Sermon: El Cobrador de Impuestos

A meditation from Luke 18: 9- 14

Salam Alaikum Grand Bourg

"The closest of the people to Allah is the one who starts with the greeting of "salam." - Abu David

His name is Mohammed, a stout man no taller than 5'11. His face was round and smooth without much facial hair. His fair was cut low and his edges were clean. The fluorescent lights illuminated his rich dark skin. Mohammed spoke this mezcla of french and spanish that triggered a sensation of home. We sat down together in his shop, "Salam", a knock off store less than two blocks from my church. The name sat on the sign in between the Senegalese flag and the Argentine flag as if it was salam (peace) that united the two. Who would have thought that I could find salam in Grand Bourg?

I first approached Mohammed two or three weeks ago as I was making rounds around the town's center. I read the sign as if it was a safe haven. This is familiar. With my head held high I stumbled into the shop. 

-"Hola! Hola, como estas?"

-"Bien y vou?"

-"Bien gracias! Perdon, pero sos de Ghana o Senegal?" (Maybe I was not as familiar as I thought)

-"Senegal, jaja, y vou?"

-"Oh duh! Claro, todos las persona son de Senegal! Jajaja, soy de Estados Unidos. Bien, perdon estoy muy extrano."

It was a short encounter and a silly one at that. I thanked him and walked out of the store. He was not the first African person I saw in the province nor would he be the last. In fact, just about every train stop there may be one African man vending knock off watches and other jewelry items. I have only seen one African woman in Grand Bourg with her hair also wrapped like mine. They were rarities here  but not completely absent. Yet never did I ever see my African kin in large groups. 

It took a while but I finally returned to Salam. I was curious if he knew of any local tailors or places where I could purchase more West African fabric. He tired to sell me some tye dye pants. I looked at him with the "you gotta be kidding me" face and repeated, "Senor, de verdad?" (Sir, really?). "Yo quiero mas autentica ropa. Ropa con diferente colores. Faldas, vestidos. . etc. Hay una personas aca en Argentina que puede cocer?" I started to show him pictures of my other dresses and skirts. Then he told me about his friend coming to visit next month who can bring some things over. 

The conversation then transformed. "You're the one who came in and asked if I was from Ghana or Senegal right?" he said with his heavy Senegalese accent. We began to talk about our journeys and how we both ended up in Grand Bourg. Mohammed has lived in Argentina now for four years. All of his family is back home. His day consists of work and sleep. He explained to me that he is from Dakar, the nation's capital. With an unstable economy and a lack of job opportunities he knew he had to leave in order to support his loved ones. Mohammed made it clear though it was solely for money unlike his more rural counterparts that have fled because of war. "Where else have you been?" I asked. Unlike many of the other Senegalese people I have met, Mohammed came straight to Argentina but he had always dreamed of coming to the states. He told me ever since he was a little boy he wanted to go to the U.S. but it is quite difficult to enter. For now, Argentina will do. I told him how impressed I was that he had a stable business while other African immigrants vend their faux items on tables in the street. For four years in another country living in an unfamiliar language, this was quite an accomplishment. 

He offered me his stool for a seat as our conversation continued to unfold. Every few minutes he would walk outside to check on passing people viewing his table. Inside the store we were surrounded by handbags and clothing. The walls were white with shelves covering the walls. A mannequin stood in the window surrounded by wallets, watches, shirts and jewelry. It was a small space, roughly 9ft x12ft. There was no music playing, just the sounds of the lively people in the streets and cars rushing through the traffic light. 

When he walked back in Mohammed asked how I felt about Grand Bourg and living in Argentina. At this point we had both let our guards down and just jumped right into how much we miss our food from home. Finally, someone who understands me. But we make due with what we have. Sigh. 

Mohammed asked "What is your job here in Grand Bourg? You said you work at the church?"

-"Yea, I'm a vicar. Like a pastor kind of? Wait do you know what is a pastor?"

-"No, I'm not familiar."

-"Perdon, Ok so an Imam, yes?" He nods his head. " A pastor is a Christian Imam. I am a student of the pastor."

"That is great. God Bless."

-"Si, Inshallah!"

-"Ah, inshallah, si si!"

We continued to exchange Arabic phrases as a sign of solidarity. We still share one God. Yet I began to wonder if there is a space for him and our other Muslim kin to worship in la Provinicia. Do they need a safe space for prayer? Since I have been here I have not been able to locate a mosque but maybe that may not be a priority either. It was getting late and I realized he had a shop to tend. "In a week come back and ask if I spoke to my friend about the materials" he said. "Perfecto! Gracias." We exchanged good byes in a mix of spanish, english and french, again sharing signs of solidarity and appreciation of each other's heritage. Peace be upon him.

