Congratulations Promoción 2008

Last Saturday evening we celebrated the graduation of eleven SALI students. It’s hard to believe that nearly a year has passed since our last graduation, and that these students (most of them dear friends of mine by now) have finally made it to the end of a very long, challenging process. At the reception afterwards, I found myself talking with Pastor Eduardo about the whole thing. As I look back on the year, I can see so many mistakes, poor decisions, and general chaos that it is truly amazing that we have come to yet another graduation. Pastor Eduardo: “In the moments when we see our own weaknesses and mistakes most clearly, we also see the hand of God most clearly.”

I ask you to join me in praising the Lord for His mercy, His steadfastness, His never ending love and faithfulness. I dedicate this success to Him who made it possible, and entrust these students to Him as they leave our family here at SALI.

What follows is the transcript of the speech I made Saturday evening. Please excuse the Spanish.

Es con una mezcla de gozo y tristeza que me dirijo hacia ustedes en esta tarde. Gozo, por ver el resultado de tanto trabajo y dedicación por parte de ustedes, y tristeza por tener que decirles adiós. Sería una subestimación decir que me he acostumbrado a su presencia en SALI, y no cabe duda en mi mente de que este lugar no será igual sin que ustedes estén aquí. Mes tras mes he tenido el privilegio de verles no solamente progresar en el idioma inglés, sino también de manera personal. Es verdad que el camino que nos llevó a este momento hoy no siempre ha sido fácil. Pero quiero hacerles recordar algo que dijo el apóstol Pablo en su primera carta a los Corintios: “Si, pues, coméis o bebéis o hacéis otra cosa, hacedlo todo para la gloria de Dios.” Siempre ha sido mi deseo que nuestros alumnos vivan para la gloria de Dios. Por eso, yo y sus profesores hemos buscado excelencia en ustedes en todo aspecto de su experiencia en SALI. Es verdad que esa exigencia a veces nos ha llevado a momentos difíciles, pero espero que Dios haya usado los momentos difíciles para ayudarnos a conocernos mejor y fortalecernos también. El mero hecho de que, a pesar de las dificultades, hemos llegado a donde estamos hoy habla mucho de cuán grande es Dios. Yo agradezco a Dios por su infinita sabiduría y providencia en todo este proceso.

Cuando hablo de SALI, siempre menciono con agradecimiento la inversión que hacen nuestros alumnos al comprometerse con el Instituto. Hablo no solamente de su inversión económica (la cual es significativa), ni solamente la inversión de su tiempo (me parece que hacer cualquier cosa fielmente por 28 meses ya es un logro en sí mismo). Sino también hablo de la confianza y buena fe que ustedes han invertido en nosotros, el equipo SALI, en algunos casos por más de dos años. Les agradezco por habernos confiado tanto, y comparto con ustedes la alegría y satisfacción de este momento en que celebramos el logro de haber terminado, con éxito, el 4-Point English Program en SALI.

Ahora, deseo compartir con ustedes qué significa ese logro para mí. Les pregunto si pueden pensar en sus primeros días de clases de inglés. Como alguien que ha tenido la experiencia de empezar el estudio de un nuevo idioma, puedo decir con certeza que para cada uno de ustedes hubo un momento en el que eran, para ser directo, como mudos y sordos en cuanto a este idioma. Ahora, ya no existen los impedimentos que antes existían. Ahora, el mundo bello de Shakespeare y la Biblia King James les está esperando, además de una riqueza de expresión para el compartir de pensamientos, ideas, y sentimientos. Para mí el lenguaje es nada menos que un milagro, y la capacidad de comunicarse con fluidez en idiomas extranjeros es nada menos que un don de Dios. Pienso en los días de Pentecostés, cuando el Espíritu Santo rompió las barreras de comunicación para que el evangelio pudiera llegar a todos, sin importar el idioma que hablaban. En ese momento fue como si la maldición de Babel fuera revocada. Ahora, el aprendizaje de un segundo idioma, como ustedes han logrado, también es una revocación de esa maldición. Ahora, ustedes pueden participar en un mundo más amplio, utilizando los dones y capacidades que Dios les ha dado para trabajar en el campo que El les ha preparado.

