What waits for me

A little poetic, this one.

I stand outside this culture. All goes on without me, as it did before I came, as it has for as long as there have been people here, and before. That first day I spent moving over the globe, the people of Chile went on with their life. Their world continues if I understand it or not. Standing outside of it is like standing outside of the future, eyes straining forward. I can imagine what goes on there; I'm excited by it all. I can picture a beautiful life here, with friends, creativity, great fruitfulness in ministry, even love. As the real world calls to me, so too does this real future world of my own making. It leans back and swings its arm toward me, catching at my heart and hopes, and my heart leaps to see it waiting there. But it taunts me because it isn't real - not yet it isn't, and perhaps it never will be. I need to look to today. Look to today and look to the great Tomorrow, to the Tomorrow that I will walk in as sure I walk today. The Tomorrow that's no mad dream. I need to look to the man who will take me there, the Shepherd who knows how hopeless my heart can be, who'll make sure I get there anyway. This hope, this bright, extravagant, tender thing inside of me, it has a purpose. It has a resting place. Perhaps good things will come to me over these next short years. Surely they will. But they are little outposts of all that will be - that will be. It were better for this poor heart of mine if I looked there. Look there, poor heart of mine! Look there and don't be always looking back and around.
It is too much for me. God give it me.

But as for me, I trust in you. 

- Psalm 55:23

The Foreigner

I've got it just about as good as it can get. I'm not a refugee: I came here of my own free choosing. People don't scorn me: rather, they look up to me, the rich, white, English-speaker. I haven't suffered cultural awkwardness and rejection: I'm surrounded by the loveliest, most welcoming people. I don't get stared at or treated differently: I pass for a Chilean on the street. The culture's not confronting and Other: I think I may even end up feeling more comfortable in this culture than in my own. And I don't find the language alien and veiled: rather, I enjoy it.

But I'm a foreigner still. It's strange to find myself thus. I don't think I'd really twigged that it would be my identity when I stepped off the plane. I find myself in something of a no-man's-land, at once part of things and not. Obviously I'm physically present in all sorts of situations and places, but socially and relationally I'm looking on.

Of course this can happen in your own culture, if you're excluded from a friendship group. Horrible as this experience is, at least at some level you still belong. You know how these groups operate and what people are thinking (that's why it hurts so much); you know how to go about life in your country; and (hopefully) you are part of other relational webs. But as a foreigner, you find yourself, not outside of a particular group, but outside of a whole culture. It's like there's a bubble enclosing all the people of the land except for you. You can see and hear and even communicate with them, but there's much you don't understand and you're not in. Maybe it's a bit how people with Autism and Asperger's feel - although I suppose they don't always realise what they're missing.

I don't really know what point I'm trying to make. I guess I'm hoping to help my dear readers understand - so you can feel sorry for me (!) and be a friend to the foreigners in your life. Don't feel too sorry for me though - I feel very confident that this is just a phase and a short one. I think that God chose very well when he placed me here and I do think that all will be well. I've always been fascinated by 'sense of place', so in a way this experience is a great blessing for me. And I pray it will help me know, love and turn my eyes to the land where one day I will truely be home.

The first will be last

A Chilean friend confessed to me that while she can understand English, she doesn't try to speak it because she feels like English speakers have no sympathy for beginners. It's quite the opposite here - people view your attempts, however hopeless, as a sign of love and respect and will listen with great patience. I'm sure I've said any number of funny things over the last three months, but I've only ever been laughed at once and that was completely fair enough (when asked what sport I like, I said "nacer" instead of "nadar" - "being born" instead of "swimming"). I think there's something about speaking the world's highest-status language that convinces us we're superior. I feel this too - when the people who have been so gracious with me mispronounce English words, I find myself sniggering a little, as if it's funny - and silly - that they didn't know any better. I don't mean to think this way, but I do, and, if English is your first language, then I bet you do too.

Do it and do it now!

One of the Bible's funny ideas is that obedience, submission and self-denial for the sake of a higher power brings joy and fullness, even life. We are more happy if we live with handed-down guidelines and rules than we are with our self-made freedom.

If you obey my commands, you will remain in my love, just as I have obeyed my Father's commands and remain in his love. I have told you this so that my joy may be in you and that your joy my be complete. John 15:10-11

If we don't believe this, it is because we only know imperfect, self-serving authorities and we are ignorant of our Creator God's knowledge of us. But he is wise and loving in a way that parents, teachers, politicians and kings never are, and he knows us more intimately than our partners, even than we know ourselves.

