A Bus, A Statue, A Pyramid, a Big Poo

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I just clicked the internet availability indicator on my computer’s task bar and was informed that no networks are available, so I clicked “troubleshoot connectivity problems” and received error message #321 which reads: “you’re in Ethiopia fool, what do you expect?” No telling when I’ll publish this.

I’ll hit the highlights since the last time I wrote: From Armenia I took a direct bus to Istanbul, Turkey. The bus was “direct” only in the sense that its passengers didn’t have to change buses en route. Geographically speaking it wasn’t direct at all. We headed North instead of West and when we arrived at the border I was sorry to learn it was the Georgian border, not the Turkish. Armenia and Turkey aren’t on good terms, so the border cannot be crossed (this was news to me). I’ve now been to Georgia twice, accidentally both times.

I hated that bus ride for a lot of reasons: Vodka, cigarettes, and Armenians (who tended to annoy me even when sober) yelling, stealing my seat, and sleeping off their hangovers on my shoulder. My lips were the only lips on the bus capable of forming English words, and my teeth were the only teeth that met a toothbrush during the 36 hour trip. My stupored seatmate kept slumping over onto me and expelling the fermented contents of his lungs across the geologically fascinating, but hygienically revolting, layers of tobacco residue and scum that had collected on his teeth.

Istanbul was worth the bus ride though; Incredible. That city doesn’t know whether its Muslim, Orthodox, Christian, Eastern, Western, Arabian, European or Asian….heck, I even made friends with a Jehovah’s Witness. Nobody cares though, it‘s Istanbul. Go there, I can’t imagine anyone not liking it. Istanbul….diversity….cool.

The official border between Europe and Asia (since we pretend they are different continents) is at Istanbul. I crossed from Asia into Europe on a bridge across the Bosphorous. Although they comprise a single giant landmass Europe and Asia are so completely different that I’m inclined to excuse the false geographic distinction. My bus between Istanbul and Athens was soooo nice. Sooo clean, comfortable, quiet, and on time. The roadside rest areas had automatic doors and free restrooms (two things that are extremely rare in Turkey, and even more rare farther East). I’m a sucker for a free bathroom. It felt good to enter the Western world.

In Athens I met back up with Jeremy, and his parents flew in for a Weaver family vacation. They let me come along and made me feel welcome (except for the fact that Mrs. Weaver kept encouraging me to move out of our hotel and into the local prison… “hey Bjorn, climb up on that 3000 year old statue, I’ll take your picture).” We had a really nice time though. We ate, drank, and talked about being married (I’ve noticed that married people know a lot more about marriage than unmarried people. Good talks).

We visited ten or so historical sights including Sparta, Delphi, Thermopylae, and Olympia. I sprinted the 192m dirt track in the original Olympic stadium, and Jeremy did the shot put. We felt honored to represent the U.S.A. and, perhaps because no other competitors showed up (but perhaps not), we both won our respective events.

You’ve seen more news than I have about Egypt. Our original plan was to find a ship from Athens across the Mediterranean to Alexandria and continue through Egypt. Long story short: We flew to Ethiopia. The downside is we had to sacrifice our “overland” goal. The upside is that we didn’t get kidnapped and we can travel at a more enjoyable pace through the rest of Africa. I hope to come back someday and complete the overland bit between Addis and Istanbul. We did have a layover in Cairo, and since nobody at the airport thought it would be dangerous, I went and saw the Sphinx, the Pyramids, and the Nile before the short flight to Ethiopia.

I have no idea why there aren’t more Ethiopian restaurants in America. The food is unbelievable. It’s light, so you can eat a lot without committing gluttony, and it’s terrifically delicious. The toilets in Ethiopia, however, are not up to the challenge created by my love of such food. Even industrial, high pressure, commodes back home often choke when pitted against my metabolism, and the trickling little potty at the house where we’re staying didn’t stand a chance. I gave birth in that toilet, I feel certain that healthy newborns have weighed less. There was no plunger. I had to go outside and get a stick. I used the stick to divide my creation into five pieces. I pinned four pieces to the side of the toilet with the stick and tried to get the toilet to accept one piece at a time. I’m not even kidding, the toilet couldn’t flush one part in five. I had to use the scoop and carry method and fertilize some bushes outside.

