My seminary tenure was punctuated by a number of memorable experiences. The Fund for Theological Education awarded me a grant that enabled me to ride my bike across the country to raise awareness about and fight human trafficking. Wesley Theological Seminary also requires some type of an immersion trip for Master of Divinity students. By the time I and other students embarked on our trip, I had already decided to switch my degree, but I wasn't about to pass up an opportunity to spend two weeks in South Africa.
South Africa attracted me as the land of Steve Biko. Of course I knew about Nelson Mandela but I had seen Denzel Washington portray Biko in the movie, Cry Freedom, and life could never be the same. After watching that movie, I read Malcolm X's autobiography and found a lot of connection between the two and my affinity for Soren Kierkegaard and Jean-Paul Sartre's form of existentialism. I had come to understand that the power capable of instituting equality between people and races is one's own consciousness of self, what Biko called black consciousness. Political activism had its time and place but, I felt, should never be a priority. After all, Christ's kingdom is not of this world. We can choose on our own to live in that kingdom at any given time. So I was desperate for this once-in-a-lifetime chance to visit the country and ask South Africans themselves what they felt about the different approaches of Biko and Mandela.
Prior to the trip, there were a number of hurdles I had to jump. First, I had to read a bunch of books and attend some discussions with my fellow trip-goers. Certainly I learned a lot about South Africa's history. Apartheid was the unfortunate result of many years of unjust colonial activities and decisions. One could not possibly separate apartheid, the legal separation of the races and condescension of black South Africans, and the associated racist biases and societal racism, from the century plus of "the white man's burden." It became clear to me that the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, its amnesty, and its recommendation of reparations were the only possible path forward for a country that wasn't so much dealing with five decades of apartheid but two hundred years of racial and cultural battles. Focusing on the tip of the iceberg, namely, which individuals and laws are to blame, can't possibly heal deep rooted emotional and spiritual issues. To this day I have a hard time understanding why white people seem so concerned with equating the terms "white privilege" and "racism" with "blame." As Robin Di'Angelo says, to have white privilege or to be racist, or both, does not mean that you are a bad person or that you are to blame. It does, however, mean that we need to participate in the work of healing and reconciliation with those who have been shut out of political processes, job interviews, raises, peace and justice simply because they have not received the same privilege and been on the receiving end of racist--often unintentionally--policies. All this I learned in my reading. Complex histories require complex, creative, grace-filled, and restorative solutions. However, I found the discussions rather sad.
One part of the discussions in particular seared itself into my memory. Dr. Beverly Mitchell, one of the resident theologian professors, asked us when we first became conscious of racism. We went around the room telling our stories. Most of the black students had some horrible experience to relate. In a way, that is the day I became conscious of racism in all of its ugliness. But then most of the white students told a story in which they played the hero. They saw or heard someone receiving the brunt of a verbally racist attack or they couldn't stand states' voting laws that often disenfranchise minorities, so they stepped in to set the matter right and then themselves were depicted as traitors. Not all the stories were quite so Don Quixotic. What saddened me about the whole affair, though, is that my fellow white students didn't seem to be doing any of the introspection the history of South Africa seems to require of us. Obviously I can't say for sure what was going on in the heads and hearts of my brothers and sisters. I can say, however, that I was the only one who shared a story in which my own racism was the heart of the story, which simultaneously made me the best and worst white person in the room that day.
I first became conscious--as distinct from "aware," because my high school teachers made me well aware--of racism at college in Vermont, the whitest state in the country. Late at night I found myself at a convenience store when a beat-up old car drove up, parked quickly, and out stepped a young black man wearing a bandana and jeans falling well off his butt. My first reaction was to hide behind a shelf of candy bars. It took me a few seconds to realize what I was doing. Even then I had to muster courage to believe the best of that young man and stand up straight. Terrible, I know, but common. Indeed, I bet you have acted similarly at least once, perhaps by feeling scared merely because a bunch of young black or Latinos are sitting around in the middle of the day, not at work, clearly lazy, up to no good. Not that any of them actually are lazy or up to no good but we are quick to feel those conclusions shooting from our gut to our brain and back.
