Lush vegetation creeps onto the roads wherever it’s permitted to do so. Tired political posters adorn the street signs, interrupting the brightly-painted buildings which line the crowded streetscape. Our bus darts through the tight thoroughfares in San Pedro, avoiding overtaxed motorcycles with nearly impossible precision. The streets teem with Dominican culture: Venders peddling just-picked-from-the-field sugarcane, scads of Chihuahuas scampering behind their owners and uniformed school kids winding through the bustle toward their classrooms.
I like it here. There is richness in the culture and authenticity in the people. My work has been the impetus for my recent travels here. Traveling with groups of HOPE donors, we visit the courageous Dominican entrepreneurs we serve throughout the country. Each trip looks different. The donors, entrepreneurs, and communities we visit are unique. I see new places and experience fresh stories. There is one theme, however, which connects all these trips. I’m not proud of it, but I’ve committed one regrettable act on every trip I’ve taken here, an act I’ve only recently even identified.
While navigating through the DR, we always stumble upon a sad neighborhood. These communities, normally labeled shanty towns, usually border sugarcane plantations and they reflect a much cloudier image of the spirited Caribbean culture. Like a dandelion-rich lawn on a well-manicured suburban street, these poor communities stick out. The evident material poverty is jarring. And it’s in these places—on every trip—where it happens: I slip out my camera and capture the misery. I find an especially forlorn-looking mom or a cobbled-together home (preferably both) and snap away.
These snapshots, illuminating the most desperate scenes I can find, become like trip trophies. They’re the type of pictures which make me feel guilty about complaining. About anything. They remind me of how nice my house is and how full my closets are and of just how very much I have. The pictures hold just a glimmer of redemptive value in this convicting power. But, when I snap these candids, I define those communities by what they lack. With each flicker of my camera lens, I make one more strike against those places, stamping them by their deficiencies.
Our charity is often the same. When given the option between defining people by what they have or by what they lack, we normally choose the latter. It’s easier to meet needs than it is to unlock potential. It’s quicker to heal wounds than to train doctors. It’s simpler to raise money to give stuff than for training to make stuff. But, I know I’d sure rather be known for what I do well than by what I lack. The LORD your God is in your midst,
a mighty one who will save;
he will rejoice over you with gladness;
he will quiet you by his love;
he will exult over you with loud singing.
(Zephaniah 3:17 ESV)
I’m thrilled to serve a God who truly knows me. A God who does not define me by my weaknesses. A Creator who made me in his image. A Father who “exults” over me, his child. These truths convince me that If God and I sojourned across the Dominican together, his pictures would look strikingly different than mine.
The New York Times published a disturbing report. They were clear on the “what” but silent on the “why.” They described an impending disaster, but did not prescribe any solutions. The man is freefalling without a parachute, they figuratively said, but they don’t know why he jumped or how to get him a parachute. They just know he’s falling. Fast.
The disaster is this: Eight million Indian girls were eliminated over the past 30 years because parents preferred boys to girls. Eight million people live in the state of Virginia. Eight million people inhabit Switzerland. Eight million Indian girls never reached their first birthday because they were girls. The fuel for this killing machine? Prosperity.
India’s increasing wealth and improving literacy are apparently contributing to a national crisis of “missing girls,” with the number of sex-selective abortions up sharply among more affluent, educated families during the past two decades, according to a new study…women from higher-income, better-educated families were far more likely than poorer women to abort a girl.
Incomes are increasing dramatically! …and parents can now afford ultrasounds to abort their girls. More Indian parents can read! …and their daughters will never reach kindergarten. People are educated! …and the world will never know the names of eight million girls.
We throw huge concerts to help the poor. We buy fair trade jewelry from global artisans. We petition our lawmakers to preserve foreign aid budgets. We travel to Africa on mission trips. We help the unfortunate to prosper. And for what? For this? Eight million silenced girls? Is this the goal of our attempts to help the vulnerable? To see them prosper and then choose to kill off the babies who lost the gender lottery?
