The Faith of Canaanites

August 14, 2011
Twentieth Sunday in Ordinary Time
Is 56:1, 6-7
Rom 11:13-15, 29-32
Mt 15:21-28

A quick preliminary note: In the United States we have an option of transferring Monday's readings from the Feast of the Assumption to the Sunday prior. You may not hear the above readings at mass.

In the Gospel Jesus calls a woman a dog, there's no two ways around it. Some biblical scholars have claimed that in the original Greek the word used was better translated with an affectionate tone, like puppy or lap dog, but they're just evading the truth - Jesus called a woman a dog.

You might not believe me. You might think I'm crazy. "Jesus, divine love incarnate, would not do such a thing," you might be saying. But, according to the the author of Matthew, he did. And, call me crazy, but I love this passage. I love what it says about Jesus' humanity and divinity. I love what that further reveals about God. A closer examination of the reading will show you what I mean.

By the time Jesus walked the streets of Jerusalem Canaanites didn't exist. The Jews had seen to their destruction years earlier. Calling someone a Canaanite was like calling someone a Benedict Arnold - everybody knew exactly what you meant and it wasn't very nice. Actually, it's worse than not nice. Calling someone a Canaanite is saying "you're the lowest of the low, you don't even exist."

Jesus was human and accordingly he was a man of his culture, place, and time. Sure, Jesus hung out with sinners, but usually Jewish sinners, not random Gentile women from far north of Israel. Jesus even goes so far as saying, "I was sent only to the lost sheep of the house of Israel." That is, not to Gentiles, and definitely not to this Canaanite woman.

But something powerful happens in their encounter. After ignoring her, ordering the disciples to send her away, and then insulting her, Jesus changes his mind. Something in him shifts. Her faith - the faith of the one that barely exists in his eyes - is a mission altering encounter for Jesus. Her faith not only heals her daughter, but widens Jesus' mission from Israel to the whole world.

There's plenty of evidence for this in the rest of the gospel. For instance, just before their encounter Jesus fed 5000 hungry families - all Israelites; but after their encounter when Jesus feeds 4000 more families they're all Gentiles. His vision of salvation grows to include all of humanity because of this women, a woman seen at the time as nonexistent and hated.

If we believe that Jesus is the revelation of God, that Jesus reveals to us Who God is, then the image of a Jesus who changes, grows, and allows for his vision of love to widen tells us that we have a God that does the same. We have a God who hears prayers, especially those of the poor and outcast, and changes His plan for them. We have a God who hears the persistent prayers of a people of faith and adapts to love them better.

When I ask myself how I can become more like Christ, I find myself wondering who are today's Canaanites. What people do I ignore? What people do I refuse to listen to? What people do I ask my friends, family, and coworkers to dismiss on my behalf?

The homeless guy I try not to make eye contact with - Canaanite.

My grandma who lives at a retirement center that I rarely call or visit - Canaanite.

The coworker I ignore or am cold to - Canaanite.

The poor Salvadoran whose land was taken to mine gold for yet another gift for someone I love - Canaanite.

How can I be more aware of these people? What can their faith teach me? How can I grow to love them, and the world, more fully? This is the challenge of the gospel then and today. May it change us like it did Christ.

To Be Seen by the Crucified People

This is the personal knowledge that does not distance us from the world but brings us into community, face to face. A knowledge that heals and makes whole will come as we look creation in the eyes and allow it to look back, not only searching nature but allowing it to search us as well.
- Parker Palmer

* * * * *

Forgive me for this final delayed entry. The last ten days have been a fast-paced, no-holds-bar, all-out assault on my body, mind, and soul. The corporal readjustment from hot to cold and beans to no beans would have been enough for anyone, but the last week was more experientially generous than you can imagine. Yes, there was the transition to speaking and spending American, but the real wrestling came with some long-term life/employment questions. A quick summary for those wondering: I turned down the best job for me in CLE+ (an environmental theology teaching position at St. Martin de Porres), canceled all future campus ministry job interviews, and decided to channel Good Will Hunting and say "if the Professor calls about that job, just tell him, sorry, I have to go see about a girl." So yeah, I'll be moving to Charlotte sometime before September. I'd rather have a life than a job.

