There's Really This Thing...

There is a company, for real, that creates fragrances for other companies. These fragrances reveal the "true identity" of the company…who they are…their "unique selves." This signature fragrance is released into the store, the workplace, and helps solidify the company's identity.

OK, it's my opinion that if I stopped there, it's creepy. But I'm not stopping there. It gets worse. I do remember the smell of the chemistry building where my dad worked. It was a "signature fragrance" indeed…created by the multitude of chemicals in storage, the chalk and dust that collects in corners of academia, student imagination and idealism, and the lingering impact of those who came before. I can still remember that smell enveloping us when we walked in the door. But it just existed, no one paid to have it created.

As NPR reported this story, mild interest turned to amazed horror when I hear that the Dallas Cowboys pay to create and release a fragrance in their stadium. What does the Dallas Cowboy stadium need to smell like? The company says "victory." (I have other opinions…but to keep my Texas friends, I will keep them to myself.)

How much money does it cost to spray the smell of victory into a stadium? And really? Does the American football fan need a signature fragrance to enjoy the game?

I just am astounded. I didn't even imagine such a thing existed. As a culture, we "can't afford" to care for desperate children crossing the border (regardless of the rightness or wrongness, they are the least of these), we "can't afford" to expand Medicare to those in greatest need, we "can't afford" to house homeless people, or expand the VA medical system to support all the new veterans we created in our recent wars.

But we can express our "true identity" with our stadium-sized signature fragrance.

I just don't think its an identity I want to claim.

Where is that magic wand when you need one?

(I post more sporadically when it is not a "season" of the church year or a mission trip or something. If you want to know when a new post is up, you can put your e-mail in the box in the right column and you will get the post in an e-mail. "Joining" the site simply makes it more likely to come up when people surf blogs…good for the blog, but it doesn't really benefit you. Many thanks for reading, BTW, and for your support. I'd write it anyway, but it's nice when it is helpful or entertaining to others.)

Mexico…Saturday and Sunday

SATURDAY

The village fixed breakfast for us...chicken and rice soup. The chicken had great flavor, but fought back a bit. Coffee was super sweet, pre-sugared. The hospitality was, again, over the top. Every villager who had worked with us, worshipped with us, sent their kids to escuelos de biblia, and who wasn't at work or in school was there to see us off. Many pictures were snapped. Many hands shaken.  Many, many thanks expressed. It was humbling and frustrating. Humbling because we deserved so very little. That's the definition of grace enacted. Frustrating because we didn't have the language to begin to express how blessed we had been by their grace.

We lived the perfect moment of Kingdom grace...or at least I did. God is so generous with us, we are so undeserving. And when we see those glimpses of God's generosity and recognize how undeserved they are, language fails us over and over. "Thanks" just doesn't seem enough. Seems all that is left for the expression is the enactment of the giving of grace to others. I hope I can come close.

SUNDAY

We were up and in vehicles just as the night clubbers next to out hotel were stumbling home...literally. We are arriving in Mexico City as I am writing this, looking toward 18 hours of travel if things go well.

And now it's Monday morning. Travel went smoothly and I walked through the doors at midnight. I have had a hot shower, feeling grateful and guilty at the same time. Well, perhaps not guilty, but curious. What does my lifestyle contribute to the economic inequality of the world? What have they taught me about living healthier, more related lives? What do I live with that I can live without? What do I need now that I didn’t know I needed before?

I’m grateful for the opportunity to live and share this experience. I hope I can change the world just a little bit for the better from what I have learned.

Mexico…Friday

We are in the village a day longer than most groups. We worked in the morning, but by day five of ditch digging, gringos are pretty worthless. We worked slowly, sang every campy church song we could remember, worked our way through TV theme songs, and got stuck on the Coke song, "I'd Like to Teach the World to Sing."  As of this writing, we still haven't succeeded in remembering all the words. Mexican men don't sing or joke when they work. Probably a good thing. But we entertained them as well. We made some progress getting about half the ditch to grade...as deep as it needed to be. Believe me, we celebrated. We celebrated two ways actually. We celebrated that a small part of the ditch was deep enough, and then we celebrated that another group would be coming in to finish the digging. Bless their hearts. Solid shale clay is what they have to get through...we think not exactly rock, but too hard to pick, soggy wet, and heavy.