As I reflect on my encounter with Mohammed I  continue to reflect on my other Senegalese experiences abroad. Last time I was in Europe I had met an abundance of Senegalese people in Spain, Italy and France. Most of them were venders in tourist areas and on the streets like in Argentina. When I was in Spain I approached one about going out and places to eat. By the end of my journey I had been introduced to the Senegalese community of Barcelona, ate fresh Senegalese food, and learned a bit more about some of the West African politics. Though French is their colonizer's language and the language taught in their school system, Senegalese people living in Europe easily spoke two to three other European languages. The Mohammed I met in Barcelona spoke French, Spanish, some Italian and some German mainly because of his migration journey. In addition, there are some ethnic languages in Senegal that he was fluent in as well. In these encounters some shared their migration journeys moving from Italy to Germany to Spain. They shared some of their present living conditions and told me about their families back home. 

These encounters were not exclusive to Europe either. In fact I had met a number of Senegalese people in my travels around the east coast as well. In my senior year of college, my History professor was a Senegalese man who was educated in Paris. When I moved to Philadelphia one of the first people I met was my tailor who imported fabrics straight from Senegal. Even when I had moved to Atlanta for a short period of time many of my Uber drivers were Senegalese who were working in other industries as well. Each time I was met with salam. It is blessing that my brothers and sisters continue to cross my path as we are all travelers of the world. Though mine is in privilege and there's is in necessity, these realities have never disrupted salam. For them I am thankful. Mashallah.

#ReclaimMissionary

Baptized in Vodka

2,103,840 minutes. . . .

. . . .35,040 hours. . . . 

. . . .1,460 days. . . .

. . . .208 weeks. . . .

. . . .48 months. . . .

. . . .4 years. . . .

. . . .Today. . . . 

Do you remember your baptism?

Yes. It was July 4^th, 2007 sometime between 8pm and 10pm. My head was lying on the floor of a house while my body laid limp hanging off of a chair. There were witnesses to this sacrament, this unwanted rite of passage.  I faintly remember the water being turned into Vodka like at the wedding at Canaan. My face kissed the train station floor as if I was at the feet of Jesus. Again my body hanging out of a car like my back was too frail to support me. Shattered glass surrounded me. The back windshield damaged thanks to yours truly. Like a child being handed over from their parents to the pastor, I was transported from one group of friends to another. The only candle being lit was the flame of an addict that I did not know lived inside of me at the time. I was fifteen when my soul was promised to the Unholy of Spirits. My first blackout.

I wish I had known that blackouts were a sign of alcohol abuse or that alcoholism was hereditary. Maybe then I would have lived with more caution, or maybe I just like to think that. The reality is neither of those facts crossed my mind for five years. My drinking was justified and normalized by American culture. I was (am) also hard headed and unable to see the facts. The same year my life was given over to the bottle, I met my mentor and her wife. They were both sober. My mentor unapologetically shared stories of her drinking and how much sweeter sobriety had been. Those words did not mean much to me then. Teenagers can’t be addicts.

Wrong.

The following year I met one of my best friends, the daughter of two sober addicts. Ironically enough, she and I ended up making a lot of poor decisions together contrary to her parents’ lifestyle.  Again, it was normal as many of our peers at the time were doing the same. We went to a school where prescription pills flew through the hallways. Students came back from the weekend with stories of driving across Long Island for Speedballs and cocaine. By the end of the year, I learned of more and more of our peers going into outpatient rehab. Others continued to live with no recollection of what happened the week before. High school was literally a blur. A few months into my friendship with my best friend, she too began her steps to recovery.

I think I tried to ask for help a few times. I knew something was wrong especially after losing my brother in ninth grade. The truth is you cannot help an addict until they are ready to help themselves. The chances are I probably wanted to be ready but there was always the second guessing. My life is not in shambles like “real addict,” at least that is what I thought then. I was not regularly popping pills or doing hard drugs. Our culture stigmatizes addicts, portraying them as constantly strung out and essentially the scum of the earth. In reality, yes we do some really scummy things. Addicts are manipulative, liars, self-serving, and non- committal. Sometimes we can even be abusive. We place our high above the needs of others and our own self-care. I of course did not know this nor was I able to see the signs in my own life. Between struggling with what I later learned was anxiety and depression, my usage was to cope with my mental health.

Plot twist, alcohol is a depressant. I was doing more harm than help.

Do you remember your baptism?

