The Very Rev. David Giuliano

Wednesday, February 13, 2008

Tomorrow Jeremiah and I will rise in darkness, long before even a glow appears in the eastern sky. In Colombia and Nicaragua, perhaps those who fish for a living will be rising too. We will brush our teeth and shower. Drink a coffee if there is time. We will ride in a taxi to Terminal 3 at Pearson Airport here in Toronto. It will still be dark when the spinning tires on the plane tuck themselves beneath the wings. We will be on our way to visit United Church partners in the Colombian Methodist and Nicaraguan Moravian Churches.

Jeremiah is Pearl and my 20-year-old son. He’s a musician, writer of songs, boyfriend to Jenna, and impatient to know where his life is taking him. Turns out his reading week at the University of Guelph coincides with this visit to global partners.

Jim Hodgson and Bishop Juan Alberto Cardona will meet us in Cartagena. Bishop Cardona was in Canada in November and spoke to our General Council Executive. He brought me a beautiful hat, intricately woven with leaves. I’m bringing it to keep the sun from my naked head and taking a ball-cap with The United Church of Canada crest on it for him.

Jim is our church’s Area Minister for Central and South America. He has made all the arrangements and will be translating for us along the way. He will open his eyes in Bogata in the morning.

This afternoon, I measured out socks and shorts for 10 days, checked my passport, and made notes for sermons to be preached while I’m there. It is difficult to imagine proclaiming the Good News across the vast chasm—of culture, wealth and poverty, language—that separates my life from the lives of our friends in Central and South America.

It is easier to imagine that the Christ will be proclaimed to us there, among those who have shared his cross through compounded human injustices and natural disasters. Yet, we are part of One Body, knit together not merely by the dictates of global economics but by the unifying Spirit of Christ.

Last year at this time, a group of us set out for Israel–Palestine. I wrote at the time that I was not so much searching for memorials to the historical Jesus but for him live-and-at-large in the “Holy Land.” All land is holy. All suffering is made sacred through Jesus who longs to redeem that pain. So I am setting out again—and always—in search of the living Christ.

Colombia Day 1: Cartagena, Thursday, February 14, 2008

We’ve just returned from a late dinner, bathed by warm breezes in the old city of Cartagena, Colombia. There are five of us now—Jim, Jeremiah, Bishop Cardona, and Jose Duque of the Latin American Biblical University in Costa Rica. It’s Valentine’s day and we spoke a little of our beloveds.

In the old city, only the persistence of the buskers and craft peddlers betrays the poverty facing Colombia. Tomorrow Bishop Cardona says that he will show us the “real Colombia.” It was an evening of great laughter in Spanish and English; with Jim’s help Jeremiah and I are keeping up. “Jeremias” and I are determined to learn some Espanol while we are here.

All day we have been moving toward Spanish. We’ve travelled from English followed by the French version of the Air Canada emergency procedures, to English and some Spanish on American Airlines, to Spanish followed by English on Avianca Airlines on our way to Colombia. Now it is all Spanish. All three languages, the language of the colonial powers that arrived in the Americas.

So, tonight I am thinking about the power of language and of words, to include or exclude, to tell the story and in so doing to create the world. God spoke and creation began. “In the beginning was the Word….” That’s where it all starts according to the Gospel of John. In many of our churches we still conclude the public reading of scriptures by saying “The Word of the Lord” or something along those lines. The story of Tower of Babel says that God created languages to scatter humans whose common quest was to reach the heavens.

What are the worlds we create with our words, with our language? What is the story we tell, about Colombia for example. Stories of cocaine? Stories of poverty? Stories of political corruption? Stories of massive jets, packed tight with flowers grown by pesticide-poisoned workers and bound for Valentine’s bouquets in Canada?

I’ll try to share some stories with you as I go. Tonight, I am grateful to be here, in Cartagena—at peace, curious, and very tired—listening and learning of a difficult country that creates community and prays in Spanish.

Colombia Day 2, Friday, February 15, 2008

Jeremiah gave his guitar away before noon. That’s his story to tell but I will say there are moments in life and places in the world that insist on extravagant responses.

