A Strange Mix - Part 2b

At the end of my last post I refer to biblical authors (plural). This characterization is intentional as there are those who, while acknowledging that different individuals penned the various biblical books, are explicit or implicit in affirming that there is a singular author – God. Some take the view that God dictated the precise words we encounter in the Bible.¹ Others are slightly more subtle, arguing that God worked through the individuality of the human writers, yet still conclude that the resulting message is fully attributable to God. From these approaches come views about the Bible being absolutely accurate in all that it states – about history, science, psychology, etc. because, if it comes directly from a perfect God, it obviously cannot contain any errors.²

Now, I admit that this understanding creates serious problems for me. Here are three examples: When I read in the Bible that God created a flat earth and a domed sky over it with lights traveling their courses within and over the dome (Genesis 1), as a person of the 21^st Century I am confronted with a credibility problem. Similarly, when I read a story in which God appears to approve of a man protecting visitors to his home by offering his own virgin daughters for the sexual pleasure of his neighbors (Genesis 19), I am shocked and offended at the suggestion that this is somehow a good deity. Or again, when I read a passage where women are told that they are not to have authority over men, not to braid their hair or wear pearls or gold or expensive clothing, and where women are held responsible for the origin of evil in the world (I Timothy 2:9-15), I must conclude either that God is a sexist or that this teaching does not come from God.

Staying with the theme of the Bible and picking up again on my first “strange mix” posting – something else I really value in liturgical worship is the cycle of biblical readings (the lectionary) that includes four  readings each Sunday: normally one each from the Jewish scriptures, the Psalms, the New Testament letters, and a Gospel. Following each reading on Sunday morning, the reader proclaims: “The Word of the Lord,” and the congregation responds: “Thanks be to God.” And I have no problem affirming this each week, but in doing so I do not mean that the words we have heard are a direct, unmediated communication from God. Rather, for me the connection between the biblical narrative and the affirmation “The Word of the Lord” has to be much more nuanced.

In this regard, I have found most helpful the writings of Marcus Borg, Distinguished Professor of Religion and Culture at Oregon State University.³ He states directly – and, again, this will cause some of my Christian friends to gasp – that the authorship of the Bible is not divine but fully human. More precisely, the two “testaments” of the Christian Bible are the literary product of two diverse groups: the ancient Hebrews and early Christian communities. To see the biblical authorship in this way though does not in any way deny the reality of God. God (or “the Sacred” or “Spirit”) is a reality attested to in human experience, that cannot be relegated to being simply a human creation or projection.⁴ And, of course, as in anything we say, whatever we say about the Sacred will be a human creation. We cannot talk about God except with words, symbols, stories, concepts, and categories known to us, for they are the only language we have. Nevertheless, when we have experiences of “the holy,” “the numinous,” “the sacred,” these experiences go beyond, shatter, and relativize our human language and categories. From the perspective offered here, the Bible – as a fully human product – originates in such experiences.⁵ And so it is “the Word of the Lord,” not in terms of origin or authorship but in the sense that the biblical narrative constitutes a human response to the experience of the Sacred, of God. And, to the extent that we are open to this dimension of the Bible, it can be a channel through which we encounter God in our lives.

1  Clark H. Pinnock. Biblical Revelation: The Foundation of Christian Theology. 1971: Chicago. Moody Press. pp. 89-95.

On p. 90 Pinnock quotes J.I. Packer who says: “If the words (emphasis added) were not wholly Gods, then their teaching would not be wholly God's.

2  Ibid., p. 94: “Because Scripture is a divine Word . . . we insist on its truthfulness in all that it teaches.”

3  Marcus J. Borg. Reading the Bible Again for the First Time: Taking the Bible Seriously but Not Literally. 2001: San Francisco. Harper San Francisco. I highly recommend this book in its entirety. On the present topic though, see especially chapter 2, pp. 21-36. I have also found very helpful the writings of retired Episcopal Bishop John Shelby Spong, especially his book Rescuing the Bible from Fundamentalism: A Bishop Rethinks the Meaning of Scripture. 1991. San Francisco. Harper San Francisco.

