I'm Here!!

The wifi in the Joburg airport didn't work very well so I didn't get to post this.  So I didn't just land, but I'm just now on wifi.  Enjoy!

I arrived in Johannesburg about an hour ago.  My flight was long.  Long.  LONG.  It was a very long flight. That’s the longest I’ve ever been on an airplane.  It was a lovely airplane, with lovely flight attendants and lovely movies and lovely food.  Oh, and booze. 

I watched two movies and every episode they had of three different television shows.  I walked all up and down the plane.  I made friends with the guy sitting next to me.  He was headed to Malawi, so we talked about that.  His name was Bobby. 

Then we landed.  It was pretty routine, except when the plane rocked back and forth a bit.  That was fun.  I got off the plane and after wandering around for a few minutes, was eventually told I needed to go back and start over.  It was the South African version of “You’re doing it wrong.”  So I went back to baggage claim because they told me I had to re-check my bags, they weren’t going to do it for me. 

Once I stepped into the arrivals/departures section of the airport, I was greeted by a very friendly man who just wanted to help.  I was grateful because I was completely lost, and clearly my face told that story.  He hustled me up the stairs and to the machine to print my boarding pass and then to check my bags and finally to security.  Then he asked for money.  And not just money for himself, but for every person who helped along the way (there were at least half a dozen).  I was so stunned (and tired) that I flat out refused.  He argued with me for a moment and I eventually handed him ten Ren, at which he scoffed because that’s about fifty cents (I think…I’m still working that out).  I glared at him with tired, angry eyes, totally offended at the notion that "help" really meant "payment for service."  He rolled his eyes at me and sent me on my way.  

So, two lessons I’ve learned so far.  The first: I might not be a bad haggler.  The second: CONTROL YOUR FACIAL EXPRESSIONS.

It’s a lesson I’ve been trying to learn for a very long time.  Now that it’s going to get me in trouble in a foreign country, I’ve got to be really diligent about looking like I’m totally in control of every situation I encounter.  Who knew ministry lessons would start at the airport?

Stepping Out on Faith

I packed my suitcase last night.  If you know anything about me, you know that's HIGHLY unusual.  I don't like to call myself a procrastinator but, if I'm being honest, that's what I am.  My friend, Joseph, spins it nicely when he says I'm "pressure prompted" (he is also pressure prompted, so he knows).  So yes, I'm leaving for South Africa on Wednesday and I've already packed my suitcase.

Last week I went to the health department to see if I needed any shots (NONE, YAY!!!).

This morning I was commissioned by my church.

Tomorrow I will go exchange money and get a travel debit card.

Tuesday I will pack my carry-on.

Wednesday I will get in the car and head to the airport around 4:30.  

Oh dear.

This thing is actually happening.  I'm going to travel by myself.  I'll spend ten weeks in South Africa.  That's a whole other country, on another continent, in another hemisphere.

As I prepared for this trip (and by "prepared" I mean "had multiple meltdowns and backed out on a daily basis") I realized I've never been to another hemisphere.  Not having been to Africa was one thing, because let's be real, it's Africa.  I know very few people who have been there.  But I've traveled, so it seems perfectly normal to go to another continent.  Then I remembered it's going to be winter while I'm there and it hit me..."Oh dear God, this is a different hemisphere!!"  Why is that such a strange thing?  Lots of people live there.  One of my dearest friends was born there (interestingly, in Lesotho, the country inside of South Africa...it still baffles me).  

Doesn't it seem strange the things that strike us?  I'm not thinking about going to a place where lions live (there are freaking LIONS there!).  I'm not thinking about going to the heart of wheat country (which is particularly difficult for this gluten free girl).  I'm not even thinking about going to the place where Nelson Mandella lives.  I'm thinking about going to the southern hemisphere.

I've got lots of plans for the things I want to see and do in South Africa.  I'll be living in Durbanville, which is a suburb of Cape Town.  That means plenty of rich history and beautiful scenery to behold.  I'm working at Durbanville Presbyterian Church as a pastoral intern, which means preaching and teaching and all the wonderful and not-so-wonderful things that go along with ministry.

My friend Leigh, who did this same trip a few years ago, sent me an email and said, "It is a major faith move, Bethany, it truly is.  I remember being aware of that as it unfolded: stepping out onto faith."  I thought to myself, "Do I have that much faith."  But I do, and now I'm going to go to another county, on another continent, in another hemisphere, and experience a whole new part of God's creation.  I'll live, work and worship outside of my comfort zone, and will be stretched beyond compare.  I will love it and hate it, and come back changed.

All of that is, of course, after I pack my carry-on.

Hiding Behind Call

I've been attending Central Presbyterian for almost sixteen years.  It's been a social justice church that whole time.  In fact, it's always been a social justice church.  It's kind of impossible not to be when your building is  across the street from the state capitol building.  Rallies of all kinds take place on our front porch, and we often open our doors to weary protesters to use the restrooms and get water.  But it's also impossible not to be a social justice church when Atlanta's homeless population camps out on your sidewalks and in your alleys.  This is what we call being "situated at the corner of power and powerlessness."