We know some cool missionaries in Ethiopia (I apologize to those missionaries for not transitioning into this paragraph more elegantly), and plan to visit them before heading South to the Kenyan border. I asked a local guy how long it will take us to get to the border, “At least three days maximum.” Hmmm. I don’t know what that means, but I love it. That’s Africa.

Em-bare-ass-ment

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In the eight months since I left home I’ve lived out of five different backpacks. I just ordered my sixth and I’m praying it arrives at Jeremy’s parents house before they fly out to meet us in Greece. My pragmatic approach to finding the right travel luggage is made possible by REI’s no-questions-asked return policy. I wish I could get a career with a return policy like that.

I’m a dreamer. I dream about small things… like accessible pockets for backpacks, and about big things…like how I should spend my life. Some weeks go like this: On Monday it occurs to me that I’d like to sell hot dogs on a street corner (I do apologize if you have trouble resonating with my examples, perhaps we have different values). On Tuesday I see a movie in which there is a nomadic bee keeper who keeps bees in the back of his truck and sells honey wherever he goes (Incredible! I don’t know if I can stand not doing this). On Wednesday I’m still excited about bee keeping, but by Thursday I’m on the fence between architecture and plastic surgery. I wish I could approach my career choice in the same way I‘ve approached my choice of backpack. It’d be great to be able to “return” or “exchange” careers. I suppose if I did things as simple as hot dog selling switching would be pretty easy, but I think I want to be a doctor. Doctoring is a career that doesn’t come with a return policy.

Conversations about my plans for the future have historically frustrated me. I have felt judged by well-intentioned older folks and their questions about my goals. What do they want me to say? “I’m on track to do something great with my life…see Bjorn run…see Bjorn succeed.” I don’t like disappointing people who want to hear me say those things, but I also don’t like lying. I don’t know how to answer my girlfriends’ parents when they ask what kind of work I intend to do (actually I don’t have a girlfriend, I bet that‘s why). Are there wives for the whimsical? I don’t want a marriage with a return policy, just a career.

Traveling has been fun because the strangers you meet and talk to, unlike your girlfriend’s parents, have no incentive to judge you. If I’m not going to see you again I’m not worried about sounding consistent. I can tell you about hot dogs, bee keeping, or anything else that intrigues me. It’s a bit like “trying on” a career.

Friendly Questioner: What will you do when you‘ve finished traveling

Me: I’ve though of opening a kitchen design studio.

Next Questioner: Same question.

Me: I need to find out what it takes to get into cattle ranching in Mongolia.

Next Questioner: Same.

Me: I may go to medical school (I “try this one on” a lot because I’m serious about buying and there’s no return policy).

The conversations that follow these questions are edifying. I find myself learning how serious I am and whether or not I’m well grounded in my thinking by trying to answer the questions my new friends ask. My new friends have a lot less at stake than my hypothetical girlfriends’ parents, so they don’t judge me. It’s great. The only person who could judge me in regard to consistency is Jeremy, and while I do suspect he thinks I’m crazy, he doesn’t seem prone to judging.

Speaking of Jeremy, I haven’t seen him or any other English speaker in a week. Where I’m at there are a lot more terrorists than there are tourists. I heard through the grapevine (which is to say through face book) that Jeremy is in Poland. I’m in Armenia. Jeremy likes WWII history. I like getting off the beaten track. We decided to divide and conquer. We’ll meet back up in another week. Traveling alone is a good time for self discovery. Thanks to traveling alone I’ve learned I prefer not to travel alone. Could this have been learned any other way? I think not. Also I learned some other stuff, but that’s the main thing.

