which will sell for 30 cents a piece. That's three dollars a day when the price is right. When he has time, he will find a piece of land and build a short stone wall.



The purpose of this wall is to claim the patch of dirt it encloses as his own. Over the years, he might take some of the blocks he makes and build a house.



It is estimated that 45% of the people of Arequipa (a city of well over a million people) live like this. This house will be his life's work. He will proudly leave it to his children when he dies. If his children can afford it, they will rent his body a burial plot. The rent is up in 25 years, so if they don't pay up, his body will be exhumed and cremated.



His children will band together with their neighbors and begin petitioning the government to recognize their patch of dirt as a legitimate neighborhood. The city might do this, and might begin offering their neighborhood services like electricity and telephone. If they dig their own ditches, the government might even lay pipe for water.



After another generation or two, this neighborhood might transform into something different.



So what does a gringo like me have to do with the urbanization of southern Peru? Stay tuned to find out...

Any of you folks need any web design work done? I can program custom applications as well. I've got some time on my hands now, and I'd like to take a couple of private contracting jobs to keep me busy.

Women have served all these centuries as looking-glasses possessing the magic and delicious power of reflecting the figure of man at twice its natural size. Without that power probably the earth would still be swamp and jungle.

The glories of all our wars would be unknown. We should still be scratching the outlines of deer on the remains of mutton bones and bartering flints for sheepskins or whatever simple ornament to our unsophisticated taste. Supermen and Fingers of Destiny would have never existed. The Czar and the Kaiser would never have worn crowns or lost them. Whatever may be their use in civilized societies, mirrors are essential to all violent and heroic action. That is why Napoleon and Mussolini both insist so emphatically upon the inferiority of women, for if they were not inferior, they would cease to enlarge. That serves to explain in part the necessity that women so often are to men. And it serves to explain how restless they are under her criticism; how impossible it is for her to say to the this book is bad, this picture is feeble, or whatever it may be, without giving far more pain and rousing far more anger than a man would do who gave the same criticism.

For if she begins to tell the truth, the figure in the looking-glass shrinks, his fitness for life is diminished. How is he to go on giving judgment, civilizing natives, making laws, writing books, dressing up and speechifying at banquets, unless he can see himself at breakfast and at dinner at least twice the size he really is?

--Virginia Woolf

Happy anniversary honey -- thanks for enlarging me :)

it's on the tv. it's a sack and it's floating, caught up on a draft of air. through tinny speakers music plays and you're caught up too. the camera zooms. it's just this plastic sack and some bricks behind it. you pause the movie. the sack holds still, suspended in dead frame. the lack of music is punctuated by the hum of your refrigerator. it's out of context. it doesn't work. it's just a sack.





you feel scared, like it's the music or the way the sack was moving that brought you beauty. you are terrified that beauty depends on violin strings and camera angles. you want to be those things. to stare at the bag and have your mind make it dance, to squeeze a symphony from the synapses. but your head is dry. the fridge is humming. ice crashes in your freezer because a machine is making it.

you walk to your kitchen. your fingers stick to the ice cubes and they clank in the glass. the water you pour inside tastes like metal. you sit down. stare at the glass of the tv. in your head you stare past the glass. see the vacuum tube and the diodes and the circuit board. you follow the cable to the dvd player and worm your way to the disc, to the laser shining on the disc. you become the laser and read the ones and zeros. you decode them. you make the sack dance. you make the music sing.

to your surprise the disc continues well past the movie. the disc has entered the realm of metaphysics, and you watch as the ones and zeros tell you terrible secrets. you want to stop watching, but you are the laser, the unblinking eye, the perceiver of beauty. the disc takes you to the end of time. you watch as the final things are said, and the last light winks out.

it's just you now. the laser. watching for beauty. seeing nothing at all.

Don't want to take time to address your relationship issues? Comfortable being a masogynist jerk? Want to have your cake and eat it too? Now there's hope! By slipping this pill into your wife's food, you can make her freakishly thin and amorous, no matter how you treat her! Act now and we'll send you an energy pill that will give her enough energy to raise your children, clean your house, cook all your food, and give you all the special attention you need!

Rasputin stands behind the lectern, thrusting his arms in the air, making obscure metaphysical statements in the drawl of his Czar era Russian. The audience in front of him indulges in the anonymity afforded them by the light, which renders them nothing but silhouettes to his squinting eyes.

His audience is composed of "The Departed," a society of earth-shakers who, as legend has it, have learned the Name of God, have cursed themselves in defiance of Sheol, and have stolen from St. Peter's grasp the Key to Heaven. Each of them, having faked their deaths or simply disappeared, take comfort in the shadows. Their chairman, an inky blackness in the far corner of the room, would be entirely invisible were it not for the cherry of his cigar, which never seems to burn down.

Each of them sits in shadows, and each of them stands in turn to approach the crystal lectern. According to the docket, Moses is slated to speak next and to deliver a speech entitled "The Backside of God."

Rasputin emits a wheezing cough, takes a sip of water, and then commences to sing the Russian imperial anthem in his grainy voice, as is his custom at the end of his speeches. A whooshing sound is heard above the audience's head, and they all look up. What looks like a heavy mace flies cartwheeling through the air, landing forcefully upon Rasputin's head. A fountain of tissue and brain matter shoots up, and then proceeds to fall wetly like chunks of Baklava onto the heads and laps of the audience.

"Charlemagne you horse's ass!" whines a high pitched nasal voice. Rasputin's headless body wanders aimlessly around the stage. "You know you cannot kill him!" The voice is immediately identifiable as belonging to Napoleon Bonaparte, and his shadow is shaking a fist at a shadow behind him. Several other shadows stand and join in raucous protest, and by this time, Rasputin's body has tumbled stump-first off of the stage.

A voice as deep as the ocean booms in laughter, and the all the shadows hush and turn to watch the cigar cherry bounce up and down with each guffaw. The chairman has his laugh, Rasputin flails in vain, and the shadows slowly sit, one by one. None of them make a sound.

soap turd:
miniscule
unusable
half bar
left frothy
to dry
to be looked at
dejectedly
next morning
to be dropped
more often
than actually applied.