(originally posted on Beth's personal blog)
Not long ago, I read a blog that raised an interesting question:
why do Christians and churches in North America tend to give more to
the poor overseas (especially to Africa and to places where natural
disasters have occurred) than to the poor in their own cities?
Robb Davis, the writer of the blog I read, thinks it has very little to do with the fact that overseas poor people are poorer than our poor people. He thinks it has more to do with the fact that we generally see overseas poor people as deserving, and our own poor people as undeserving, or at least less deserving. I tend to agree.
Whether
or not we care to admit it, I think we all have a subconscious scale of
who really deserves our help (money, mission trips, prayers,
attention). It probably looks something like this:
MOST DESERVING
Children born into poverty in third-world countries
Victims of natural disasters
Adults in third-world countries
Prostituted women in other countries, trafficked into North America
Children born into poverty in North America
Adults in North America who have lost their jobs due to the recession
Adults in North America who have never had stable jobs
Prostituted women born in North America
Drug addicts
Drug dealers and other criminals
Sex offenders
LEAST DESERVING
Ok, maybe that list is splitting hairs a bit. But I do think we have this natural tendency to decide who deserves our help based on how much we think their choices led them into their circumstances, that is to say, based on how much we think their poverty is their fault. Children
in Africa definitely didn't choose to be born into malnourished,
war-torn environments where they will receive little education and few
opportunities. We have no qualms about helping them. Natural disasters
are nobody's fault (or the developed world's fault, if you consider
climate change), so we're definitely supposed to help those people.
Trafficked women were kidnapped or tricked into prostitution, so they're
deserving - the worst we could accuse them of is naivete.
But prostitutes in my neighbourhood? The popular opinion is that they're choosing to
do that work. And probably choosing it because they need to fund their
drug addictions, and it's their fault that they're addicted. No one
forced them to do drugs. And look at all the social assistance programs
and advantages they have! They get an education and plenty of
opportunities like everyone else in North America. So if they're still
poor, obviously they lack initiative; they're just working the system,
choosing to remain poor and taking welfare money from hard-working
middle class people. Why would we enable their bad choices by giving
them more hand-outs?
This sounds harsh, and most of us
don't go that far in our thinking, but believe me, when I am dumb enough
to read the comments on online news articles about the DTES, I see far
more scathing opinions about the poor people in my neighbourhood.
I
have begun to learn the real meaning of "choice" in the midst of the
oppressive and degrading structural inequity that most people in my
neighbourhood face. Just this week I met a woman, who has likely been
prostituted, in recovery for her addiction, using our hard-earned tax
dollars. She shared with me that she had been in twenty-four different
foster homes over the course of her life. Yes, she got an education...
in fourteen different schools. "Never really fit anywhere," she said.
No kidding. The choices she has had to make and odds she has overcome
just to get into recovery far outweigh any of my good life choices as a
middle-class, stable-familied Masters-educated white girl.
So in light of this, who deserves our help? Who deserves our love? Who deserves our self-sacrificial giving?
In
her book "Jesus Freak," Sara Miles tells a story about hosting a group
of grade four kids at her church's food pantry program, and some of the
questions they raised. They were concerned that some people who came to
get food didn't really need it, or were cheating and taking too much.
Like many adults, these kids didn't want anyone to take advantage of the
church's generosity. Here's what Sara writes:
"I talked with the kids about the idea of “taking advantage,”
explaining that it was impossible to be taken advantage of as long as
you were giving something away without conditions. “If it's a trade,
than it's fair or unfair,” I said. “But if I'm going to give it to you
anyway, not matter what you do, then you can't take advantage of me.”
“How many of you have ever taken the best piece for yourself, or stolen
something?” I asked, raising my own hand. Slowly, every hand went up.
“How many of you have ever been generous and given something away?” Every hand went up.