I’ve been relentlessly on the move since I left Jeremy in St. Petersburg, sleeping every night on trains, ferries, or buses to cover more ground and to save on hostel costs. The buses don’t have bathrooms but I’ve got a few tricks to keep myself from needing to use the bathroom. Being thirsty sucks, but so does needing to pee, so when I’m thirsty I eat oranges. They’ve got enough liquid to quench thirst w/o making me need to pee. To keep from having to poo (what an odd word…I think we have a major lexical gap. “Poo” is a cute word for something that‘s not cute and “Defecate” is way too bookish and medical sounding for regular people) I eat white bread ‘til I‘m constipated. There are great bakeries in Turkey and Armenia, btw. I had everything under control until yesterday when I became painfully aware that my two methods are at odds with each other. I was properly constipated, but I got really thirsty and ate too many oranges. I forgot how fibrous oranges are. Things happened kinda fast.

“Pull over!!! Pull over now!!!” I frantically shouted to the driver of the bus. This was one of those “pack ‘em in” buses, the isle was completely crammed full of people and stuff. I knew I’d have to crowd surf my way to the door. Crowd surfing requires team participation, so I did a quick motivational charade in which I acted out what my body was about to do. This produced the desired effect from the crowd. I made it out of the bus. There were no trees. There weren’t even bushes. Everyone just watched. I think I was supposed to feel embarrassed. I certainly felt bare-assed, but I was too relieved to be embarrassed.

Still Talking About God

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In my notes I’ve reminded myself to write about the smugglers who I met and unwittingly abetted on the Trans-Siberian RR, about the veritable “Wild West” (in the far east) that is Mongolia, and about how entering Russia from Asia (as opposed to entering from the Europe) made me realize how similar I am to the average Russian. I’ve never really thought Russians and Americans had a lot in common, but when it’s just me, a Mongolian, and a Russian together in a room, somehow the Russian and I are brothers.
According to my notes those are the things I ought to write up, but somehow their moment has passed. I had another theological discussion this morning and it’s on my mind.
Any of you who’ve read this blog with any sort of regularity know that this trip, for me, has been a spiritual journey at least as much as it has been a regular journey. I’ve made a habit of posing the question “do you believe in God?” as often as I get the chance. Answers have varied drastically, and in most cases kicked off some worthwhile dialogue.
I woke up early this morning to blog. I was firing up my laptop in the hostel’s kitchen when three noticeably drunk hostel fellows whom I hadn’t met before came in. They’d been drinking all night. They were pretty sloshed (one fell out of his chair at one point, and another just laid his face on the table and started snoring), but w/o my provocation they started philosophizing. I stopped writing and started listening.
The burly Finish fellow was of the mind that death is all there is. “We may as well die, there’ s nothing besides death anyway.” Some of what he was saying would have fit well in Ecclesiastes, except he never thought to add the “fear God and keep His commandments” bit. He had a black and white picture of things, but it was more black than white. His less profound French companion (the one who wasn’t conked out and drooling on the table) argued that life was better than that because of the it’s “high” moments. “Even if you are sad more than you are happy,” said the Frenchman, “happiness is worth more than sadness so it can overcome your sadness and make life worth living.” He thought that buying a new laptop might be one such “high.”
I wasn’t at all sure I should enter the conversation because it was obvious that our ideas were quite different and would hinge on the discussion of whether or not there is a God. I prayed that I wouldn‘t make a fool of myself and opened my mouth.

I made a case for the existence of a God based on the idea that there is an identifiable moral code within ourselves (more fundamental than those that various religions arrive at) that we feel compelled at least to recognize if not to obey. I’ve not worked extensively with this stuff, but that was the angle I took. If there is such a thing as real, absolute right and wrong then there must be a writer of that code, a “something else,” a God.
Coming up with concrete examples is something C.S. Lewis is a lot better at than me, but I did my best. I tried to make it raw and poignant. “If I sleep with the woman you love (ladies you’ll have to adjust the example accordingly) you‘ll be well convinced that the thing I did was ‘wrong.’” I claimed that outside of any religious structure, and outside of any fabricated moral code that a culture has adopted, it would be WRONG for me to do this thing, and that the fact that you would be eager to smash my skull with a heavy stick means you are recognizing my wrongness.
Drunk as they were the guys were really great to talk to. They even helped me revise my example. They weren’t sure how the feminists would feel about the “ownership” that a man’s right to be angry at another man for taking his woman implies. So we changed question to “what if I kidnap your son and make him my slave?” Did I for sure wrong you then? Is that wrong enough to be described as absolutely wrong? Is it wrong beyond any “wrongness” that some well meaning but polluted moral thinker may have come up with in the process of inventing a religion?
At this point the Atheists made historical conjectures, and I made historical conjectures. We agreed that such behavior would illicit indignation in ourselves and in anybody we’d ever met, but they argued that there was most likely a time and a people in the past who would not have recognized this behavior as wrong. I think there was never such a people.