Por parte del Instituto, esa experiencia que hemos compartido con ustedes ha sido de gran bendición. Cuando empezamos este viaje, un viaje lleno de premios y obstáculos, cerros y valles, teníamos una meta en mente: que ustedes los alumnos dominaran el idioma inglés. El esfuerzo del equipo SALI ha sido para lograr esta meta, e hicimos todo lo que sabíamos hacer para lograrlo. Pero Dios es tan bueno que no solamente nos concedió esa meta pero nos sorprendió con otra cosa. Resultó que cuando estábamos concentrados en el proceso de enseñarles, experimentamos algo inesperado. Vimos que no sólo los alumnos aprendían, sino que nosotros también aprendíamos. Al momento de dar, también recibíamos. Las lecciones que ustedes nos ayudaron a aprender, en la mayoría de casos sin saberlo, quedarán conmigo y, creo que también con sus profesores, por muchos años. En esto, doy gracias a ustedes por su paciencia y a nuestro Dios por su bondad y provisión.

Pero no hemos venido hoy para hablar sobre el pasado. Al terminar sus estudios en SALI, ustedes tienen un futuro que considerar. Hoy, ustedes recibirán un certificado que oficializa lo que ustedes han logrado. Yo les felicito por ese logro. Ustedes ahora tienen algo que les va a servir mucho en sus vidas. El inglés les abrirá puertas antes solo imaginadas, puertas a un mundo de posibilidades profesionales, académicas y personales. No sé qué planes Dios tiene para la vida de cada uno de ustedes, pero no puedo esperar hasta ver qué rol tendrá ese idioma en sus vidas. Es uno de los mejores placeres poder ver adónde irán nuestros alumnos y qué nuevos retos encontrarán en adelante.

Mientras yo les felicito, y les entrego estos certificados, tengo un deseo más allá de que el conocimiento del inglés les sea útil en sus vidas. Ese deseo es que ustedes, además de dominar este idioma, hayan recibido cosas más perdurables durante su tiempo con nosotros. Espero que ustedes, comparándose con quienes eran cuando empezaron a estudiar en SALI, ahora sean un poco más pacientes, un poco más humildes, un poco más perseverantes, un poco más honestos, y un poco más trabajadores. Espero que, por el poder del Espíritu Santo, y en cuan pequeña sea la medida, les hayamos dado algo más que un idioma.

Politickin’

I am sitting in the hall on the second floor of the APRA headquarters building. There is a voice screaming over the intercom. It sounds like the Hindenburg has crashed, but it is only loud-speaker revolution. The speeches repeat on tracks through the offices lest we forget.

Donald has no intention of forgetting. He is playfully political, and there has been a serious misunderstanding. His speech is like a roman candle, and I can only grasp exploding nuggets of meaning as they fall crashing to the over-waxed floor and splutter there frantically. He wants to offer scholarships in exchange for the favor we have humbly come to curry.

“I can’t make any kind of official connection between the institute and a political party,” I say, leaning into my words in a strained whisper…let there be no mistake.

“It’s not an official connection,” says Donald. “Let me explain,” and the lawyer’s fireworks begin again. I know him well, and punctuate his explanations by punching the air with my open hand.

“Let me finish,” I say. “I won’t risk the ramifications of connecting this ministry with a socialist political party. Think of the consequences, man.” It feels like film noir. I picture a back room crowd of fedoras beneath an ominous cloud of cigar smoke and the soupy light of a single, stained bulb. None of this can be real. Did I really step into the sacred halls of Peru’s most infamous political party? This was the haunt of Victor Raul Haya de la Torre, the same over whose grave an eternal flame flickers in the Miraflores cemetery. This was where everyone was addressed as compañero, which to my suspicious American ears smacked of comrade. On top of everything, the great star-enshrined A emblazoned on the front of the building would have outshone Hester Prynne’s by a mile. My conscience is clear: I should not be here.

In a multitude of words, we find common ground. “We are idiots” says Donald. “We are trying to sacrifice our consciences in exchange for this favor when we should be moving forward in faith. If God is willing to give us this, He will give it to us.” We bow are heads and Donald, whose pentecostal roots run deep, prays…”…Señor mi Dios…Señor mi Dios…Señor mi Dios.” Try as I may, I am distracted. Words without thoughts never to heaven go, and mine stay here with me in the profanely lit hallway with the smell of turpentine and the long-dead politician screeching over the loud-speaker. “We have a right, a right, to these things!” he is saying feverishly. I am afraid the loud-speaker will explode. “Amen,” says Donald.

