Thanksgiving: A Day in the Life

This Thanksgiving Day was unlike any other in my life so far. I was a long way from home and family, and a long way from the traditional Thanksgiving meal and football. Yet as the day progressed I realized that I have so much to give thanks for here in Belfast. The entire day was a gift, from the first sounds of the morning when my iPod woke me with 40 Acres, to the last sound before I fell asleep, snow gently falling at my window.

Today was a normal day. Only on my walk to the bus did I realize it was Thanksgiving, and my mind was instantly filled with all the goings-on back in Jacksonville. Riding a bus alone, an ocean away from home, and thinking of your favorite holiday is not a healthy combination. Romantic, possibly, but not healthy. Thirty minutes later, I stepped off the bus, crossed the street and walked toward my church, thoughts absorbed with family, desperately trying to recall the smell of turkey and stuffing. I walked through the door and reality pierced through my dreams, in the form of greetings from the wonderful people at the over-50s cross-community lunch club. This morning my main 'job' (if you can call it that) is a ministry of presence, to simply "be" there-- learning names, sharing about myself and my experience, hearing their intriguing stories (they have seen so much!)-- essentially to form relationships with the pensioners. The first hour or two consists of me 'refereeing' games of indoor bowling, which despite the insistence of the players, doesn't actually need a referee. I'm more just there to share the "craic", which is Irish for 'conversation' or 'banter'. Today was more intense and thus more entertaining than normal. After challenging some of my calls, one granny demanded that I bring out the measuring tape, and everyone had a good laugh. With both Catholics and Protestants in the mix, its always good to see that competition can overcome sectarian differences. As one elderly woman commented, "its not the grannies who are out there throwing bricks- we all get on great!" And so it seems, at least at this lunch club, anway.

Over lunch I sat with two old men, Joe and Kevin, who always welcome me to sit beside them. They share a tragic connection, as both of their wives have passed on, which they talk about with surprising frequency. The difference between them is time; Kevin's wife passed more than a decade ago, while Joe lost his just last year. Kevin mostly offers his advice, because its really Joe who talks about it with surprising frequency. Every conversation with him will at least touch on the subject, and most revolve around it. The pain in his eyes is so clear, so piercing. After fifty years of marriage its no surprise that the loss is so consuming. But although I've thought about the possibility of it, I've never had to confront the reality and rawness of emotion when you have loved someone for half a century and then lose them. It is apparent that my friend Joe has been devastated by the loss. Yet he still agrees with Tennyson, "Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all." He says he wouldn't trade those years for all the pain he's in now.

And that makes me think. It makes Chesterton's claim more compelling, "The way to love anything is to realize that it might be lost." What can I say to Joe? More and more I have found myself in the role of pastor, listening to people who go through such hard times. But what can my twenty-two years say to that? What comfort can I offer? The reality is that time does not always heal these wounds, that it might not 'get better', that Joe's wife is not coming back. I can tell him that God feels his pain, that his wife is in Heaven and enjoying the joys and the rapture. Perhaps that will comfort him. Or perhaps its all a little abstract to Joe, who is the first to say that he never was much for going to church. This much is clear already: I do not deal well with death. I do not want to think about it. I do not know what to say when it happens. And I am absolutely terrified that I will lose someone I love.

With these thoughts swirling in my head, I went about the rest of my day, which usually revolves around teenage boys who never fail to challenge and entertain. I played and refereed football with the guys at the 174 Trust, engaging in conversation between games, slowly building friendships and trust. Normally I would have also gone to the Boys Brigade (BB) in the evening, similar to scouting back in the US. I play and referee football there too, and lead badge classes on camping. But today the BB Captain told me to take the night off, saying he couldn't make an American work on Thanksgiving. With all those thoughts still dancing through my mind and heart, I was grateful for the break.