We spent the day seeing what Bishop Juan Alberto Cardona calls the real Colombia. We drove through seven or eight military and police checkpoints on roads that eventually disappeared. At one checkpoint they made us get out and inspected the back of our vehicle. It was a little tense. We were relieved to be released and piling back into the jeep when Jeremiah asked one of the solders, “Photo?” and motioned to his camera. The soldier seemed pleased. I posed with him.

Bisas del Mar is a hard-packed dirt field surrounded by clay plastered and tin or thatch roofed homes at the end of an almost impassable road. In rainy season, it is a sea of mud. The congregation has built a clay plaster church with an excellent thatch roof and a concrete floor. In all the churches we visited today, plastic lawn chairs serve as pews.

A blind girl, I’m guessing she was 14, sang. Three young men played along on a guitar, a drum, and one of those rhythm instruments that looks like a fine cheese grater stroked with a hair pick—I forget what it’s called. We prayed and spoke a little and then Juan Alberto had us move our chairs into a circle so that we could talk.

We heard heart-wrenching stories about the years of killing, torture, and disappearances by the paramilitary. Disappeared sons and daughters. Murdered husbands. One woman told us about the mass graves that were uncovered after the paramilitary left. Another talked about the night her daughter was taken from their home by the soldiers. “By the grace of God, she returned to us in the morning,” she concluded. The horrors between that night and that morning were left unspoken. I don’t know if it was simply too painful to mention, or beyond words, or if in Rincon del Mar and countless villages like it, the brutality to which she was subjected is already well know by all.

We heard about the challenges still facing the community—inadequate water, emotional scarring, no medical care, opportunity, or proper education for the young, poverty and unemployment.

A young man wept as he spoke about the frustration of having lived his whole life under the thumb and then the shadow of the paramilitaries. Disappearances and murders still happen sometimes. The psychological and spiritual healing will take generations. Several speakers voiced their concern for the burden carried by their pastor in such circumstances. He did look weary.

And, we heard about dreams. The girl who sang confessed that she would like to be an entertainer. Others talked about a day when clean water reached each of the homes or when the church built a little medical clinic—"to serve everyone.” Jose Duque reminded the church that others would not simply do these things but that the church would work with the people in partnership. He pointed out into the scorched dirt square and conjured up a day when an orchestra would play there. They praised God that with friends in the Body of Christ in places like Canada their circumstances would improve.

That’s where Jeremiah left his guitar.

It was like that in the churches Ricon del Mar and later in Sincerlejo where the boy in front of me at church wore a Che Guevara T-shirt. People of incredible spirit, faith, and courage. Even now, breath catches in my throat, when I think of their courage. Courage to tell the story of the paramilitaries, knowing that they may still risk their lives doing it. Courage to unearth the mass graves of their emotional wounds, trusting that we—brothers and sisters in Christ—would receive them tenderly.

Above all, it was voicing dreams for the future that seemed courageous and was so moving for me. In such circumstances these visions could only come from the deepest, most sacred part of a person, teased to the surface by some spirit beyond imagining. There is nothing else in the situation that could account for their hope.

The service in Sincerlejo ended with embracing and kisses of peace for all. The day ended with laughter, loud music, and dancing at the simple home of their Pastor Luis Fernando and his family.

On the way back to the hotel we stopped by an empty lot—dirt and rock and trash between two buildings. In Canada we would call it an alley. Juan Alberto trained the headlights on it and we stood on tiptoe to see over the corrugated metal barrier. The congregation hopes to buy it, and the house next door to be their church. Methodists in the United States have promised money. The community has courageous dreams.

Colombia Day 3—Emerging Spirit, Saturday February 16, 2008

We started the day watching sloths. They live in a massive rubber tree growing in the square in Sincerlejo. Mostly, they don’t do anything. They apparently only make the painfully measured journey to the earth to relieve themselves. We did see one languid arm stretch and retrieve a single berry or leaf from the tree to eat.

One was sleeping in the upturned cone of a light stand poking up into the branches of the tree. We stood on the low stone wall and took some close-up photos. Then Juan Alberto banged on the pole, and shook it a little. He called out and whistled. But the sloth did not budge. There was great laughter when it was suggested that the work of a pastor sometimes feels like that! Like trying to get a sloth to budge.