Moments later we are sitting in her office. They call her the Iron Lady, and she is compact and stately. Behind her an enormous portrait of a man I do not recognize entreats her to remember the Alamo or the Delaware or something else important no one will admit to having forgotten. She hears our case quietly and offers her judgment with gravity. We nod graciously and let ourselves out.

Salute the Iron Lady! Salute the Republic! Salute the Revolution! The Marseilles is playing over the loud speaker now, the words changed to match a philosophy modified slightly from the original liberté, égalité, fraternité. A restless feeling settles around my shoulders as we walk out onto the street. I recognize the old friend at once, ill-ease and indigestion, a bitter taste at the back of my mouth that I want to spit out. It tastes like politics.

Jungle Panorama

Sometimes things catch up with you, tight in the chest and expanding. Things like responsibility and loss. “It looks like Eden,” I said, and watched the river roving through the thick carpet of green that filled the valley and splashed up and over the hills. I was thinking about heaven. The greens would be a little more like emeralds, and the blues a little more like lapis lazuli. A weekend band rocked behind us, and people sat quietly, complacent in paradise. The sights and sounds of yesterday (or was it two days ago or three?) stuck to my brain like the taste of picarones and syrup in my mouth.

Welcome to the jungle, a gold-kissed version of reality that moves as slowly, yet as steadily, as the Rio Mayo below me. Men and women grow joyfully gray and wrinkled beneath the sun, and children sent away to the real world spend their dream-lives trying to get back. They look at concrete walls and see visions of canoe races and bicycling down to the hot springs on breezy, shady nights to slip into the sumptuous steam and perspire like they always have into the clear, scalding water. Coming back, a rare treat, is like watching a parade. Every place and every face is on display for you, a homecoming parade of colors and sensations and tastes.

Raquel wears sun dresses and flip-flops and smiles easily. She sits beside her daughter and her son in the bote as we go up the river. Until now, I have only known her as I have known half a line of Wordsworth, torn from context and displayed against a backdrop of showering sparks and clamoring traffic and a seventh-story apartment next to the supermarket. What lacked was the glorious tree line and the swoop of the kingfisher. What lacked was the whirrr of the mosquitoes and the rocking-chair greetings of old friends not seen for ages. Now she is brilliant only as a woman from the jungle can be, with a shine that comes from within. At lunch she talks half in song, half in human speech, about a swaying bridge over a river on the way to see the waterfalls. “I had all on my back cousin –’s beers, over my shoulder hanging there, and the bridge moving all over…I tell you I knew the Lord wasn’t going to take me home to heaven with those beers on my back. I tell you I prayed like never in my life!” And laughter followed, others talking over her like so many parrots in a carambola tree.

In the market we sip coffee grown, harvested, dried, roasted, brewed all in that selfsame place. The señora blushes as she takes a break from mashing bananas and pork fat into tacacho. She drinks her coffee daintily, then dumps what has spilled into her saucer back into her mug. She begins to gossip about a mutual friend of ours she saw that morning and I am struck dumb with how intimate a thing gossip can be, and can only grin or frown as required. The señora is satisfied to sit on her stool and talk, using words like niño and querido and amor. To me, she is a stranger. To her, I am an ungrateful nephew dropping by to chew the fat (both figuratively and literally, I think, staring at the mass of tacacho in the wooden bowl).

Someone at some point decided we would climb a hill and spend the night on it’s peak. And so, at the beginning of the evening, we find ourselves standing at the foot of the hill strapping things haphazardly to our backs and other extremities. The trees along the path allow for only half glimpses of the vista reaching out underneath us. We see patches of gold and green through the thick leaves and plod, one foot after the other, up the path. Then, we reach the top. A breathless hurrah! and our lungs fill with the sight of a kingdom, complete with steeple church villages and pastures of plenty and more green than St. Patrick’s Day.  Night falls, and a southern sky winks playfully at our bodies stretched out on the rocky surface of the top of the hill. The constellations are all new to me, but I play with them anyway, looking for familiar shapes in the far off reaches of our galaxy. Shooting stars race laughing past us as we soar through space. I am so small, and God is so wondrous.

Sunday School, Fitzgerald, Choir, Piano Lessons

What do these things have in common? They are recent additions to my life.

