We are now in Costa Rica! We got here on the 1st and are currently staying at Casa Nube (Whitworth’s old campus in CR) for a little over a week doing course work.
At Casa Nube
Here’s some reflections that I’ve been hoping to share on our time in Guatemala.
View of an active volcano from our hotel in Antigua
Words/narratives that we've been reflecting on from our time in Guatemala
In our couple days of debrief in Antigua, Guatemala, I asked the students this question:
What does proximity mean to you? I gave the students some time to sit with the question, thinking about how their three weeks in Guatemala have been shaping the way they think about proximity.
Here are some of my own thoughts that I shared with the group… proximity carries with it responsibility. We’ve met people with names and stories and it matters how we respond (complacency is also a response).
What is our personal responsibility to these stories that have been shared with us?
“…if God responds with the sacrament of silence in the presence of his Son’s agony, perhaps there is wisdom in doing the same when confronted with the reality of another’s pain — to hold and be held by the pain of another long enough to be transformed by it” (Geography of Grace 39).
What does it look like to allow oneself to be transformed by another’s pain? When we hear the story of another human being, there exists the invitation to let our own humanity interact with theirs, being transformed by their pain — OR — to be complacent and ignore their pain and humanity, dehumanizing not only them, but ourselves too.
What is our communal responsibility to these stories that have been shared with us?What is our responsibility for transmitting these stories, both overarching and personal? What does it mean to share the names of those who often remain nameless?
We carry the stories that are both the overarching narratives of Guatemala, Central America, Latin America, etc. as well as the personal stories of people who have chosen to open up to us during our time in Guatemala.
We have heard the stories of…
two women who were unjustly incarcerated for their anti-corruption work in the country (only recently liberated, but still fighting to maintain their freedom)
Oppression and violence committed against the indigenous Mayan population for centuries. In recent, most intensely through the Guatemalan government’s scorched earth campaign — the genocide carried out against the Mayan people during the civil war (1960-96)
US involvement — everything from the CIA’s involvement in a coup that overthrew a democratically elected president (1954), to the School of the Americas — the combat training school that the US instituted in Latin America which trained many dictators and military personnel (including one of the main perpetrators of genocide in Guatemala)
The indigenous community in Guatemala mobilizing with 100+ days of roadblocks that virtually shut the country down in October, using their collective voice to ensure a peaceful transfer of power on January 14 (there still were some hiccups in the process that day, but Guatemala now has its new president, Bernardo Arévalo)
Forced migration of people to the states, most often because of the lack of opportunities in their own country which has been shaped by years of US industry monopolization/exploitative neocolonialist practices in Central America (ie: United Fruit Co, also known as Chiquita today)
…and so many more
Painting of Comolapa, Guatemala
I find myself wrestling with what it means when a community, country, or even the Church, rejects (or refuses to even listen in the first place) the stories that are told by people who have experienced such injustice. The land too in Central America cries out in its own way, begging that we hear how decades of monoculture (coffee and banana plantations with harmful cultivation practices — ie. heavy use of pesticides) have scared the land. What do we do when even within the Church — our very brothers and sisters in Christ — reject the idea that there was genocide in Guatemala? How can we move forward in seeking healing when the truth of the past cannot be brought into the light?
Story matters.
The stories that we hear from the most vulnerable among us matter. We should know and speak their names. They tell the untold sides of truth. If the Church of Christ is supposed to stand with the vulnerable, we must start by listening to these stories, and then allowing ourselves to be transformed by the pain in response.
Our response matters.
Coming back to Guatemala has affirmed this truth for me: the work of peacemaking largely begins through telling stories. Building peace between individuals, communities, people groups, first starts with taking steps to recognize the humanity of the “other.” The first violence we commit — and from which all other forms of violence stem — is to “other” someone. When we “other,” we reject someone’s humanity and ours — for we are all connected at the site of the dirt (borrowing language from theologian Willie Jennings). To “other” someone is to reject the basic theological assertion that we as human beings are all interconnected, formed at the site of the dirt.
The Kingdom of Shalom (wholeness, peace, wellbeing, connectedness, right relationship) is a kingdom that fiercely affirms the humanity and dignity of each person.
I’m indebted to the communities in Latin America that have opened my eyes to see this truth, and that continue to challenge me to think about what it means to take up the responsibility of proximity and to fiercely affirm/protect the dignity of each human being.
Whose stories are you listening to? The rich and the powerful? The poor and disinherited? How are you responding?
Guatemalan nativity
I give thanks for the Christ who sat with and listened to those who society wouldn't even glance at.
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