The guys were pretty staunch on the idea that everything we’ve ever recognized as right or wrong is only right or wrong because it’s come to be called right and wrong by the prevailing culture. I can’t prove otherwise my experience points me in another direction.
They’ve got their experience and I’ve got mine. That’s that. They may have been drunk but they weren’t stupid, and they weren’t lazy or wishful thinkers either. The guy from Finland praised the Christian moral code for what it was. He doesn’t think it’s “truth” but he does think it’s useful.
So what does a Christian disciple look like here? I don’t know if better apologists with better angles than me would be more convincing than I was. I kind of think there are enough words and theories floating around. For me the challenge is to be the real McCoy. If this Christianity stuff is legit people will see it in my life and want it. Integrity and authenticity are two things my generation demands. That’s good as long as I’m legit. Am I? Are you?

799 Words

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YONDER BLOG

Have you ever played the game Mad Gab? If you have skip the rest of this paragraph: the “it” person reads a short phrase off of a card aloud to his team. To him the words look like complete gibberish. The card might read “yewl bees or re,” which makes no sense, but to his team hopefully it actually sounds like (or approaches sounding like) “you‘ll be sorry.” The team tries to guess as many phrases a they can before time runs out.

They’re playing Mad Gab in China without knowing it. The Chinese character system is so complex that, in order to give foreigners an outside chance at literacy, there’s a hybrid (written) Chinese language that uses the English alphabet (It’s a phonetic rendering of Chinese sounds with accent marks denoting the proper tones). For an American the system makes reading possible. But for Chinese, this “pinion” language amounts to a game of Mad Gab in which they not only have to be the reader, but also the guesser (they must say the sound indicated by the pinion letters, and then ask themselves…the word that I just said, what did it sound like?) if they hope to derive meaning.
One of the coolest things about Chinese characters is their basis in practical reality. They‘re like hieroglyphics (perhaps they are hieroglyphics) -sketches of real things put together to tell a story. For example, when I’m in the valley of decision (trying to figure out which bathroom is for dudes) I need to look for a drawing of a field that includes the pen-stroke for strong. “Field Strong,” that’s “man.” The symbol for woman is harder to read, I think it’s “nag strong.”
There’s a lot of history in the characters too, some of which will really make your socks go up and down if you’re a fan of the books of Moses: the symbol for “covet” is a woman between two trees, the symbol for “boat” indicates a vessel and eight people. All this in atheist China, crazy huh?
Today we arrived in Beijing and introduced ourselves to the city’s infamous public transit system. Since arriving in Asia it’s been my dream to see the Packers in action (actually I did catch a few minutes of a Greenbay game on TV in Bangkok’s U.S. embassy waiting room, but that’s not the kind of Packers I’m referring to). The Packers are the people who are employed by the subway system to physically compress crowds in order to fit them onto trains. Today I not only got to see them working, I got packed!! I was the last person on one of the cars and that little packer pushed her hardest (yeah it was a girl, and she really had to lean into me) to make my shape fit the shape of the empty space remaining on the car.
Funny situations arise when people are in such close proximity. Breath is particularly noticeable when you end up in the front-to-front position (a position Americans customarily reserve for making out). It’s hard to figure out which air is yours to breath and which is theirs. Where should you look? What if they’re breath isn’t so bad and you wind up being attracted to them? Should you tell them or just try to remain aloof, all the while enjoying their closeness?
One guy sneezed all over his three friends. They would have liked to reach up and wipe millions of tiny snot rockets off of their necks and faces, and to beat their friend in atonement for his iniquity, but their arms were irremovably pinned to their sides by their neighbors in the train (I was one of those neighbors and narrowly avoided the blast zone). If the first guys arms hadn’t been pinned perhaps the whole ordeal could have been avoided by a well-placed hand over his sneezer.
Getting off the subway is the process of birth: Proper pushing, squeezing, and breathing must all be used to make it from the middle of the subway car to the door. Fortunately the “one child” law in China left a lot of midwives looking for work. Many of them now earn their living holding clinics on rhythmic breathing and other birth-related skills that equip people for success in moving small masses of human flesh through narrow openings in larger masses of human flesh. And what a worthy work, what is life but such movement?
Speaking of movement I’m glad I won‘t have to move far for the next few days. We’re taking a train to Mongolia, but there’s no train until this weekend, so we wait. For a person who does a lot of “passing by” it’s wonderful to stop for a bit, find a place to sit, and let the rest of the world do the passing.