“Yeah,” I said, “You know, poor people cheat and steal and are really
annoying. Just like rich people. Just like you. And poor people are
generous and kind and help strangers. Just like rich people. Just like
you.... In my church, we say that judgment belongs to God, not to
humans. So that makes things a lot easier for us. We don't have to
decide who deserves food.” (37)
I think Sarah Miles
is on to something here. All of us do beautiful things and awful
things, simply by virtue of being human. Yes, poor people in Canada
cheat and steal. Poor people in Africa also cheat and steal, as I just
confirmed in a conversation with a friend of mine who works in Darfur.
Regardless of nationality, people who have been repeatedly abandoned and
betrayed by others get used to cheating and stealing to survive. And
yes, rich people cheat and steal, in ways that are often rewarded by
society. All of us are sinners and letdowns, even the "noble" poor in
the World Vision commercials. It's just that we're close enough to the
poor in Canada to see their shadow sides. And they're close enough to
make us feel very uncomfortable and guilty, and we can't just change the
channel to push them out of our view.
Now, I do think
we need to think carefully about the ways we try to help the poor,
whether they're here or overseas, because our methods can often decrease
their dignity and self-worth and increase their predisposition to want
to cheat the system. Peter Maurin, a good friend of Dorothy Day's, said
that we need to strive to make the kind of society in which it is
easier for people to be good. This is a society in which we assume the
best of one another, strive to see the image of God in one another, draw
out each other's gifts and skills, love each other unconditionally over
the long term, and uphold each other's dignity. In that society, no
one will want to cheat the system, because they will belong; they will
know they are needed, and they will have what they need.
This
past Wednesday night at our worship service at Jacob's Well, a friend
of mine did something that is really quite strange. She drew a cross on
my forehead with ashes and told me that I was made of dust, and that
one day I would die. She did the exact same thing to everyone in the
circle, all of us, rich and poor... all of us bags of ashes and water,
all of us sinners and sinned-against, all of us selfish screw-ups... all
of us unable to be good on our own, unable even to sustain our own
lives... all of us undeserving...
...all of us created
in the image of God, the grateful recipients of unearned and undeserved
grace, of each new day and each next breath...all of us empowered and
sent to care for one another and to share with one another and to be
healed and sanctified together.
So, all of us - let's
share what we have with everyone who needs it, in Africa, in Japan, in
Canada, in the DTES, whether or not we think they deserve it. And let's
love each other so much that we want to be better people, in the
knowledge that we'll never be good enough to deserve the love and grace
God seems to want to keep lavishing on us.
Monday, February 27, 2012
Tales of an up-and-coming Fancy Dancer
(originally posted on Beth's personal blog)
Every Monday night since July, I have been trying out a new activity: First Nations traditional dance classes.
(Well, it hasn't been every Monday night... I took a bit of a break from dance after I stepped on a sea urchin while on vacation, but that's for another blog entry.)
I will say this up front: I am the whitest regular attender of the drop-in class. Last Monday, several new people joined us, so we did the customary go-around-the-circle-and-say-your-name thing, but we were also asked to share our tribal background. There were Miqmaqs and Plains Crees, two Squamish girls, a Haida woman, a Gitxzan, and a few people from Tsawwassen nation. When it was my turn, I said, "I'm Beth, and I am British/Irish/Swedish/Czech."
I am not only the whitest dancer, but also possibly the dancer with the least natural talent for dance. Sure, I can move in time with a piece of music, but I have always lacked the confidence required to do it creatively and convincingly. For much of my life, I have avoided school dances, and have made awkward small talk with other non-dancers during wedding receptions.
My whiteness and my lack of dance training combined to produce a fair amount of anxiety the first night I headed out toward the Vancouver Aboriginal Friendship Centre for dance class. As I walked, I rehearsed the reasons why I was going.
I need exercise.
The Friendship Centre is only a fifteen-minute walk from my house.
The classes are free.
Those reasons were convincing (especially the last one, on a low-income pastor's budget), but they could apply to a lot of other potential activities. They were not adequate to get me through the doors of the Friendship Centre.
