A Christmas Day reflection following my summer in Haiti post-earthquake:
"When a poor person dies of hunger, it has not happened because God did not take care of him or her. It has happened because neither you nor I wanted to give that person what he or she needed." -Mother Teresa
It has been nearly seven months since my journey to Haiti, and the thought of her is often muffled by the overwhelming responsibility that school and ministry have brought me this year. In the whirlwind of friends, classes and homework, small groups and personal devotions, I have felt Haiti slip so sweetly away from me, as I knew she would the moment I returned to my true life. Though the thick nectar of her memory continues to soothe and at times sadden me, it has been far more subtle than it was in the boring, empty summer immediately preceding. However, one thing that hasn't left, and if anything, grown more strong, is the abounding confusion she has left in my wake.
This past semester has been rather rough, not just because of the stress of school, social life, and ministry, but also because of the profound feeling of emptiness and displacement that has shrouded my thought and being. I still don't feel at home where I'm at -- though yes, I do enjoy the comforts that this life has presented me with, probably more than the usual person, but it has continued to be a sweet poison that deceives me of its danger and then leads me to death. I have been insecure in myself, no longer confident or even aware of what my place and worth are anymore. I have been agitated by the repetitive consistency of my life as I am constantly plagued with the question of: What is all of this accomplishing? And perhaps the most difficult of all to deal with is the absolute anger and hopelessness I feel as I type out my plea on this silly thing every day... PLEASE SOMEONE CARE ABOUT WHAT IS GOING ON only to hear the same tired responses of apathy and indifference.
As I sat and opened my presents, all lovely -- new socks, pajamas, not to mention all the movies, books, paints and music, I couldn't help but shake the horrid image of a little boy shoving rocks into his mouth. As my little brother tore open the box holding the newest XBOX and my sister got to experience those wonderful moments of exploring a new Macbook, I felt the gripping pang of guilt. Haiti returned to me in full force, reminding me, as I had forgotten, of what I had in complete abundance and in absolute daily access. I thought, though I think it was a state past thought almost as if I let mental processes saturate my being, about Jesus. I guess one should on such a day that was originally designed to celebrate His birth and entrance into this world.
The Savior that I follow, whatever name He is called by - Jesus, Yeshua, Jezi, Jesús, Isus - is by all schools of thought considered a strange man. His teachings, His philosophies, His life and death are all rather interesting by comparison. One thing that strikes me the most is His humble birth. As followers of this man who we believe rose from the dead and works and lives among us, we call Him by many names, and one of the most awe-inspiring is Immanuel, which we know means "God with us." Just the thought of that makes me shudder -- God With Us. A God that did not step down into royalty and power, riches and renown -- rather, a God that stepped down into poverty, struggle, political weakness and meekness. My Savior was born to a carpenter of no significance in a shanty, dirty cave with a mother forever to be known for her marital sinfulness.
The sound of my Haitian people rise up to meet me. Their voices weakened and strained by the dust filling their lungs from a country collapsed by an unbelievably destructive earthquake. Their limbs and fingers struggling to fight against the deadly cholera attacking their bodies. Their hearts troubled by the unceasing pain crashing upon them wave on wave as their rich neighbor sits idly by and sings even louder to the King born to a virgin that gave them their new XBOXs, cars, iPads, computers, giftcards, clothes.... And as they slice open the honey baked ham they praise God for His blessings showered upon them, completely ignorant of the fact that with eat cut of the knife they are cutting deeper and deeper into the famine of the poor, the plight of the wanderer, the sickness of the naked. We continue to eat our honey baked ham as little Evanson picks up the rocks from the ground and swallows them to fill his swollen and empty stomach.
What we also didn't know what this, the Savior we celebrated, the Savior familiar with poverty, hunger, sickness, and desperation, curled up next to Evanson and his family as they praised Him for what little they had. As their new born daughter struggles to suckle at her mother's empty breasts, they lift up a praise that a God has come to dwell among them. A Savior has come to set them free. A King has come proclaiming a Kingdom where the poor will be lifted up, the hungry fed, the sick healed, and the meek exalted. Surely the "God with us" born into poverty and pain meant so much to a family that knew of nothing else. This Father, who hears the call of the afflicted, held close the orphaned children whose parents still lay lifeless beneath the rubble of a broken country.
Sometimes I wonder what we have turned Christmas into, but as I open up the box filled with my heart's desire, that thought is far, far from me. I think my point may be this... Christmas isn't the tree, the lights, the snow, the presents under the tree, and the food on the table -- Christmas is the sweetly crying Savior wrapped up in human flesh, born into scandal and poverty, doomed to a life of difficulty and death whose name is "God With Us." Christmas is the tiny hand grasping onto his father's as he lifts up a prayer of thanksgiving that his family continues to breathe as the crumbled ruins of his city lie around him. Christmas is the Father sitting on the throne hearing the desperate praise of the poor and the destitute, and as He turns His ear to their cry, it surrounds the Heavens in a sweet and delicate melody.
~
Forgive me for my hypocrisy. Forgive me for my ignorance. Forgive me my weakness.
With each new article of clothing I add to my overflowing closet, with each new movie I add to my collection, with each new book I add to my library -- I push myself farther and farther away from you, my children. I sit comfortably warm by my heater, my Macbook in hand, writing about your sweet faces, and forgive me for that. Maybe one day I'll have the strength in my conviction to put this computer down and my abundance and give you what you need.
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