Yes. It was September 30^th, 2012 sometime between 3am and 4am. The head of my car smothered the back of an SUV as my body sat back in the seat. There were witnesses to this sacrament, this unwarranted come to Jesus moment. I faintly remember the spiritual presence of the Samaritan woman as I asked for another drink only there had been no well to drawn from. I spat on my wrists trying to drunkenly remove hand cuffs as if my saliva could wash away this sin. Eyes shut only to open again behind bars. I made three phone calls; my sister, my supervisor, and my pastor in that order. Like a child being handed over from their parents to the pastor, I was transported from a holding cell to jail. Fluorescent lights mirrored the baptismal candle, reminding me as I walked down the halls and into locked rooms, “you don’t belong here. You belong to God.” I was twenty when I gave my soul over to the Most High.  My last blackout.

I had finally hit rock bottom. I was a college senior sitting in jail with two other DWI’s, an assault, prostitution charge, an armed robbery, and a few repeat offenders. For five years I believed I was not like any of these women. I came from a stable two parent household in the suburbs.  I was in school with dreams of being a pastor. My future did not include being in jail (not that anyone genuinely dreams of being in jail). Within twenty four hours my entire understanding of myself changed entirely. There was a time when I did not see any correlation between addict behavior and me. As I looked around me and saw who I was housed with I realized I was the epitome of addict behavior. I am an addict.

Help.

The same evening I had finally developed the courage to call my mother. I was certain I had already buried her with this accident. My stupidity was everything she feared as a parent. As we rode home, I texted my mentor and my best friend’s parents asking for help. The next afternoon I went to my first meeting. I was scared. I was in pain. The only thing I could think of was how I could never be a pastor if I kept drinking. At this rate seminary would never accept me, candidacy would never entrance me, and everyone who had invested in me for the past how many years would be disappointed. People believed in me when I clearly did not believe in myself.  There was so much shame that sat on my shoulders. Between the stress and incredibly uncomfortable moments of peer pressure, the first four weeks were a blur. I finally allowed letting go and give up all power I was still trying to maintain. October 25^th I concentrated on my steps to recovery.  

I think about all of the ugly I committed while I was still drunk as well as the ugly committed to me. Sometimes I reflect on how misguided I was when there were clear signs that I should have stopped sooner. Like other drunks, I had lost friends and relationships due to the drink. I put myself and the lives of other in danger as well. Unfortunately when you live inside a bottle, your vision is impaired.

I lived like a Genie that cannot grant her own wishes.

Do you remember your baptism?

Yes. I remember it every day. There is nothing I rather remember then the day I finally and truly gave myself over to God.  I am here today because of my baptism. I am here today because of my sobriety. To me it is one in the same. My sobriety is as pure to me as the water sprinkled on us over the fountain as an infant. It is a reminder that I cannot live this life without the intervention of my higher power. It is only when I am sober that I can be mindful of my wrong doings and my flaws. Through sobriety I can fully experience the grace of God. In 2012 I was an absent minded fool with a bottle in my hand. When I put the bottle down, life was able to happen more fruitfully. By 2013 I faithfully graduated college, began taking classes at seminary, and was accepted into an MBA program. The following year I completed that MBA and managed to travel to Europe and Hawaii before the end of the year. In 2015 I was trusted to work in a hospital in Atlanta, received endorsement from candidacy, traveled to El Salvador, and got a job in Philadelphia. This past year I developed and coordinated the Substance Abuse program for a local charter school, traveled to Peru, Venezuela, and Colombia, and moved to Argentina. This would not nor could not have ever happened otherwise. I am not perfect at twenty four and I am present.

I highlight this story today as I celebrate four years of sobriety. Let it be a reminder that we are damaged people, all of us. We come with a history. Some history is darker than others. Some of us wear our suffering on our sleeves while others prefer to contain it. The sick and suffering are clergy as well as lay people. Our title does not make us special or exempt from the way of the world. We too live here in the flesh. It is also my hopes that in sharing, this encourages conversations to be had with our young people. What do we know about addiction and how are we messaging it to others? Are we guilty of shaming addicts rather than offering resources for them when they choose to get help? Often Millennials are criticized for documenting our every movement. We share too much apparently. Our entire lives our available for people to see. Some things should be kept to yourself.

Yes and no.

If my mentor never told me her story, I would have never known to reach out to her five years later. If I did not see my peers share their progress in sobriety, I probably would have felt even more alone in my own journey. Sometimes there are these incredibly personal articles that are shared that I have watched give life to people all over again. On the opposite end, when I see the lives and decisions of some of my peers on social media, I am reminded of why I cannot live that life anymore. They can go to Miami and come back with memories or spend an afternoon at Oktoberfest and leave. Those are things I could not do if I were still drinking. Their reality is my reality check.  Maybe someone reading this needed their reality checked. I hope it helped. 