I was invited to the class. That was a better reason. The teacher, who was fancy dancing at a National Aboriginal Day celebration put on by a local church, had invited the whole crowd to come to her class. But I could still rationalize that the invitation wasn't specifically intended for a white non-dancer like me.
I tried to think of another reason. I love to watch fancy dancing. Fancy dancing drew me in from the first time I saw it, in Saskatoon, during my undergrad years. I watched, dumbstruck, as the colorful ribbons of the dancers' shawls spun around them. They seemed to spend more time in the air than on the ground, traveling by tiptoe, their feet stepping deftly, as though the grass under them were actually a bed of hot coals. Perhaps if I enjoyed watching it, I would also enjoy doing it. Still, I had little faith I could reproduce such beautiful and free movement.
Thankfully, there was one more reason I had for learning to fancy dance, and this was the reason that pushed me over the edge: I believe I have a responsibility to protect and appreciate the cultures of my brothers and sisters, especially if those cultures have been denigrated, or threatened with assimilation and extinction.
I co-pastor a predominantly low-income First Nations congregation in a neighbourhood that is home to one of Canada's largest off-reserve Aboriginal populations. About a century ago, my people tried to take away the dances of their peoples; we called them evil and outlawed them in the name of Jesus. We tried to rob them of many of the ways they worshiped their Creator and expressed their uniqueness. We cut their hair, changed their names, and muted their languages. It was only by their ingenuity and collective memory that they kept these cultural elements alive. Today, some First Nations languages and practices are still very much in danger of extinction.
I have a responsibility to protect these cultures by virtue of being human, but even more so as a human who claims to follow Christ. I believe that what my people did was sinful and unjust. My Creator loves variety and values culture. His plan for humanity is not for us to merge into a monoculture, but for all the kings and nations of the earth to march (or maybe dance!) into the holy city in our glorious diversity, bringing all our splendor (Rev. 21:24).
I did not think that learning to fancy dance would in any way undo the damage caused by my people. I did, however, hope that it would take me a few steps closer to appreciating and understanding the beautiful culture I sought to protect in the name of Christ. Besides, the slight discomfort and embarrassment I might feel as a white girl in dance class would, at most, be a small taste of the many marginalizing experiences most First Nations people face daily.
It turned out that my first dance class wasn't nearly as awkward as I expected. Rather than explaining the steps, the teacher stood in front of me and demonstrated them over and over, which is a typically First Nations way of teaching. She told me to keep trying them for the next hour of dancing. I left exhausted but exhilarated. It took me a full month to get a feel for the heartbeat of the drum, and many more months before I was able to combine the steps more creatively. Now, I notice myself loosening up and relaxing. I am even making a couple of friends.
I am always ready to share my reasons for learning to fancy dance. Yet to this day, not a single person at dance class has asked me why a pale-faced redhead would keep showing up. Maybe in the future they will pop the question, but for now, they simply accept me as a fellow learner, laughing complaining with me during the warm-up abdominal exercises, and poking fun at me when I fail once again to anticipate the ending of a song. It is a privilege to be so welcomed, and to work with them to preserve and promote something so beautiful.
Watch for me on the pow wow circuit years down the road. I'll be the one blinding you with my white skin and my boss moves.
Every Monday night since July, I have been trying out a new activity: First Nations traditional dance classes.
(Well, it hasn't been every Monday night... I took a bit of a break from dance after I stepped on a sea urchin while on vacation, but that's for another blog entry.)
I will say this up front: I am the whitest regular attender of the drop-in class. Last Monday, several new people joined us, so we did the customary go-around-the-circle-and-say-your-name thing, but we were also asked to share our tribal background. There were Miqmaqs and Plains Crees, two Squamish girls, a Haida woman, a Gitxzan, and a few people from Tsawwassen nation. When it was my turn, I said, "I'm Beth, and I am British/Irish/Swedish/Czech."