I can confirm, however, that is not the case in the churches we visited yesterday or in the congregation here in Cartagena we worshipped with tonight. Berta, a medical doctor and pastor of this newborn Methodist community, threw her ample arms around each of us as we arrived. Her son Henri, a lawyer and human rights advocate, led the praise singing. Another young man played the keyboard and a young woman kept the order of worship. Others participated in the leadership, including a girl—perhaps 10 or 11 years old—who recited Psalm 1 by heart. I preached again, with Jim doing the translating. Most of the 50-60 in attendance were young adults or children.

As is the tradition in these fledgling communities, hugs and kisses of peace were shared liberally among the participants as the serviced ended. Then things got really exciting. Then the meetings began!

This homeless congregation, made up of mostly poor, displaced, and struggling people has animated a handful of exciting new ministries. There was a row of elders there for the first time because they have been eating at the congregation's cafeteria ministry and wanted to meet these Christians. There is a women’s ministry and a youth ministry and others I can’t recall. All were checking in and excitedly telling one another about the ways in which the Spirit was emerging, through and among them. We will be visiting some of these outreach ministries on Monday.

A circle of plastic lawn chairs was formed for the first meeting of a “neighbourhood ministry.” There were 11 young adults at church for the first time. They had come because they were invited to come and talk about what they needed and how the church could serve the poor communities where they live.

I sat at the edge of circle and couldn’t understand a word—the talk was so fast and enlivened I’m not sure Jim could follow either!—but it was clear to me that something exciting was happening and these people, previously strangers to one another, were forging a community for transformation.

Like the church in Sincelejo, this one in Cartagena worships in one rented space after another. This one is tucked in behind a busy shopping area in among concrete block apartments. It would be hard to find without help—but many have been helped and the gospel is taking on flesh. After the meetings, over supper, we reflected on how these new churches have much in common with the earliest churches.

They have nothing and they have everything. It is humbling to witness at once their poverty, their lack of material resources, and their cup overflowing with another kind of wealth—love, vision, passion, and trust in the Spirit. Unlike the sloths in the tree in Sincerlejo, these Christians are moving, with real urgency to respond to the dangers, injustice, and challenges before them.

Colombia Day 5—The Real Cartagena, Monday, February 18, 2008

Rev. Dr. Berta and her sister Eunice and son (whose name I am unable to retrieve at this moment) arrived this morning to take us on a tour of some of their ministries in what she and Juan Alberta call “the real Cartagena.” First, we went to the Vasa Caballo neighbourhood. On the Colombian socioeconomic scale of 1–6 (1 being the lowest) the people in Vasa Caballo are 1’s and 2’s. The streets are narrow; the homes are small and of cement block construction.

We stopped outside one of the slightly larger buildings. It has a grand shade tree in the small, packed-earth yard. Beneath the tree, seated in plastic stackable lawn chairs, were 50 dignified seniors, some as old as the tree. They are the “Anciano Feliz”—literally the happy ancients. Happy Elders is a good translation. They did look happy, and old. According to Berta that is not a common combination for many in Cartagena. Elders are often lonely, malnourished, and neglected. So the church started Anciano Feliz.

We made our way around the circle shaking strong hands, hands familiar with hard work. Jose asked one 77-year-old man if he was from Vasa Caballo. The man smiled and said, “I am so long from here that my umbilical cord is buried here.” Their smiles were infections and I was grinning like a lottery winner by the time I’d finished the circuit. I would have gone around again if there was more time.

They were proud to show us the simple kitchen from which 250 happy elders are served meals in three shifts, six days a week. They demonstrated the care they take to ensure that the food is safe and showed us the wall-sized weekly menu that provides for nutritional balance. They also took turns sitting at a small, rough table, also beneath the tree, to talk with the nurse. She checked blood pressure, enquired of health, and saw to the needs she could help with. They introduced us to the man who oversees the operation: “He used to be the worst criminal in the neighbourhood, a bandito.” He remained stone-faced.

It was the same thing in the Campina neighbourhood. Where there is another Anciano Feliz group. There are three of these kitchens run by the Methodists who get some funding from the government.