We had the afternoon free to rest and pack. Some took a walk to the next village where people came out of their homes to stare at the Americans. Most had never seen the likes of us.

After dinner, we worshipped one last time with the village. Several of the "brothers" from Matzam drove over to worship with us. The church was full. It was a shorter service, but more meaningful. They said their official goodbyes and waved their hands in greeting to our churches. They said they wanted us to stay (not sure I believed that one), and that they would love to visit our communities, but they could never cross the border. I tear up thinking about that. What a tragedy that suspicion and assumption has grown so virulent that friends cannot visit friends. I know people cross the borders without permission. I know the desperation that might drive them to that. I also know their homes and families, their children, their history and their lives are in Mexico. Most don't want to leave. Some feel they must.

These are the hardest working people I have ever met. They put me to shame. They are smart, kind, generous, gracious. Not perfect, but certainly nothing like the picture we have painted here of "other." 

The final act of worship was bringing their offerings forward. The men start. One at a time, each person comes forward and drops a coin into the box.  All ages. Then women. Each member of the worshipping community supported the worship with a coin or two. It was moving. I don't know what they do when someone can't give. I know they tend toward harsh judgement at times. But seeing each and every member of the community participate was a gift to us. 

Every service closes with singing the Doxology. No accompaniment. Just voices joined in praise to God for all blessings. All creatures above and below sing praise to their creator God. And we could sing it, too. Two languages, sometimes three including Spanish, Tzeltal, and English. 

Someone once commented that if one of the disciples could visit us in our here and now, they would probably be completely overwhelmed with culture and practice…until we sat together in worship and spoke the words of institution over bread and wine. That was the one-ness with which we praised God. The Tzeltal Doxology was one of those moments of clarity. Thanks be to God...from whom, indeed, all blessings flow.

Mexico…Thursday

By far our most difficult day. We are digging ditches on two sides of a dirt "bridge" that allows us to haul the dirt up the mountain to dump it. We finally got one two-foot section on one side deep enough. The rest has to be dug out about 18 inches by 10 or twelve feet. The other side is almost complete shale rock...a hard muddy rock that will break eventually with a pick, but it is slow going. Many kids were tired. The FHPC contingent was pretty good at getting good sleep. Our bodies were another story. They adapt amazingly quickly, but none of us are used to this kind of physical labor. When progress is slow, difficult becomes excruciating. We slogged through the day, however, managing the last 30-minute stretch when they promised to let us go 30 minutes early.

To be blunt, today I was struck by the focus on the "me" and "us."  Devotionals focused on our needs, prayers thanked God for allowing us to come to Mexico to "help these people." Frankly, I wonder if they need our help. I feel much like the five year old who "helps" mom or dad in the garden. They do a bit, hopefully don't mess up too much, and get praised for their efforts.

The Americans requested that tomorrow's work be more fun. It will be, after all, July 4th. I don't even know what to say about that, except ask forgiveness from most of the world who work drudgery all day every day just to stay alive.

Oh, and we are here because they invited us to come. They wanted to meet us, to try and talk with us, to laugh at and with us because they understand much more English than we know they know. Bless these people, O Lord. They have shown abundant generosity and lived the gospel.

Mexico…Wednesday

Yesterday was a day of concrete and rocks. Today, it's back to digging ditches. It's a bit harder than it needs to be, because when we dug the first footing, we were instructed to out the dirt where the second footing is to be. Now the dirt must be moved to the top of the hill...to the flat area. Five gallon buckets. 

Again.

Shovel, fill, pass up the bucket line...UP the bucket lines. Twist and lift. Six hours. Heavy, wet soil. We didn't stop...though by 10 am the buckets were half full...and by the last leg around noon, about a third. The ditch “only” has to be six meters deep, so I expect to be digging to China the rest of our days here.

Wednesday afternoon/evening, we drove an hour to worship with a church in Matzam, another small village straight up the mountain. We were warned the temperature would drop by 20 degrees as we drove. True that. The Matzam congregation rapidly outgrew their first small sanctuary. Their new church seats 1000. We trekked straight up the mountain, feeling the temperature drop about every 10 minutes. The area is simply, breathtakingly gorgeous. Bromiliads grow wild in the trees. Angel trumpet is like a weed. Corn and beans were everywhere. Greenhouses nestle in the crannies of the mountain; roses and callas are the crop of choice. Here, you can get a dozen callas for two pesos, about a quarter.