My family didn't go to Central because it was a social justice church, like so many people do.  We visited because my dad had gone to college with the pastor at the time, and we joined because it was such a warm, welcoming place and much more closely aligned with our politics and theology.  A good many people in my family do actually feel called to social justice, I do not.  So I've been struggling with my place at Central for a while.

My best friend, Adam, works in the Outreach and Advocacy Center (OAC), which is housed in the basement of Central and works exclusively with Atlanta's homeless men and women.  He's good at what he does, and I admire him so much for his work.  He is also a youth leader with me, so every time we're leaving youth on Sunday nights, he'll stop and talk to all the men camped on our sidewalks.  They know him, and he knows all their names.  It's truly remarkable.  I am constantly in awe of how he and the other staff at the OAC interact with these people as if they are actual human persons...

Clearly I am not called to homeless ministry.  When we walk out, I let Adam do all the talking and then justify it by saying I'm not called to do that.  It makes me uncomfortable, I don't know what to say or how to act.  I feel guilt for not being homeless.  Then I feel guilt for walking past them.  And then I feel guilt for starting my car and driving away, not ever having done anything to be a witness to what I know Jesus is calling all of us to do.  Being a Centralite is both wonderful and terrible.

So when I was confronted with an inescapable situation this past Monday night, I lived in my discomfort for a while.  As I arrived at church for a session meeting with Dana, a man lying on the ground stopped us and began crying.  He said over and over that he's just so tired.  Then he said he's hungry, but mostly he just expressed that he was tired.  I had brought a granola bar for dinner, but knowing I could wait a few hours, I pulled it out and handed it to him.  As I did, a remarkable thing happened.  Our hands touched.  I was suddenly compelled to sit with him, and so I did.  I listened and rubbed his back and arms and hands as he talked.  Dana came over and kneeled down and asked if we could pray together.  So she prayed for this man, Rodrick, asking God to bring him comfort and rest.  I said literally not a single word.  The two of them did all the talking, I was simply moved to sit and listen.  

It was maybe one of the most uncomfortable things I've ever done, but I couldn't not do it.  Last week in Greek we translated the parable of the good Samaritan.  Our T.A. asked us what we thought the story was about.  The common answer to that question is that we should, of course, be like the good Samaritan.  But he said, "What if we are the beaten man and Jesus is the Samaritan?"  As I reflect upon this encounter, I wonder if maybe Jesus is the beaten man.  We never know what form God will take in our lives, and when Dana and I were walking away, Rodrick called out to us, "You don't know who you just talked to."  It haunts me.

I Love the Gays: Ruminations on the Bad Name Given to Christians by Chick-fil-A, et. al.

There's SO much chatter on the interwebs about Chick-fil-A and their "stance" on gay marriage.  Lots of pros and cons to debate, and I have indeed weighed in on both the Facebook and the Twitter.  I mostly just commented that I finally feel like I can't eat there anymore, be it because of their ideas about marriage or their anti-choice ideology.  These things, says Dan Cathy, stem from being a Christian.  Well, my boycott stems from being a Christian, so I guess we have different ideas about what that means as well.  Shocking.


The truly disheartening thing, however, has been the multitude of people ranting against Christianity (admittedly against the bigotry of exclusion based on biblical principles) and it has prompted me to add my voice to the mix.  Here's my voice about it:


Not all Christians are against gay marriage.  In fact, I'm SO in favor of gay marriage, Christian gay marriage even, that I have vowed not to get married again until it is legal AND my church recognizes it.  Will I stick to that vow?  Who knows?  I'm a sucker for romance and I definitely want to get married, but my faith teaches me that justice is not served in this way.  The Bible teaches us a lot of things, but above all it teaches love, and I cannot stand idly by while love is being persecuted.  My form of protest may not affect anyone but me and the person I choose to spend my life with, but at least I can stand in solidarity with my brothers and sisters in Christ who are told time and again that "separate but equal" is going to have to suffice.  


My point is not to rant here.  My point is to show that there are Christians, many Christians, who hold to the biblical standards of love, acceptance, grace and mercy in the face of evil.  I am so saddened because I'm a super liberal, maybe not as liberal as my sister (I told y'all to follow her on the Twitter, @thejulieeffect, she's hilarious), but definitely on the left, and I hate hate hate seeing all the liberal websites lambasting Christians for this.  I wish there were some giant forum for me to scream that I'm a Christian and I love the gays, but it just doesn't seem to exist.  For now I'll settle for my blog.  


Maybe I'll go viral.  

Hugs Abound

I'm a hugger.  I always have been.  If there's anything my dad taught me to be great at, it's hugging.  So on Monday, with a grammar quiz fresh off our pens, I looked around at all my fellow Greek students and saw a need for hugs.  It started with Andrew, a Korean student who is struggling to translate from Greek to Korean to English.  His always happy face was a bit forlorn, and I wrapped my arms around his neck because there were no words.  His shoulders shook for a second, but when he pulled away he was smiling.  Then there was Kathy, a returning student who is doing extremely well, but is clearly working her fingers to the bone.  I put my arm around her and we touched heads, just a bit of solidarity between sisters.

