What is this thing called love?
This funny thing called love?
Just who can solve its mystery?
Why should it make a fool of me?
I saw you there one wonderful day
You took my heart and threw my heart away
That’s why I ask the Lord up in Heaven above
What is this thing called love?
– Frank Sinatra
—–
In Uganda I walked down African streets and dust powdered my worn Rainbow
flip-flops. My dear teammate Lacey walked
with me, as did our translator. “I am de
evangelist for de church,” he told me in broken English days earlier. It was morning and mornings are meant for
local ministry. That’s a nice way to say
‘door to door evangelism’, but that phrase carries disdain and most avoid
saying it when possible.
We walked by a young girl and Lacey struck up a
conversation with her. They talked about
school and what she does for fun and what she wants to be someday. Or something.
I wasn’t really listening because my nose was overriding all other
senses and a delicious smell led me behind a house. It was the girl’s mother, she was
cooking. I walked over to tell her how
amazing her food smelled and our translator walked quickly to catch up. “She is Muslim,” he told me. I kept walking. I told her that her cooking smelled
delicious, but she didn’t speak English.
My translator said a few words to her in the local language and she said
something back. He responded again and
she did the same. With each new exchange
brought a new and more hostile tone. She
was angry and he was insulted. Or, maybe
the other way around. I couldn’t
understand them but I didn’t need too.
They were arguing about religion.
I walked back to Lacey and the daughter, still enjoying their
conversation.
A bus rattled out of the Peruvian Desert into a quiet beach town with
coffee shops and a thirty-year-old ice cream stand and Pacific waves. For at least fifteen minutes, I sat on that
bus quietly facing the front. But I couldn’t
help it. “How long have you been growing
your hair?” I turned and asked the guy behind me.
His dreadlocks were put up in a hat, but let
down they easily reached his lower back.
“Oh, he doesn’t speak a lot of English,” said the girl in an odd accent
sitting with him. “But about 10 years.” The bus rattled and drove parallel to a rocky
coast in search of sand and we talked. “We’re
from the Earth,” she replied. I’ve never
been to Portland and I’ve never been to Asheville, but I’ve seen my fair share
of hippies and they were right up there with the best of ’em. We briefly talked about what we’re doing and
who we are. Somewhere in their journey
across South America, they met and now traveled together, selling bead
necklaces and weed to finance their trip.
In our talk, the word love was
mentioned. “I believe in real love,” she
said. “But the world no longer knows
what that means. It’s the most overused word
there is. With boyfriends, girlfriends,
friends, neighbors, strangers, in movies and music, about places and people and
stuff. Love. It’s not real anymore. Its… weak.”
I didn’t have many words in response, just thoughts, most of them
revolving around her seemingly accurate observations. “Anyway,” she said as we stepped off the
bus. “Wanna buy a spliff?”
—–
The New York Times hasn’t been delivered to my front tent-flap too
often this year. But, sometimes when I
find the internet, I take a peak at the news.
I recently found this story
24 Dead in Worst Cairo Riots since Mubarak
Disaster – Oct. 20, 2011
Egypt’s
official news agency says dozens of ‘instigators of chaos’ have been arrested
after deadly clashes between angry Christians, Muslims and security forces that
left 24 dead and at least 200 wounded … After midnight, mobs roamed downtown
streets, attacking cars they suspected had Christians passengers. In many areas, there was no visible police
presence to confront or stop them…
Anger set a perimeter around my heart in attack formation. Judgment drew their arrows. I kept reading.
In
the past weeks, riots have broken out at two churches in Southern Egypt,
prompted by Muslim crowds angry over church construction. One riot broke out near the city of Aswan,
even after church officials agreed to a demand by local Muslims that a cross
and bells be removed from the building.
I read the paragraph again then I read it again. With each read, it altered slightly. And, with each read anger took a few more
steps back until it was gone. Judgment
followed anger in retreat, but my heart still broke. I read it again.
In
the past weeks, riots have broken out at two mosques, prompted by Christian
crowds angry over mosque construction.
One riot broke out, even after church officials agreed to a demand by
local Christians that the crescent moon and star be removed from the building.
Cambodian children that are loved are loved well. They sit on daddy’s lap and cruise through
Phnom Penh on scooters, hands resting on the steering bar and hair blowing and
eyes connecting with strangers that walk down streets. Or they play in the giant play ground near
their house as mom watches and laughs and sometimes joins in their fun. Sometimes they hold hands eating ice cream
cones, the girls with pretty silk dresses and oversized bows, the boys with the
newest hair styles and blue jeans.
Some
Cambodian children aren’t loved well.
