I wonder how some of the others felt about the school's conditions. Having taught English at some poorer colleges last year, I knew to expect the flimsy, padlocked doors leading into concrete-floored classrooms furnished with splintery wooden desks and squatty rectangular stools.
The first classroom boasted a welcome message, written with crisp white chalk on the newly painted blackboard. As with most Chinese signs, I could make out about half the characters. Outside in a courtyard of sorts stood stubborn concrete tables that looked like picnic tables without the benches. We learned that these were for ping-pong, and that the students would use lines of bricks as inflexible nets.
Across the main street from this area were some basketball courts, backboards without goals hanging from poles. Student living quarters, shoddy brick structures with broken windows and the same metal doors, lined the courts and formed an L-shaped enclave that stretched close to a three-story, white-tile building.
The only bathrooms were tucked into a corner of the property all too close to the dormitories. Schools in areas like this have no indoor plumbing. In fact, students are lucky to have an outdoor toilet with the technology (like a hose pumping water through a trough) that keeps things circulating. I've been in areas where a rectangular hole in the concrete is all you get.
When the girls got back from using the bathroom the first time, we heard about it. Of course they were right in thinking the bathrooms were disgusting, but sadly, they weren't as bad as they could have been.
Some of you cringe, but you'll be surprised what you can do when options are slim. It's not that you lower your standards; you just realize that standards here are different, and facing that fact, discipline yourself to live according to the present situation. As someone once said, "A foreign country isn't designed to make you comfortable; it's designed to make its own people comfortable."
For this week, this was our workplace, and with God's help, all the trappings of American life would be as far from our minds as our country was from this one.
Tuesday, September 26, 2006
The Office
We were still dodging puddles on the way to the office today, trying to avoid getting splashed by bikes and mopeds passing on the small feeder roads sandwiched between the sidewalk and the street.
The sidewalks, like most in China, are a hodge-podge of square concrete tiles, sometimes drab, other times colorful, but never good at absorbing impact. With all the scattered, crumbling pieces of concrete, we might as well have been walking through a mountain pass.
The office consisted of converted apartments stacked on the second and third floors of a building whose shoddy outer appearance belied the quaint but decent inside. There was no AC, and the barred windows were open, inviting any possible gust of wind to relieve us from the humid air we almost had to swim through.
Unfortunately, the open windows also allowed the sounds of the city to sweep in on our meeting. Gradually, we got used to the loud Chinese outbursts, the whish of water splashing off the rubber of car tires, and the incessant beeping horns of taxi drivers dead set on making that last five kuai before their shift came to a close.
The second floor housed what I would call an office, the base of operations for our host's platform. Inside, we peeked around a large wooden shelf with named cubbie holes and saw Chinese people, mostly women, working diligently at a table. Besides our host, there were no laowai (a mildly derogatory but mostly jesting Chinese term for foreigners) to be seen. This was a big deal. For an organization headed by a white guy to be run by natives was both a sign that our host was impacting the community and an indicator that his prospects of staying here were good.
We continued, a hardly inconspicuous procession of 24 white folks and one Korean, up the stairs and into the third floor apartment that served as an international school. The rooms were decorated with posters that highlighted grammar terms and presented math problems, colorful tastes of America set in stark contrast to the whitewashed walls of the distinctly Chinese apartment.
Here, we sat in a circle on whatever chairs we could find and listened to our host's vision for the people group and the area. He talked about the spiritual darkness that hangs over the land and his team's efforts to reverse the negative trends set in motion by the people's philosophies, deadly mixes of Buddhism and animism sometimes seasoned with a pinch of Communist indoctrination or a dose of Confucian ideology. He gave us a history of the area, glimpses of his platform and its successes and failures, as well as his idea of how our mission at the English camp fits into the overall goal. I, for one, was impressed and inspired.
Then we hatched a plan for the rest of the day, starting with lunch at a Thai place and culminating in our first contact with the kids at the middle school near the airport just outside of town. Tonight, using ESL curriculum, we would evaluate their English levels and group them accordingly so that our classes would be as organized as possible.
With heads overflowing with knowledge and hearts brimming with anticipation, we left the the comfort of the office and braved the city. This was our base camp. From here the journey would begin.
The sidewalks, like most in China, are a hodge-podge of square concrete tiles, sometimes drab, other times colorful, but never good at absorbing impact. With all the scattered, crumbling pieces of concrete, we might as well have been walking through a mountain pass.
The office consisted of converted apartments stacked on the second and third floors of a building whose shoddy outer appearance belied the quaint but decent inside. There was no AC, and the barred windows were open, inviting any possible gust of wind to relieve us from the humid air we almost had to swim through.
Unfortunately, the open windows also allowed the sounds of the city to sweep in on our meeting. Gradually, we got used to the loud Chinese outbursts, the whish of water splashing off the rubber of car tires, and the incessant beeping horns of taxi drivers dead set on making that last five kuai before their shift came to a close.
