movie review time again!

My wife and I went to see "End of the Spear" tonight - the story of four missionary families in Ecuador and how they reached a fierce tribe of native warriors called the Waodani.

Unfortunately (as is the case with many films produced for the Christian market), the acting is a bit uneven and the script is pretty mushy. Though the production quality is better than older fare ("Thief in the Night", "Left Behind"), it's still a bit distracting.

Overlooking the stylistic aspects that may cause some to quibble, the heart and message of the story is one that was very convicting to me.

I guess I've been living in a cave, but I had never really heard this story until a couple weeks ago. I'm sure I probably read something a long time ago, but it just never really stayed with me. As a spoiled, western-evangelical teenager, missionaries and natives didn't wind my clock like ice cream socials and summer youth camp.

We rented the documentary about the Waodani last week - "Beyond the Gates of Splendor". I started watching it at about midnight and got about halfway through it before I fell asleep. That really helped me enjoy the movie - and I found myself wishing I had finished it during the movie tonight.

The values of the missionaries as presented in the film stand in sharp contrast to the "ameri-christianity" that we're so steeped in. The Waodoni people were trapped in a cycle of revenge that threatened their very existence. A group of men gave their lives trying to reach them with the gospel of Christ in the hopes that it would bring peace. Upon their death, the families of those men returned to the tribe, lived with them and ultimately helped change their violent culture.

I'm convicted by the thought of people who would love others so completely. I wonder if I really understand the idea of not demanding my rights - of dying to my own desires. The story is told by Steve Saint - son of one of the missionaries. Even knowing that the Waodoni killed his father, he returned as an adult to live among them. This is a forgiveness that I'm unfamiliar with. How I desire to walk in such meekness!

As with any Christian message, there will be detractors. I've read many reviews pointing to the insensitivity of these Christian messengers for cheating the Waodoni out of their "complex culture and religion". Others blame outsiders for the tribe's violent lifestyle - citing diseases, battles over oil rights and other issues brought to the jungle by "foreigners".

Maybe - but I think the fact that the son of a missionary lives and talks and eats every day with the man who killed his father is a worthwhile story to tell. I think it speaks of a forgiveness and love deeper than we know. It reminds us that humans are in need of redemption - and that the message of Christ redeems us. Selflessness, sacrifice and love can change us - even the most vicious warrior. To turn the other cheek; to do good to those who hate us; to leave judgment and revenge to God. This was a good message for us "ameri-christians" to hear.

how to not make a difference

A few weeks back, I had a difficult experience with a homeless woman. I have been processing ever since. Only now do I feel ready to try to put it into words, though I'm sure some rambling will still ensue.

Background: We're doing Church with a couple other families we know. As a ministry to the homeless during the holidays, we built several backpacks full of things we thought they'd need - blankets, socks, underwear, toothpaste & brush, etc. I'm not going to say that "God laid it on our heart" or anything. Maybe that's what happened, or maybe we just feel bad about ourselves when someone comes up to us on the street and asks for a buck or two. Maybe we felt like throwing a buck at them doesn't really help them and perhaps a bag with some needed supplies would be a better gift.

Regardless, we put 10 backpacks together. Each family took 3 and we took an extra one for a specific homeless man in our neighborhood who hangs out at the Walgreen's up the street. The idea was that we'd put these in the back of our cars and when we find someone in need, we'd offer them one of the bags. We prayed that God would open our eyes to divine appointments.

Fast forward two weeks. The holidays passed and the bags still rode in the back of our Suburban. Honestly, I had forgotten about them. Late one evening, my wife had a serious tortilla soup craving, so I loaded up our one-year old foster child (who loves being in the car as long as it's moving) and began searching for some place that would still be open. I wound up at Taco Cabana - not exactly authentic Mexican cuisine, but it would have to do. I ordered and was told they were making a new batch - I'd have to pull up and wait a few minutes.

As I parked, I spotted a cop on the corner running off a homeless woman who was at the stop light asking for change from drivers. As she walked toward the Taco Cabana, I remembered the bags. "Divine appointment!" I thought. I hopped out of the truck with quite a spring in my step. I was excited to finally get to give a bag away. I went around to the back and removed one of the backpacks. By that time, the woman was standing directly in front of me - she had literally come right to me. "Isn't that just like God?" I thought.

Everything would have been great if she would have just gone with the plan. Instead, this woman (who's name was Carole) began begging me to take her "down the street" to where she camps. She explained that the cops had run her off and she just wanted to get "home" - at Commerce and 24th street.

Let me clarify a few things before I continue: Commerce and 24th was NOT "just down the street" - but about 20 minutes away. And Carole was in bad shape. She was extremely drunk. I could smell her from 10 feet away. On top of this, she displayed symptoms of being mentally unstable. As we talked, she began to cry, then from out of nowhere she'd yell and get very hostile. Honestly, I was scared of her. I didn't want to put her in the car with my one-year old.