MSG and Authenticity

Probably my biggest priority as a blogger is to write things that I think you (my reader) will actually read. For that reason I try to stay between 600 and 800 words -I cannot stand the thought of you getting bored while reading my blog. Today, I’ve got a lot to say. I’ll try to be concise, but I’m afraid this one might get long. If you get bored please navigate away from this page (I cringe to think I might be wasting your time). Here are some other options I’m sure you’ll find stimulating: Facebook, Hulu, Adventist Singles Connection.
In reference to my last (religious) blog I want to say this: I don’t think I am particularly gifted at peering into men’s souls, especially when language keeps me from talking to those men and I don‘t have long enough to stay with them, know them, and experience challenges with them that would expose the weaknesses of our (both mine and their) characters. I think God deliberately juxtaposed my experience meditating on what I‘ve called “wide-spread Sanctification,” with the experience He just gave me -an encounter with Chinese atheism (we got a big leg up by staying with some folks who have been living in China, and grappling hard to understand Chinese values and their spiritual significance). I definitely think there’s a lot of truth arrived at in a lot of ways, and that God works in non-Christian religions. But I no longer think it‘s necessary for me to put Christian discipleship “on trial“ in my own mind. Ways that Christianity can benefit people here are obvious. They don’t have a mechanism for forgiveness. People live with a lot of hurt and pain that God is willing to relieve them of. So I breath a sigh of relief; There is still purpose.
For those of you tired of my abstract musings who actually read my “travel blog” because you’re interested in travel, here’s your fix: Our Thai visas expired so we had to hit the road again, and with only a little over a month to get all the way to Greece (to meet Jeremy’s parents) it’s about time to boogie anyway. Our last night in Thailand was spent in Chiang Rai. I think Chiang Rai is the new Chiang Mai and I wish we would have spent more time there and less in Chiang Mai.
In one of my marketing classes we watched a documentary-ish film called “The Quest for Cool.” It’s shtick is that there are authentically new/exciting “cool” things that “cool” people (the early moving, progressive type that the rest of us try to emulate) find. Once the cool people have lent coolness to their new discovery every Jo-Blow trend follower jumps on board and it’s coolness plummets. The film studied this cycle in the fashion industry, but I’m finding the idea to be dead-on in the tourism industry. Chiang Mai appears to have peaked a long time ago. Now it’s a cash cow, helping crowds of “un-cool” tourists part with their cash (I use un-cool to mean folks who either aren’t concerned about cultural authenticity in their travels or else are ignorant in regard to that authenticity. It doesn‘t mean I don‘t think you‘re cool or that we can‘t be friends. If Paul was chief of sinners I‘m the chief of tourists).
I am, however, at least seeking authentic encounters with the gorgeous and diverse people who call this planet home. I used to think the best way to do this was to completely trash the “lonely planet” guide, but I was wrong. The guidebook is good for two things. First, it includes accurate, mildly academic (you can learn things from reading them, but still enjoy the reading) bits on history, economics, and other culture sculptors. The other main thing I think the guidebook is good for is helping you map out where NOT to go. If a place is in the “lonely planet” guide, but not described as particularly touristy, it’s “coolness” may not have peaked. It’s probably a bit touristy, but it’s also probably a good place to experience a bit of real culture while still in proximity to things like WiFi and Western toilets (if that‘s your thing…I often want those types of things). If a place is called “touristy” by the lonely planet guide you should recognize that the entire economy of that place is likely built around your dollar (I’m not saying you can’t have a good time, you can, amusement can be had in exchange for money). And to be fair, even hyper-touristy towns do still have their neighborhoods and sections where real people do real work (rather than finding clever ways to get your dollars). I think the culture is much more intact in these “real work” areas, and sadly marred in the areas where people make their grocery money by entertaining/swindling you.