The second floor housed what I would call an office, the base of operations for our host's platform. Inside, we peeked around a large wooden shelf with named cubbie holes and saw Chinese people, mostly women, working diligently at a table. Besides our host, there were no laowai (a mildly derogatory but mostly jesting Chinese term for foreigners) to be seen. This was a big deal. For an organization headed by a white guy to be run by natives was both a sign that our host was impacting the community and an indicator that his prospects of staying here were good.
We continued, a hardly inconspicuous procession of 24 white folks and one Korean, up the stairs and into the third floor apartment that served as an international school. The rooms were decorated with posters that highlighted grammar terms and presented math problems, colorful tastes of America set in stark contrast to the whitewashed walls of the distinctly Chinese apartment.
Here, we sat in a circle on whatever chairs we could find and listened to our host's vision for the people group and the area. He talked about the spiritual darkness that hangs over the land and his team's efforts to reverse the negative trends set in motion by the people's philosophies, deadly mixes of Buddhism and animism sometimes seasoned with a pinch of Communist indoctrination or a dose of Confucian ideology. He gave us a history of the area, glimpses of his platform and its successes and failures, as well as his idea of how our mission at the English camp fits into the overall goal. I, for one, was impressed and inspired.
Then we hatched a plan for the rest of the day, starting with lunch at a Thai place and culminating in our first contact with the kids at the middle school near the airport just outside of town. Tonight, using ESL curriculum, we would evaluate their English levels and group them accordingly so that our classes would be as organized as possible.
With heads overflowing with knowledge and hearts brimming with anticipation, we left the the comfort of the office and braved the city. This was our base camp. From here the journey would begin.
Thursday, September 21, 2006
From the Ground Up
Jesus is a craftsman. He spent his entire adult life working with his hands at the carpenter's bench. And before his incarnation, he formed and shaped the universe. I think it's safe to say he knows a thing or two about building.
That's why his admonition in Matthew 7 is so important. To build a house on sand is to build in vain, but a house built on rock--on a firm foundation--will endure even when tested by wind and rain. In context, Jesus was talking about his words and their power to sustain us if we put them into practice.
In the American church today, figuratively speaking, there's a lot of coastal development going on, and if we don't reinforce our structures, the gusting hurricane winds of persecution could knock it all down.
Because persecution is always a threat in China, missionaries have realized that training new believers should be their foremost priority. They take the Great Commission in its full context, making disciples of all nations by teaching them to observe Jesus' commands. At least in my experience, they emphasize relationship with Jesus and how our obedience to him shows our love and respect for him. And they warn them that their belief in Jesus may cause trouble with the authorities.
But they don't stop here. Usually a new believer undergoes systematic training straight through the main stories of the Bible, from Adam and Eve to Jesus' return. In fact, because of the shortage of Bibles, evangelistic presentations often involve telling the story from creation to the resurrection of Christ.
In America, a person can become a "Christian" by completing the ABCs of faith, or by praying some words on the back of a tract. Examining these methods I've noticed that many "salvation" tracts and pamphlets don't even mention the resurrection. They talk about Jesus dying for the sins of the world and taking our death sentence, but they don't explain how he won the victory over the grave. You'd think a tract focusing on salvation would heed the words of Romans 10:9-10, that the believer must "confess with his mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in his heart that God has raised him from the dead" in order to be saved.
What it comes down to is that it doesn't cost much to be a believer in America. But the battle is more palpable in China, and those doing the training have their lives and work hinging partly upon the new believer's productivity.
Here at home, we must catch the urgency with which missionaries train new believers. Maybe we should start be retraining some people who've been taught--but not trained--for years. Maybe we should start with the kids in the nursery. Maybe, in some way (I don't care how!), we should start exporting fervent disciples rather than importing comfort-seeking pew-ploppers. Only then will our house will be built on the rock.
That's why his admonition in Matthew 7 is so important. To build a house on sand is to build in vain, but a house built on rock--on a firm foundation--will endure even when tested by wind and rain. In context, Jesus was talking about his words and their power to sustain us if we put them into practice.
In the American church today, figuratively speaking, there's a lot of coastal development going on, and if we don't reinforce our structures, the gusting hurricane winds of persecution could knock it all down.
Because persecution is always a threat in China, missionaries have realized that training new believers should be their foremost priority. They take the Great Commission in its full context, making disciples of all nations by teaching them to observe Jesus' commands. At least in my experience, they emphasize relationship with Jesus and how our obedience to him shows our love and respect for him. And they warn them that their belief in Jesus may cause trouble with the authorities.
But they don't stop here. Usually a new believer undergoes systematic training straight through the main stories of the Bible, from Adam and Eve to Jesus' return. In fact, because of the shortage of Bibles, evangelistic presentations often involve telling the story from creation to the resurrection of Christ.