#SoberMissionaryReclaimed

Ni Una Menos

It was Tuesday night. I was home after an early day at work. It was just Penne, Cannoli, and me strolling around the house, another day in Buenos Aires for us.  That morning I had led devotion with the school staff. The reading came from Joshua 2:1-24, the story about Rahab and the spies.  The topic was God’s grace given to us through faith. Rahab, a woman, sex worker, and non- Jew opened her home to these two strange men seeking shelter in their journey. When she was threatened by the King, rather than giving up the two men Rahab continued to protect them because she believed that the God of their understanding had truly blessed the Hebrews with the land. Because of her faith, she was protected when the army of Joshua came back to take over Jericho. In hindsight while grace had been a god theme, maybe it was not Rahab whose story should have been told.

Even though I live here I am still completely unaware of what is happening in the news. There is not a television in the house and I have not really thought of asking about popular news stations to source on the internet. Most of the time, I am just happy to have Netflix work. Basically I have been living in a bubble here only mindful of what friends choose to share with me and what I see through my travels. Besides, 2016 in the United States has drained me entirely. I do not think I even have the capacity to keep aching for the murders of people of color, weeping over the election season, and also invest emotionally in the social welfare of Argentina. Just learning about the social inequities in Grand Bourg versus other parts of the Provincia has been difficult enough. Ignorance is bliss. Today would not be the day to enjoy such bliss.

In the late evening I received a message from my supervisor in two different youth group chats:

“Difundan: 19/10 paro de mujeres. De 12.20 a 13 concentración en Larralde y cabildo. Corte de calle. Todxs vestidxs de negro con carteles de protesta. Difundir la movida en los grupos de wasap x favor
Y para las que no pueden para El DIA MIERCOLES 19 DE OCTUBRE LAS MUJERES NOS VESTIREMOS TOTALMENTE DE NEGRO DURANTE TODO EL DIA COMO SENÑAL DE PROTESTA POR LOS FEMICIDIOS PASAR POR FAVOR A SUS AMIGAS Y AMIGOS. En esta tenemos que estar todos juntos y juntas.”

"Spread: October 19th women strike. From 12:20- 1:00pm concentration on Larralde and Cabildo. Court Street. Comrades dress in all black with protest signs. Spread the move in Whatsapp groups x Please

And for those who cannot for the day WEDNESDAY 19 OCTOBER WOMEN WE ARE WEARING ALL BLACK THROUGHOUT THE DAY AS PROTEST BY SIGNALING FEMICIDE PLEASE SPREAD THIS MY FRIENDS. In this all we have to be together. "

I was caught completely off guard.

“There is a protest happening? Why? Are we going?”

I had no idea why I was being sent this message or what she wanted any of my youth to do. What triggered this? Instead of trying to do research with absolutely no idea of what I was researching since the event did not happen yet, I checked back in with my supervisor. No actual answer, just confirmation that we were not going to the march. I let this fall into the back of my head and worried about other unimportant things such as writing my sermon for Sunday.

                The next day I dressed in all black and sat in meetings with my supervisor. She led morning devotion from Amos to address Gender based violence in Argentina. While I am aware gender based violence happens internationally, it never genuinely occurred to me that it was so much of a problem here. So far I have only met young people in healthy relationships and adults that have been married for years. Out of sight out of mind I guess. My supervisor continued with her reflection and said, “Every thirty hours a woman is murdered because of their gender in Argentina.” One of the directors next to me said, “There are a lot of similarities with our issue here as there is with race in the United States.” He was right. Every 28 hours a black person is shot by the police, security, or vigilantes in the United States.  

While everyone else chimed in to discuss this topic I sat back and reflected. I immediately thought of the 1 of 4 women in the United States that will experience sexual violence in their lifetime, the 1 of 3 Indigenous women that will not only experience sexual violence but will most likely not receive justice either.  Earlier that morning I had read an article about 82 minors rescued from sex trafficking in the Philadelphia area and 16 people arrested. I thought about my powerful YouthBuild students that were vulnerable enough to share about their abusive relationships, ask staff members for help, and advocate for others to get out of their abusive relationships as well. How sick are we as humanity to violate people because of their gender? Who raised us to think less of someone based on socially constructed attributes?

This goes beyond the binary and heteronormativity as well. Men are abused as well. Feminine presenting men are targets for violence as well as masculine presenting women. Transpeople are too often murdered because of their desire to present themselves in the gender they feel most comfortable in.  Gender based violence is such an umbrella term for the everyday hate we witness.