(I’m sorry, I’m supposed to be telling you about the sights and sounds of Asia, I’m in a terribly editorial mood).
In America there are a lot of steps between us and our food. That’s not the case in a lot of the world. The different ways people cultivate the ground, and the micro economies and markets that spring up as a result, are some of my favorite things to see. It’s hard to see those things in touristy places because the economies and markets in the touristy areas exist because I brought green-backs.
On occasions when I find myself in unscathed territory I feel excited to see something real, but I also feel a bit hypocritical because the very fact that I’m there takes away from its realness, and if I bring my friends, take a lot of pictures, and submit raving reviews to the “lonely planet,” pretty soon that place will be another Chiang Mai. I remember a history professor in college who was against travel, I thought that was the craziest idea I’d ever heard, but if it was because she hates the flattening/westernization/materialization of the world like I do, then I at least agree with the logic. It makes sense to have the most sensitive anthropologists, historians, and linguists go undercover and do the traveling for us. We’d probably learn more from staying home and listening to their reports on the Discovery channel anyway.
(ok, that’s it for the editorial….here are some sights and sounds).
We left Thailand and entered North Western Laos. This was the least developed part of the world we’ve seen on this trip. Except for a few brick buildings in towns, the buildings in the part of Laos that we went through were all either bamboo and thatch or rough hewn board construction. The estates (if such primitive dwellings may be called estates) were, however, some of the tidiest I’ve seen. There was an obvious orderliness that was nice to see. Also the people seemed to be more fully engaged in their families, the concerns of those around them, and the physical realities of their surroundings (this tendency -in the whole world- seems to vary inversely with the availability of electricity).
I’ve mentioned before that this trip is all about the gradients -the fading of one place into another by minute, undetectable changes. The difference between the China and Lao sides of that border are the most “detectable” differences I’ve ever seen in the simple crossing of a border. On the Laos side a house made from bricks and mortar is an unattainable luxury and people continually adapt to their environment to stay alive. On the China side there are 72 inch plasma screen televisions, designer outfitters, tunnels, and elevated super highways (transportation is infinitely easier…man has adapted his environment to fit his needs).
Speaking of bricks and mortar, they are good metaphors for the products of a digestive tract. The white bread and fiber-less noodles we were eating in Vietnam resulted in the occasional production of some bricks. The bacteria ridden eggs and vegetables I had last Sunday resulted in the frantic manufacture of enormous amounts of mortar.
Other than the curiosities in my bowel, coming back into China has, in a really strange way, felt like coming home (Jeremy and I arrived at this conclusion independently and it‘s a bit of a mystery to explain). Maybe it’s just being back in a more developed place, or maybe it’s because we were with Americans last time we were in China, so we’ve been conditioned to feel like China is familiar. Anyway, we’re happily back in the land of dumplings and yummy (it just tastes so good!) MSG.