4  On the question of God I recommend Marcus J. Borg. The God We Never Knew: Beyond Dogmatic Religion to a More Authentic Contemporary Faith. 1997. San Francisco. Harper San Francisco.

5  Much of my argument (and language) here comes directly from Borg (op.cit.) p. 22.

A Strange Mix - Part 2a

In the last post I wrote about my appreciation for forms of worship rooted in practices that hark back nearly two millennia, to the formative centuries of the Christian community. While I experience the possibility of deep meaning in this tradition, I am at the same time a person of the present day who demands a faith that also makes sense within the context of the twenty-first century. Thus the acknowledgment echoed in the title, that in terms of spirituality I may be considered a rather strange mix.

The German monk Martin Luther (1483 - 1546) was, as you probably know, one of the early leaders in what came to be called the Protestant Reformation. While perhaps best remembered for his re-definition of “salvation,” he also proposed, a new principle for interpreting the Bible. The approach he championed was based on the view that the true meaning of the Bible's words are to be found in their “literal sense.”¹ This understanding, which was more fully developed in the years following the Reformation period, was broadened to associate the biblical words with the very words of God.² In my family and in the faith communities I grew up in, this was the understanding I was taught and, in my experience, it is the understanding of many if not most Christians (at least in the United States) today.³

I have often commented, tongue in cheek, that out-growing a fundamentalist upbringing requires years of attending a “fundamentalists anonymous” program. And it has in fact been a gradual process, but through the years I have come to the place where I can no longer affirm the so-called “literal” understanding of the Bible. Now, for many Christians, such a statement is anathema. However there are too many things in the Bible that I simply cannot believe literally.

That does not mean however that I do not take the Bible seriously. Besides being made up of many different books written by different authors and reflecting numerous time periods and historical/cultural settings, the Judeo-Christian Scriptures are composed of a variety of different types of literature as well. There are origin stories, nationalistic propaganda, liturgy, poetry, sermons, and apocalyptic, to name a few. Now, we all know that poetry has layers of meaning deeper than what a simple literal reading might suggest. Sermons and nationalistic language may use hyperbole (not literally true or accurate) to get a point across. Stories can teach important lessons and in this sense communicate truth without necessarily being literally factual or historical. And apocalyptic is characterized by hallucinatory or dream qualities with its fantastic visions. So to take a literal approach to everything in the Bible is actually to mis-read and thus to mis-understand what is intended.

It seems to me then – and it has been experientially the case for me in my own spiritual journey – that not being tied to a literalistic interpretation not only leads to a clearer understanding of what the biblical authors desired to communicate but it actually opens up the possibility of discovering deeper meaning in the Biblical narrative. This approach has helped lead me to the understanding that faith is not only about a journey inward but also and equally a call to the journey outward.

1  Theologian and biblical scholar Hans Frei, quoted in David E. Klemm. Hermeneutical Inquiry, Volume I: The Interpretation of Texts. p. 11.

2  J. I. Packer. “Fundamentalism” and the Word of God. pp. 77-101.

3   I heard a Rabbi speak recently who suggested that most Jews grow up with a literalistic approach to the Jewish Scriptures as well.

A Strange Mix - Part 1

I acknowledge that in terms of spirituality I may be considered to be a kind of strange mix. To some, what I am about to write might sound more like religion than spirituality. But I ask for your patience and grace as I plunge into this. And when you have finished reading, please know you are welcome to add your thoughts!

Cathedral Nossa Senhora do Paraíso of the
Melkite Greek Catholic Church in the city of São Paulo, Brazil

I went to church this morning, to the Roman Catholic parish where my wife and I most frequently attend. I didn't grow up Catholic (and I am not a member of the Catholic Church), but I have come to find deeply meaningful what I call “liturgical worship.” with its clear, repeated patterns, read prayers, and balance between “word and sacrament.”