Later that day I finally learned of who stirred the attention of the international media. Her name was Lucia Perez, a sixteen year old girl from Mar del Plata, Argentina. While other sixteen year olds were on social networks or hanging out with their friends, Perez was tortured and raped by a group of men. This young girl was drugged and anally raped with an object. The pain was so great; Perez suffered from a heart attack. Her rapists later washed her off and left at a local hospital to make it look like an overdose. Perez is one of the 226 Argentine women that have been murdered this year.

In regards to the Tuesday morning devotion, Rahab’s role was not an easy one. A single woman opening her home to strange men could have gone in the wrong direction. She could have been sexually violated or murdered like many women other women in the bible and in society today. Rahab could have been overpowered and kicked out of her own home and leaving her helpless as she had consented to helping the spies, a form of treason to the King. Yet she still acted by faith. She was moved by God to trust and to her favor it saved her life.

My fear is how many women are Rahab in spirit with Dinah results. The story of Dinah mirrors that of Lucia Perez. Dinah like Perez was more of a homebody. Like many women every day, they took the chance of being outside thinking they were safe in their own community. Both Dinah and Perez experienced the ugly reality of being a woman, in two entirely different centuries. Their bodies were violated without even the remote concern of consent by their rapists. Neither of their narratives gets to be told by the victims. They are silenced, one by death.  Their trauma then becomes the pain to be bared by their families. Nations weeping, cries for justice to be served. At what point does this story become old? When will no longer need to seek justice for the physical violation of a person’s body?  We work so hard to follow God and to believe that only God can protect us while we still live in a world of humans that harm us. In this culture the noun woman is not a person but rather a place or a thing. We come from wombs that are later penetrated with hate. The breasts where we would once reside for nourishment become keepsakes from invasion. What was once a temple is now a ruin. Flowers blossomed here then the soil was sewed with toxins. Who will protect us the way the spies protected Rahab? Who will empower our fortress and not tear down our walls?

Things I do not want:

·         To wear Black on Wednesdays

·         To  be the 25% of American women that have/ will experience sexual violence in their lifetime

·         Families to bury loved ones because someone else demanded access to a person’s body and was denied.

·         To read any more articles about women being murdered for denying a man’s pass at her.

·         To see comments of men justifying the rape and murder of women

·         View rape threats to presidential candidates regardless of our personal opinions about them.

 None of us should want these things. What are we going to do about it?

#ReclaimMissionary

Afroluterana: Race in Argentina

"As I am navigating my way through new territory, I wanted to speak a little on race in Argentina and one of my few issues here. This video talks about my personal encounters with people constantly asking about my background even when I claim my U.S. identity or Italian ethnicity. I am very proud of my blackness. I am also very bothered that even when I try not to point out race, someone else always feels the need to do that."

Additional Commentary

I am certain for a lot of people, they are tired of talking about race. Plot twist, so am I. Unfortunately many of my experiences so far have been centered around it. Not all encounters are unsettling either. What I have noticed though is how often I am challenged by new people around my racial and ethnic identity. I will share with people my Italian ancestry either after they share their Italian heritage or if we are discussing Argentine food, which is essentially pasta and pizza. Sometimes my Supervisor will even mention it as parishioners share a related story. Yet somehow that is never enough. People will respond with, "That is it?" or "But where is your family from?" When I explain my family is from the United States some are still unsatisfied. Is it that important to people for me to clarify that I am obviously of African descent? Where else could I be from? Every so often amongst strangers I am mistaken for Brazilian which I also understand. Yet I am curious as to what makes my melanin more Brazilian than American? My president is as Black as me, no? But maybe that is also the global image that we have projected, unless our Black folk are celebrities, athletes, or the president, there are no Black people in the United States? Our White citizens are the nationals and all others are foreign. Apparently regardless of a passport, place of birth, generations of families born here, military service, or a history of literally building the United States, we (people of color) have no connection with a land we have lived on for hundreds of years. 

