Just Mercy

I have just read the book "Just Mercy:  A Story of Justice and Redemption",  by Byran Stevenson, and I recommend it.

Remember those who are in prison, as though in prison with them, and those who are mistreated, since you also are in the body. Hebrews 13:3

For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me.  Mathew 25: 35-37

In these words of Jesus written in the gospel of Mathew the message is pretty clear.  Attending to the hungry, thirsty, the stranger, the naked, the sick and the prisoner, whom Jesus referred to as the least of these, is like doing it for and to Jesus.  We are taught to serve the "least of these" and in every church and community where we have  lived and participated, there have always been ample opportunity for service to the needy.   In my life's work  I have done at least a bit of the first six on this list, but practically nothing of the last - visiting the prisoner.  

Only a few times, once each in Ecuador, El Salvador, and Minnesota, did I visit and try to advocate for prisoners - cases of people incarcerated unjustly.  But overall, visiting and giving comfort to prisoners is, sadly, a big void in my practice as a follower of Christ. 

Why is that?  Am I fearful and judgmental, or is it that the prisoners are so completely out of sight that I avoid them and hope I don't have to deal with them.  

One who has thrown himself into a life of working to help the incarcerated is Bryon Stevenson, the author of, "Just Mercy: A Story of Justice and Redemption."  It is a gripping memoir that personalized the struggle against injustice, racism, and mistreatment of prisoners.  He has brought comfort and release of the prisoners in numerous cases - while exposing the unfairness of the criminal justice system in this country, especially as applied to children, the poor and the black population. 

Stevenson, who is black, grew up in poverty. His great-great grand parents had been slaves in Virginia. His grandfather was murdered in a Philadelphia housing project when Stevenson was a teenager.  After college he went to Harvard Law School and developed a passion for working with  prisoners on death row.  He eventually moved to Montgomery Alabama and co-founded a non-profit called the Equal Justice Initiative. (EJI)

The book tells the stories of some of his clients.  There are many stories in this book, but the core narrative is the story of Walter McMillan who was innocent of a murder for which he was convicted and sent to death row.  McMillan lived in Monroeville, Alabama the home of Harper Lee who wrote the book “To Kill A Mockingbird.”  Stevenson also tells about several cases of children as young as age 14 who got life sentences without the possibility of parole - essentially condemned to death in prison.  Stevenson took one of these cases all the way to the United States Supreme Court in 2012. The Court held that mandatory life sentences without parole for children violated the eighth amendment.

The book tells horrific stories of injustice and suffering, but one comes to the end of most of the chapters feeling that the title gets it right… these are also stories of redemption, that brought tears to my eyes.  It is, in the end, a book of hope.  Stevenson does not write directly about his faith, but he doesn't have to… his life is a living example of the power of redemption and of accompanying the "least of those" of whom Jesus referred.  

I am sorry to say I had never heard of the EJI or Bryan Stevenson, but in reading this book, he had an impact on me.  I came away with the feeling that I should do something… and now I ponder what that might be.  Hopefully a life-time of apathy toward the prisoner can be jarred out of me, at least a little bit.

Frontstanders

Last Sunday Judy and I participated in a "Out of the Darkness" walk sponsored by the local chapter of the National Association for Suicide Prevention.  The purpose was to raise funds and awareness about suicide and ways of prevention. We found out that, for some unknown reason, Montana has the highest rate of suicide of all the states in the US. Also, we heard that 22 veterans commit suicide every day in our country.

The words spoken by some at this event and the writing on t-shirts made it obvious that many of those who participated have lost loved ones to suicide.  

Though Judy and I do not know anyone who has recently died this way, about a year ago in Butte, the town where we now live, there was an "epidemic" of teen agers taking their own lives. 

While walking the trail we were overtaken by an enthusiastic group of young people all wearing shirts with the word "Frontstanders" on their backs.  We asked what that meant.  They said they were all students at a local college and have made a commitment to be "frontstanders', not "by-standers" when they encounter situations that need intervention and help.  Whenever they see physical, emotional or sexual abuse, or someone who is depressed, showing signs of contemplating suicide, or in need of other kinds of help… a frontstander does not hold back.  Does not just stand by.

What a good and positive witness these young people made to me that day. It makes me stop to reflect on the amount of "by-standing" in my own life.  

We were pretty unaware of the scope of crisis of suicide in our locality and nation or even that September 10th was National Suicide Prevention Day…

In proclaiming this day such, President Obama wrote: "Suicide prevention is the responsibility of all people. One small act -- the decision to reach out to your neighbor, offer support to a friend, or encourage a veteran in need to seek help -- can make a difference."