Sunday School

Ivan came to the Lord in the past few months. Donald is a Piuran with a fiery Pentecostal past. Milton is a young, recent convert who works in our wood shop. Gabriel is a deacon in our church, his wife Maribel a wonderful and wise woman. Calin was baptized as a child in our Wichanzao church. Eduardo and Obal came to know the Lord through our university ministry. I am a young missionary from Florida. We all meet together on Tuesday nights to discuss the book we are reading as a congregation, My Experience with God. Encouragement and enlightenment abounds. I am very thankful for this blessed time.

Fitzgerald

I have formed a reading club with 3 of our conversation students. We are reading The Great Gatsby and meeting on Saturday evenings to talk about the book. After our time last night, John (a father of two from Ecuador) asked me an honest question: How much of this club is for reading the novel and how much is for evangelism? I answered him honestly: 100 percent both. I tried to explain how everything I do must reflect the grace of God in my life and the truth of His gospel. I am struggling with not compromising my calling nor isolating these students. I think John is searching, and I prayed a lot walking back that night.

Choir

I have joined our church’s choir. We meet Saturday afternoons and sing our lungs out in a joy cacophony.  Whatever knowledge we lack, the Spirit is encouraging us to acquire. If we do not all acquire it, at least we will make up for it by genuine enthusiasm. Please pray for us as we grow as a ministry and lead our congregation in worship.

Piano Lessons

Responding to advice I read about living in a foreign country, I’ve decided to do something “normal” and have started piano lessons. I’ve been taking piano for two months now. Last time I met with my teacher, an older woman named Vania, we had an interesting conversation about the differences between the protestant doctrine and that of the Roman church. At the very least, Vania is curious. I hope she is also something more. Please pray for Vania as she ponders her faith and the sinful practices of her church.

On top of all of this, I started writing again this weekend (to those of you who have encouraged me in this pursuit in the past, please know that I treasure your encouragement). I am writing about some of my experiences in Peru over the past years, and writing about them is bringing them all back to life. Some of these memories are tinged with tragedy, some fringed with regret, some warm with nostalgia, and all covered with a thankfulness for God’s protection, sovereignty and grace in my life.  In all the busyness, in all the clutter, this is important for me to remember.

Tears in a Bottle

The weather has shifted for good, it seems; hands cupped around the ceramic warmth of a mug don’t lie. And I, wandering in the middles of May, am glad it has changed. It is true that the sun is more dear, that the clouds (never promising rain) seem stubbornly glued to the sky like a kindergartener’s cotton ball clouds. But in the gloom, I find a kind of solace, a quiet calm that allows me to valiantly resolve with Jane Eyre, that “I [will] not be lachrymose.” The sadness seems only to highlight the mercies of the Lord.

The coffee is brewing aromatically in the kitchen and I am doubled over a red baby with a great deal of shiny black hair. She is sleeping soundly as I rock her chair back and forth. “What’s her full name?” I ask her mother, Lucia, who is washing dishes next to us and talking. Lucia’s voice is quiet, except when punctuated by a not-infrequent rain shower of laughter. “Grace Marie Estephanie Huaccha Villanueva,” she says, the strange names rolling off her tongue not without difficulty. The cherub with the tiny nose wakes and punches at the air with her tiny, mittened fists. “She’s a good baby,” I say. “She only cries when she’s hungry or wet,” agrees Lucia in her cheerful, matter-of-fact way. She sets the last glass in the drainer and dries her hands on the towel. Lucia and her husband Enrique’s first baby, now an energetic, beautiful, charming three-year-old who has more of the imp than the fairy in her, was born in less happy circumstances. I compare those days with these and wonder at God’s grace.

Lenin accomplished (as we say in Spanish) 30 years last week. His birthday was a gathering of dear friends, a testimony to brotherly love, and also to the mysterious way that our paths are all so delightfully twisted with the paths of others. We’ve recently had a season of birthdays in our community, joyful celebrations of life, but most importantly, of friendship. A birthday in Peru is not merely an occasion for a pat on the back and a sometimes begrudged many happy returns. It is a time where an entire person is celebrated, when friends and family unite to applaud the gifts, the memories, and even the faults of the person who has, so to speak, accomplished yet another year of life.