Christmas Vacation and Sanctification

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A great friend from college, Scott Kabel, flew in from Taiwan and spent Christmas with us in Thailand (it is my hope that those who don‘t know the difference between Taiwan and Thailand are forced to realize the distinction by the fact that they have now appeared in the same sentence). We made our way North to Chiang Mai and had a good ‘ole time reminiscing about college and Zambia (although none of us were in Zambia at the same time Jeremy, Scott, and I were all student missionaries there so we hold a lot of memories in common). Another thing we have in common is that we’re all single, and for a moment I thought this was a great coincidence, but then I realized, duh, of course we’re single. No one with a wife or girlfriend would be spending Christmas with two other bachelors in Thailand.
It turns out we‘re just “birds of a feather,” but I will say flocking, especially at Christmastime, is really fun. I’m super happy Jeremy and Scott were with me for Christmas because I identify with them easily. We share traditions, dietary preferences, humor, and language (not just English in a broad sense but the same Adventist University dialect). We’re the same in a lot of ways and it’s great.
I love being an SDA Christian. I love my SDA friends. I really love the Sabbath. It’s been really fun and uplifting for me this Christmas season to think about my roots and to bask in the joy and warm, yummy nostalgia that I get from singing carols, and reading stories about the traditions that I know and love. I identify with Adventists largely because (specific doctrines aside, that‘s for another discussion) I am Adventist. It’s what I know, it’s what I’ve enjoyed growing up in, Adventism is my culture and the lens through which I see the world.
All that being said, as a traveler, I have to stare down the obvious fact that I’m a product of my environment. I’m Christian, not Buddhist, because I was born to Sam and Susan Harboldt, not Chinh and Tranh Li. When I ask myself if I really believe, or if I’m really a follower of Christ, this keeps popping into my head. How authentic is my religion? I understand that there are elements of my beliefs that I should be willing to die for. I reckon when that time comes I better be pretty dang convinced of my authenticity and the rightness (and righteousness) of the cause for which I’m giving my life.
When I was seven or so I remember a church elder, one who I still hold a lot of respect for, told me this: “If Christianity is mistaken, and we’ve misunderstood the nature of Jesus and misinterpreted parts of the scriptures, we will still live happier, fuller, richer lives by following the moral law that Christ taught.” At the time I pretty much rejected this thinking right out. If Christ is someone for whom I may be giving my life at some point I’m gonna have to operate with a bit more certainty than that. Now that I’m traveling the words of my mentor don’t seem as far off. I think I’m seeing what he suggested manifested in the lives of many people I meet. The teachings that seem to bless these people, give them purpose, and cultivate a happy life, lived for the benefit of others, didn’t come from Jesus in the sense that ours did, but I think they may have come from God by other means.
I’m meeting people who don’t believe in Jesus, and some who don’t believe in God, who are better people than me. There are people who‘ve broken the habit of trying to prove their right all the time, people who’s brand of selflessness appears to consist of actually putting the interests of others ahead of their own, not just doing token acts of kindness (all the better if performed on the fringe of one’s comfort zone) to soothe the conscience. It seems that we Christians do not have the corner market on what we call sanctification (Romans 2:12 is a good place to start reading if you‘re curious).
The Bible talks about “losing your life to find it” and I think I see a lot of people from vastly different belief systems figuring out how to do that. I intuit that, for the moment anyway, this is the sort of “life losing” that deserves my focus. Not the martyr’s loss of the flesh life, but the giving up of my spirit to a better one. Dying to self.
Here’s the tricky business for me. The sort of spirit that attaches itself to being right (let’s say about Sabbath being the true indication of a remnant for a challenging example) is a spirit that likes to vindicate itself. It finds itself at odds (at least inside Bjorn) with the meek spirit, the one that willingly admits mistakes and doesn’t try to prove it knows better (tree of knowledge of good and evil should be ringing a bell) than God. I find the “old man” (the argumentative one) inside me isn’t quite as dead as I had hoped, and the “new man” not quite as alive when it comes to convincing others that they should switch to my belief system because it‘s “better“ than theirs.
So I’m trying to figure out what discipleship is. What does Jesus‘ commission mean for Adventists today? Should we be trying to get happy, well-adjusted, partially sanctified Baptists, Muslims, and Catholics to switch to our religion? Would we be doing them a favor by suggesting they leave the richness of their heritage, the things to which they have attached so much meaning, and enter ours?
One thing is for sure. There are plenty of people who definitely need more God in their lives. There’s still obvious discipling to be done. There are poor, widows, and orphans who are living without hope, and if we can jump start them by sharing with them a healthy way to relate to God (Christianity) it seems that must definitely be a good thing. I’m just curious about these folks who seem to relate to God well without Christ. I’m interested in your thoughts if you’d like to email me or leave comments on this website.