Then we went to Via Perimeto, “where the people,” Berta told us, “are zeros on the socioeconomic scale.” They live in a sea of rubble, broken glass, raw sewage, mosquito-breeding wetlands, and poverty. Not since our time in Haiti 20-odd years ago have I seen such harsh destitution.

Berta sees Via Perimeto through the eyes of a medical professional. She told us about a woman who had hip surgery. She was discharged back to her home, which required daily wading through a canal of raw sewage. Not surprisingly, she contracted a terrible infection in her incision. Infected cuts on feet are common. So is malaria, gastro infections, eye infections, and all manner of poverty-related illness. There are many poisonous snakes.

A little boy was bitten by one of these snakes. Berta said that he was rushed to the hospital but because his family had no money, he was refused treatment. His family accepted that he would die. Berta is not an easily discouraged woman. She called Juan Alberto in Medillian more than a day’s drive away. “Can you help us? Can you pay for this?” He said that he would find a way. Berta finished her story, “We saved that one.” Many are not saved.

Sometimes the Methodist Church’s ministry is an urgent call for help from the hospital, at other times it is more planned and long-term. Like the kitchens. And like the garden projects in Via Perimeto. Headed up by the Methodist men’s group, the garden project is helping the residents clear the rubble in their tiny yards to grow some vegetables. We toured some of these gardens. They seemed almost impossible to me—like eggplants, herbs, beans, cucumbers growing up out of a bombed city. The pride and improved nutrition of the 150 or so families with gardens in their yard was visible.

The men have also started a small cement-block yard. They pool money to buy sand and cement cooperatively, then make the blocks one at a time in a hand pressed die. That way they can sell the blocks for 3 pesos instead of the going rate of 7. “People can build their house a little,” said the man showing us the humble operation.

We are headed to the airport on our way to Nicaragua. It is an honour to have met and known these people of faith, who are building the house of God a little—one block at a time.

Nicaragua Day 1—“Little Things,” Tuesday, February 19, 2008

We flew to Panama from Colombia, missed our flight to Managua by seconds, so ended up flying to San Juan, Costa Rica, where we spent five hours sleeping at the Hilton, were up at 3:30 a.m. to fly to El Salvador in order to get to Managua in time for our flight to Bluefield, Nicaragua. We made it. Our bags didn’t. What’s that—five Central American countries in 24 hours?

Little things can change everything. When we arrived for the flight to Managua it was still there at the gate. They were closing the door but wouldn’t let us on. Noses against the glass, we watched our plane on the apron for another five minutes. Then it pushed back and left without us.

Our flight from Colombia was late, true. But if it had not paused on the runway after we landed, if I had been more aggressive about pushing into the torrent of anxious, disembarking travellers, or if we had run rather than walked quickly to the gate for the Managua flight, I think we would have made it. Alas, behold, we stood at the door and knocked, but they would not open! Little things change everything. Mostly we just don’t notice.

We met with Humberto Thompson at the Managua airport between flights. Humberto is a Moskito member of the Moravian Church executive council. The Moravian Church in Nicaragua has been a partner of The United Church of Canada for more than 30 years. The Moskito are the Indigenous people who—theoretically—control about 51% of the land but make up only 20% of the population. Humberto is a lawyer who runs a human rights and environmental organization.

He described the challenges faced by the Moskito in Nicaragua. Resource industries—like foreign mining and logging companies—are operating on Moskito territory, in direct contravention to the superior courts in Nicaragua and the World Court at the Hague. Humberto launched and won a $30 million suit at the World Court. He isn’t holding his breath about getting paid. The government continues to allow the companies to operate in Moskito territory, pretty much unregulated. He wasn’t able to say how many of the companies were Canadian but assured us that we are in Nicaragua.

Mining and logging have led to serious environmental problems. Mining has polluted waterways that are traditional sources of bathing and drinking water for the Moskito. Clearcutting of forests has destroyed ecospheres and caused severe erosion. Both have displaced traditional communities. He was very interested to hear about the challenges facing Aboriginal people in Canada, many of them quite similar.

From Managua we flew to Bluefields on the Atlantic coast. There we were welcomed by Pete and Cathyann Hoyle. The Hoyles are United Church overseas personnel serving the Moravian Church in Bluefields.