#ReclaimMissionary

Privilege, Healthcare, Transportation

Privilege In Passport-----When I entered Argentina on August 22nd, I came with three suitcases and Penne the missionary cat. It took very little time for me to get through customs, in fact I do not even remember handing in the agriculture import form that are normally handed out at the end of a flight. Before my arrival I did not apply for a Visa. The only conditions to my stay was the expectation that I would be gone within 90 days. I am an undocumented. I will leave by the end of November only to return in three days. Then I will leave again in February, and once more in May before I finally come back to the states. What a luxury I have to be able to walk into a country and live here for a year without needing a Visa or other documentation to prove that I am going to leave. As someone who has traveled internationally quite a lot, there was only one occasion that I needed to apply for a Visa before entering and that was Bangladesh. That may have also been because I was with a class. Even during that period we all left the airport during a layover in Dubai without any issues. Actually no, my friend with a Haitian passport had a problem with customs. I have been to Spain, Italy, France, Hungary, and Finland all without needing consent prior to my arrival. When my peers and I went to El Salvador all we needed was to pay $10 at the airport. This past summer in Peru, again, I just walked right out of the airport. In real time any one of these countries I could have just missed my flight and stayed and no one would have known the difference.

What I have learned so far is that this luxury is absolutely not universal.  I was speaking to my Argentine friend about a trip to the United States he was planning to take in the spring. He said in a few weeks he had to go to the embassy to apply for a Visa. I remember looking at him confused as to why he needed a Visa.  Everyone needed a Visa to get into the US apparently and it was not just a simple application. He had to bring proof of Argentine employment, housing, other bills that would prove he has a reason to return to Argentina and that he would not stay in the United States. I was baffled. For maybe two minutes I repeatedly kept saying “Wow,” completely at a loss for words. At first I felt like an idiot for not recognizing my own privilege to be able to come and go as I please. Then I began to feel secondhand embarrassment for my country as they think everyone wants to migrate here. Little do people realize that Argentina is another hot spot for immigration and many people that I have met here are quite happy. If I were to take inventory of all the people I know from Latin America and the Caribbean, I cannot think of one person that I know of Argentine descent. Even though the economy is not as strong as the U.S., it has shown to be a bit more stable than many of their neighbors. Public University is free for all residents. Many high school and primary school students have four hour school days and are still accepted to one of the world’s best universities, University of Buenos Aires. Families can live off of one income. The people I have met in Argentina are interested in travelling rather than moving. Well to each its own, right.

Sometimes I think about staying here after my year, a very irrational thought I know. Yet as the elections get closer, these thoughts of not returning continually pop up. What would the life of a Masters holding U.S. citizen be in Argentina? Would I end up working in the kitchen of a restaurant like my Venezuelan friend with a degree in journalism? He shares an apartment in the Capital with four other men from northern Latin America. Maybe someone would want to marry me and I would live as an Argentine house wife. Could I tutor youth in English?

 I look at some of the other immigrant communities here and observe how they survive in a foreign context. Apparently the Bolivian community sells knock off products. The Paraguayan community is known for their Verdurias (Fruit/ Vegetable markets) and is also hired for construction jobs. The Chinese community has its own neighborhood in the Capital and run supermarkets and knick-knack stores in my neighborhood.  The Senegalese and other African immigrants sell watches, jewelry, and bags by the train stations and on major streets. One man even owns an actual store in my neighborhood. Many Latino immigrants have opened up small restaurants and sell baked goods on the street. For those who have not been as successful with day time labor many immigrant women work in the evening. Some people may have their own conceptions of why people migrate and the questioning of migrant work ethics. Regardless if there is employment or not, someone who has left their family and everything they loved to pursue life in another country is more than likely hustling.

Healthcare-----The longer I am here the more I learn about how much prosperity there is in Argentina even with their recent economic crisis. During dinner with friends I shared my fears of getting sick in another country more so for insurance purposes. Argentina does not have a mandate for health insurance. Martin, the med school friend, said “our emergency room is free in our public hospitals.” He told me how many people from other countries will take trips to Argentina to have basic medical procedures done because the trip is cheaper than the services in their country. After listening to the Presidential debates around Obama Care and the growing prices of insurance, I thought about how much easier it would be for us to just create free basic healthcare. For everyone that is Pro- Life, why are we not advocating for enhancing the quality of life through healthcare? What a concept it is to offer proper care for the poor and rich alike. Every year we seem to increase the spending of national defense while cutting the spending of other social programs. Should not all people at least have access to basic healthcare regardless of employment or living conditions?

On the reverse side of things, not all ailments can be treated in the public hospital in Argentina. For those with long term illnesses or unconventional diseases, they are recommended to see a private hospital which would then require health insurance. We began to compare prices for medication and adhesives. When I explained that some allergy medicine in the states can cost about $1 a pill, my friends stared at me like I was crazy. A box of adhesives in Argentina are anywhere between $1 and $2 while in the states they are significantly more expensive.  It is upsetting at times to see how badly Capitalism has damaged our culture when we think paying high rates for certain items is normal. In reality, many products we use are made with cheap labor overseas and marketed to us at astronomical rates. We of course pay it when it comes to medicine because we value our health.  