Yet, through all the chaos of week one stateside, a blog post has been brewing in the depths of my head and heart. Admittedly, I'm conflicted. I want to summarize, highlight, lowlight, reflect, provoke, inspire, honor, cherish and so forth, but all that seems too lofty for this space. What I've decided to leave you with is the reason I go (and the reason I want others to go) to El Salvador.

Often we hear missionaries and pilgrims say that seeing poverty changed their lives. When I returned from the Dominican Republic in 2002 I'm this line played on repeat from the speaker that is my mouth. After four trips to El Salvador, all with students and first time travelers, I believe that its only partial, tangential truth. Years ago I couldn't articulate the deeper, more fundamental experience that occurs when we (read: rich people; and yes, you're a rich person) visit the poor. I am not sure I can articulate it now, but its why I go, so I'll try.

* * * * *

For our knowledge is imperfect and our prophesying is imperfect;
but once perfection comes all imperfect things will disappear...

Now we are seeing a dim reflection in a mirror;
but then we shall be seeing face to face.

The knowledge I have now is imperfect;
but then I shall know as fully as I am known.
1 Cor. 13: 9-10, 12

* * * * *

St. Paul writes that our self-image is blurry at best, but at the time of perfection we will see clearly, face to face. Our self-knowledge, he goes on, is limited until we are seen fully. I'm no student of Paul. He could as easily be talking about Christ's second coming as he could the fall of the Roman Empire, but reading this through the "Dean Brackley lens" I have come to think this: when we are seen by the "crucified people" of El Salvador face to face we begin to see ourselves as they see us, which is how God sees us. Broken, yet miraculously whole. Sinful, yet wholly loveable. This is not how we were taught to see ourselves. American culture tells us we need to look this way, dress like that, drive one of these, and have sex with one of those. But when they look at us, when we are seen for the God-image that we are, those cultural chains lose their weight. Life becomes lighter, love becomes possible. This is the Salvadoran experience: to know as fully as we are known.

Thomas Merton says this:

"But God communicates Life and Spirit to humanity. It is not God's plan to lure the soul out of the body, but to sanctify the two together, divinizing the whole person so that Christian can say: 'I live, now not I but Christ liveth in me. And that I now live in the flesh, I live in the faith of the Son of God Who loved me.'"

Divinization at the hands of the poor. To live in the faith that the crucified people of El Salvador have seen us and have univocally determined that we are loveable. This is why I go and why I want other people to go.

Encountering this self-image in the eyes of the poor is not without responsibility. Parker Palmer is quiet clear. This personal knowledge demands that we engage the world, demands that we enter into community. Solidarity is not easy with a people who suffer. Sustained community is not easy with people thousands of miles away. But once we take this road, once we are seen and begin to see, nothing seems impossible.

John the Baptist = Dean Brackley?

Cormac Mccarthy is not a good author to read while living in a third-world country. He describes a God that is "unmoving, austere, implacable" and Who's justice, if it exists, is post-history. Justice, for his God, might be an afterthought, but it might also actually be the seemingly unmediated world we live in where more people are hungry, sick, underpaid, under-loved, and treated with indignity than not.

Living in El Salvador, witnessing the struggle for food, education, health, freedom, democracy, dignity and all the rest scares me to death sometimes. At timesI buy into Mccarthy's vision of God. I buy into the idea that evil will win, that justice is not possible, that there will always be the forgotten poor and the forgetful rich.

Then from the wilderness I hear a voice. (This wilderness happens to be Rafa's bookshelf and the voice if of Dean Brackley, S.J., who was the first Jesuit to transfer here after the six were assassinated, the author of The Call to Discernment in Troubled Times which happened to be sitting in English with a personal inscription on Rafa's bookshelf, and whom I had lunch with on this week at the UCA.)