A Clever Lady and a Burmese Baby

Older blogs are at thewholeworldround.com

Burma is a closed off country. Before spending time on it’s border I’d never heard much in the way of specific news or descriptions of problems in Burma, only that it was a rough place. Indeed it is a rough place, particularly for those who born into the Karen people group. From what I understand the Karen sided with the Allies in WWII, which was fine until the war was over and the allies forgot them in the treaty writing and left them at the mercy of their Japan sympathizing countrymen. Ethnic cleansing is the name of the game the controlling party in Burma now plays. One of the best health decisions a Karen person can make is to sneak across the border into Thailand and try to make a new life. Life in Thailand is relatively safe, but not easy: no I.D., illegal status, no access to health care or property rights. Being a refugee is a real drag, but when the alternative might involve literally being dragged down the street behind a truck, beaten, and killed, you go the refugee route if you can manage.

Bamboo School, where we spent the last ten days, exists to help Karen refugees, particularly orphans and other option-less children. Catherine Riley-Bryan Is affectionately known as “Momo Cat” by her “Bamboo Kids” and friends in Thailand. She told us that even though she’s old enough to be grandmother to her bamboo children, she prefers the Thai word for motherly endearment (Momo) since grandmothers are called “Pee Pee” (grandfathers, as it so happens are called “Poo Poo,” perfect right?).

Before Momo came to work in Thailand she did everything from earning the prestigious honor of Business Woman of the Year in New Zealand and Australia, to piloting rescue helicopters, to marrying a Manchester United footballer and traveling the Premiere League circuit on the arm of an Athlete. As Jeremy put it, “this woman has really lived.” Eventually she and her footballer settled down happily on a ranch in New Zealand, but when her husband died God began leading her through another astonishing series of events that has ultimately landed her on the Thai-Burma border having a rip-roaring good time running an orphanage, clinic, and ambulance service.

Momo is the kind of lady who gets things done and has a good time doing it. For example (and examples abound -I can’t listen quite as fast as she can tell stories), she was having a problem with some of the villagers releasing their goats on her property and eat her seedlings at night. She didn’t know who the culprits were so she corralled the goats and spray painted them hot pink. The next morning she hopped in her truck and drove down the hill till she spotted the hot pink goats, then had some words with their darker pink (blushing) owners.

It was inspiring to see how Momo serves God, and to hear her excitedly explain how thankful she is that God has given her a purpose. Even the lady who has “lived” finds she’s getting a lot more out of life now, as a servant to the poor, than she was back in her wheeling dealing days.

For my part, with only ten days at Bamboo School, I caught the vision but couldn’t quite figure out my place in the work. Hard work is a value that Momo is instilling in her kids, and they‘re catching on. There’s a schedule for chores; by the time I’d go hunt down a broom I’d come back to find the girls had finished sweeping already. The boys took Jeremy and me to cut Bamboo in the jungle for a new wall in the main building (the dorms and guest houses are straight out of Swiss Family Robison: floors, walls, and ceilings all from bamboo -these are two story structures, too). We got schooled in machete technique, and learned that, at home in Burma, these boys would likely have been cutting teak wood in addition to bamboo, and loading it on the family elephant (evidently it’s quite common for a successful family group to have an elephant, a strong one runs about $2000).

If I said, “I learned more from the bamboo kids than I possibly could have taught them,” I wouldn’t be being philosophical, I didn’t know how to split bamboo to make flooring, how to cut jack fruit, or how to feed a baby. I’m slightly ashamed but largely relieved to say that I still don’t know how to change a diaper -a skill that’s important for the older bamboo kids to know since they take care of their baby brothers and sisters.

One thing Jeremy and I know a little bit about is pouring concrete without much in the way of tools. We were able to put some of our energy, and your “Good Samaritan” money, to that end. We spent a day running plumbing and building forms in preparation for the pour, but the pouring day was the most fun: Bucket brigades with a median age of nine. I had a good laugh when I remembered and hummed the “Little Rascals” theme song. After we finished the floor for the “club house,” we “he-men” took the afternoon off and headed for the swimming hole. Everything was O’Tay.

-bjorn2bwild