Someone commented to me recently, referring to Catholic worship: “That's pretty conservative, old fashioned stuff, isn't it?” And, yes, in some ways it is. But that's part of what attracts me. The Liturgy traces its roots all the way back to the earliest Christian communities in the centuries immediately following the time of Jesus. It has certainly been adapted over the millennia, and yet in many ways it has retained the flow and spirit of the most ancient practice.

I like the sense of movement that the liturgy invites us to journey through each week, from welcome, to confession, to the Gloria, to hearing the Word, to the profession of faith and community prayers, to celebration of the Eucharist, to the concluding blessing, and finally the dismissal to “go in peace to love and serve the Lord.” No matter where one attends a Catholic (or Episcopal or, with some further elaboration an Orthodox) worship, the path one follows is a known path and it is this familiarity that I appreciate. Something else I value in the Liturgy is that it retains a sense of mystery that is so often missing in our modern, technological-scientific world (and, I might add, in my experience in most Protestant services). By “mystery” I mean the acknowledgment and experience that reality is deeper, more complex than the empirically-focused knowledge that predominates in our modern world. It is not that I don't take the latter seriously. In fact my own life view is very much informed by the modern sciences, however I also affirm that there are dimensions of knowledge and truth better attributed to “Spirit.” Finally, what I value in the Catholic Liturgy is the space allowed for silence. In the midst of the community's expressions of praise, belief, and petition there are moments open to quiet and listening/reflection. This mix of the known path, the sense of mystery, and moments of stillness create for me a time not simply of rote ritual or of a social gathering, but an opportunity for the journey inward.

So, there is a part of me that values and finds spiritual meaning within traditional¹ Christian² liturgical practice. On the other hand, I am very much a person of the twentieth and twenty-first centuries as well. So, to be fully meaningful for me, worship and teaching must make modern sense and must speak to the realities of our modern world! And so while I may be a traditionalist in some ways liturgically, I am not a traditionalist in terms of how I approach scripture. I will pick up this part of the story in my next posting.

1  While I find worship in the Catholic tradition to be very meaningful, I have multiple and deep concerns around questions of authority and the hierarchy in the Catholic Church. I will leave that discussion though for another day.

2  As I have stated before, my choice to name myself a Christian should not be understood as an exclusivist stance. I value, have certainly learned from, and am committed to being in serious dialogue with persons who stand firmly but openly in other faith traditions as well.

Buen Vivir

My TV watching, with the back-to-back political ads filling every commercial break, was interrupted a couple evenings ago by a program highlighting the community development efforts of several Brazilian organizations working in Haiti since the 2010 earthquake. What stayed with me from the program were some of the stark visuals. A bare, wind-blown hillside covered with ragged tents stretching as far as the eye could see – still the only home for thousands, now almost three years after the quake. The mixed feelings of curiosity and distrust reflected in the eyes of a beautiful brown-faced child – maybe 7 or 8 years old – orphaned by the quake and to this day without a permanent home. The smiling faces of a group of women who have formed a crafts cooperative that provides both community and income for meeting some of their basic needs. The clear water flowing from a white pvc pipe, part of a recently dug, simple, well – and the crowd standing impatiently, each waiting their turn to collect a limited supply of the precious liquid for cooking, bathing, etc.

The other thing that caught my attention were the numbers. More than two thirds of the Haitian work force do not have formal jobs! 54% of the population (that's nearly five and a half million people) live in extreme poverty (on less than $1.00 a day). Half of the children under five years of age are malnourished. 583 out of every 100,000 women die giving birth (compared to 8 maternal deaths per 100,000 in Europe). 80 out of every 1,000 infants in Haiti do not live to their first birthday. 50% of primary age children are not enrolled in school and of those who do attend school, 60% will abandon their education before completing the sixth grade.

As the program concluded, I flipped back to another channel and was jarred back to my own reality as I was subjected once again to the almost non-stop political ads. And I couldn't help but reflect on the in-congruence. While the majority of a nation struggles to achieve even the most basic needs for housing, food, clean water, health and education, with over 50% of the population scraping by on less than a dollar a day (!!), during this election season the two major party candidates for president here in the USA have spent over one and a half Billion dollars on campaign ads alone (not including the additional millions being spent by PACs). And one of the key disagreements between the two candidates is whether millionaires and billionaires should pay more or less taxes!