I think being a "frontstander" would be a good attitude to keep in the forefront of my mind as I go about daily life!  What do you think?

On Water

Recently I have spent time on the water, floating on the Jefferson River here in Montana and fishing on a quiet bay of Georgetown lake not far from where we live. I wish I could write something poetic about experiences on the river, but the muses don't stir.  Others have better expressed the feeling that comes to me, like in the song, "When Peace Like a River" and it's line; "it is well with my soul", when I am on water, especially when I am alone in the solitude of surrounding mountains, as I was yesterday on the lake.

I think one of the most poetic and profound words I have ever heard or read about a river was written by Norman Maclean at the end of his classic book "A River Runs Through It"... 

"I often do not start fishing until the cool of the evening.  Then in the Arctic half-light of the canyon, all existence fades to a being with my soul and memories of the sounds of the Big Blackfoot River and a four-count rhythm and the hope that a fish will rise.
Eventually, all thing merge into one, and a river runs through it.  The river was cut by the world's great flood and runs over rocks from the basement of time.  On some of the rocks are timeless raindrops.  Under the rocks are the words, and some of the words are theirs.  I am haunted by waters."

A chill runs up my spine every time I hear or read those words. 
I wish I was a good fly fisherman like Maclean was, but really, it is alright that I am not.... it is enough just to be there ...  For me it is like a retreat for spiritual renewal.. 

We belong a group called the Jefferson River Canoe Trail that aims to locate and

secure camping sites along this river, one of the three major rivers in Southwest Montana that were named by Lewis and Clark over two hundred years ago - the Madison, Gallatin, and Jefferson (named after President Thomas Jefferson, who commissioned that great expedition of the American continent). We floated with some of those friends on part of the river last week, and several of the group canoed and camped along the entire length of the Jefferson for seven days.

A picture from an earlier canoe float on the Jefferson with family:

Near the beginning of the Jeffrerson River.

 The Tobacco Root mountains can be seen from the river.

These days the skies over Montana are affected by the many forest fires burning in the Western US.  Sometimes this produces glorious sunsets - but the air is not healthy to breath. 

 Alone on the river...

A Psalm of Comfort for one living alone

After my mother died in 1976, Arnold lived alone for 15 years in the old house on the 100 acre farm in rural Minnesota where he worked the land and lived for almost 60 years. That was the house where I was born in 1938, and also where my grandmother, Ellen, came into the world in 1880. 

My dad was a shy farmer of Norwegian decent and Lutheran faith and cultural heritage.  He never wanted to move into town where, as he said, "people would be breathing down your neck", even though our town had a population of only about 1,500 people. Too crowded, he thought.  Nevertheless, he searched out conversation and company in the coffee shop in town or across the fence lines and every day visited with his brother, Leonard, down on the "home place", just a mile away.

But, no doubt, those were years of many lonely days and nights for dad.  All four of his kids had moved away - and Judy and I were the farthest away - some of that time living in Latin America or 800 miles away in Arkansas.  He never complained, but on occasion we talked about what it was like to be lonely. So it was that in 1991 we decided to move back to Minnesota from Ecuador in order to live with dad on the farm and accompany him during the last years of his life.

Those "last years" turned out to be only six months.  Unknown to him and us by the time we joined him on the farm he already had a cancer growing in his lungs.  It was an honor to accompany him on his final journey, and though he knew he was dying, we never talked about that directly - that would be sort of counter-cultural for us, I suppose.  But there were other ways to express and show support and comfort.

I often spent time during those days strumming my guitar and singing some songs of faith, some old and a few new ones I was just learning.  One day he came to me and asked me to "sing that song you sang in church back then, when you were a teenager".  He knew only one line, and I recognized it but told him I couldn't sing it because I didn't remember the words nor did I have the music. I felt a bit guilty about that. But I remember it was a song based on one of the Psalms - I think Psalm 27.

I was learning another song at that time, one also based on the words of Psalm 27, and later I sang that for him - at least he was in bed in the next room, and I hoped he was listening and it would give him some comfort.

The song, by Tim Manion, is one of my favorites and I have sung it several times at worship services in different churches - always remembering that early time when these words meant something to dad in his final days - and to me. Once, after singing this song at a Lutheran church worship service, a woman who was in the congregation wrote me a letter saying she had heard it and wanted the song sung at her funeral.  Would I  send it to her, please.  I did, and I was glad to hear that these words had such meaning for her, maybe she was in the final days of her life, also.

                                                                  This Alone

One thing I ask; This alone I seek,
To Dwell in the house of the Lord all my days.
For one day within your temple, Heals every day alone
O Lord, bring me to your dwelling.