There we heard about projects and plans and the challenges faced by the congregation. There was a worship service and dinner with the congregation.

They are proud of their rebuilt church building. It was completely destroyed by hurricane Joan in 1988 and rebuilt with help from among many others, United Church folk from London, Ontario. It seats 600 people and is beautifully maintained. There are several “chapels” throughout the city to serve local neighbourhoods. The church also has a medical clinic, a house for girls, a newly started daycare, and a lunch program for 150 children. They expressed gratitude for our long-standing friendship.

Even though we were very tired by the end of the day, it was joy to sit with Pete and Cathyann in the rocking chairs in the cavernous living room of the “pastor’s house.” We talked about their work in Nicaragua and brought what news we could of friends and movements at home in the United Church. They are remarkable people who bring great joy, clarity, and passion to their work.

The following morning, Pete gave us an abbreviated tour—the one we missed because of late flights—of Bluefields before catching our next “white-knuckler” to Puerto Cabezas. Pete and George—who was driving us around in his taxi—were telling us about what a safe place Bluefields is. “There was only one murder in the city in the past two years,” Pete announced. “That was out on a farm,” added George. “A man who was bad to his wife cut her hands off. Then her brother killed him.”

Moments later George was yelling out the window of his cab at someone. I looked out the back window. A man, covered in blood, was running from a shack and pulling a cold-war era hand gun from the back of his pants. He aimed at someone running away down the street. Pete and George were both shouting at the man with the gun. The man hesitated, rewrapped his pistol in a rag and went back inside. George shook his head as we drove away, "It's too early in the morning for that."

Irony aside, I wonder what might have happened if we had taken another street, or been a little earlier or a little later or if we had made our flight and had this tour of the city the day before as Pete had planned. Little things can change everything. We just don’t always notice.

Nicaragua Day 2—"One Body," Wednesday, February 20, 2008

One of the current challenges faced by the Moravian Church in Bluefields is an ethical one. The congregation has a dream of creating a park next to the church on the ocean front. They’ve nearly completed a pavilion and imagine that it would be a place for students from the school across the street and people in the neighbourhood to gather.

Unfortunately, a small “squatters’” (I am at a loss for a less derogatory term) village has set up on the property along the water. Pete and elders have talked with the residents of the shacks and with municipal officials. Arrangements are made with the officials for the residents to get free land and building materials in another part of town. But the people who are building their humble shacks along the water don’t want to move.

In one of the ironies of community ministry, Pete and other congregational members recently found themselves fighting a fire that broke out in the squatters’ homes. “There I was,” laughed Pete, “in the bucket brigade doing my best to save homes that we wish were someplace else!”

We flew to Puerto Cabezas—"Bilwi" in Moskito—Tuesday afternoon. I had a lovely nap on the 10-passenger Cessna. I yawned, opened my eyes, and glanced around at my fellow passengers. Everyone was enjoying siesta. Including the pilot! His head cycled through rolling off the right side of his seat and jerking back up. It was reassuring to see the co-pilot looking alert and attentive to the gauges.

We met with the Rev. Cora Antonio, Superintendent of the Moravian Church in Nicaragua. She is the first Moskito woman to hold this position and has a passion for raising up women leaders. Cora is working hard to care for her pastors (65 of whom are currently off sick), visit the communities, and care for the healing of tensions between Moskito and Creole congregations.

In the evening we met with the Moskito and Creole youth groups of the Moravian churches, along with some of the pastors. When the groups meet together they communicate in three languages simultaneously—Moskito, Spanish, and Creole English—and everyone seems to manage fine.

Some things about youth groups are universal—screaming girls, posturing boys, and hilariously silly games. Let’s just say Jim is a pretty good dancer! What happens at the Puerto Cabenza Moravian Church Youth Group, stays at the Puerto Cabenza Moravian Church Youth Group.

Hurricane Felix hit the North Atlantic coast of Nicaragua over Labour Day Weekend last fall. People in the region are still struggling to recover. In Puerto Cabezas uprooted stumps five and six feet across still litter the town square. Repairs are being made to homes and public buildings and infrastructure.

