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Pecked to Death by Ducks

Growing up, I had a number of teachers lament that “Teaching is like being pecked to death by ducks,” including one who proudly displayed a large banner with the saying over the chalkboard.  The full force of the proverb has eluded me for all these years.  Teaching younger children myself has, however, revealed it.  Ducks have dull bills.  The cause of death would likely be sheer annoyance.  I get it now.

The teaching situation here is rather dismal.  Due mainly to some mistakes on our part, we took a job with horrible conditions without realizing it.  Without going into specifics, suffice it to say that teaching well is impossible here.  We’re less teachers and more English-speaking mascots.  On a positive note, it has made me realize that teachers, as a group, must be the most Christ-like people on the face of the earth.  Even after years of seminary, I’m watching myself be profoundly and painfully shaped in the course of a few weeks.  There’s nothing like hordes of kids slapping you, yelling in your ear, or just plain ignoring you to reveal your own sin nature.

Like the Christian life, teaching requires acknowledging that you are not in control.  A teacher cannot control class size, parental involvement, other teachers, and a number of other factors that can make teaching either sheer joy or nearly impossible.  You cannot even control how others will take you saying “I have no control” – more often than not, it seems like the spoken or unspoken assumption is that you’re doing something wrong.  With the illusion of control gone, I’m finding the good teachers can refocus on being faithful with what little they can control.  As of now, I’m more in the going-crazy-trying-to-control category.

Teaching also requires the constant practice of forgiveness, a skill which I thought I was getting pretty good at.  Kids can be horrible little monsters.  The good teachers forgive students without their asking and give them a fresh start the next time they see them.  It’s both easy to do (what else can you do?  Hold a grudge or demand an apology for something the class will have no memory of?) and humbling (though sometimes in a bad, allowing-oneself-to-get-walked-over sense; sadly, I’ve seen plenty of that here and growing up).  You know that parable about the man who is forgiven an unimaginably large debt, but who then can’t forgive a tiny one owed to him?  I hate that parable right now.

So, if you’ve read the previous blogs you know that so far, things aren’t going as hoped in a lot of different ways.  Though it feels like looking at the bright side of a train wreck, God is still using the experience to shape me.  And, despite it all, I do realize I have it relatively easy in many senses, and I am thankful.

A prayer request – we’re looking into other options for when our contract ends.  We’re still hoping to find a job that better matches our sense of calling and love for the Muslim world.  Please pray that God would be guiding us where He wills and that the search and preparations wouldn’t distract us from being fully present here.

 

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A Vision of Hell

In The Way of Ignorance, Wendell Berry describes animal factories as “a vision of Hell” for its dis-creation, unhumanity, and exploitation.  This week I completed the required entry health examination and feel the travel health center has become the clearest “vision of Hell” in my limited experience.

The center is a maze of exam rooms and lines of people twisting through hallways caked with dirt and mildew.  My examination began with a shove forward to the “Phlebotomization” (blood drawing) station, which eerily resembled a teller counter inside a bank.  Instead of cash or a deposit slip, I put my arm through the hole, resting it upon a blood and sweat stained cushion.  My arm was then stuck with a needle, blood was drawn, and I was motioned to leave, without a bandage, so that the next person could come forward.

It was clear that the center was designed for factory-like speed and efficiency, as well as the health concerns and comfort of the nurses and doctors conducting the exams.  At the “Urine” station, for example, the nurse wore gloves for protection, but he never changed them.  So with the same gloves with which he had just received full containers of urine from others, he handed me my cup.  His hands were safe and dry.

There were eight or nine stations, each of which suffered from similar sanitation issues as well as a lack of privacy.  I cringed as I passed a Muslim woman wearing a veil in the hallways, knowing that her desire for modesty would not be respected.  She would, like me, be forced to get partially undressed at several stations, in full view of the next few people in line.  Unlike me, should would also have to visit the “Gynecology” station, which, I was told, had a window opening to the outside which the doctor refused to close.

I knew before coming that the culture values the community over the individual.  I also knew that often the culture values the community to the detriment of the individual.  Even a quick perusal of the news articles on Aydun reveals that my experience at the travel health center reflects a more general lack of respect for the dignity and value of the individual, if not by the culture, then at least by the government.  But the personal experience of violation and the feelings of helplessness made the facts become a little more concrete.

The experience, however, was not without a few moments of grace, a few glimpses of humanity.  I shared a laugh with a few Indians who knew English as we awaited the station labeled “Surgery,” which thankfully was a mistranslation.  A few minutes later, after getting shoved into one station while on my way to another, it took me several minutes to realize I had already been there.  The nurse and I realized this fact at the same time, and shared a smile before she called the next person.  It was the only time my uniqueness as an individual was acknowledged during the examination process, and I’m learning to cherish the moment.

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The Grace to Wait

In the past few weeks, plans have changed rather drastically.  Part of the confusion with these changes is figuring out what it means to be intentional in this location without a clear sense of purpose or direction.  On one hand, I don’t feel like I have to be “needed” for the trip to be worthwhile.  I am open to living a life of prayer and looking for opportunities, but not forcing anything.  The church is small but strong despite persecution, and is better able to witness to their country than I or any other Westerner could be.

On the other hand, I do have training in Bible and theology and feel gifted in discipleship.  I’d love the opportunity to learn from their faith and experiences.  But again, just because I have something to offer doesn’t mean I’m “needed.”  I’m finding myself longing for connections and opportunities for mutual encouragement and enrichment, despite knowing that the church is doing fine on its own and that my presence might even bring unwelcome attention.

At times, I feel an activism in myself that wants to force the Spirit’s hand, an arrogance that assumes that “faith” means jumping right in.  I sense the danger of using the local church and co-opting it’s story to serve my own desires and expectations of what being a Christian in a largely non-Christian culture entails.  The change of plans has meant that everything is moving at a snail’s pace, and I feel pressure to do anything but keep waiting.  In light of this, I find myself praying for the grace to do nothing but wait for God to give opportunities or not according to His will.

 

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Hai. Haiiii. Haaaai.

We have received job offers from another country (in order to protect our identity, we’ll call it “Aydun” on the blog – it’s an East Asian country with small Christian and Muslim populations).  We will be flying out next week.  Although not what we had in mind and not where we had felt God calling us, this opportunity may be able to open doors elsewhere, including Dunya if we decide to try again.  We are trying to stay open to God’s working in ways unexpected.  Which has been difficult – we’re experiencing a confusing mix of excitement over the new path and disappointment over the loss.  We are not sure what to expect, but are praying for opportunities as well as eyes to see them.

A friend who speaks Aydun’s language agreed to teach me a little of the language before we leave.  At the beginning of the lesson, I asked him, “So, how do you say, ‘Hello’?”

He replied, “Well, we usually just say ‘Hai’.”

“Hai.  Haiiii.  Haaaai.”  I repeated, practicing the new word and attempting to get the inflection just right.

“Umm… so, it’s ‘Hi’… you know, like English… ‘Hi!’”

I felt pretty stupid.  My wife laughed.