The hospitality is overwhelming. They are eager to greet Americans, gracious to welcome us over and over. We had a delicious meal of chicken soup with rice and limes—and chilies if you wanted. Tortillas are a given, but they had cooked some crispy...truly delicious with a rubbing of lime and a little salt.

Before we left for Matzam, the women of our village had dressed us all in native clothing. It was really fun and surprisingly comfortable. The skirt is a heavy fabric—wool is my guess. It is a huge circle of cloth. They form pleats in the front, then belt it with a very stiff belt, tied very tightly. It was like a back brace...wonderful for my aching muscles. I think I could wear it every day.  The village was highly tickled that we came dressed like them. The skirts were much shorter on us, however. We are about twice their height.

Down the mountain was more adventurous. The constant pumping of brakes to get them to catch, pretty disconcerting. I was riding in a 15 passenger van...no belts...three in the front seat. Just as I thought we were stopping in front of the house from which we departed, he pumped the brakes several times and headed straight down a very steep driveway. If the brakes had not held, we would have gone through the clothes-washing station and straight down the mountain. I just closed my eyes and said my prayers. Such is life in Mexican villages. Letting go of what you can’t control is the theological lesson of the day.

The bucket line…her face says it all.

Native dress

The church at Matzam

Hospitality in a bowl...

Mexico…Tuesday

Today I was on the worksite...their project is building a retaining wall. Mostly we carted stone. We filled and carried buckets with gravel. We shoveled sand. (Understand, the men and boys could fill a five-gallon bucket with sand or gravel, swing it up onto their shoulders, and carry it to the concrete pile. Americans could carry a half-bucket or third bucket…we carried our small loads and filled buckets to the top when we got there.) I'd like to say we are helping them, but really, I'm not at all sure we are.

One of our team members who grew up working construction said this was about as far from American construction as you could get. Not so far from Noah construction. In America, concrete comes premixed. You construct the forms and the company pours in the mixture. In Mexico, the recipe is...

• 100 five-gallon buckets of sand (henceforth, buckets)
• 30 buckets of gravel (made by sifting a rock pile into sand and gravel...shovels full into a wood and wire sifter. Shake, shake, shake sand into one wheelbarrow. Dump gravel into the other wheelbarrow. 

If you every watched someone make pasta, it's the same concept. The sand is shoveled into a circle with a depression in the center. Then 50 pound bags of concrete (which the men carry down the hill, BTW, one at a time on their backs. I never counted the bags...but six or eight.  Folks circle the circle of sand and shovel, turning the concrete into the sand until it is all mixed.

Then gravel, 30 buckets, or as we often did, 30 gringo buckets and a couple extra to cover the ones we didn't fill to the top. (Do you know how heavy a five gallon bucket of sand/gravel is?...just saying...). Then the shovels again and a hose that adds water continuously to the mix. The shovels concentrate in one area now, mixing the concrete and filling, you guessed it...buckets. About a third shovel...the others carry these buckets of concrete to the ditch and pour it in. Thus, the footings are poured.

No one here needs to go to the gym. 

Construction site from the top of the hill.

Rocks...

The dreaded sifter…and concrete.

Rocks, sand and tired gringos...

Pouring stabilizing "arms" into the hillside.

One section complete. The foundation under the "pretty"
part is six meters deep, four meters wide, and full of
concrete and rocks. Lots. Of. Rocks.

Mexico…Monday

My job today was kitchen duty. I spent the day with Jan Feliciano-Cruz. She has been a missionary in Chiapas for 33 years and is truly a blessing. She lives concern for others, spending her days feeding Americans and caring for her husband, Pablo. She makes remarkable sacrifices for her faith. Life has many rewards as well, but it is not easy and I truly admire her servant’s heart.

I got to watch women and children today. This is a dangerous place to live, horrific by American standards. Construction materials are placed for convenience and accessibility, not safety. Men use their machetes and sometimes lay them on the ground. NO child touched a machete, youngest to oldest. Not one. One lay in the middle of the compound all day. It was like it was not there.