The damage is even more severe in some of the coastal villages. On Wednesday morning we drove north to Krukiro, one of the hardest hit. Most families continue to live in construction sites. Food is scarce because of the destruction of agricultural lands. Psychological and emotional difficulties persist.

Several people apologized for not being able to give us coconut. “In the past,” Cora told us, “no one ever left this village without being offered a coconut. Now they are all gone.” She grew up in the village and showed us where her family home stood until Felix tore through. She showed us where things used to be—“this was the park,” “this was my grandmother’s house,” “this was the pastor’s house.”

It is estimated that 51 million trees were blown down by Felix. Most of those were in areas that had been clear-cut and replanted in rows of all one kind of pine. With no biodiversity or undergrowth and mile-long corridors between the trees, the wind snapped them off like toothpicks.

The people of Krukiro sought refuge in the church during the hurricane. The roof was blown off, and the walls cracked and leaned but did not fall. Several people described spending the night beneath the rough pews in several inches of water. Reconstruction of the church and homes is slow. Competition and control of aid dollars by NGOs, churches, and government does not improve the situation.

One of the themes I’ve been preaching about on this trip is that we all a part of the body of Christ. In a world that wants to make the global economy the singular binding element among human life on earth, we witness to bonds of love, justice, and peace through our unity and diversity. It is important to find ways to practise that in order to share that vision in the world.

After seeing Krukiro it occurs to me that we are also bound together by the consequences of global climate change. In Krukiro there is no doubt that Felix is the result of climate change. “My grandfather is in his 90s,” one woman told us. “He said there has never been a storm like Felix, remembered by him or his grandparents.” In the north the glaciers are melting. In the west the forests are being devoured by the pine beetle. Droughts persist elsewhere. The water levels on the Great Lakes are dropping. The list goes on and on. We are indeed one body on this planet. When one part of the body suffers, the whole body suffers.

Nicaragua Day 4—“Respect,” Friday, February 22, 2008

This morning we met with “Instituto de Desarrollo Social de la Iglesia Morava,” It’s the social development branch of the Moravian Church. They function as intermediaries between outside providers of aid and the communities in need.

Mostly, we were discussing a Canadian Foodgrains application of which we are part. Hurricane Felix wiped out the agricultural potential of 20 communities and about 2,000 families in the region. The Swedish Foodgrains program helped out with immediate relief after the storm. Our application is for seeds and tools so that people can begin to grow their own food again.

I asked about challenges they face as intermediaries. There was immediate consensus that the biggest challenge was working with people who want to impose solutions. Harold, Cora’s husband and a member of the committee, told us about one aid agency that insisted only an expert could repair the carburetor on one of their portable wood mills. The expert flew in from the U.S. and changed the carburetor but the mill still didn’t work. “While he was on his cell phone to head office,” Harold shook his head, “one of the boys fixed the old carburetor.”

Another one of the mills was determined to be worn out by the manufacturer and scheduled for disposal. When the mechanics came to visit, Harold showed how they had overhauled the mill and given it fresh paint. It was working well. They refused to believe it was the same mill until Harold showed them the serial number plate. Once a technician was flown in to set up and demonstrate a new mill. He couldn’t get it started. A local person explained that there was an electronic safety on the machine that needed to be turned off. Each of the stories, concluded with shaking heads and gales of laughter.

Not all are funny. Work crews from other countries sometimes insist on inappropriate building techniques, or on introducing non-indigenous seeds and farming practices or give money with strings attached (usually from mining or forestry companies). “It’s difficult but sometimes,” Humberto said, “we’ve had to turn down aid because it does more harm than good or because it is so disrespectful to us as people. What else can we do?” He confided that currently there is a house builder whom they might have to ask to leave soon.

At the root of these problems is a notion of superiority. Denis, another member, said, “Don’t treat us like children.” I asked about the relationship with The United Church of Canada. They responded with gratitude and praise for our partnership model. We agreed that we would speak as “amigos,” assume the best of intentions, and speak honestly when misunderstandings arise. They expressed special gratitude for the role Jim has played in caring for our partnership.

Humberto wrapped up saying, “Respect is a tool for development.” As with any friendship, a development project is impossible with out respect.