We solve the problems of poverty and introduce the problems of prosperity. The New York Times lacked answers. They broke the news, but the story ends depressingly: “The problem has accelerated.” Apparently, this tragedy is at its genesis.
We need to fill hungry bellies and create jobs. We need to build houses and teach phonics. We are commanded to drill wells and bandage the wounded. However.
Jesus does not want us to stop there. You can own the whole world yet still have nothing, he said. These actions alone are not enough. Apart from the saving grace of Christ, prosperity produces new types of pain. Increased incomes means eight million less Indian girls. You won’t read it in the New York Times, but without Christ, our “giving back” is incomplete. If hearts don’t change; we create new disasters while we solve others.
————————— The study estimated that 4-12 million girls (I used 8 as an estimate) have been aborted in India over the past 30 years. A different global study estimates that 163 million female babies have been aborted over the past 30 years by parents seeking sons.
It was a late, humid Pennsylvania night. I walked down the city street which led to my home. In the distance, I heard the thump-thump of bass beats, resounding loudly from tire-sized speakers. The streetlights, fashioned like historic lanterns, illuminated the sidewalk as I paced home. As I approached my house, a man mirrored my quick steps from the opposite direction. The closer he got, the clearer it became he was walking toward me.
His voice broke the rhythm of the distant bass music. “Hey man. Hold on one second,” he stated strongly.
I nodded my head in his direction, but sidestepped him, keeping my walk in-gear. It was late, my home was just around the corner, and I was in no mood for a streetside conversation. I hoped my head nod and quickened pace would convey my intent. It usually did the trick. But not that night. Not for this guy. I heard him circle and begin following me. His first foray to stop me did not work, but his second stopped me immediately, causing the gravel beneath my shoes to skid as I put on the brakes.
“You ignoring me is exactly what you people do,” he shared. “Don’t walk past me just because I’m black.”
His comments instantly ratcheted up the conversational intensity. I spun around and explained that skin color had nothing to do with my disinterest in a sidewalk soirée. It had everything to do with my fatigue and my longing to be home. Even still, I was on the defensive, knowing I had been less polite than I ought to be.
Ignoring my defense, he launched into his story: He had come to the city to visit his son. He came by bicycle, but it had been confiscated by the police. He had exhausted other transportation options and needed to get home to take care of his other kids. His only option was the last-chance bus which left the station in 30 minutes. The cost of the fare? $16.
Without asking too many questions, I pulled out my wallet and thumbed through my cash till I found a crisp $20 bill. I handed it to him, wished him well, and continued home to finish my journey: Mission accomplished.
(video expounding on these questions from my friends at Urban Entry)
As it turns out, this was the first of many times I would run into this same guy on the street. He always used the same attention-grabbing lines and he relied on the same stories to solicit funding for his train ticket. In subsequent encounters, I let him know that he had already used his story with me, but that did not stop him from finding other passersby who would guiltily foot his fictitious bill. Every time I watched an unsuspecting pedestrian be accosted by this routine, my sheepishness swelled. My response had been wrong in every way. Let me expound on the ways:
I dismissed his humanity: When our paths crossed, I avoided eye contact, did not ask for his name and pretended I didn’t hear him. In his book, Under the Overpass, a memoir of his volitional decision to spend a year living with the homeless on the streets, Mike Yankoski articulated a simple starting point for interacting with panhandlers and homeless people. “Looking people in the eyes can restore the humanity in homeless people.”
I gave cash: “Giving cash to someone in need is the least helpful and most temporary solution, and should only be a last resort,” said Andy Bales, director at Union Rescue Mission, in a recent article in Christianity Today. Handing out cash to someone on the street or out the car window is almost always a bad idea. It undermines the work of local ministries and city programs. It enables recipients to feed destructive habits like drugs and alcohol. And, as Andy articulates, those truly in desperate need are very rarely the folks you see asking for money on the streets.