I am not only the whitest dancer, but also possibly the dancer with the least natural talent for dance. Sure, I can move in time with a piece of music, but I have always lacked the confidence required to do it creatively and convincingly. For much of my life, I have avoided school dances, and have made awkward small talk with other non-dancers during wedding receptions.
My whiteness and my lack of dance training combined to produce a fair amount of anxiety the first night I headed out toward the Vancouver Aboriginal Friendship Centre for dance class. As I walked, I rehearsed the reasons why I was going.
I need exercise.
The Friendship Centre is only a fifteen-minute walk from my house.
The classes are free.
Those reasons were convincing (especially the last one, on a low-income pastor's budget), but they could apply to a lot of other potential activities. They were not adequate to get me through the doors of the Friendship Centre.
I was invited to the class. That was a better reason. The teacher, who was fancy dancing at a National Aboriginal Day celebration put on by a local church, had invited the whole crowd to come to her class. But I could still rationalize that the invitation wasn't specifically intended for a white non-dancer like me.
I tried to think of another reason. I love to watch fancy dancing. Fancy dancing drew me in from the first time I saw it, in Saskatoon, during my undergrad years. I watched, dumbstruck, as the colorful ribbons of the dancers' shawls spun around them. They seemed to spend more time in the air than on the ground, traveling by tiptoe, their feet stepping deftly, as though the grass under them were actually a bed of hot coals. Perhaps if I enjoyed watching it, I would also enjoy doing it. Still, I had little faith I could reproduce such beautiful and free movement.
Thankfully, there was one more reason I had for learning to fancy dance, and this was the reason that pushed me over the edge: I believe I have a responsibility to protect and appreciate the cultures of my brothers and sisters, especially if those cultures have been denigrated, or threatened with assimilation and extinction.
I co-pastor a predominantly low-income First Nations congregation in a neighbourhood that is home to one of Canada's largest off-reserve Aboriginal populations. About a century ago, my people tried to take away the dances of their peoples; we called them evil and outlawed them in the name of Jesus. We tried to rob them of many of the ways they worshiped their Creator and expressed their uniqueness. We cut their hair, changed their names, and muted their languages. It was only by their ingenuity and collective memory that they kept these cultural elements alive. Today, some First Nations languages and practices are still very much in danger of extinction.
I have a responsibility to protect these cultures by virtue of being human, but even more so as a human who claims to follow Christ. I believe that what my people did was sinful and unjust. My Creator loves variety and values culture. His plan for humanity is not for us to merge into a monoculture, but for all the kings and nations of the earth to march (or maybe dance!) into the holy city in our glorious diversity, bringing all our splendor (Rev. 21:24).
I did not think that learning to fancy dance would in any way undo the damage caused by my people. I did, however, hope that it would take me a few steps closer to appreciating and understanding the beautiful culture I sought to protect in the name of Christ. Besides, the slight discomfort and embarrassment I might feel as a white girl in dance class would, at most, be a small taste of the many marginalizing experiences most First Nations people face daily.
It turned out that my first dance class wasn't nearly as awkward as I expected. Rather than explaining the steps, the teacher stood in front of me and demonstrated them over and over, which is a typically First Nations way of teaching. She told me to keep trying them for the next hour of dancing. I left exhausted but exhilarated. It took me a full month to get a feel for the heartbeat of the drum, and many more months before I was able to combine the steps more creatively. Now, I notice myself loosening up and relaxing. I am even making a couple of friends.
I am always ready to share my reasons for learning to fancy dance. Yet to this day, not a single person at dance class has asked me why a pale-faced redhead would keep showing up. Maybe in the future they will pop the question, but for now, they simply accept me as a fellow learner, laughing complaining with me during the warm-up abdominal exercises, and poking fun at me when I fail once again to anticipate the ending of a song. It is a privilege to be so welcomed, and to work with them to preserve and promote something so beautiful.
Watch for me on the pow wow circuit years down the road. I'll be the one blinding you with my white skin and my boss moves.
A video of one of my teachers fancy dancing.
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