And along with the joy of celebrating my friends at their birthdays, I find myself again in the midst of a season of despedidas or farewells. The Linea bus station is replete with the depth of feeling that only the parting of friends can bring. This feeling is in its gray walls, its glass doors, the uniforms of the employees, and even in the intercom announcing the approaching departure of the buses. The voice says, “señores pasajeros anunciamos la salida de nuestro servicio……” What I hear is, “good bye…take care…keep in touch…had fun…” A lexicon of goodbye learned by heart. But this foreground of sadness is set in relief by the bright light behind it, the rising hope of future reunions, somewhere…

The psalmist, while crying out to God, believes in his very core that God hears every bitter declaration. “You number my wanderings; Put my tears into Your bottle; Are they not in your book? (Psalm 56:8)” I know that God is good because He will never leave us nor forsake us, because of more raucous birthday parties than I can stay up for during the week, because I can leave the bus station comforted, and because Grace Marie Estephanie Huaccha Villanueva only cries when she is hungry or wet and has the most beautiful eyes any angel could ask for.

Why can’t the English teach the English how to speak?

After teaching a phonetics class this past month, I’m inclined to sympathize with poor Professor Higgins in the musical film My Fair Lady. I am standing in front of my class teaching the d sound. “You touch the top of your mouth with your tongue, but not way in the back…like thith (demonstrating). No, Vania, teeth haven’t got anything to do with it.” Vania responds with a subterranean gurgling sound that is right out of Beowulf and then throws up her hands in exasperation. This is the English language.

The r rolls higher than the Andes despite my best efforts to keep it at sea-level. “The word is everybody, not evairrrrrieboedie.” The sounds y and j (dz) are surprisingly difficult for native Spanish speakers. It isn’t that either of the sounds are difficult to pronounce; the difficulty is sorting out which sounds should go with which letters. This is how the sentence, “Jenny likes to have jams with her yams” becomes the dyslexic “Yenny likes to have yams with her jams.” The consonant combination th can be either voiced or unvoiced, and by the end of class each day I find myself preferring the unvoiced variety.

But perhaps the zenith of our language’s complexity is not its consonants, but its vowels. The five listed in our treacherous alphabet are mere suggestions. After drilling these sounds for the thousandth time in class, I could begin to see very little difference between my students (all 8 of them women) and Eliza Doolittle howling in fury at the very hated, very necessary Professor Higgins each of these impossible sounds. But where Eliza’s battles were mostly fought on the plains of Spain, my students’ waterloo was the short vowel sounds.

Me: Betty bought a bit of butter.

Students: Baetty boat ah beet oaf bootair.

Me: Betty bought a bit of butter.

Students: BAETTY BOAT AH BEET OAF BOOTAIR

Me: Betty bought a bit of butter.

Students: BAETTY BOAT AH BEET OAF BOOTAIR! BOOTAIR! BOOOOOOTAAAAAAIR! [book tossed violently at whiteboard; teacher ducks]

Of course, there’s always the danger that all of this could rub off on a person. At one point in My Fair Lady, Pickering, after sitting for hours listening to Eliza’s futile attempts at speaking loik ah loiedy, asks Professor Higgins, “Have you tried the pline kike?” He means plain cake. I’ve not been totally immune to this problem, myself. Give it enough time, and you might just start speaking like them, dropping your h’s and whatnot. Think of it as a sort of linguistic Stockholm syndrome.

The good news is that I’m not trying to fool royalty, just simply trying to open doors of communication for these students, doors that will hopefully lead to opportunities to work, to learn and to serve others. For that, you don’t necessarily need to speak the language of Shakespeare, Milton or the King James Bible, you just need to be able to get your point across without making too many embarrassing mistakes.

We finished class this week. Out of 8, 6 students survived. And I must say that, after all, it was satisfying to hear one of these students come up to me afterwards and say “Thank you very much, Teacher,” instead of “Thank jew berry much, Teacher.” I just hope it sticks.

Shall we gather at…the table?

The young woman, a Korean volunteer worker living in Trujillo, chuckled as she arranged the tiny ceramic saucers of strange sauces on the table. She must have noticed how curious I was to know what they were. Minutes earlier when my friend Clara expressed concern that I might not enjoy Korean food, our hosts explained that today we were having a Vietnamese meal. “That sounds even worse,” I confided quietly to Clara. “I was going to say it sounded even better!” she responded.