What kind of world would it be, if we all agreed that each and every human being is so valuable that we would collectively ensure that every person has their basic needs met - for housing, nourishment, healthcare, education, community, and meaningful work and leisure? If that were our vision and priority, don't you think we could find a way to harness the resources of this earth to achieve that purpose? And we could rid humanity of the absurdity – no, the obscenity – of some living on as little as one dollar a day while others scramble to protect their millions and billions. A world built, not  on a vision of living with more and more, but of all living well.¹

1  The concept of buen vivir or living well draws on the wisdom of indigenous peoples and was brought into political discourse by Evo Morales, the first indigenous President of Bolivia, elected in 2005.  

Not an Escape

A chorus sung at a gathering I attended recently took me back to childhood days. Maybe you know it too. The words go like this:

Turn your eyes upon Jesus,

Look full in his wonderful face,

And the things on earth will grow strangely dim,

In the light of his glory and grace.

Although it had been years since I last heard them, the music and words came easily, conjuring up memories of long ago. At the same time though, as I allowed the words to sink in I was struck by a jarring dissonance.

Savior of Zvenigorod ² 

I'm a visual learner, so the invitation to imagine being face to face with Jesus carries a certain aesthetic attraction for me. I recently finished meditating through, for the third or fourth time, Henri Nouwen's Behold the Beauty of the Lord: Praying with Icons.¹ The book is a guided meditation on four traditional Russian icons, with fold out color plates of the images so that each can be viewed as one reads and reflects. One of the icons is the 15^th century Savior of Zvenigorod, an image of Christ that though worn and damaged over the centuries, still reveals what Nouwen describes as “a most tender human face.”

Icons are not intended to be taken literally. They are not to be viewed as factually accurate depictions. Rather they are to be approached in silence, inviting us to gaze beyond the paint and panel. And when we least expect, they may reveal themselves to us as “thin places” in the universe, as windows through which we encounter something deeper than our world of five senses, a place where we glimpse Mystery.

So, as I joined in the familiar chorus recently, I was momentarily carried along – that is, until I got to the line about earthly things growing dim. Some have come to understand faith as a kind of escape from the world. This, it seems to me though, is to misunderstand faith. The God we encounter in Jewish and Christian scriptures is a God who calls us not to escape but to be deeply engaged in our world, to challenge what is wrong and to fight for what is right especially for and with the outcasts, disenfranchised, and struggling.

At the beginning of his ministry, in the synagogue at Nazareth, Jesus reads from the Prophet Isaiah declaring what his own purpose and mission were and pointing to the journey outward to which he calls those who would be his followers:

"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me, because he has anointed me to bring good news to the poor. He has sent me to proclaim release to the captives and recovery of sight to the blind, to let the oppressed go free, to proclaim the year of the Lord's favor" (Luke 4: 18 & 19, quoting from Isaiah 58 and 61).

The true journey inward is not an escape, but necessarily leads to the journey outward!

1  1987. Notre Dame, Indiana: Ave Maria Press.

2  http://www.iconsexplained.com/iec/00034.htm

A Reflection on the Journey Outward

The premise of this blog is that spirituality and action in the world are intimately and dynamically inter-related. And the movement between the two is dialectical, that is, it is a movement in both directions. Spiritual reflection and deepening lead to action in the world which, in turn, leads back to spiritual growth and then back to action, and on and on (thus the blog title: Journey Inward Journey Outward – Journey Outward Journey Inward.

The place from which I personally engage this process is as a Christian. I do so not as an over-against or exclusionary stance but simply as the place I have come to occupy through my personal history and choices. I am open and anxious then to journey with other Christians but also with those who journey from other spiritual places, believing that the exchange of diverse experiences and understandings will not only enrich us personally but will deepen the quality and outcomes of our shared journey.