Children play without hovering parents. Often you will see a ten or twelve-year-old with a baby strapped to her back or side. Once during the week I saw a mother warn a child about a danger. One time a child fell and bumped her head...but she was about two and just lost her balance. Children balanced on a stick in the ground next to the deck. Children played ball on the deck and when the ball did escape down the hill, they (literally) ran down the steep hill to rescue it. The 10, 11, and 12 year old boys came the last day to work with us. They were swinging a pick-axe like it was a spaghetti noodle. No one got hurt. No one even came close. They scooped buckets of dirt onto their shoulders and carted them across the slick hillside for dumping. They climbed onto a five foot hill of big rocks, rolled the one they wanted down the pile, worked to get it on someone’s back, and carried it to build the wall.

All the children were strong, agile, sure of themselves, and very much a part of the community. They were very proud when they accomplished a task. These small boys got to eat lunch with the men that day...a reward for working like a man all day.

No question the Mexican world is a dangerous place for children. Common childhood diseases can often result in death for a child in Chiapas. But you had to wonder if the extreme protectionism of the states has resulted in a different kind of disability. I wonder what complete freedom to explore means to the creativity and social interaction of children?  I wonder what it might mean to us to explore our faith journey like these kids explored their world. We can watch our elders, but might be joyfully free to try something new, something different, or something we watch others do well. Mistakes were learning experiences, not failures. I think the joy of trying was most of the fun. Pride in accomplishment, the reward.

Mexico…Sunday

Sabbath...at least for us. Americans lived for one whole day without electronic distraction, the ability to go anywhere by car, or work at our chores or jobs. We sat and talked, played with village children. A few of the kids were invited into a home to watch Mexico play World Cup soccer. Our kids took note of the hospitality. Strangers were welcomed without question. Family members got up out of their seats and gave honored placed to their guests. As I listened to them talk about their experience, I was humbled when I thought about the language that swirls around immigrants here. We label them other, we assign the worst motivations and behaviors, we assume they are out to hurt us and ours in variety of ways...physically, economically, culturally. We must admit, if a bus full of strangers pulled up into our neighborhood, even if planned, we would not be likely to invite the strangers in, even if we knew they would be there for a reason.

We are the first Americans in this village, outside of one person who visited the village in preparation for our trip. I find myself hoping they never watch some of the reporting on immigrants that comes out of America. I find myself, on this issue, mightily glad they speak Tzeltal and will hopefully never be able to fully understand the negative nuance of an American broadcast.

Worship was two hours, we didn't understand the language except at brief points during the service when instructions or the sermon were translated. The kids expressed surprise at themselves that they weren’t bored after an hour. It wasn't spirited worship.  These Protestant worshippers would make our stereotypical picture of John Calvin proud. They are stoic. No smiles. No movement. No apparent joy. Some great (and loud!) Mexican music, hymn tunes we recognized, ones we did not. Everyone sings. They bring their own Bibles and song books to worship. No one sits out because they can't carry a tune or don't sing well. They open their mouths and out pours music. We didn't even slow them down. But little could be identified as boredom-busting.

I wondered what it is that creates the boredom at home. We had no other options here...well I guess we could have sat and looked at the mountains or read a book. But we chose to be with the people. We did not have distractions flitting through our brains, the people we could be with, the Facebook feed we could be checking, the chores that needed to accomplish. We seemed simply in the moment. Perhaps the fact that we weren't waiting for the next thing eliminated the boredom.

The people of the village seemed to have an ability to live in the moment. They certainly had chores to be done. Those were for a different moment. Some had worked early to prepare soup and tortillas for us and the visiting elders and pastor for after worship. When worship was finished, they set the table and served the meal. There was no rush, no worry about what things looked like or whether we would be impressed. Meal was gift, hospitality, offering. Community was blessing.

Others sat with friends and family. You eat in shifts in Mexico. People watch, but don't covet. Their turn comes. All are fed. The soup was simple, a slightly spicy broth with greens and one small piece of chicken or beef. Tortillas. And it was enough. More than enough. We were filled.