The truth is that my experience with Korean food has been limited to Mrs. Chan Sims’ delicious fried dumplings and a strange meal I once had at a Korean restaurant. Mixed reviews. Still, following the service at the Korean missionaries’ new church where Clara had invited me this morning, Pastor Sang-Gi insisted I join them for lunch. Although I knew that there would be mostly Koreans at the meal, and that I would be culturally and linguistically in the minority, I accepted.

“Do you know how to use chopsticks?” someone asked. I said I’d had practice in the chifas, but not with the tricky metal chopsticks popular in Korean homes. Still, I would try my best. Then the meal arrived. First, bowls of boiling water (“it has a purpose!” explained Pastor Sang-Gi, noting my puzzled expression). Then, platters of beautiful fresh vegetables, steak and chicken and fried eggs. There were also bowls of soup and sticky rice on plates as well. Finally, rice paper “for wrapping the food in”, which explained the hot water, where we dipped the rice paper.

As we ate, we talked and Spanish was our common language, although Korean broke out often as the Korean volunteer workers asked each other and the missionaries how to say this or that in either English or Spanish. Our expressions, our language, our histories and experiences were nearly as varied as the food laid out before us. And although we came from very different cultures, what was most remarkable about the experience was not the delicious meal, or the delightful conversation, or even the beautiful hospitality of our hosts, but rather the pleasantly peaceful calm of being at table with believers.

Throughout my time in Peru, I’ve come to value the table as the perfect place for Christians to come together. We see it throughout the Old Testament in the ceremonial meals of Leviticus, the sacrificial hospitality of the Patriarchs, and the institution of the Passover. And in the New Testament, in the multiplying of the fishes and loaves, in the meals shared with the Savior in the homes of believers and questioners and sinners and all, and then in the breaking of the passover bread one last time in the upper room. The table, a place of physical refreshment and nourishment, becomes also a place of spiritual refreshment and nourishment. It is an institution, a safe place, warm and encouraging and totally good.

Culture shared between one Christian and another is a loving exchange of ideas and experiences, a mutual appreciation of just how varied and intricate the world that God created is. I simply cannot imagine a better place than the table for this exchange. Praise the Lord for the table, and for all who sit around it!

Peru in a Nutshell

Before the arrival of Francisco Pizarro in1532, Peru was ruled by several empires whose remains can be found throughout the country in the impressive ruins of temples, cities and governmental centers. The last and most advanced of these empires was the Inca Empire, which dominated all of Peru and also parts of modern day Chile, Bolivia and Ecuador from 1438 to 1532. Following the Spanish conquest Peru quickly became the center for commercial and political control by the Spanish crown in South America.

Since gaining its independence from Spain in 1821 the country has experienced periods of prosperity and also staggering inequality, eventually leading to the rise of terrorist movements such as the Shining Path in the 1980s. In addition to the violence in that decade, the country experienced one of the world’s worst inflation rates at the time and sank into an economic coma.

In 1990 Alberto Fujimori became president and helped the country regain its economic footing while effectively quashing the terrorist forces. Unfortunately, Fujimori’s presidency was also marked by crime and he is currently being charged on many counts of extortion, corruption and violence. The country is now experiencing an economic rebound and its economy is one of the fastest growing in the world. However, the government, lead by President Alan Garcia, continues to battle a poverty rate that hovers around 50%, a crumbling educational system, and weak institutions.

Peru is divided into three basic regional categories: mountains, jungle and the coast. The country is best known for destinations such as Machu Picchu, the Amazon rain forest, and the surfers’ paradise along the northern coast. Among national cultural treasures are criolla music (a mixture of indigenous, Spanish and African rhythms and instruments), ceviche (a dish of seafood marinated in lemon juice), and pisco (a strong distilled grape liquor). Peruvians are strongly nationalistic and fiercely proud of their heritage (patrimonio). 81% of Peruvians consider themselves Roman Catholics, but the evangelical church is growing rapidly, particularly in impoverished regions and communities. Despite the evils that have plagued the country since its founding, Peru is a vibrant, multifaceted and youthful society hungry for the Gospel and the hope it brings.

Autonomy

A recent experience I had and subsequent conversations with friends revealed a great deal to me about the culture I come from. When trying to define American culture for my Peruvian friends, I often fall back on regional niceties such as hospitality, a wealth in the arts, food and the religious marks of the Bible belt. I have now come to the conclusion that, while these are at the very least peculiar and at the very most interesting marks of the culture I come from, they are not the core marks of who I, as an American, am. I will attempt to sum up in a single word my American identity: autonomy.