Accesibility------In the Province of Buenos Aires, public transportation is very accessible and quite affordable. I am able to travel to the heart of the city within an hour on the train for the cost of $3.40 Argentine Pesos equivalent to $0.22 USD. The Subway is only a peso and change more expensive. Most bus trips can be anywhere between $6.00 to $6.75 Argentine Pesos.  I pay less than $0.45 USD for a bus ride. On transit it is not uncommon for people to sell chocolate or candy during ones commute. If a chocolate bar is being sold at $15-$20 pesos a bar ($1- $1.33 USD), the vendor makes back their round trip fare in one exchange. In somewhere like New York, for a candy vendor selling for $1.00 USD a piece, they would need to sell three pieces in order to pay for their one way fare. Though this may not sound exciting to the average person, affordable transportation makes it easier for some less conventional models of labor to take place and enables greater opportunity for someone to support their family. The trains run often throughout the day and stop running efficiently around 10:30pm (I have gotten on an 11:30pm train and was greatly mistaken). The buses run all night long, fairly consistently as well. This makes it tangible for people to live in the suburbs and commute into work in the Capital as the cost of housing is significantly cheaper outside of the Capital.

Thoughts-----There is still so much more to uncover about Argentina. Though I would like to dive deeper into their politics and social welfare programs, I will hold off for another post to draw even closer comparisons to the United States. What I will say though is while there are times that I deeply miss home; there are other times when I am very much captured by my environment. There are small businesses and that last decades and room for healthy competition. In one street there are two vegetable markets, three butchers, two pet supply stores, and a handful of empanada joints. Every single business is doing well enough even with a supermarket that sells all of these items on the same street. Parents walk their children to and from school. Teachers create assignments and learning environments not shaped around standardized tests. Street dogs are treated like neighbors. Mate is shared amongst even strangers. Even in a poor neighborhood like mine, I understand why people are happy with where they live.

Maybe U.S. citizens need to travel more. Cross borders and live somewhere for a few weeks or months. Engage in a culture other than your own and open your mind to the idea that we may not have all the answers. Maybe then can we make better informed decisions around border patrol, immigration, and our domestic social policies. This is not even to purely advocate for the liberal agenda. One could absolutely experience life abroad and feel even more inclined to support conservative politics than before. I would rather we make these decisions with real life experiences rather than just based on hearsay. But I digress. This piece was painted with privilege. Read with care.

#ReclaimMissionary

Internship Project: Youth and Stewardship

"Leadership is about stewardship not ownership."

Just like that a month has rolled by since I set foot inside of San Lucas. So far I have done the following during internship:

• Preached (1)

• Visited the homebound (3)

• Made a hospital visit (1)

• Assisted in a baptism (1)

• Attended at least 1-2 meetings a week outside of San Lucas

Of course this does not include Wednesday night baptismal class with a local family, Friday night first communion class, and Saturday Confirmation class/ LIGA de Niñxs/Grupo de Jovenes. Nor does this include the weekly play with the IEA students during recreo and at the end of the day. It is a busy week here and there is nothing better than doing the work you love.

At the beginning of September I posted about my internship project and my concentration on lay ministry. Since then, the church has continued to expose itself to me in many different ways that have adjusted my long term plan for the year. 

I am presently struggling with my own understanding of spirituality, worship, and commitment. This past Sunday we had a worship attendance of ten people, not including the youth that were in the other building waiting until the end of service to sell baked goods. Nine people were a part of the family having their infant baptized. The other one was a regular member that also showed up about twenty minutes late to service (No big deal, better late than never). I looked at my Supervisor confused as to why no one else was here. Lluvia. Because it rained, no one came to church. On the one hand, very few people in the congregation actually drive so walking in the rain is no fun. On the other hand, it is worship, why is no one at the banquet? 

As I reflect on my own spirituality and my previous church experience, people came to Sunday worship to be spiritually fed. For my mother, she feels very strongly about communion. The bread and wine is a significant component to her weekly ritual. For me it has been the praise and worship. There is nothing I enjoy more than singing and praising God on a Sunday. In my previous context, Sunday worship meant fellowship. Wonderful church ladies in their Sunday's best gathered around to enjoy the social and spiritual presence in a parish. Yes, during the winter church attendance tends to go down. Weather does do that. Yet in the same respect there were still those few that would trek on public transportation or hunt down a ride to be there on a Sunday morning. The deacons were almost always present and the members that prepared the altar and communion practically lived at the church. Now here I am in a context without consistent music or a consistent membership. What does this mean? It is my hopes that during the upcoming months I can better assess the spiritual needs (in regards to worship) of my congregation. How else are people being spiritually fed? What is membership without attendance? 