And so I went home for dinner with my housemates, Kirk and Sandra. Just a normal dinner-- we'll have a real Thanksgiving meal at Doug's house on Saturday. I spoke with my family back home, which reminded me of my earlier thoughts, but was more comforting than I could have imagined. And then, out of the jet black sky, white specs appeared. There was no forecast of snow, but this is Belfast, and you never know what the weather will do. No doubt, it was snow, enough to run around outside and get pelted with snowballs by the neighborhood kids for almost an hour.

Indeed, I have so much to be thankful for, not simply the roof over my head or the food on my plate. Its mostly people-- people who know me and love me, people who share this bizarre and wonderful experience we call life. At the most basic level, I must be thankful for this life itself, which is such a gift. "The true object of all human life is play. Earth is a task garden; heaven is a playground," claims Chesterton. Snowballs and the delightful shouts of children reminded me today of the meaning of those words, with perhaps just the slightest glimpse of that place where the streets have no name, that big playground in the sky.

Hitting Close to Home

Immersed in a foreign culture for the past few months, I have found myself re-evaluating many habits and behaviors that I had considered ‘normal’. I’ve lived in cultures more foreign to the American way of life (French society was a much greater shock to my system a few years ago). Here in Belfast it hasn’t been the shock of cultural differences causing all this reflection—it has been the similarities. Over and over I have been struck by how many frustrations and dilemmas the US and Northern Ireland have in common.

Just like the language differences discussed in earlier reflections, America and Northern Ireland share much of the same culture. Because many Ulster Scots settled in the South of the US, many peculiarities of their language and habit have become infused with Southern culture. I feel like the culture around me is some strange mirror reflection of America—which would explain the idiosyncrasies, like Fords driving on the left side of the road or the unfamiliar accent. Sometimes it seems like I’m in some strange nether-world…I wonder if I’ll turn a corner to find cars driving on the right side and people speaking ‘American’. Things are so close to home, yet at the same time they’re so different…its eerie.

Reflecting on my past cultural experiences, I have realized that if everything was completely different in look and sound and feeling, like my summer experience in Peru, then at least I could separate the two worlds of here and home, of Northern Ireland and the US. But the similarities almost make the culture shock worse. Because the differences are not always obvious, I have had to re-evaluate my catch phrases, my habits of interaction, my sense of space and time—everything I used to consider normal, in order to identify what is peculiar to this place and this culture. This examination has brought feelings ranging from mild discomfort to outright shock.

Most of the observations that I have made could be applied—often very directly—to the US. For example, because of our 30-second sound-byte news culture, many in the US have the impression that Belfast is one large riot, all the time. But how easy it is for my generation—who never experienced it—to forget that just forty years ago there were race riots in cities across America. Many people who lived through the riots didn’t experience them directly either, because the violence was contained to certain areas of town. Likewise, some people here have only encountered riots on television. Only a preferred few get the pleasures of throwing bricks and breathing tear gas. Many live a quiet existence away from major ‘trouble spots’, with time spent driving to work, picking up the kids from school, making dinner, attending church, etc. Sometimes the commutes are complicated by fiery road-blocks and car-jackings, in violence like we saw a few months ago. But more and more, those occurrences are the exception, not the norm. ‘These kids,’ said one mother, referring to her own children, ‘they have no idea what we lived through, what the violence was like.’

One might compare the political and social situation of Northern Ireland to the US thirty years ago, as we were emerging out of the Civil Rights movement. Legally Catholics and Protestants have the same rights and protections, but society is still highly segregated in everything from schools to sports teams to churches. It makes me think about how much has changed in the States since that time. Schools? Public schools have integrated, but often times only because of forced busing, causing much anger and much pain all around. Sports teams? Certainly, but only through the suffering of those courageous enough to break the mold and challenge existing power structures. Churches? Not really. I have heard it said, and find it true in my experience, that Sunday morning is the most segregated time of the week in America. How ridiculous is it that the very institution tasked with spreading the love of Christ on earth is the very institution that remains almost entirely segregated, years after the government and private business has changed?

