| |
February 26, 2007
Hello from Louisville!
On Presidents’ Day weekend I (Bruce) was
invited to speak at a church north of Miami. The airline lost
my ticket somewhere in the computer system, though, and in the
time it took them to untangle the snarl, the flight took off without
me. Because of the bad weather and the heavy holiday travel, it
was almost impossible to reach Florida. I signed on as a standby,
squeezing into the last available seats going anywhere south,
and arrived in Fort Lauderdale about six hours late and without
my luggage. My host picked me up at the airport and whisked me
straight to a dinner speaking engagement. I apologized for my
jeans and my lack of artifacts and photos, and proceeded to talk
anyway. My host family loaned me a toothbrush, and my luggage
caught up with me in time to create a display for the Saturday
mission fair.
After I preached at a Sunday morning worship
service, an old man explained that during World War II, he had
been stationed on Efate Island, where Lora and I had served! We
spent part of the afternoon swapping stories. He told me the history
of many places that I knew, and I told him about the changes in
the places he remembered. The rough airstrip of 1942 is now the
national airport, capable of landing 727s. The “backwoods”
colonial town that he remembers is now a bustling capital, with
air-conditioned banks and ATMs instead of “Tonkinese”
merchants. The isolated village island where he remembers swimming
is now a resort, one of my family’s favorite snorkeling
places. A lot of things remain unchanged, though. The islanders
are still welcoming, the pace of life is still slow, and the main
road around the island, partially paved now, is still called U.S.
Highway Number One, in honor of the WWII effort that built it.
Then the following weekend, last Saturday, I
spoke at a mission fair in Middle Tennessee Presbytery. I drove
down to Nashville with Carlos Lara, a “mission partner in
residence” from Guatemala. Carlos works with the Guatemalan
mission support network and accepts invitations to speak, but
his real job is to keep those of us here in the national office
honest, grounded in the real needs of our partner churches around
the world. We both presented workshops at the mission fair on
Saturday, and then on Sunday we split up to speak to different
churches. I went to two small, rural churches south of Nashville.
It was fun, like a trip to rural Montana, and I enjoyed the hospitality,
informality, and warmth of my hosts in both congregations. Guitars,
a mandolin, and a set of bongo drums provided a great bluegrass
accompaniment for hymns! And with the prominent display of the
American flag behind the Communion tables and the singing of “God
Bless America” at the close of the services, it was a good
time to reflect on the role of the church in the United States.
It’s fun to have the Pacific as a background
for that reflection, because the issues are pretty clear there.
In the north, they tend to hate us. This is where we created refugees
in order to test atomic bombs that we didn’t want to explode
in Florida or Tennessee. This is where the islands that we bombed
are still unsafe for farming or fishing. And this is where we
intentionally exposed native populations to fallout so that we
could study the long-term effects.
But in Vanuatu and the South Pacific, people
remember the U.S. forces as liberators from the Japanese. I remember
Elder Arthur, the chief of our adopted village, taking me into
his dark hut and showing me the kitchen area: two oil drums from
WWII supporting a plank that held a clutter of fire-blackened
cooking pots. One of them was shiny. Elder Arthur picked it up
and showed it to me. It was a stainless steel pot from a U. S.
Navy mess kit. Elder Arthur explained that it had been given to
him during WWII by a sailor stationed on Efate: Bob, from Minnesota.
“Do you know Bob from Minnesota?”
Arthur asked.
“No, I’m sorry,” I replied. “The United
States is a very big place.”
He slowly shook his head. “Bob was my
friend,” Arthur explained. “He used to sit under the
banyan tree and talk to me, just like you do. When his ship was
about to leave, he gave me this pot. I have used it to heat my
tea every morning for all these years, and when it starts to get
black, I send one of my granddaughters down to the beach to scrub
it with sand. I don’t know what happened to Bob. Maybe he
was killed the very next week. Or maybe he’s an old man
like me, in his village of Minnesota. But I remember him. He was
a friend.”
I think Americans are hated when we pursue our
own national interests at the expense of others, when we seek
blessings for ourselves. And I think that we are loved when we
sacrifice alongside others for common goals. Maybe it’s
the role of the church to keep reminding us of the difference,
to adopt a foreign perspective, to keep us honest. That’s
the only way that our gifts will shine in the darkness across
the generations.
Love and peace,
Bruce and Lora Whearty
The 2007 Mission Yearbook for Prayer
& Study, p. 259
|
|
