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So the day is here. And Christians around the globe are
gathering at the Lord's Table. Here in Greensboro. Comfortable.
Content. Or in Louisiana or Mississippi or south Florida where
they might be gathered in makeshift shelters following the
devastation of Hurricane Georges. Or in the Dominican Republic
or Haiti where they gather in sparse surroundings regularly, but
today they do it with tears in their eyes as they think of
friends and family who are suddenly missing from this year's
Table, lives snatched away by nature's fury.
I have only been in that part of the world once - it was a
trip to inspect some Haitian mission stations - and it gave me
several enduring memories. I remember narrow and winding
streets, steep grades and abrupt descents, full of pot holes and
other tire- and transmission-killers. People and animals are all
over the roads, totally oblivious to the danger that comes
roaring around the corner. The most important piece of equipment
on a Haitian car is the horn - it was in constant use. I
remember the smell of wood burning everywhere - in what should
have been a tropical garden spot, vast forests had been cut down
leaving empty barren hillsides. I remember the sound of rats
scurrying overhead on exposed beams in the dormitory where we
slept (or tried to).
I remember the sights and sounds of abject poverty, and, in
particular, an incredible section of Port au Prince called Cite
Soleil - Sun City - a pleasant sounding name but the most
UNpleasant sight I have ever seen. I have no idea how big the
area is, nor could I tell you how many hundreds of thousands call
it "home." The dwellings are made of mud or corrugated steel or
cardboard or whatever people can get their hands on. They are
tiny - about four of them could fit in my office. No electricity
or plumbing, of course. The narrow streets were jammed with
people with nowhere to go and nothing to do. And smack in the
middle of it all was a huge football-field-size garbage dump. It
was the community latrine. People were squatting down, relieving
themselves - sticks or stones were the toilet paper. There were
people washing there - a man was down in a sewer handing up
buckets of sewage water for people to bathe in. There was a
little boy foraging for food there - he had found what appeared
to be what was left of a head of lettuce, but you could not
really tell because the flies were so thick on it that they
almost covered it...lunch. There were fires smoldering in
several places, fires that looked like they had been going for
quite some time. There were children playing there...some with
clothes, some without. The stench was unbelievable.
This was exactly what Jesus had in mind when he talked about
Gehenna. Gehenna was the dump outside the walls of Jerusalem
that must have been just as horrible. Gehenna in Greek is the
word we translate into English as HELL. This was Hell on earth.
You can find those Hells in other places as well. Not long
ago I read of an American church delegation visiting Manila in
the Philippines who encountered much the same.(1) Marie was one of
the travelers - she was met one morning by a Filipino guide who
took her on a tour. As they walked through the poverty of the
Manila neighborhoods, the hopelessness was everywhere. Desperate-looking parents with their children crowded the doorways and
street-corners. Dirt and soot and trash littered the streets and
the buildings, and the smell of human waste was at times almost
overpowering. Everywhere she looked, Marie saw the faces of
poverty. The hollow eyes, the angry stares, the envy of the
barefooted children when they saw her Nike tennis shoes.
As they made their way through the maze of rubble and half-standing buildings, Marie and her guide turned a corner. In the
distance they could see what looked like a hill, but with no
trees on it. It seemed to be smoking. Marie asked her guide
what it was. The guide, whose name was Fina, simply said, "Oh,
some people live over there. It's not very nice." And she
discouraged Marie from going any closer. But Marie wanted to
see, so they walked on toward the smoldering hill.
It soon became apparent why the hill had no trees: it was a
huge mountain of garbage that had been being piled up there on
the outskirts of the town for many years. The reason there was
smoke was that it was on fire...smoldering. Garbage dump fires
burn way down deep inside, and they are very difficult to
extinguish. Some have been known to burn for twenty years,
because no matter how much water you dump on them, the water
never gets to the root of the fire. Gehenna again.
As Marie stood in awe of this incredible sight, she was
interrupted by a young child, perhaps three or four years old,
scampering past her up the hill. This youngster was quickly
followed by another, and then another, chasing and playing there
on that mountain of smoldering trash, just as if nothing were
wrong, as if there were no danger, as if the garbage heap on
which they ran was a grassy hill in a city park back home.
Marie wanted to meet the parents of these children, so Fina
asked the kids where their parents were. Marie and her guide
made their way up through the trash heap village and found the
place where the children said they lived. There, sitting on an
upside-down plastic bucket, was a depressed looking woman.
Marie walked over with Fina and asked the woman her name.
The woman was frightened at first, but when Fina explained who
they were, she stood up and extended her hand. Her name was
Antonia. She looked around quickly and found a sturdy crate and
carried it over for Marie. She motioned for Fina to sit on the
bucket where she had been sitting. Then Antonia sat herself down
on the trashy ground.
Suddenly, Antonia jumped up again, as though she had just
remembered something important. She reached behind a piece of
oily cardboard to a makeshift shelf, and brought out an orange.
She wiped it off as best she could with her skirt, and peeled it
carefully. Then she divided it in half, and offered one half to
Marie and the other half to Fina.
At first, Marie wanted to decline the offer. It was obvious
this woman needed every morsel of food she could get her hands
on, both for herself and for her children. But when she saw Fina
graciously accept her half of the orange, Marie did likewise.
"Why are you here?" Antonia asked.
"I came to see your country, and to meet the people here. I
came because my church wants to be more aware of people around
the world."
The three women talked about their lives. They talked about
their children and about their hopes for the future. They talked
about their faith. The conversation they shared almost made
Marie forget the horrible surroundings. Eventually it was time
to go. As they stood up to leave, Marie extended her hand.
Antonia looked into Marie's eyes, and she asked, "So what will
you tell your church about me?"
At first, Marie did not know how to respond. What should
she say? That this desperately poor woman needed their help?
That her children were at risk every minute of every day from
threats of violence and disease and malnutrition on that
miserable garbage heap? Or should she tell them of Antonia's
incredible generosity, how she offered them food from her meager
supply, how she sat on the garbage so her guests could sit on the
makeshift furniture? What should she say?
When Antonia saw that Marie was not sure how to respond, she
reached out her hand and gently touched Marie's forearm. "Just
tell them I believe in the same God as you. And tell them I
trust that God will give life for me and my children. And tell
them I am glad they sent you." Tears welled up in Marie's eyes,
and in Fina's and Antonia's eyes, too. And the three women,
strangers just an hour earlier, embraced one another.
Marie walked down the hill and back to her hotel. She may
have left Antonia on that hillside, but she also brought
something of Antonia home within her too. When she worships now
in her home church, Marie sees the fine buildings and furniture
and appointments, but she remembers that smoldering garbage dump.
And when she receives the body and blood of Jesus in the Lord's
Supper, she remembers how Antonia divided and offered the orange.
Broken for you. Given and shed for you. Perhaps Antonia taught
Marie what giving of oneself really means. Perhaps a lesson we
all need to learn. On this World Communion Sunday, we do well to
listen to the word from the other side of the world.
1. From a sermon by Kurt Hansen, Primrose Lutheran Church, Belleville, WI, "The Gift,"
11/9/97
Amen!
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