In this month I have learned that some of the most regularly attending people in the congregation are in fact the youth. Whether they may or may not enjoy the worship aspect of church, they are the ones teaching Christian Education, supporting the children younger than them, and using the church space well. Some of them are incredibly talented with music. Others are using their gifts for teaching. Then there are a few that use the church as a safe space to play futbol on the patio. During the weekends they come and go as they please bringing friends and little siblings to our sacred space. One of our older youth works six days a week and the one day she has off is spent serving San Lucas in some way. When I think of what has been life giving in this church so far it has been to see the maturity and leadership of teenagers.

“ Deuteronomy 6: 4 Hear, O Israel: The LORD is our God, the LORD alone.[a] 5 You shall love the LORD your God with all your heart, and with all your soul, and with all your might. 6 Keep these words that I am commanding you today in your heart. 7 Recite them to your children and talk about them when you are at home and when you are away, when you lie down and when you rise.8 Bind them as a sign on your hand, fix them as an emblem[b] on your forehead, 9 and write them on the doorposts of your house and on your gates.”

This brings me back to Deuteronomy as Moses is trying to establish society. What is our structure for existence? How can we prosper? The God of my understanding teaches the Hebrews to love. To trust, even. Invest so deeply in the Lord as the Lord invests in us. At this point, the Hebrews are out of Egypt. They are no longer slaves but independent people. Throughout their entire journey God is walking with them. This powerful and intimate God is not to be forgotten because they have received liberation. God tells the Hebrews to tell their children and be vulnerable with them about this journey that God has taken them on. Let them see how great God is through us. Let the love of/for God be reflected in our homes, bodies, and actions. That love comes from the care of God’s creations. In this case, that creation is us. Let the youth know how much God cares for us so that our struggle does not go in vain. We teach the love of/for God so that others may learn from us and do better. How do we do better?

When my Supervisor informed me that lay ministry was a major need of the congregation, I was looking towards some of the adult members I was seeing every around. I am learning that many of the older members’ idea of church is still pastor-centric. I am also getting the feeling that participating in church more than Sunday is not necessarily their cup of tea. This is fine and something we can also tackle. I am seeing that this lay ministry may be more youth based than I expected. This is exciting. This is how we do better. We teach the youth.

Yesterday I added another room to the cleaning list and tackled the youth room. This time, rather than announcing it to an empty sanctuary, I told the youth on Saturday. Two young people came after school and cleaned with me for about five hours. Regardless if there were two or twenty two people, the first time I cleaned the office it was just me. We played our music loud, opened the windows, and dived into this dusty storage space filled with crafts, hula hoops, sleeping bags, and craft supplies. There were text books, photos, posters, and card board cut outs. As we went through boxes and bags, I held things up and said “Basura, ¿si?” 

“¡No, no Nic! Salve.”- Nico

“Pero este es viejo y sucio. ¿Por qué no podemos crear otra uno?”- me

(Insert a long Spanish response about it being for camp or for an activity)- Him

Rinse and Repeat dialogue above.

We struggled with the youth room purge as many items that I would consider trash were kept and placed in other boxes to go back on shelves. We can just make new ones, no? There were times that I had to check myself on both accompaniment and stewardship. First off, who am I to decide what trash is and what is valuable? Some of these handmade crafts may have been sitting in this room for years but it makes it no less valuable to someone else. Also, what right do I have assuming we can easily replace certain items? Is that good stewardship? Probably not. At that moment I realized I needed to reevaluate my own definition of caring for God’s creation.

Eventually we got to a point where we sat down for a second to discuss what we were doing. I explained that it is healthy for us as a church to practice stewardship. Stewardship is more than giving away money but it is about time, treasure, and talents. Stewardship is taking care of your community and God’s creations. What we were doing in this room was a form of stewardship. A few minutes later I asked them to sing during worship in November on my preaching day. These are other forms of stewardship, using your talents for the spiritual care of God’s creations.

Going forward this month, I am introducing the Spiritual Gifts Assessment to the congregation where we can look deeper into what our gifts are for ministry. We can then keep inventory of how people can best be used for the mission of the church. I more so look forward to seeing the results of the youth as there are plenty of opportunities for them to serve at San Lucas. After we have a good idea of our gifts we can then offer the resources people need to enhance these gifts. This month I also plan on preaching about stewardship and congregational involvement as an introduction to lay ministry development for the year. Wish us luck on this journey. 

#ReclaimMissionary