I made a rash decision: I allowed an emotional story, personal guilt, and my own hastiness to cloud my judgment. Had I talked with him for more than a minute, I would have found the holes in his story. If I hadn’t been in a hurry, I could have shared that I support the local shelter and could have given him directions so that he could have a place to rest his head for the night. Simply taking more time would have defused the tension in the situation.
It’s a common conversation among my friends: How should you respond to the gal asking for money on the street corner? Maybe you can learn from my travails how not to respond and use my failure to equip you to respond with grace, thoughtfulness and clarity.
This used to be a joint blog, but unfortunately my participation peaked at a post about Baked Oatmeal. No promises about future writing, but when an important question arose I knew it was time to get back on Smorgasblurb.
In August, I will be entering a first grade classroom ready to discuss the mysteries of the term “o’clock,” what in the world happens when we add numbers, and how to make meaning out of all those exciting squiggles we call letters. I’m teaching at Maxwell Elementary which, for Denverites, is in Montbello. About 70% of the students are Latino and 20% are African American. Over 90% qualify for free or reduced lunches (the standard educational measure of poverty). It truly is diverse in its population and student backgrounds. I am so excited to have the opportunity to teach at Maxwell.
Which brings me to this post… I’m taking these months to get some planning underway. And, as the old adage goes, fun things first. I’m creating my go-to songs for an A+ (or, as we say in Denver, a 4) playlist. I’d love to create a thoughtful list of songs to introduce to my students. They’ll be incorporated into our day through celebrations, transitions, clean-up, etc… Sure, we could use some traditional kid music, but why not take the opportunity to expose them to some classics or greats?
Some songs should be windows (a look into a different way or time of life) and some should be mirrors (affirming their own culture or experiences) for my classroom. With that in mind…
What songs or artists do you think my students should get to experience?
The rich smells and fun sounds of a baseball stadium enliven me. I love the bustle of the crowds hurrying to find their seats. The vendors grilling assorted meats and the echoes of the umpires’ calls are trademarks of our cherished pastime. In my bachelor days, I would often join four buddies after work and we would squash ourselves hurriedly in a car too small for five grown men and speed down to watch America’s team (the Phillies) scratch out a victory.
On one occasion, we took our pseudo-party bus on tour and drove up to New York City to watch the Phillies “battle” the self-destructive Mets (candidly, the Mets rarely put up a semblance of a fight). At the game, the Phillies did what they normally do and pulled some last-minute, come-from-behind magic tricks and snatched away a win in front a packed Queens crowd. Our youthful exuberance trumped our visiting crowd nerves as we jumped, hugged, and screamed–all things which are socially-sanctioned actions for groups of young men at sporting events and political rallies. Rightfully so, the Mets fans surrounding and far outnumbering my group of Phillies faithful were agitated by our antics.
There was no shortage of disparaging remarks hurled toward us, their obvious jealousy and bitterness fueling their frustration. One inebriated member of Mets Nation even took a few threatening steps toward us, launching slurred verbal grenades with each wobbly step. If fandom was a job (oh if it were), the environment at Citi Field would have absolutely been ruled a hostile work environment.
New York City was an unwelcoming and foreign land for Phillies fans. The evening gave me a momentary glimpse into what it must have been like for the people of Israel to be exiled in the historic city of Bablyon. In a much more serious and tragic scenario than the trivial baseball game, the Israelites were in enemy territory. They were held captive by a tyrannical and oppressive regime, slaves to their captors. The opposing fans, the Babylonians, were oppressive and hostile toward the people of Israel, undoubtedly full of insulting remarks, degrading glances and sauntering postures.