So I told Carole that I couldn't drive her anywhere. I told her that I had a nice backpack full of stuff for her if she'd like. She took it and said thank you and then continued begging for me to take her home. I informed her that I couldn't do that. She just kept asking "Why?" I told her I had to get home - that I had a baby in the car and he had to get home. I tried to talk her into using the bus. I told her I'd put her on it and pay for it. She said they wouldn't let her on because she was drunk and I guess she had a bit of a reputation.

This is when it really began to deteriorate. Carole began to cry uncontrollably. She was mumbling stuff about being hungry and sick of life. She just kept saying "I'm tired of this...I'm so tired of this." I asked her if she had been drinking. She nodded her head. I asked her if she had any family in town. She began screaming that she had had nine babies, but they had all been taken away. I asked how long she had been living on the street. She said more that 20 years.

I stood there looking at her, feeling completely helpless. What could I do to help her? How many people through the 20 years had tried and failed? And I'm handing her a bag with a blanket in it? What a joke!

In her rantings, the only thing that seemed like something I could address was the hunger. "Let's go into Taco Cabana here and let me buy you something to eat" I said. "You can sit down a few minutes and we can talk." She got very excited at the thought of sitting down and talking with someone and agreed. I got the baby out of his car seat and we went inside. In line, she couldn't decide what she wanted to eat. She was being very loud and asking what different things were. I was answering as patiently as I knew how. She asked if she could have "one of those..." as she pointed to the iced counter full of beer. "I don't think so - I don't think you need any more. That's kinda why you're here, isn't it?" I said. She nodded and began to cry again. She settled for a coffee.

We sat and I began to try to talk with her. It was very difficult. She was alternating between crying and being very sentimental and yelling cuss words. I called home and told my wife what was going on. I asked her to look up numbers for some places that might be able to help Carole. She said she'd call me back. Understandably, she was very worried about me and the baby. She could hear the tirade going on in the background.

I tried to talk Carole down. I explained that I wanted to sit and talk with her, but if she kept yelling - and specifically if she kept yelling fu--, that we wouldn't be able to stay. I must say that the staff at the TC was very patient. The weren't especially nice, but they allowed us to stay.

Once I began talking with my wife on the phone, Carole got very suspicious. She was convinced I was calling the police. I explained that I was just trying to find some place where she could go and get help. She yelled at me that she already had a f-in' place to go - if I'd just put her in my truck and take her there. I told her again that I couldn't do that. She asked "why?" I explained again, but didn't get the sense she was really listening to my explanations anymore.

Then, like something clicked in her, she began to get very hysterical saying that she knew she was going to die tonight. I asked her why she thought that and she said "I just know it!" I tried to reassure her. I told her she'd be OK. I reminded her that I was looking for a place where she could stay for the night and that threw her into another cussing tirade.

As far as finding a place for her, we didn't have any luck. She flatly refused to go to the SAM Shelter and the Hope Shelter wouldn't take her because she was drunk. I couldn't get anyone to answer at the Travis Park Methodist Church. And nobody could tell me who could help if she had mental health issues. The fact was, she didn't want to go to any of these places. After 20 years on the streets, she'd already been there. She knew the drill.

In the meantime, Angie had sent my teenage daughter up to pick up the baby. So it was just Carole and I now. I though seriously about taking her where she wanted to go, but my wife didn't like the sound of that. I really didn't either.

In the end, I ended up calling a cab and having them take her "home". She was relieved to be going there and honestlly I was relieved to be done with the situation. As I helped her into the passenger door of the cab, she grabbed me and started to hug. This was not pleasant for me. It was very uncomfortable. Yet I knew she needed that hug, so I hugged her back - for about 30 seconds. I told her that God really did love her and knew who she was. I honestly believe that. Then I told her that she should go somewhere that could help her. I told her that she didn't have to live like this. I didn't really believe that much, but I said it anyway. I guess I wanted her to have hope. I didn't want her to be hopeless. The truth is that I don't have much faith for stuff like that.

I don't take any pride in what I did. For someone who supposedly wants to make a difference, I didn't. If I hadn't been there, she'd have made it back to her camp ground - she has for 20 years. Maybe she'd have been taken in by the police, which could possibly have been the best thing for her that night. I gave her a nice backpack with some junk in it, but she already had a very similar one when I met her.

As I think back on this interaction with Carole, I see her standing there asking me "Why?" Why wouldn't I drive her "home"? Why wouldn't I let my guard down? Why couldn't I give what she really needed - unconditional love? Why was I afraid? Why was I worried about making my wife mad at me? Why hadn't I taken the time to research the people and places who can help?

So please pray for me that I would make sense of this. Pray for Carole that she'd be safe and that God would protect her and draw her. Pray that the Church would see the needs that marginalized people have and rush to meet those needs. And pray that if I ever get another chance to see Carole, that I would know better how to help.