Verses:
Hear Oh Lord, the sound of my calling
Hear, Oh Lord, and show me your way,

The Lord is my light and hope of salvation
The Lord is my refuge, Whom should I fear?

Wait on the Lord, and hope in His mercy
Wait on the Lord, and live in His love.

      

Here is a link to a beautiful rendition of the song... If you click on this it should show a website or on the icon at the top of the page.

This Alone:- By St Louise Jesuits & Tim Manion

 

Memories of Nepal at a Better Time

As we watch the news these days we catch glimpses of the earthquake-caused destruction of of all sorts in Nepal, and I have tried to reach into my memory for images of what I saw and visited on my one and only visit to Nepal in 1999. I also can relate to real life experiences with earthquakes in Peru and Nicaragua in the 70s when  similar sized quakes caused whole cities and villages to crumble to the ground in less than a minute - resulting in the death and injury of thousands.  It took us days to reach and help remote villages.  The same is true now in Nepal.

I am quite sure that some of the temples and stupas I was privileged to see are now reduced to ruble…  surely a deeply painful experience for all Napalese, especially the devotees to prayer I observed on that visit. 

While on that trip I read Peter Matthiesen's  classic book, "The Snow Leopard".  In 1973 Peter Matthiessen traveled high into the remote mountains of Nepal to study the Himalayan blue sheep and possibly glimpse the rare and beautiful snow leopard.  Matthiessen was a student of Zen Buddhism and on that trek he charts his inner path as well as his outer one. 

I am not well read in Buddhism and Hinduism even though I had lived several years in Asia in the 1960s and later traveled to Asian countries a few times, but I was amazed at Matthiesen's grasp of these Asian religions.  

In Katmandu I had the chance to visit Bodhnath, a large stupa, in fact the largest in Nepal and one of the largest in the world - this being the religious centre for Nepal's considerable population of Tibetan Buddhists.   A stupa, according to Matthiesen, is a monument, shrine and reliquary that traditionally derives from the Buddha's tomb, but has come to symbolize existence.   These structures guard the entrances and approaches to towns and villages throughout Buddhist Himalaya.  A visitor sees many of these.

Many monks and others, old and not so old, were circumambulating this stupa (always in a clock-wise direction) and others were sitting in prayer positions in the compas (temples) chanting the "om mani padme hum" mantra.  This seems to be a search for the divine within -  According to Matthiesen OM is the "sound and silence throughout time, the roar of eternity and also the stillness of pure being". Mani is the void - primordial, pure essence of existence, and padme  is the world of phenomena, to reveal the jewel of nirvana that lies not apart from daily life but at its heart. Hum has no literal meaning, perhaps is the rhythmic exhortation completing the mantra, the declaration of "is-ness".   

I find it interesting is that Buddhism is not considered so much a theistic religion as a way of life, an attempt to connect to all things. Hinduism, with its plethora of gods, demigods and such is a religion that one must be born into, and not so much a religion that one can convert to.

The main purpose of that visit, however, was not to visit religious and tourist sites or to view the great mountain scenes (which I did by taking a flight on a small plane over Everest), but to spend time with the people, both those who were on the staff of Heifer Project and the villagers who were involved in livestock and community development projects -  that was the richness of that trip for me.  I have pages of notes in my journal from that time.  These journal entries together with some slides that Judy has recently scanned into digital form, remind me of wonderfully hospitable people with whom I spent hours in meetings, or visits to their small farms and homes …. looking together at how to evaluate their projects and make them even more beneficial to more and more families through the Heifer method of "passing on the gift".. 

 I found a quote in my notes from one woman who said "sometimes we receive from others and have an obligation to give something back, but it is better when we also learn to give to others without getting something in return"..   And, in a discussion of what the term "spirituality" means, another woman said it is  "the light that is in our hearts". 

 They were beautiful people and I hope and pray they and their children are now safe and the light of the Spirit is within their hearts and with them.   Sitting in the safety and comfort of our home now there is little we can do except write a check to trusted aid organizations we used to work with, like Lutheran World Relief and Heifer International.  I am also praying for Nepal these days.

One morning near the close of my time in Nepal, gazing at the mountains and seeing so much beauty of landscape and after meeting such beautiful people, I wrote, "I stand in awe and appreciation of God's creation here and this morning I paused to read Psalm 104 where there are many good images and descriptions of all aspects of nature and creation.  I am inadequate with words… many good writers and authors have written great poetry and prose about this place, like Matthiesen.  Mine pales in comparison.  I would be a better story teller or writer if I could relive my life.  I appreciate the gifts God has given to me, though feel inadequate to even express or describe so much of what I feel and "know". 