Sympathizers

'Club Preguntas' (Question Club) ended last Thursday. This seven-week course was an opportunity for non-believers to ask any questions they had about the Christian faith and to explore a few of our own (Who is Jesus? Was he resurrected or not? What's going on with the world? Why did Jesus have to die? What would it mean to be a disciple? Who will come with me on the journey?). A few people's friends joined us for handfuls of weeks, now and then. (Regular attendance is a bit tricky here.) The ladies there on the final Thursday were both very appreciative of Christianity - feeling a real sense of spiritual connectedness and finding stories of the Bible very beautiful. My pastor ended with this challenge - Jesus has no interest in adherents: he wants disciples, people who will give their lives over to him and, receiving his Spirit, seek to honour him through each part of every day.

Well presented

Hypocrisy makes me mad. So does falsity, that unknown or accidental hypocrisy. I would rather a person humbly express their brokenness than, in their insecurity, present themselves as something other than they are and make me play their twisted game. At first the game looks fine - in fact, it looks like real life, not a game at all. And any sensible, nice, normal person would play along. So it begins, in trust or untrust, letting your guard down or trying to keep it up. And soon you can feel that it's not what they said it was. When they implied that we're equals here or that they cared for you, they lied.

So hypocrisy and falsity make me mad. Sometimes they creep up on me slow and I'm immeshed before I know; other times I can sense it straight away. Everything pushes me to keep playing: terrible anger, biting ridicule or quiet offence wait for those who rebel. I hate this too. So now I'm trapped: they're using me and I'm trapped, and, if I care about them, I'm going to end up hurt, and, if I don't, it reminds me of the other times.

Maturity leaves me and anger holds me in thrall, mind and heart full. I might withdraw in grumpy silence, or perhaps snarky comments will dart out my mouth or I'll lose it altogether. All because they were too insecure to be who they really are... and because I'm so insecure I need their care.

There's no reason for this when I'm a daughter of the Living Almighty God, who died so tenderly for me and walks me through each day. There's no need to shut my eyes to him. If I really am safe in him - and I am - I'm safe even when people play games with me. They've got their own stuff going on. It's wrong of them to use me, but I should feel for them. Instead of playing along, instead of reacting, I should hold my confidence in his love and gently, calmly refuse to take on my role. They won't like it and that's okay. Standing in my Father's love, I can be sincere and kind and grant them the respect they deserve as precious creations of God.

El campo

A North American speaker at a church planting conference the other day began his talk telling us about growing up on his Dad's farm: how hard they would toil to get the seeds planted, how satisfying it was to see the harvest come up in the fall, and how apparent it was that they who planted and watered were nothing compared to the God who made the seeds grow (1 Cor 3:5-9).

Now clearly I don't really know, but I felt like this illustration captured the heart of the Chilean audience. Chile depends on its vast campo, and I get the feeling that part of being Chilean is being of the land (though I don't yet know quite what that conjures). Besides, pretty much everyone I've met here in Santiago grew up in the north or south of the country, so the hearts of many cityfolk are partly back home. I feel like this is something Tasmanians and Australians share. Not so much about farming (which I think we undervalue), but, for us, the wilds of Tasmania or the beauteous strangeness of the outback. These landscapes are ever with us, forcing us to make room for them in our identity, just as they have made room for us.

A table for two

An enchanting post with fantastic photos about the gorgeous, gorgeous gourmet delights of Tasmania - including my mates' café, Yellow Bernard. I haven't enjoyed all the places featured - some are a bit out of my price range - but it's good just knowing they are there, making my island even more beautiful than it was before.

The Lord my Saviour

My church's women's group met again on Saturday to get to know and care for one another a little more and to meditate on "El Señor mi Salvador" (the Lord my Saviour). After hearing a brief talk we were given time to consider: "¿Qué significa para ti que El Señor sea tu Salvador?" (What does it mean for you that the Lord is your Saviour?). It's good to be asked questions that force you to think in a new way.

What Jesus did on the cross was simple. I know it well and can tell it to a child. Yet it was so profound that my mind falters and cannot take it in. With the song, I say "Why should I gain from his reward? I cannot give an answer. But this I know with all my heart: his wounds have paid my ransom."

This too I know: What Jesus did on the cross has given me everything. Without it I would be nothing; with it I have all I need, now and for the future. It has made me who I am today and who I will be tomorrow. If he were not first my Saviour, I could not bring myself to follow him as Lord, nor would I wish to. When I'm confused, guilty or sorrowful, the cross is all that remains and all I need. Everything else may disappoint, but the cross is always true and, because of it, I am kept safe, even when my mind is clouded and I doubt. Without the cross, life is often nonsensical and enigmatic and there is striving and no peace. In the cross rests my security, hope and peace. For when I needed rescuing, he rescued me.