After chapel I went to coffee hour and listened as everyone tried to determine how they did on the quiz.  I decided, with all these people in the room, to offer up hugs.  I called out, "Who needs a hug?"  They were hesitant at first, but one by one I heard, "I'll take one."  So I hugged.  But there was something more behind it.  We were developing a ritual for our community, one which seems to be enduring.

I had a very hard week myself, and my community noticed.  I'm not usually one to need a hug for comfort, but when my community asked me if I needed a hug, I said yes.  And they hugged me non-stop.  They wrapped me up in love and didn't let go.  They hugged me with grace for incomplete homework, they hugged me with study dates, they hugged me with long talks over wine, they hugged me with walks around campus, and they hugged me with their very presence.  But also, they actually hugged me.  As hard as this week was for me personally, it was a giant step forward in our quest to love and trust one another, and I am so thankful for that.

ENGAGE!!

I went to visit my sister in Los Angeles last week, and on Saturday morning we got up to go do her regular Saturday morning thing. She is a clinic escort with L.A. for Choice, a pro-choice group that stands outside a women's health clinic and helps women get safely from the curb to the door.  This group, and others like it, is necessary because there is also an anti-choice contingent on the sidewalk handing out fliers, cards and other propaganda.  The anti-choice people try to intimidate women and berate them with their brand of Christianity, the kind I do not subscribe to.  I'm also not a fan of beating someone over the head with my faith, but that's a post for another day.

So we're out there in the blazing sun, wearing our awesome orange tank tops emblazoned with PRO-CHOICE CLINIC ESCORT, firmly holding our ground between the protesters and the clinic.  We do not engage with them.  It is our job simply to escort women if they need it, and to offer to take the propaganda off their hands.  That is all.  An older woman protester brought her grandchildren, who looked to be about 3 and 5, and sat them on the curb next to the street to play while she sang Ave Maria and recited the Hail Mary for two hours.  This made me extremely nervous, and when the kids started crawling around under my feet I mentioned that she might want to take them home.  A man walked in between us and said, "You can go home, baby killer." 

Baby killer.  

I wanted to punch him in the mouth.  It was the most egregious insult ever hurled at me, and it rolled off his tongue so effortlessly.  

As the morning wore on without further incident, I wanted so badly to go have a conversation with him.  I wanted to stick out my hand, say, "My name is Bethany.  Let's talk about that name you just called me and how it isn't actually true.  Also, not a very nice thing to say.  Oh, and by the way, I'm a seminary student with deeply held convictions on things like abortion.  Let's talk about these things, so you can get to know me a little before calling me such an ugly name."  I didn't, because we weren't there to engage, but oh how I wanted to.

Later, as I took time to process the events of the morning, I decided I absolutely should have engaged him in that conversation.  If for no other reason than to see that no matter how hard I tried, no matter how loving and gracious I was, he wouldn't ever love me back.

Or would he?

I found him on the Twitter, and started following him...and he followed me back.  I'm mostly just observing for right now, but I'm hoping this will create a safe space for us to engage in some real dialogue.  Via Twitter of all things.  Now isn't that interesting?

Twitter Evangelism

My associate pastor recently started following me on Twitter.  This chick is cool.  I've always thought so.  I remember when she was called to our church as a new seminary graduate about twelve years ago.  I looked at her that first day and thought, "We're going to be friends."  We weren't, but I still thought she was awesome.

We have spent a little more time together since I've started seminary, and she treats me more like a colleague now than a congregant.  I like it because, once again, I always thought she was cool.  Only now she has more than a decade of experience at an inner city, social justice church, which makes her that much cooler, and really wise.  So I lean on her and she has yet to lead me astray.  Which is why, when she leaned on me, I felt honored.  Actually, I felt a lot of things.  I'm almost ashamed to admit that the thing I felt the most...don't laugh...was cool.  Yes, she's fifteen years older than me and the fact that she leaned on me made me feel cool.  This is how awesome this woman is.

So I got a notification the other day that she started following me on Twitter.  "Uh oh, I have to tone it down now."  But I realized I've never been too outrageous, and therefore am probably safe.  Plus, she's cool.  Are you sensing a theme?  So, naturally, I followed her back.  Then I got an email from her.  "I don't know how to tweet.  If you were a pastor at Central, how would you use Twitter?"

OMG!!!!!!  MY.  PASTOR.  JUST.  ASKED.  ME.  FOR.  ADVICE.

Stuff like that never gets old.  It's actually really freaking awesome.  And she didn't just admit to not knowing what she's doing, she actually asked me to imagine myself as the pastor at our church and think of what I might do in her shoes.  BIG SHOES.  My extroverted self had such a fit when I told her we weren't answering right away. It would be so easy to just spout off a million different ways to use the Twitter (yup, I said it), but I wanted to give quality advice.  So I took a few days and finally responded this morning with a (fairly) succinct email on the way I use it, the way I know other pastors use it, and how my sister uses it (which I think is actually a great model for pastors).

So follow me @bethanyebenz, follow her @ckelly_kelly, and follow my sister @thejulieeffect (you won't regret it).  We're going to evangelize the interwebs (well, my sister won't, but she's funny).