In the first few posts I have written about some of my personal history, but from a perspective that already reflects themes and insights from my own journey inward. In the present post I want to begin looking at the question of how I view the journey outward. What kind of action in the world do I have in mind?

The criteria or quality I have come to believe needs to be upper-most in our action in the world has to do not with a what but with a who – who does the action prioritize? And the answer I find most instructive comes from Latin American liberation theology. Now it turns out that liberation theology, which developed in the 1960s, 70s and 80s, re-affirmed themes from the Jewish and Christian scriptures and tradition that in some cases had been forgotten or subverted for centuries, even millennia. And so even today, these are not themes that are given equal weight among all Christians or in all Christian communities. In fact, in my experience they continue to be disregarded, even rejected, in the majority of Christian settings.

Nevertheless, I think the Latin American liberation theologians got this right. In response to what is summarized as God's “preferential option for the poor,”¹ they argue that we are called to act in ways that are informed by the poor, and that our actions are to be judged based on how they affect the poor.

1  Preference for the poor was first elaborated in a document coming out of a meeting of the Latin American Conference of Bishops, meeting in 1968 in Medellin, Colombia. For the English language text of the document, go to http://www.shc.edu/theolibrary/resources/medpov.htm

A Reflection on the Journey Inward

I was raised in a home and religious context where the Bible was understood in a literalistic sense as a direct and absolute (“inerrant” was the theological term used) Word from God, and the Christian life was lived in a strict, regimented way that emphasized our difference (as evangelical Christians) from the rest of humanity. The journey has been decades long with many conversations and events along the way, but as a result I have 

come to stand in a very different place in terms of my faith today. 

I still consider myself a Christian, but with that designation I mean

something very different from what it meant in the evangelical-fundamentalist setting I grew up in. At the core of this difference is the understanding that to be a Christian is less about belief and more about relationship. It is about relationship with God, with my human sisters and brothers, with all living beings, and with our planetary home Mother Earth. As a Christian, the Bible continues to be an important source for me but no longer as a book of absolutes and directives, but as stories and poetry and images that inspire and guide and call me to a life of deeper meaning and purpose.¹

To avail myself of opportunities to hear and respond to that call  (whether through the biblical narrative or through other narratives or in other ways) is to walk the path of the “Journey Inward.”²

1  Two books (and authors) I highly recommend that use non-technical language and do an excellent job of offering an alternative to the older more rigid way of understanding the Bible are: Marcus J. Borg. Reading the Bible Again for the First Time: Taking the Bible Seriously but Not Literally. 2001. New York: HarperCollins Publishers Inc. and John Shelby Spong. Rescuing the Bible from Fundamentalism: A Bishop Rethinks the Meaning of Scripture. 1991. New York: HarperCollins Publishers.

2  For the journey images in the title of this blog, I am indebted to Elizabeth O'Connor whose book I read years ago. Journey Inward, Journey Outward. 1968. New York: Harper & Row, Publishers, Incorporated.  

A Fundamental Shift

The son of missionary parents, most of the first sixteen years of my life were spent in the outback of Brazil. Growing up in this way, un-self-consciously negotiating the differences and boundaries between three different cultures, my own deepest sense of self was also a rich multi-cultural mix. I was not only the white

“American” missionary kid, but embodied a very real Brazilian and Xavante sense of belonging and identity as well. And so when confronted in my teens with the realization that many of my Brazilian peers disliked the United States and Americans, this created not only an external conundrum but an internal one for me as well. (See the first two blog posts for more complete details on what is presented in summary form in this paragraph.)

Although not often at the forefront of my thinking, the question would linger, unanswered. What was it about the United States that created such animosity among my young Brazilian cohorts? It wouldn't be until almost fifteen years later that, reading a book by the Argentine Methodist pastor and theologian Jose Miguez Bonino,¹ the riddle would finally be resolved.