Making matters worse is the simple fact that things could be different in the US. It will take much wisdom and hard work, on the part of many thoughtful and dedicated Christians, to integrate the American church. Many have been at work for years already, like those involved in a house church back home in Jacksonville, or those at Christ Central Church in Charlotte. They understand that church integration probably won’t ever happen completely. But then again, none of us will ever be perfect until we are able to see the Lord face to face, and that doesn’t stop us from striving here and now. Things could be different, and thus they strive to make them so.

This is where the comparison of Northern Ireland to America fails. Although there is a possibility of integrating the church in America, the religious nature of the division here means that the church will remain, indefinitely, the most segregated institution in Northern Ireland. ‘If you learn one thing about all this ruckus,’ one elderly man told me recently, ‘remember that it is all political. As much as people say its religious, its not.’ Two hours later, another elderly man expressed resignation at any possibility of permanent peace. ‘I don’t see how, because when it comes down to it, the conflict is religious—you can’t around that fact.’ As usual, the reality seems to lie somewhere in between, and I am stuck in shades of green when all I want is black and white. Hatred, violence, the segregation of an entire society-- they are not so easily explained. Perhaps my eyes will adjust to the shades and colors, like changing TV from black and white to color, so that I can observe more textures and hues of this insanely complex conflict. Only time will tell.

Words, Words, Words...

Apparently I speak ‘American’, not ‘English’, or so I have learned here in ‘Norn Iron’. My experience has proved true George Bernard Shaw's observation that America and the UK are ‘two nations divided by a common language.’ Of course it has taken time to get used to the Belfast accent—when I first got here I was shocked to find that people spoke an entirely different language. Now I understand that it was just a different accent, not a difference language, but there remain important differences that keep me on my toes. When Liz was first describing the over-60’s lunch club, she mentioned that the pensioners enjoy the ‘really good crack’ that the church provides. I mean, I figured Christianity would be expressed differently in a different culture, but I firmly believe that the line should be drawn at hard drugs. Later I discovered she was actually using a word that comes from Gaelic, craic, meaning atmosphere, conversation, or banter. It turns out that the dialect of English used here is a combination of the British, Irish and Scottish dialects. I have compiled a short list (below) of words that tend to make my everyday life quite confusing. You can find a more thorough translation of Norn Irish, or ‘Ulster’ as some call it, at http://www.bbc.co.uk/northernireland/voices/atilazed/a.shtml.

'American' = 'Norn Irish'
cookie = biscuit
biscuit = scone
scone = danish
supper/dinner = tea
snack = supper
lunch = dinner
gas station = garage (gare-oj)
garage = garage (guh-raj)
gas = petrol
natural gas = gas
bun = bap
butt cheeks = buns
oh = ack
yeah = aye
what’s up? = what’s the craic?
how are ya? = ‘bout ye?
at six-thirty = for half-six
pants = trousers
underwear = pants

In large part, the American and Norn Iron dialects of English are the same, and that similarity makes differences all the more noticeable. I have to watch every word I say, because a blunder is always only one word away. People here think its funny when I talk about ‘my pants’, or having my burger on a ‘bun’. And just when I think I’ve gotten used to the most common idiomatic phrases here, I run into something that throws me for a loop. Even basic conversations can require the utmost concentration.

All this thinking about my words has led me to reflect on language in general, and on the words we say without even thinking. Sometimes, in the middle of conversation, often when I am lost among the strange vocabulary, I am struck by the humor of the situation, where we make noises in recognizable patterns to communicate, often times poorly. What is this strange phenomenon where noises and sounds can actually communicate feelings, desires, hopes and dreams? Speaking even simple words can make us incredibly vulnerable, opening up lanes of intimacy right to the heart of another person. Thanksgiving often reminds me of the importance of expressing thanks to people in my life, as opposed to simply assuming that people know I am thankful for their words of encouragement, their gifts of time and energy and resources, their very existence as fellow pilgrims passing through this tumultuous world. Speaking those words of thanks challenges my heart at the same time—am I really thankful? Do I really want to express these words or am I simply doing it out of convention? Then there are those times when I can’t help but say the words, and articulate the goings-on in my soul. So often I miss the divinity and holiness shining through the simplest utterings, the praise of a child or the prayers of an old man. What a gift it is to be able to express our feelings to our Lord with actual spoken word!