Another obstacle was, perhaps obviously, getting to South Africa. A few months before the trip I learned that I have generalized anxiety disorder. I don't get panic attacks or acute symptoms but I am constantly stressed and there are some things that, if I think about them enough, will make my blood explode. Flying thousands of feet in the air with only a few feet of metal between me, a bunch of nothingness, and certain death is certainly one of those blood-boiling things. Thankfully, I had already been seeing a psychiatrist shortly before the trip so he could prescribe me some drugs for the twenty hour flight. Not long into the flight we hit turbulence. I didn't know it was turbulence. I thought it was a fun ride at the park. "Wheee" may have escaped my lips. My friend Joanna--who promised my mother before the trip to keep me safe--was sitting behind me calling out for help. "John John, please, do you have a vomit bag up there?!" I had no idea why she was asking so I didn't look all that urgently. Meanwhile, the guy next to her was vomiting all over the place. Minutes later the guy got up to clean himself and Joanna told me the whole story. Try as I might I couldn't feel bad because the drugs made it impossible to feel anything.
Even so, getting on the plane should have been my first concern. Apparently you are supposed to sign your passport. Not only that, but I had forgotten that, when I got my passport a few years before, I had planned on traveling to Canada but never did, and therefore had no prior opportunity to learn that my passport was still unsigned. Of course, the TSA agent noticed immediately. "Are you telling me that you've had your passport for nearly five years and you've never signed it?" The thought that after paying for the trip, freaking out about the flight, and reading all those books and having all those conversations would have been for nothing flashed into my mind. What was I going to do if I wasn't allowed onto the plane? I needed the trip to graduate from seminary with the degree I was pursuing at the time. My mind was too preoccupied with a miserable future to respond. We stood there, silently, for about half a minute before Joanna said to me, "John John, say something. Maybe you can sign it now?" Yeah, maybe I could! Before I could suggest that myself, the agent said, "It's okay. If you were a criminal mastermind, you probably would have had a response ready." Grace abounds.
Getting to South Africa was the challenge. Being there was almost entirely a joy. I can remember the large, outdoor street markets with beautiful, exotic jewelry and paintings and plenty of counterfeit movies; swimming in the ocean nearly at where the two oceans meet; climbing along a cliff and thinking for longer than I should have that I saw a whale that turned out to be a rock; the powerful worship services we attended at small, rural churches, under tents, and at a mostly white church whose current pastor was the son of the famous Peter Storey; and eating lunch with my classmates by sharing from one big plate of meat. Worshiping with Alan Storey, though not quite as uplifting as other worship services, reminded me of why I'm proud to be a Methodist because, despite a challenging history, we have generally been on the right side of racial justice. I realized, further, that here was this son of a famous pastor, a famous preacher in his own right, leading a church whose attendance was nearly doubled because our crew of about twenty were present. Even the best preachers and churches can be small. There is reason to never give up.
Because of the people I shared the trip with, even the more spiritually challenging experiences of the trip were enjoyable. We visited Robbin Island and saw the cramped quarters where Mandela and too many others were treated as inferior, we went to the hinterlands, we spent time in the Apartheid museum and other similar places. We had to be warned not to give money to the destitute children of the shantytowns because otherwise they would morph into a horde, and we heard how this shantytown on one side of the tracks often reported electrical deaths as parents tried stealing electricity from their wealthy, white neighbors on the other side of the tracks. I remember those young faces with wide smiles, also holding out their hands.
When we returned from the trip, I was asked to represent the South African contingent at a seminary worship service where a representative from each cultural immersion trip (there were many) would speak for a few minutes, highlighting the benefits of the cultural immersion program generally and each specific trip. I hesitated at first because I've always disliked the common comment people make after a mission trip or studying abroad: "it changed my life." I've never much liked that phrase because, usually, the person's life changes not at all. I told my advisor I would explicitly say the trip didn't change my life and yet, still, she had confidence in me. Sure enough, every other speaker said that their lives were changed while I did not. It's true, though, that my life didn't change. Indeed, my theology and philosophy were confirmed: Biko's concept of black consciousness, and other similar forms of it, is crucial to living well in society together. We each, existentially, must understand ourselves as a person with life, and therefore we are a worthy person and should not wait for others to give us worth, praise, or equality. As a human, we must enjoy this life given to us by God as much as possible and allow others to enjoy their life as well.