Although I had grown up in a multi-cultural milieu, my formal and family education was primarily “American.” Through seventh grade, with my Mom as teacher, I was home schooled using a correspondence curriculum from the U.S. Then for the eighth through tenth grades I attended an American missionary boarding school. Both these settings were informed by the perspective that, in more recent parlance, is called “American Exceptionalism.” This is the view that the United States is different from other countries. It is the idea that we are a special nation and special people with a mission of doing good in the world, that our unique destiny is to lead the world toward liberty and democracy.² This sense of the special quality and unique mission of America was amplified in the fundamentalist fervor of the evangelical mission context in which my family and other missionary families lived. And so, in that setting, there was nothing that could help me answer the puzzle.

But then during my college years I happened upon Bonino's book. In the first chapter he writes about the history of Latin America, dividing it into two movements. The first he calls “conquest and colonization” and the second “modernization and neo-colonialism.” The first was a period dominated by the colonial powers of Spain and of Portugal while the second, which began with the emancipation from the earlier powers, came to be dominated by what Bonino refers to as “Anglo-Saxon colonial and neo-colonial expansion.” “Our independence from Spain,” he writes, “made us available as suppliers of raw materials first and of cheap labor and manageable markets later on.” “Consequently, our so-called modernization was dictated by the needs and preferences of our overseas masters.”³

Initially led by the British, later this control of Latin American resources would be wielded (and managed through political, military and CIA-led interventions) by the United States. The nature of this relationship began to be understood and exposed all across Latin America during the 1950s, 60s and 70s. And with it came a growing critique of the United States and the kind of influence it represented in the region. And in learning this reality, the puzzle created by my experiences as a young adult was suddenly resolved. And with that resolution came a fundamental shift, a “conversion”⁴ if you will, in my understanding of history and of the true character of the United States.

1 Doing Theology in a Revolutionary Situation. 1975. Philadelphia: Fortress Press.

2 For more information and an extensive bibliography, see online article at http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/American_exceptionalism

3 Bonino, p. 14.

4 See my September 29 post “Inner Shifts” at http://spiritandpraxis.blogspot.com/2012/09/inner-shifts.html

Inner Shifts

Growing up I was taught that the word conversion referred to a one-time event in a person's life, a moment of personal commitment that resulted in total spiritual transformation. (Others who, like me, grew up in conservative Christian homes will certainly know what I am talking about.) However my own experience has been of not one but many transforming moments in life and this has led me to understand conversion in a different way. I have come to think of it as something that happens - and should happen - many times in our lives. In fact it must happen many times if we are to be truly alive and growing human beings.

I define conversion as a fundamental shift that takes place deep within us, at the very core of who we are, during moments of particularly deep insight in our lives. These are shifts that mean that from that moment forward something fundamental has changed in our understanding, commitments and/or priorities; in a significant (although perhaps subtle) sense we have become a new person. This may take place in a conversation, watching a movie, reading a book, in a time of personal crisis, in a moment of religious inspiration, during a walk in nature, in a near-death experience, in a moment of silent reflection or meditation, or in any number of other situations or settings. Some conversions result in dramatic change, leading one, for example, to take an entirely new direction in life. Others are hardly perceptible, except that over time one's life takes on a particular, recognizable direction and tone, the cumulative effect of those numerous moments of slight but nonetheless fundamental inner shifts that shape us.

I am interested in knowing if this narrative fits with your experience. Have you had experiences that created or led to a fundamental change in direction, value, priority for you? Can you see the cumulative impact of subtle shifts that have come to shape significantly who you are today? Your comments or personal sharings are welcomed.

In my next post I will write about an experience that was one of the more dramatic conversion moments in my life. It resulted in a fundamental change in my understanding of the world and led to the formation of values and priorities that continue to inform who I am at the deepest levels to this very day.

Xavante Playmates

Growing up, most of my playmates were the children of our Xavante (pronounced shah-vahn-tee) neighbors. In addition to very quickly learning their language (language learning comes easy when you're a kid), I also learned how to make a simple bow and soon was shooting my own homemade arrows. They taught me what fruit, nuts and bugs – yes bugs! - were edible, and I showed them how to ride a bike. We spent hours swimming together in the river and learning each other's games, and they taught me how to dance Xavante style and to sing the accompanying chants.

