April 5, 2004

Dear Friends,

As I reflect on two and a half years of living in Nicaragua, it occurs to me that I’ve learned a lot about history. Nicaraguan history is colorful—full of dictators like Zelaya and Somoza, revolutionaries like Sandino and Fonseca, and of course, repeated invasions by the U.S. Marines. But that isn’t what I mean. Rather, I mean that living here, I’ve learned a lot about U.S. and European history.

I understand the Great Depression. Of course, the economic situation here is far worse than it ever was in the United States, but it doesn’t stand out as much, because our Depression followed a decade of unprecedented prosperity, whereas here, the poverty grinds on, generation after generation. There are Okies today, only now we call them “illegal immigrants.” They follow the same pattern: leave everything you’ve ever known to go to a far-off place, only to find you’re cruelly exploited, assuming you can find work at all.

I understand the Dust Bowl. I’ve seen the dust here billow up in thick, opaque clouds. It gets into everything—your food, your papers, your hair, your eyes, your lungs. In the United States, the Dust Bowl was the result of a drought. Here, there is there is still plenty of rain, but because of sixty years of large- and small-scale deforestation, it runs right off, leaving the land as dry and thirsty as it was before.

I understand the Old West. People here still ride horses, carry guns, plow their fields by hand, and slaughter their own animals. Many still do not have running water or electricity. Cattle-rustling is a common problem. Vigilante justice is a common solution.

Going back much further, I even have some understanding of the Middle Ages. I see now how an entire society can revolve around the interests of a few extremely rich families, who jostle and jockey to climb over each other in the search for power. They live in opulence, paid for by the labor and suffering of the poor, who have only their deprivation for compensation. Yet the poor divide themselves according to which rich camp they identify with. It helps, of course, that the leaders of the Catholic church continue their millennium-long tradition of bestowing their favor on the most well-established and generous of the rich, in flagrant disregard of gospel values. (As in every age, there are local Catholic priests here opposed to this practice.)

Going back farther still, I understand what life must have been like in a colony of an empire, such as first-century Israel. There would have been overt reminders of its colonial status, such as foreign troops on its soil. Almost as bad, however, would have been the more subtle invasions, such as imperial currency and language. The worst part of all would have been hearing one’s own leaders talk about how important it was to maintain good relations with the empire, meaning that the colony needed to do anything the empire said without questioning. I have seen all these things firsthand.

I am left with the same realization that strikes me on a regular basis: what an island of comfort and stability the United States is. I feel privileged to have been able to use my education and skills to contribute my “grain of sand,” as we say here, towards the building of the Kingdom of God. There is much work to be done, though, before we have an entire world that enjoys peace and prosperity, well-being, and dignity, comfort and stability. My only prayer for the future is to continue to be able to work for such a world.

Steven Herrick

The 2004 Mission Yearbook for Prayer & Study, p. 140