What I told those gathered at that seminary worship service I now tell you: I was confirmed in what I already believed because of experiences that had almost nothing to do with the sad history of South Africa. Of course, these experiences are no less a part of South African culture, just not what you'd think of as being important. For instance, the first memorable experience was eating at a fancy restaurant where, prior to being seated, we learned how to use a hand drum. During the meal, dancers in cultural costume put on a show in the middle of the restaurant, at one point pulling someone out of their seat to dance in front of complete strangers. Having been voted most unique in high school, I thought that would be fun. Then, next thing I know, a terrifying, giant mask is looming over me as the person behind it pokes me to bring me forward to dance. A group of masked dancers then tried teaching me some dance moves, which went horribly wrong, but was incredibly fun. The music, the dancing, the atmosphere of hospitality of knowing I wouldn't be judged by anyone and it was all in fun, were imprinted into my memory.
Likewise, I clearly remember showing up at some nondescript neighborhood to have a chat with those who lived there. The whole neighborhood was there because, well, they all shared life together, would walk through each other's doors unannounced to chat about life, ask for help and prayer, and enjoy one another's presence. They could do this easily because their front "doors" actually opened onto a courtyard precisely meant for community gatherings. During our time there each resident shared the story of how they received their name, which had real and actual meaning for who they were and are; and then invited us to share our stories and gave us new names. At the end, they pulled out their own instruments and started up a dance party.
The most memorable part of the trip of all, for me, was the animals. Many times we had been warned not to come anywhere close to baboons because they can literally rip your face off. No joke. About halfway through the trip, our group van had to stop in the middle of the road because a crew of baboons were slowly making their way across the road. These baboons knew they owned the road. We were near the coast at this point and so were very near a cliff where tourists often stopped to take pictures of the ocean. One large male baboon tried opening the doors of a car that belonged to two young women. From the van we tried yelling to them that they shouldn't turn around and walk back to the car but they didn't understand us. Eventually, they turned around and found the baboon sitting on the roof of the car, as if to say, "If I can't get in, neither can you." A few minutes into this wild adventure, I decided to get out of the van. For some strange reason, our tour guide, Skip, responsible for our safety, let me. The husband one of my classmates came with me along with Skip. All the while Joanna is yelling at me, "John John, I promised your mother I'd look after you! GET BACK IN THE VAN!" The end result of my foolishness was a once-in-a-lifetime photo shoot of my kneeling next to young, wild baboons (the picture of that you can find on my blog); and I was also the only one who caught a glimpse of a baby baboon trying to drink out of a Coke bottle he had picked up somewhere. Only a few days later, we ended our trip with a few days on safari, where my jeep group almost got rammed by a bull elephant and was chased through the night by the same bull elephant and our safari guide had to drive backwards in the dark.
So, as I say, my favorite and most precious memories had little to do with the history and lessons South Africa has to teach us. To me, the trip was a highly enjoyable adventure. It was not life-changing. However, it must be said that the trip was life-affirming. While my theological, conceptual, intellectual, historical, political, and life ideas were not changed, I did for the first time realize that people are not just people defined and collected into statistics. People are persons, creatures of our God. Whatever life situation any of those we encountered on our trip may have been experiencing, they were still a person. They could still enjoy life, dance, sing, welcome and offer hospitality, and rejoice as much or more as we do.
I also remember a father and son we came across riding their bike up a long coastal climb. We met them at the top and, having only started riding a road bike a few months prior and therefore not knowing much of anything, I said, "What a great ride you must be having, it's a great day!" The father replied, "Yes, I'm not sure you know how challenging it is to ride this mountain in the wind, but it is great to be out together." He's right. I had no idea (though I have come to hate riding my bike in wind). Even so, he had the opportunity to praise God for the time he was spending with his son and the view they had at the top. Whatever anyone may know about the challenges or successes you have or are experiencing in life, your consciousness of yourself and relationship to God matters most because no one can take away the fact that you are a person, a child of God. There are plenty of reasons to get depressed, to blame external factors for our state in life, but through it all we still exist as a person. Thank God for that. There is an infinite gulf between knowing and thinking that on a conceptual level and then seeing it lived and expressed in the lives of people who have every reason not to enjoy life, not to give thanks, not to dance. They didn't allow their history or poverty define them. My philosophy was confirmed but in a life-affirming way, and that makes all the difference.