Xavante man dressed in festive regalia.

“Xavante” is actually a name given by outsiders. The Xavante's own name for themselves is a’uwẽ , “the people,” or a’uwẽ uptabi, “the real or authentic people.” The a’uwẽ were traditionally hunter-gatherers. A tall and handsome people, they lived in the savanna-type cerrado landscape of central Brazil raising seasonal gardens, and spending part of the year trekking, gathering fruits, nuts and berries, and hunting.¹

According to tribal oral history, the Xavante originally occupied a region near the eastern seaboard of Brazil. After the arrival of the Portuguese in the sixteenth century though, they were pushed westward, first to an area between the Araguaia and Tocantins Rivers in what is today the state of Tocantins and then later to an area west of the Araguaia. Legendary for their fierceness, "[f]rom the second half of the nineteenth century to the mid-twentieth century the Xavante defended an enormous stretch of territory in north-eastern Mato Grosso against Indian and non-Indian alike. Male warriors bludgeoned interlopers to death, strewing their naked corpses as testaments to Xavante supremacy, xenophobia and masculine prowess.”²

It was not until the late 1940s and early 1950s that Xavante groups began making peaceful contact and settling in more permanent villages at several religious and government outposts established for that very purpose. The community where our family lived was at an installation of the government's SPI (Indian Protection Service – later renamed FUNAI or National Indian Foundation), located along the Batovi River and called Posto Marechal Rondon. This particular group of Xavantes had established peaceful contact only three years prior to our family's arrival.

1  The classic ethnological study of the Xavante was David Maybury-Lewis' Akwẽ-Shavante Society 1967. Oxford: Clarendon Press

2   Garfield, Seth. Indigenous Struggle at the Heart of Brazil: State Policy, Frontier Expansion, and the Xavante Indians, 1937-1988. 2001. Durham & London: Duke University Press.

An Unanswered Question

I would not trade where I grew up for anything. Two short months after I was born, my parents moved from their childhood home of Waukegan, Illinois to South America – Brazil, to be more precise – to work as missionaries. And so the first 15 years of my life would be lived in simple native villages.

Most of those years were spent in a Xavante¹ (pronounced shah-váhn-tee) community located in the cerrado ecosystem² that occupies large portions of the Brazilian Central Plateau. A savanna-type landscape with scrub trees and dense gallery forests along rivers and streams, it was in near pristine state when our family lived there. I learned from the native peoples about the edible fruits, leaves, roots, and barks (yes, that is correct - as in tree bark), and the water was pure enough to drink directly from the stream beds.

One treasured gift in this upbringing is that I became a part of and learned to navigate the boundaries between three different cultures simultaneously – Xavante, national Brazilian, and my own family's mid-west USA. And I felt equally at home and a part of all three. In my teen years though a fundamental question would be raised that would not find an answer until much later.

Two things led to this question for me – a question I don't ever remember voicing aloud, but simply pondered. First was a changing attitude I began to sense when meeting other guys my age, especially in urban settings. Pretty easily identified as an americano with my blond hair and blue eyes, I experienced that, because of that identity, I was no longer welcome. Verbally and on a few occasions through actual physical threats it was made clear that I was a persona non grata.

This was the mid-sixties and the heyday of the Peace Corps that had been established only a few years earlier by President John Kennedy. I thought – and what I heard from my parents and their colleagues at least – was that this was a wonderful initiative intended to help peoples and nations around the world. But that was not the message I heard from Brazilian teens and college students. They made it clear that they did not like the Peace Corps and that their wish was that the Peace Corps workers would all go back home to the U.S.

And so the question gradually emerged for me. It was clear that it was about the United States. Our nation, and by association we, were not welcome. Our help was not wanted. It would be only some fifteen years later that the answer to this puzzle would come.

1  There will be more on the Xavante People in later posts.

2  There will be more about the cerrado ecosystem in later posts as well.