Working in a church with all this reflection going on in my head has made me aware of the words we say in church. Growing up I would read the call and response printed in the bulletin, try (poorly) to sing the hymns, and bowed my head for prayers, but how often did I really think about the meaning of the words I was hearing and speaking? Did I really mean it when I said 'Your Kingdom come, Your will be done'? How easy it is to get into a routine of worship where minds wander and words become meaningless! How tempting it is to want to say the right words, to be ‘theologically sound’ or uber-Christian sounding with our prayers or sermons. But what does the Lord require? Only that we be humble and genuine, honest with ourselves and honest with Him. That's why Christ praises the faith of a child. Many times children are shockingly honest, if only because they are unaware of social convention and expectation. How much more honest would we all be, unaware of social convention? It is sad, but understandable, that many Christians find church the absolute last place where they would confess anything to anyone, except perhaps the pastor or priest. Those are the utterances that make one vulnerable, that make one’s sin real to someone outside of oneself and forces one to confront the reality of that sin. I myself fall into this trap of fear all the time. How can we authentically reach people through all of this—the fluff, the meaningless repetition, the stubborn walls of our fearful hearts?

Both in the US and Northern Ireland, I have found consistently that those who simply speak from their hearts are those who inspire and reach people. That takes vulnerability on the part of the preacher, a willingness to expose one’s soul, that others might do the same. This willingness comes not with a certain 'type' of person; it springs from confidence in the sufficiency of Christ. By that I mean, since Christ has atoned for everything- our sins, our doubt, our fear of actually following Him- we should have confidence to be honest with those sins, doubts, and fears. Who among us has never lusted after someone, or felt the strong pull of greed? Who has never experienced terrifying moments of doubt that God exists or that the Bible is true? Is there anyone who has not had to face, as CS Lewis puts it, 'hours when it seems obvious that this material world is the only reality'? Is there anyone who has begun to grasp the Gospel's claims on our lives and labor, and not been the least bit fearful that it will turn our worlds upside-down? These experiences are not unique to one person or one era. Rather than denying that these experiences are real, or simply denouncing them as 'un-Christian' and moving on, we must ask 'Why?'. We must care for the hearts of the people who- like us- struggle with these experiences everyday, and deal with the underlying problem, of which the above are merely symptoms.

It is not easy to speak from our hearts, and it is even harder to do so in a coherent manner—to sum up the dreams and doubts and pleasures that intermingle in our souls. But that is the work to which we are called, to speak in such a way that people leave with a clear message, with the encouragement that Christ can transform their families, neighborhoods, churches, and even their very own hearts. Only when we speak plainly from our own experiences, with honesty and truth, will the church begin to fulfill its role as the messenger of Christ in this world. Until then many will remain locked in fear or apathy, and the church will remain one of the biggest detractors from its own message.

What's in a name?

The first time it was suggested that I consider a ministry position in Northern Ireland, I automatically thought "Protestant, Catholic." These terms seem to define and divide every part of life in Belfast. The segregation is not always evident, though. Although riots get all the media attention, it is in the everyday interactions where sectarianism is most important--and most subtle. Unlike skin color in the US, which shouts loud and clear, here it is usually hard to tell someone's background by their appearance. When people in Belfast meet each other for the first time, they ask questions that might seem normal: What neighborhood did you grow up in? Where did you go to school? But the answers have special meaning here. Growing up in "New Lodge" would mean something very different from "Rathcoole," as neighborhoods are extremely segregated. It seems everyone here feels the need to first establish someone's background before actually engaging with them. Now this is usually a very subtle thing, even to the people themselves. They might not quite realize that they are doing it, because it seems so normal. Nevertheless, the most important question behind any initial interaction is usually: "is this person one of us?"