To be fair, as well, I did come away slightly changed. I came to realize why consciousness of ourselves (whether black consciousness or anything else) in an existential sense cannot be the end of the story. As Jean-Paul Sartre says, existentialism must be a humanism. We cannot possibly see the shantytowns and hear the stories of people's dying trying to steal the electricity from the other, affluent side of the train tracks and then say, "Well, at least you can still know yourself as a person who can rejoice in life." Our consciousness of ourselves as persons made by God who can enjoy life, sing, and dance should further lead to working to ensure that our life and the lives of others give each and every one of us as much chance as possible to see life as good. Simply existing and being given the gift of life is good, but there's a lot of work to do out in the world to help others better see life as good. Existentialism, consciousness of ourselves must be a humanism. In being conscious of ourselves as persons we must be conscious of one another.
With that said, I still don't believe I needed traveling to South Africa to learn all that. Neither do you. We don't need to travel to some faraway place to find ourselves or understand how to live better together. What we need is a consciousness of our spirit being witnessed to by God's Spirit--you are alive, you are a person, you are good--so that we can then be conscious of one another. If we recognize that, we'll realize that the spirit of life is much more important than a focus on laws, rules, policies, numbers, finances, and beliefs. Believing, knowing, and feeling ourselves as good, worthy people (remember how God says all is "very good" after creating us?) and believing, knowing, and feeling that about our brothers and sisters is most important. We can then show up to ourselves, our families, our friends, our churches, and our communities day after day, year after year, doing our best, dancing our songs, climbing those mountains, supporting one another against the wind, dancing our dances, and kneeling next to baboons, and all the while enjoying and rejoicing for life. But we must do it together, conscious that I am no better than you and vice versa. In other words, to truly understand who we are in relation to God as a created person that is good and able to rejoice, we need the Other. That's how Sartre puts it. Without opening ourselves to the reality of the Other, we can't know our own full reality. This we can do every day, all the time.
Sometimes I think that churches find it particularly problematic to be open to the lives and consciousnessess of others. Often those churches that most desire to be multicultural are nearly entirely white. Declaring that we are open and welcome to diversity is not the same as actually being open and welcome. And then often pastors will hear feedback from their parishioners along the lines of, "I've never heard anyone say such and such about that scripture passage," or, "Isn't having Communion more than once a month a Catholic thing? We shouldn't do it." Underneath these comments lies a resistance to openness.
Often, though, your pastor invites you to partake of Communion every Sunday through Lent (if you're not Catholic) or exposes you to a new reading of scripture precisely to make you conscious of the fullness of who God has created us to be as persons. The purpose isn't to change secretly convert you to a different denomination or change your beliefs or practices but merely to expose you so as to be conscious of how great and vast our God and our life truly are. It's likely that your pastor does this because he or she has experienced their own grand adventure, often because seminaries nowadays require those types of experiences. Your pastor, then, probably knows the benefits of singing and dancing in new ways and with new persons, of taking risks by getting out of the van, and hearing stories of others' lives. At the end of the day, you may only find yourself confirmed in what you already believe and think, in how you already live, but hopefully your confirmation also comes with an affirmation of life--your life and all life, baboons included.
If we can be open to the consciousness of the Other, and the life history behind that consciousness, then we may have a new lease on life. The flight home from South Africa was rough. More so for me, perhaps, than others, because I had never pulled an all-nighter, but after the long flight we landed in D.C. around 6 o'clock in the morning, and so my sleep rhythms wouldn't be too messed up I didn't want to sleep too much once we returned to the dorm, which only made me more grumpy. A deafening and depressing silence filled the cabin when our plane came to a stop but not yet at the terminal. No one, it felt, wanted to break the silence and possibly incur the wrath of one of the other grumpy passengers. Probably we all thought, "Let's just stay silent, focus on ourselves, and get out of this plane in one piece." Yet one child decided, "To heck with it," and he would burst in upon everyone's consciousness. All of a sudden he yelled out, "DO YOU KNOW THE MUFFIN MAN, THE MUFFIN MAN, THE MUFFIN MAN?" We were tired and didn't want to deal with anyone else... but now, we all burst out laughing. The whole plane was then all smiles as we helped each other off to wherever we were going. A new lease on life.
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