Another observation around the meal. As we waited for worship after breakfast, we saw the chickens caught, scalded, plucked, and cooked. Corn is soaked overnight, ground into paste, shaped into tortillas then cooked over a wood fire. Dishes are washed on a table and flat rock. (Pics at the bottom.) The food scrap goes down the hill where it becomes feast for chickens. Clothes are washed on this rock. I would be challenged to survive. From growing food in the nooks and crannies of the village to knowing how to build the fire, I would need to be taught. Our health and welfare depended on the hospitality of these strangers. It simply begs the question, why do we, who have so much, show so little hospitality. (And I'm not talking about "having parties" hospitality, I'm talking about "inviting people into our lives" hospitality.) Why are we afraid we have something to lose if others gain? From questions of living wage to immigration, that seems to be a sticking point…the assumption there is not enough to go around and that we must have more than we need to be secure.

I've been reading a book this week on community. Peter Block's premise is that until and unless we rebuild our community--local, state, national--we won't solve the problems that plague us. He challenges us with the idea that people choose to live in a "retributive" society or a "restorative" society. Retributive societies are “based on a culture of fear, fault finding, fragmentation, and worrying more about taxes than compassion; it is more about being right than working something out, more about gerrymandering for our own interests than giving voice to those on the margin.” (Community: TheStructure of Belonging, p. 45)

Restorative community "comes from the choice to value possibility and relatedness over problems, self-interest and the rest of the stuck community's agenda." In essence, we treat each other as fully interrelated, fully human beings...no labels, no finger pointing, no fixing the other before our own lives can be good. Transformation and healing begins with our individual choice to live in deep, hospitable community. Every person is my neighbor. Transformation cannot begin in a program or institution and is dependent on each individual’s willingness to act without expecting anything in return.

The folk of Chiapas aren't perfect. They often treat each other as badly as we do. The Indians we are visiting are the lowest of the low in Mexican society. The gift of hospitality we’ve experienced is a momentary glimpse of God's kingdom, a brief experience of unconditional grace being given. For me, those moments create a longing for more, a hunger for the re-creation of life together on this planet.

Not all of us are called to go as far as Chiapas. All of us are called by God into restorative community. We don't have to travel for 17 hours to find a stranger. We see them every day. Often they live next door, shop with us in the grocery each week, or worship with us at the other end of the pew. I think today’s invitation is to let go of our fear and suspicion of “other” and embrace their identity as child of God.

Table for food preparation

Flat rock and bucket for dishwashing and clothes washing.
The women squat at the bucket to wash dishes.

Food runs off the rock onto the steep hill.
Chickens act as garbage disposals.

The church...

The chicken soup...

Tortillas….

Mexico Saturday...

The sun rises in the Chiapas mountains about 6:30 central time. At home, it is quiet until the birds begin to chirp outside my window at sunrise. New York City has nothing on this little village for noise. Roosters crow all. Night. Long. They assert their "roosterhood with" great insistence...I wonder what the hens, tired from a long day of foraging and laying eggs, think of them. I know we are thinking rooster stew.

Travel was long and mostly uneventful. A couple of bags were checked in Mexico City without tags...that was the first miracle of the week...they arrived in the right place at the right time. Mexican airlines make the chaos of American travel look organized and pleasant, though  Mexican planes win the prize for comfort.

The trip to the village from the airport gave us all a formula one racing experience. Ascending the mountain, we passed through villages built along the side of the road. Literally. The houses are within 10 feet of the road. The villages build concrete speed bumps, topes, that insist you slow down or destroy the undercarriage of your car.  We followed a car with no brake lights for a good twenty miles toward the top of the mountain. Brake lights are important, y'all. Finally, after coming within inches of his tailpipe, we managed to pass and move on. 

Everyone in the village was out to meet us at 10 when we moaned ourselves out of our vehicles  and tried to loosen muscles long since embedded in the seated position. We were the first Americans this village had seen. We were tired, wind-blown, and gimpy. Not telling what their first impressions of us were. We pretty quickly made our way to sleeping quarters (do not picture the Holiday Inn), and pretty much passed out as soon as we managed to find toothbrushes and pajamas. Two insights there. One: women of a certain age and responsibility who need to get up often to shhhhhhh or peeeeeee should never sleep in these camping bags with no zipper. A hidden camera in the room last night would have yielded much hilarity. Two: earplugs are a gift from heaven.

(This is the view from the bedroom window…)