It’s this backdrop where God speaks a message to his captive people through his ambassador, Jeremiah:
Build houses and live in them; plant gardens and eat their produce…seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you into exile, and pray to the LORD on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare. (Jeremiah 29:5,7 ESV)
It’s a shocking decree: The slaves were commanded to pray for their captors. To seek the welfare of this foreign city. To invest in real estate and engage in commerce in a land wholly unfamiliar and hostile toward them, a “place of unexpected unacceptable vocation–exiles seeking welfare of others!” as Walter Brueggemann explained. It’s hard to imagine cheering for the Mets at their stadium, but it’s unfathomable to think about life as the enslaved cheering for my enslaver. If God commanded Israel to invest in the welfare of their captive city, it makes me wonder how much he desires for us to love, cherish and invest in our neighborhoods, cities which are far from hostile.
Picture this scene: You are dining at a new restaurant. The server hastily distributes the plates and departs with a sarcastic,“Enjoy!” You sample each portion of the meal, but with every passing bite, your disappointment swells. The sautéed chicken is undercooked and flavorless. The corn risotto is pasty and infused with inexcusable quantities of black pepper. Wilting iceberg lettuce and gobs of artery-clogging dressing compose a poor façade of a salad.
As you dejectedly push the underwhelming plate away, the chef stops by your table for his customary check-in. “How’s the meal?” he asks.
You proceed to detail the substandard reality of the bad meal and poor service. In the middle of your complaint, the chef interjects with an outstretched hand.
“Before you go on, let me explain,” he says. “I need you to know something: I truly, honestly, attempted my very best on this meal. I made it especially for you and had actually hoped this would be the best meal you ever tasted. In regards to the bad service, we endeavor to treat our customers with first class service. It’s our hope that anyone who steps through the doors of our restaurant is treated like royalty.”
The chef’s response is baffling. Regardless of how desperately he wanted to serve great food, it does not excuse his terrible food and shoddy service. You would hold him accountable for the meal, for the results, not for his noble aims. Still, this scenario is not as preposterous as it reads.
Over the past few weeks, two major charity failures hit the press. Madonna, perhaps America’s most iconic pop diva, raised eyebrows from the public and furor from the donors who supported her nonprofit. Madonna raised over $18 million to build a school for 400 girls in Malawi. The only problem is that her organization spent millions of these donated dollars but never actually built a school. “It has always been my dream to train women leaders who can help develop the country,” Madonna said when she launched her fundraising campaign for Malawi. “It is my aim to see Malawian girls get the right education.”
Photo Source: The Guardian UK
Greg Mortensen, the oft-ballyhooed author of Three Cups of Tea, was also in the news for what we now know were highly-exaggerated (in some cases wholly fabricated) accounts of his heroic journeys in Pakistan. A 60 Minutesinvestigation of the nonprofit he founded revealed innumerable cases of mismanagement and lack of financial accountability. Sadly, 60 Minutes cites that half of the dozens of schools he claims to have built are nonexistent, empty, or were not funded by Mortensen. Several years ago, in his acceptance interview after winning a Public Service award, Mortensen said, “I decided…that I’d like to dedicate my life to promoting education and literacy, and building schools in Pakistan, Afghanistan.”
Mortensen and Madonna, like the aloof chef, had grandiose and honorable aims, which attracted thousands to support them. As we say, their hearts were in the right places—in this case, Malawi and Pakistan. What matters, however, is the quality of the food, of the results. Is it any good? Are the results positive? If someone says they’re going to change the world, we should ask if they know how to do it. If we’ve learned anything from politicians and pastors; it’s that we need to measure them by the lives they lead and by what they have done, not solely on what they say, by how famous they are, or by the nobility of their intentions.
We aren’t concerned whether the doctor loves her craft, but about whether she makes her patients well. We don’t care about whether the builder hoped to construct the world’s best home, but about whether it keeps out the rain. We don’t excuse the doctor, builder or the chef and we shouldn’t excuse Madonna or Mortensen in something as important as educating vulnerable children in Malawi and Pakistan. Madonna and Mortensen endeavored to help the poor, but pious motivation is no excuse for bad charity. Big dreams don’t matter if you can’t season the chicken or hire a quality waitstaff.