Faith affirms that God's Reign irrupts into this world and advances in the heart of history, within and beyond these often-ambiguous movements. In the end, faith is not based on those movements, but on a deeper experience, a shared sense that, despite egoism, suffering, and death, life is worth the trouble. It springs from the internal conviction that sacrifice, love of neighbor, and celebration make sense, less because of apparent facts than despite them. The easy smile of the poor and the severely handicapped and their readiness to celebrate have a basis in reality. While they show us that life is more cruel and evil, more tenacious than we ordinarily admit, they also help us recognize that there is something going on in the world that is much more wonderful than we had imagined. The experience of this quiet assurance - that it makes sense to struggle and to celebrate - is our solid grounds for hope. It is experience of such a kind that we cannot give full account of it. And yet it furnishes sufficient reason to believe in God's Reign, reason enough to trump the evidence to the contrary. Though I cannot always explain why, deep in my heart I do believe that we shall overcome some day...love and community are possible, and not simply in exceptional corners of an unloving world. And if life and truth and love will have the last word, then history has direction, although it has less to do with conventional measures of progress than with crosses and resurrections.
Dean Brackley, S.J.

And there it is - I'm off to work, to teach English, dignity, love, justice, and to believe those things are possible.

Pupatating People

Again, the kingdom of heaven is like a merchant searching for fine pearls.
When she finds a pearl of great price, she goes and sells all that she has and buys it.

The very hungry caterpillar is dead. The second graders killed her on Tuesday. They also abruptly ended one of Mrs. Frizzle and the magic school bus’ famed field trips. I’m not sure if they salvaged the bus or if it went to the junkyard, but Mrs. Frizzle’s students surely went home disappointed.

When books die everyone loses. Killing a book by cutting it up for an art project turns an educational tool, a tool which has the power to overcome poverty through knowledge, into trash can filler. But, for some reason, a teacher here didn’t see it that way. I don’t know what she saw. Maybe she saw me having the kids write books and cut out images from magazines for the pictures. Maybe she was trying to use some of the materials sent creatively in her class. Or maybe she saw stacks upon stacks of books written in a language she does not understand and could not imagine how to integrate into her classes other than removing the part that confused her – the words. I really don’t know. At this point, I’m not even asking why. I didn’t come to Agua Caliente to look backward, but to look forward, to look toward the future for these kids.

Ever since my very hungry friend failed to pupatate I’ve thought a great deal about the teachers here, their education, motivation, and classroom preparation. I’ve thought about the kids, their smiles and joy, what an education can mean for them, how the school here can be for them the story of metamorphosis that they cut to pieces. The problem, it seems, that always interrupts my dreams for their future is the past. The past is never quite behind us, it formed us and continues to push us forward.

An explanation: when I witness the ancient, and often torturous, pedagogical practices of our teachers (one example being the 4th graders writing every twentieth number from 0 to 1,000,000 so they “could know they existed”) and I try to remind myself that this is how the teachers were taught too. And, at the elementary school that they attended, where teachers are known to attend class drunk, not show up regularly, and do other worse things to students, the education we provide is an improvement. For our teachers, showing up every day and “teaching” is a stark improvement on what their past told taught them was a teacher. The past forms are present.

For 12 years during the Salvadoran civil war people were “disappeared”. Really, since the Spanish showed up until today the very lives of native people/poor people have been seen as disposable. Just last summer, when two environmentalists “disappeared” because they spoke out against the Canadian cyanide-leach gold mining outfit Pacific Rim, the government blamed it on gangs. For centuries the people here have been trained to think that everything, even their lives, is disposable. This is why the streets are filled with trash, why they don’t see the beauty of the landscape, why 3:00 pm always means sometime around 3:40, and why a teacher thought it a good idea to dismember the very hungry caterpillar.