As I get more accustomed to the culture here, more comfortable with and aware of things around me, I find myself doing the same thing. I wonder if this or that person is Catholic or Protestant, where they are from and what their experience has been like. At this point my curiosity is driven by a desire to hear how the Troubles have impacted that person's life. But I must be careful not to get comfortable with one group at the expense of the other. This danger arises because they segregate themselves, and thus my interaction with them is usually separate as well.

As in conversation, the streetcorners have subtle signs marking territorial loyalties. Like the US, graffiti often indicates which gang/paramilitary organization controls an area. But even paint on curbs and streetlights, which I wouldn't normally notice, is a signal here. I took the pictures below on my way to work one day, where I pass by curbs and streetlights painted red, white and blue, the colors of the Union Jack-- indicating a Protestant/Loyalist/Unionist neighborhood. Some markers are much more obvious, like flags and murals (see picture above). Is this place prepared for peace? Does "peace" simply mean an end to violence, or a lasting solution that would eventually involve a more integrated society? I imagine the mural refers to the former, but I am afraid that only the latter case can provide the context for true reconciliation.

I say that "I am afraid" because that utopia seems to be so far from the current situation-- because it will take the struggle and sacrifice of so many to move this city forward. "It feels like we spend our lives avoiding certain parts of town," one pensioner told me recently. "But what else can you do? You have to live your life." Those sentiments are typical: to cope with the violence many people have learned to simply avoid trouble spots. Thus those who might be somewhat accepting of the other side avoid the question altogether. Others in a position to reach out are silenced by a violent minority-- the paramilititaries that exercise control over most neighborhoods.

Even the terms "Protestant" and "Catholic" mislead those who haven't lived in the reality of this city. In the US these words are purely religious descriptions, but in Belfast they carry strong political implications. The word "Catholic" implies support for Republicanism or Nationalism, movements that see Northern Ireland as a part of the Republic of Ireland and see supporters as Irish citizens (thus the name "Irish Republican Army"). "Protestant" implies support for Unionism or Loyalism, which hold that Northern Ireland is a part of Great Britain and sees supporters as British citizens. Religious identities have been turned into political labels. Many who would term themselves Protestant or Catholic would not necessarily call themselves "Christian," and most of those involved in paramilitaries never set foot inside a church.

Obviously, the terms did not simply materialize out of thin air. They are steeped in the cultural tradition of Europe, and especially that of the British Isles, that often intertwined religion and politics into single ideologies. Political actors used the church, and the church used politics, to the damage of both. Although it has taken hundreds of years, churches here are beginning to recognize the dangers involved in political alliances. The day-to-day work of churches here differs little from those elsewhere, whether its encouraging congregants in faith and love, or caring for people through difficult times. Although there are notable exceptions, most pulpits do not encourage certain political leanings. Segregation usually happens because congregants self-select into the tradition they are more comfortable with. It is, in fact, remarkably similar to racial segregation in the American church.

Some have asked if my time here has made me cynical about the church, and the answer is most definitely not. If anything, I have witnessed church leaders struggling to change what they see as a society seething with anger and suffering from deep wounds. They are trying to change both their own congregations and their wider society, to open eyes and hearts to see the painful, and sometimes simply absurd, results of hatred. When violence threatens or in its aftermath, clergy are often the first ones to reach across lines and sooth tensions. Whitehouse Church collected money for a nearby Catholic church that was burned by an arson attack in 2001. Less than one year later, local Catholic churches returned the favor by offering thousands of pounds to help rebuild Whitehouse after it was destroyed by a similar attack. Many use their religion as an excuse to hate, but here I have also witnessed many who take the words of Christ seriously when he says "Blessed are the peacemakers," (Matthew 5:9) and "Love one another, as I have loved you" (John 15:12). I am of the firm conviction that we are called to nothing less.

Painted curbsides and streetlights: subtle markers.