I treasure my autonomy. It is the single most important cultural item I possess. Because of my autonomy, I can worship as I believe is right, I can speak my mind, and I can (ostensibly, at least) make decisions for myself. This past weekend, this autonomy was threatened and challenged over the period of a day and a half and the affect upon me was startling and unexpected. It was, for lack of a better phrase, culture shock.

In America we are taught to think independently, and individually to pursue both happiness and property (depending on your reading of the Constitution’s Preamble). The emphasis is placed not on the collective community, but rather on individuals. Parents and the culture in general encourage children to make their own decisions and, to a great extent, to become kings and queens of their respective destinies as early as 18 years of age. As children, we are told of the day when we, too, will be grown-ups and will have jobs, families, and lives of our own. As we reach our early teens, the longing for autonomy is awakened in our hearts and we respond in rebellion against the authorities in our lives. This longing is culminated when we leave for college, or, for some people, even earlier. Our ultimate goal in life is not sacrificial love or community or even in the broadest of senses the common good. Our ultimate goal is to rule and reign over our lives. And, although we hardly ever notice the fact, our economic and institutional structures allow us to pursue this goal with rapacious appetites.

After waging war against stereotypes of Americans in Peru for nearly three years now (we are not all brash or impolite or rude or insensitive or incurable proud), I am starting to realize that at least one of them is founded in reality. Americans are fiercely, institutionally and religiously independent. This should, perhaps, explain why we react so militantly when other nations or individuals oppose us. It is not our institutions or ideals we are defending (however good and correct they may be), it is our selves; an attack against U.S. sovereignty is an attack against personal autonomy.

At 23, I am “in charge” of ever aspect of daily life. I decide what to wear, when and where to go, what music to listen to, what books to read, what food to eat, and (very uniquely) what hours to work. But my autonomy goes far beyond managing my daily life. I am also free to decide from thousands of careers, and hundreds of higher educational opportunities. And if I so desire, I can live in any place in the world.

In Peru, economic and historical forces have combined to create a culture where personal autonomy is second to the good of the community.  My friends my age are accustomed to having many of life’s daily decisions made for them. Their families’ economic situation dictates where they will live long into adulthood, what their career will be, when they will marry, and even when they will go out on the weekends and with whom. Many people graduate directly from being provided for by their families to providing for their families. Many older children contribute to the family’s economy first by getting small jobs that range from working at internet cafes and restaurants to selling Q-tips and chewing gum at traffic intersections and collecting garbage for recycling. Those who are able to get a college education will support their parents and their younger siblings as teachers, doctors, accountants and lawyers. And even later in life, they will support their own families. The norm is dependence; the exception is autonomy.

Which is better? Certainly freedom is a Christian concept championed by Christian societies, and I certainly am not willing to sacrifice my autonomy. But I can also see the benefit to living in a culture where the dependence we are to have upon Christ is exemplified by our daily routines and our life projections. If I am not called to surrender to others in my material life, how much harder will it be for me to surrender to God in all things spiritual?

A few thoughts to welcome autumn with

It’s autumn now, and the city is fooling us with its soothing breezes. This will be an autumn where the leaves don’t fall, and the promise of fallow, blanketed sleep is only the dream of a thick siesta spent with the windows open and the curtains hovering mid air. It is the sort of autumn that becomes an adjective in a Fitzgerald novel, or the title of one of Wordsworth’s reminisces. A this is the autumn of our lives kind of autumn.

I am thinking of India recently. I read an article about its bureaucracy and read between the lines and through the red tape to see a desperate nation clamoring for justice, or perhaps just clamoring against itself like a bucket of crabs. How long, oh Lord, how long?

Why is there so much garbage on the street? he asked. Caring for the environment, I oversimplified, is a luxury that only modern countries can afford.

A dear friend of mine had a baby two days ago. Another friend went to visit and brought back this report: In the public hospital you must bring your own blanket, your own sheets, your own cup to drink out of, your own everything.
The staff seemed eager enough to help, but they had nothing to work with. In a hospital in Lambayeque, the state north of here, it was recently discovered that they were operating without access to potable water.

McDonald’s is now open in Trujillo.

We went out on the beach on Good Friday last week after service. The beach at night is a different animal. In daylight it is hopeful, in darkness it is menacing.