Fatima, a future English teacher and friend from Agua Caliente, has been observing my classes lately. This embarrasses me. I am not trained to teach ESL or elementary kids and my daily preparation is less than it should be (but heck, I’ve got 7 preps ranging from first grade to adults, what can you expect?!?!). When I ask Fatima why she wants to watch me, she says it’s because I use all the techniques she’s learning about in school. I can’t tell you what these are in English, let alone in Spanish. My class often just happens – like the other day when my planned 10 minute demonstration of the game “Go Fish” turned into the kids teaching each other how to play the game, with them forming teams to reinforce the newly learned question and response to the kids who hadn’t memorized it yet. They taught each other; Fatima and I sat and watched. I had no clue this would happen, but I did not fear letting it happen. I’m glad she witnessed it because this approach to learning is nowhere to be found in Agua Caliente. But I’m also glad she witnessed it because she knew my lesson plan was different. She watched a teacher demonstrating the courage to be different, tolerance of the failures and frustrations that lead to learning, the decisiveness to make the decision to adapt a lesson on the fly, the humility to acknowledge that the students knew how to learn the material better than I did, love of the process – of making it happen and appreciating it when it does, the self-security to allow the students to venture into the educational unknown, and a teacher who braved the wilderness of patience with engaged student discovery. In seeing all of these she saw my utter joy in watching it all unfold. This was a gem of a lesson to observe and I’m well aware that most days my classes don’t even come close to resembling it.

Paulo Feire writes in Teachers As Cultural Workers, that these qualities: humility, lovingness, courage, tolerance, decisiveness, security, the tension between patient and impatience, and the joy of living are necessary, on top of solid pedagogy, for a teacher to be progressively democratic. I don’t know about “progressively democratic,” but I’d say those are the qualities a teacher needs to succeed in educating his students. I’d even say those are simply the qualities that a person needs to succeed in being human.

Am I angry that those books, so generously donated by my friends in Kent, were destroyed? Yes. But even more so I moved to compassion for how the Salvadoran people view themselves and the world around them. Training these teachers to be effective in their classrooms involves more than showing them some best practices, it involves lifting their self-worth and self-value above what they’ve been trained to allow for themselves. Before they can employ all the qualities listed by Freire, they first need to be able to acknowledge that some things are not disposable. Some things have an innate value that nothing can take away. Until they come to realize that they are that thing, that they are the pearl of great price, the education will lack. This is a slow process, to be sure, but the most important of processes. While I can guarantee you that before this happens you can train for and run a marathon, I can also guarantee you that only through educating the Salvadoran people will we see the reign of God – a world community free from the suffering of indignity and worthlessness – fully manifest itself in the present.

Running Up a Mountain...

There are least two perks from my odd morning ritual:
1) The view after 3 miles of up hill.
2) Feeling super fast on the second half of the run.


The speckles of white on the left between the three hills is Agua Caliente.

The Glory of God is a Person Fully Alive

Fr. H. Paul Kim is the most transparent mystery I’ve ever met. His English confuses me, his actions puzzle me, and his strength, courage and faith leave me stunned, but what’s behind it all, what this man lives for, is simple: to glorify God in all things.

You’re wondering why I’m writing about a South Korean priest who has never been to El Salvador. (He would if he could, having traveled to over 30 different countries.) The reason is simple: four days a week I run through the mountains around Agua Caliente dodging cattle headed to water, dogs who’ve never seen a leash, and cars which abide by a system of unspoken laws that I don’t understand. I do all this because six years ago H. Paul heard the St. Irenaeus quote, “The glory of God is the living man” and interpreted this to mean that he should run marathons to raise money for kids in Madagascar. (Yes, after months of badgering him, I got him to change the quote to “living person”.) You can read more about his story at his website http://www.frhpaul.org/.

But how’d I get roped in to this mess? This I ask myself daily. Basically, H. Paul is stubborn. Last year, for three months, I told him that I wouldn’t run the Cleveland Half-Marathon. But I forgot the first rule of all things at JCU, which is "H. Paul wins." So yeah, he broke me and I ran it. You can watch my “enthusiasm” for the race in his promotional video on YouTube here. This year, knowing his persistence would wear me down, I agreed to run the whole race from day one.