Maybe there’s a middle ground here between children loved well and
children loved unwell. I haven’t seen
it. Then again, I’ve only been here a
couple weeks. Near the giant play pens,
they sell a CD or a flower and if those don’t profit, their irresistible face
with well-practiced puppy-eyes. They’re
mostly boys. All the time, the owners of
CDs and flowers and children stand around the corner, impatiently expecting
their return on investment. Or, they sit
on crowded, comfortable couches. They’re
mostly girls. They wait as a man chooses
which one he wants for the night. Or
which two. Just a few extra dollars gets
two for the night. The owner of a
brothel can buy a child for as little as $20, though virgins bring in
more. UNICEF’s 2009 State of the World’s
Children report estimated that 45% of Cambodian children are working.
I preached at a beautiful church Sunday. The building was fine but the church was
beautiful. Children and teenagers worshipped
their dad, the same kids that would have been tortured and murdered thirty
years ago, and it was beautiful. I talked
to them about a lot and I told them about loving their brother and sister and neighbor
and blah blah. “And the man that owns
those boys at the play ground,” I said, “or the man that just can’t decide how
many 13-year-old girls to rape that night.
Love him well, too.”
—–
We went to eat at a nice Italian restaurant in Bangkok after a month of
rice and noodles. There were five of us
and menu prices lingered over each bite of Carbonara with extra bacon we
ate. I don’t remember how we started
talking to them. They sat two tables
down. One was from Dubai and the other
from Iran and both were business men, both were wearing diamond-studded watches.
We talked for a while, but only with Farook, the
man from Dubai. The Iranian man did not
speak English. Instead, he sat there,
and when we smiled, he smiled, as he pretended to enjoy a conversation he
couldn’t understand. Farook worked for
Shell and made money doing it and was quite interested in our year. We continued talking for about an hour. The whole time, the Iranian man sat patiently
– no, joyfully. The conversation came to
a close when the waitress came over with our check, but Farook handed her his
credit card and told us the meal was on him.
For a moment or maybe longer five men grasped how blessed they were.
Yet
thinking back to that day, it’s not the expensive bill I first recall. The waitress left and the Iranian man walked
over to me. He reached into his pocket,
pulled out a pack of gum and held it in my direction. No words but a smile that spoke. “I can’t talk to you. I want to bless you. Your meals already paid for, but I do have
some gum.” He did the same for the other
guys at the table. That day I walked Bangkok
without garlic breath.
This year, stories have molded my understanding of love, formed my lack
of love for other things, and shaped my understanding of hate for other things,
like religion. Even a good one. And I kind of feel like I get it. I understand contempt or doubt or fear or
resentment or ignorance or anger toward my big brother Jesus and the thing he
started a while ago. Christianity. Yea I’m a Christian, but I get why they don’t
want to join me. Intolerance and
judgment and superiority and control and looking down. And I have a lot of questions and I get why
they have them too. Questions that lead
to a thousand handfuls of sects and denominations and doctrines and
doubts. Who is he and why did he do this
and not do it like this and I would have done it like this? Which covenant? Tongues?
Which commandment? Prophecy? Which
people?
I prefer Buddhism. Be peaceful and meditate and throw on an
orange robe and obey the Golden Rule or come back as a toad. Or something.
I’ve spent 3 months in Buddhist nations and still don’t know too much
about it, but I know I can follow those guidelines. He may not be alive inside that golden toy
they worship, but in this life I can sacrifice what’s real for what’s
simple. There are just too many stories
and I don’t know which rule to follow anymore.
That’s why, as I sit on a roof of a tall building and write and the Phnom
Penh wind blows louder than the city itself and the end of my World Race
begins, I’ve decided to leave my religion.
I’ve decided to go with simple. I’m
taking an alternative to Buddha, though, and I’m opting for love. That’s all that makes sense to me anymore,
the only real direction these stories guide me too and I’m tired. I’ve been going for a year, the questions
have worn me down. But while love is
weak and not real anymore people are hurting every day. I need my brother’s love; he said it conquers
the world. So I’m done with my religion
and yours, if you need me I’ll be finding stories and making stories that point
like a compass and fighting with what was once a question but now a weapon.
The following day in Uganda I walked down African streets light enough that
dust didn’t react to steps from my worn Rainbows. I decided before breakfast that I was
finished being a missionary with a mission.
Too heavy. So I threw kids in the
air and tickled them until they laughed so hard they cried. I bought an African-pancake-thing and a
Coca-Cola. I sat down next to a
man. Nobody told me he was Muslim and I didn’t
care. We talked about nothing or
something that some may consider something but I don’t remember either
way. He finally asked why I was
here. I told him I travel the world
loving people because it’s what a guy that I know personally liked to do. “I would like to know more about this man,”
he said. “Could you tell me about him?”