Cross Cultural Communications

During the many years I worked in other cultures and with other languages I encountered numerous situations in which I had difficulty communicating.  And a few times when I made big mistakes and was frustrated in my inability to communicate.

This is the reason why organization that send missionaries, volunteers, or professional and technical experts to other countries provide (or should provide) cross-cultural and language training. 

A 1958 book titled "The Ugly American" by Eugene Burdick and William Lederer made this point. (it was made into a movie starring Marlon Brando in 1963).   The book presented, in a fictionalized form, the experience of Americans in Southeast Asia (Vietnam) and allegedly portrays several real people who are represented by pseudonyms. We were advised to read it before we went to Vietnam in 1966.

The following story from long time friend and former colleague, Bill Herod, is humorous and also instructive.  Judy and I have a few stories from our own experiences, which I may share at a later time.  I assure you that Bill eventually came to speak Vietnamese fluently and was not an ugly American.  In fact, Bill still lives in Southeast Asia and has dedicated his whole life to working with and living among the people in Vietnam and Cambodia. Enjoy.    

If you have some of your own stories of communication "mishaps" to share, please do so and I could post them on this blog for other to enjoy and learn from. (with your permission)

 

Flying Machines

“The single biggest problem in communication is the illusion that it has taken place.” ~George Bernard Shaw

As I began my community development work in Viet-Nam many years ago, my conversational ability in the Vietnamese language was basic and my technical vocabulary was virtually non-existent.

In the Vietnamese language, a machine is often named for the function it performs. Thus, a typewriter is a “word pounding machine,” an airplane is a “flying machine,” and so forth. We do this in English sometimes also: washing machine, fax machine, and so forth. In both Vietnamese and English, a machine used for sewing is a “sewing machine.” A machine that flies, however, is an “airplane” in English and a “flying machine” in Vietnamese. The Vietnamese words for “to sew” [may] and “to fly” [bay] are similar . . . and I got them confused. When I meant to say “sew,” I was actually saying “fly” and when I thought I was talking about “sewing machines,” I was actually talking about “airplanes.”

With this confusion deeply embedded in my brain, I ventured into a refugee camp on the outskirts of Tam-Ky to see if I could find some people who would be interested in learning to use sewing machines.

After the requisite cups of tea and polite conversation with the respected camp elders, I casually asked if anyone in the camp knew how to “fly.” Looking at each other and at me in some confusion, they asked me to repeat the question. “Does anyone in the camp know how to fly?” Well, that was a bit of a conversation stopper. I realized they didn’t seem to know where I was headed, so I tried to clarify: “You know, I think we could get half-a-dozen ‘airplanes’ here. Perhaps some of the women could learn to ‘fly’ with them. Also, some of the boys could learn to repair them - useful skills in Viet-Nam today and in the future.”

My hosts — and a great many villagers looking in at the door and windows — were completely baffled. The idea of putting airplanes in a refugee camp was clearly preposterous but, coming from an American, not unbelievable.

One of them finally said, “Where would you put the airplanes?” I said that we would need to discuss that because they couldn’t be kept in anyone’s home. We would need to have a special room where all of the “airplanes” would be available to everyone in the community.

That comment was particularly jarring. The suggestion that these desperately poor and vulnerable people were being asked to build a huge hangar for storing airplanes (in a war zone) was just too much.

One of the camp leaders complained that airplanes were “very big and up in the sky.”

Up in the sky, I thought. Up in the sky. Why would sewing machines be up in the sky?

I replied that we could get small “airplanes” that the women could operate with their feet while they made clothes for their families and to sell at the market.

“Sewing machines!” a laughing child exclaimed, “He’s talking about sewing machines.”

Everyone laughed, both with relief and appreciation. They were delighted with the idea of getting some sewing machines for the camp and we quickly got down to the serious business of planning the sewing project.

With cooperation and understanding, we were soon able to get the sewing project “off the ground.”

   Bill Herod,

Notes: Usually one of the first language skills we need in another culture is how to shop for food in the local market.  Judy once sent a maid out to buy flowers and she came back with apples.  (a language glitch on Judy's part)

 Besides Vietnamese, several on our team needed to learn basic Ko'ho, one of the languages of the indigenous
people of the Vietnam highlands.

We needed to have an interpreter - in this case it was Ka'kra, who spoke Ko'ho, Vietnamese and English (and I think some French).









     Learning Vietnamese in Saigon - intensive one to one teaching.

Pat Hosteter (Martin) in language training

 One of the most important things I learned in Vietnam was the wisdom of employing competent local staff in key positions... they already know the language and work with people from within the nuances of their own culture. This is Mr. Ninh, one of our valued colleagues in Vietnam Christian Service.

A man from Central Vietnam who would have had an accent different

from that of Saigon