I’ve tried to write about my experience of running and I keep drawing a blank. There’s not much positive. I don’t run every time I’m supposed to. I don’t meet my mileage goal every time. I don’t get up as early as I want to run when it’s still cool. I don’t run nearly as fast as I’d like to. I don’t feel good afterward. Sure, I’m fitter and have lost some weight (not that I needed too), but my feet hurt daily and I’ve got some gnarly blisters on the fourth toes of each foot. I sweat so much that I have dehydration headaches some days after really long runs. There’s not much positive in this for me, yet I keep doing it.

Admittedly, there are aspects I like. Getting to the top of a mountain or seeing one of my students in the street or experiencing the shock when I tell someone I ran 22 kilometers – these all give me pleasure, but they aren’t what push me through the pain of long runs. What keeps me going, I think, is the mystery of H. Paul. What gets him to run? What has he discovered about himself and about God by physically punishing himself to help the poor? Yes, he’s written a “marathon spirituality”, but the intrigue for me is his giving of his bodily self to do good for others.

The homily today was long and I didn’t like it very much. Besides only understanding half, what I did translate from Padre Javier had to do with the importance of the Lenten practice of mortification of the body. I think he meant stuff like flogging yourself or using one of those medieval spiky leg belts that cuts into you. That stuff is ancient and, as far as I’m concerned, offensive to the message of Christ, but then I realized that before Mass I ran up a mountain for 5 miles only to have to run back down. That’s self-inflicted torture. And that was when I think I started to understand.

Marathon spirituality is letting go of ownership of your body, giving it to God. It shapes your days, your eating and drinking, your sleeping and waking, everything revolves around it. And the training hurts. The pain helps you let go of your attachment to comfort, to security, to wealth. In El Salvador, my body has not been mine; it has been for and with the poor. That is what my whole experience here has been and will continue to be. Running teaches me, very physically, that my whole self can live, love, and even hurt for others.

My body is not mine; it is for and with the poor.

* * * * *

Anyway, here’s my pitch to raise money with H. Paul for the kids in East Cleveland and in Madagascar. This is what H. Paul has to say:

To commemorate the 125th anniversary of John Carroll in a way that reflects the spirit and mission of the University, the goal of Living Person 7 is to have 125 runners participate in the Cleveland Marathon and raise $12,500 to support the children in the Fatima Family Center in Cleveland, Ohio and to support the children of Madagascar, Africa.

Past “Living Person” runs have raised funds to help the children of Cleveland have a good meal at Thanksgiving and have fed the homeless and poor children in the slums of Madagascar.

What is “Living Person” all about?

St. Irenaeus said, “The glory of God is the living person.” He believed that God’s glory manifests in people that are fully alive. The Living Person believes that he/she can glorify God through the body, like taking part in the marathon (hint, hint).

After coming back from Madagascar, Africa in 2005, I was eager to do something beautiful for God and His people in that part of the world. So I ran the Cleveland Marathon, gathering people and raising money for the homeless shelter run by the Missionary of Charity Brothers. Since then, the “Living Person” has lived out what it means to be one with the poor in their discipline through participation in the marathon.

I also run (and encourage others to run) in support of the Fatima Family Center, which does amazing things for God’s children. The John Carroll campus community strongly supports the Fatima Family Center, and I’m happy to encourage more support for it and the children of Madagascar. So please come out and run, cheer our runners on, or donate!

You can donate (with a tax return) at this JCU website.

An Old Saying Tested

Beans, beans, the magical fruit,
The more you eat, the more you toot.
The more you toot, the better you feel,
So eat your beans at every meal.

I am here to say that I have stretched my personal inquiry into the validity of this saying to the maximum and have concretely discovered that it is indeed false. Just so you know.