In America, a person can become a "Christian" by completing the ABCs of faith, or by praying some words on the back of a tract. Examining these methods I've noticed that many "salvation" tracts and pamphlets don't even mention the resurrection. They talk about Jesus dying for the sins of the world and taking our death sentence, but they don't explain how he won the victory over the grave. You'd think a tract focusing on salvation would heed the words of Romans 10:9-10, that the believer must "confess with his mouth that Jesus is Lord and believe in his heart that God has raised him from the dead" in order to be saved.
What it comes down to is that it doesn't cost much to be a believer in America. But the battle is more palpable in China, and those doing the training have their lives and work hinging partly upon the new believer's productivity.
Here at home, we must catch the urgency with which missionaries train new believers. Maybe we should start be retraining some people who've been taught--but not trained--for years. Maybe we should start with the kids in the nursery. Maybe, in some way (I don't care how!), we should start exporting fervent disciples rather than importing comfort-seeking pew-ploppers. Only then will our house will be built on the rock.
Platforms
For missionaries, a good platform--a reason to be in country validated by the government--can mean the difference between deportation and successful ministry, especially in a closed country. The platform is particularly important in areas like minority villages, where tourism is about the only excuse perceived by the government as a good reason for foreigners to visit. But if you want to sustain ministry in an area, to take up residence in a city, to be visible and still be able to do illegal work, tourism won't work. That's where missions organizations have gotten creative.
Long before Hudson Taylor smuggled himself into China and began the China Inland Mission, missionaries were finding ways to sustain work in cultures where they weren't welcome. For the apostle Paul, it was a prison cell that ironically kept him preserved from the Pharisees and Sadducees, two Jewish sects that may have ripped him to shreds had they ever gotten a firm hold on him. Jesus chose carpentry as his platform, and the profession allowed God in the flesh to live in a small town and remain relatively unknown until he began his in-your-face redemptive mission.
Today, missionaries in China find similar ways to sustain the work there. Whether building business to help the economy or offering healing hands to the afflicted, they usually engage in some sort of occupation that will help China, so as to invite the government's favor. The only problem is that along with favor comes intense scrutiny, so they're forced to walk a tightrope, balancing between the government's expectations and God's calling on their lives.
On this trip and others, I've seen platforms in action, and I've been grateful to play a small role in each of them, like a screw that hold up one of the legs, so those who stand on top don't lose their balance. My roles as an accomplice in undercover schemes have been varied. I've been an English teacher, an adventure-crazed backpacker, a college student, a tourist, a businessperson, and part of a medical organization. Each time, I've experienced a taste of what it must be like to live as a full-time missionary who, with mafia-like secrecy, straddles the line of legality for the sake of the greater good.
This is not to mean that platforms adopted aren't useful or necessary. Some platforms, like medical work or relief for the impoverished, lend themselves more readily to ministry. But the same ulterior motives drive them all: get access, show compassion and preach the Gospel that can save both body and soul.
In JH, I found two platforms at work, moving in different directions but promising to converge somewhere down the road. We would be teaching English, establishing relationships with the minority kids at the middle school. At first glance, it was hard to see how doing the hokey pokey and playing kickball would impact the kingdom. But as we learned more about the vision for the people, we found that our job was to plow the soil of these kids' hearts so that when they return to their homes in the countryside, activities born out of the other platform might have a better chance of bearing fruit.
Obviously I can't go into too much detail, but it was great to see how God places creative, courageous people in the roles where he wants them, and it was encouraging to see that some of the work we did last year was supplemented by these two platforms. As Jesus said, "My Father is always working."
Long before Hudson Taylor smuggled himself into China and began the China Inland Mission, missionaries were finding ways to sustain work in cultures where they weren't welcome. For the apostle Paul, it was a prison cell that ironically kept him preserved from the Pharisees and Sadducees, two Jewish sects that may have ripped him to shreds had they ever gotten a firm hold on him. Jesus chose carpentry as his platform, and the profession allowed God in the flesh to live in a small town and remain relatively unknown until he began his in-your-face redemptive mission.
Today, missionaries in China find similar ways to sustain the work there. Whether building business to help the economy or offering healing hands to the afflicted, they usually engage in some sort of occupation that will help China, so as to invite the government's favor. The only problem is that along with favor comes intense scrutiny, so they're forced to walk a tightrope, balancing between the government's expectations and God's calling on their lives.
On this trip and others, I've seen platforms in action, and I've been grateful to play a small role in each of them, like a screw that hold up one of the legs, so those who stand on top don't lose their balance. My roles as an accomplice in undercover schemes have been varied. I've been an English teacher, an adventure-crazed backpacker, a college student, a tourist, a businessperson, and part of a medical organization. Each time, I've experienced a taste of what it must be like to live as a full-time missionary who, with mafia-like secrecy, straddles the line of legality for the sake of the greater good.
This is not to mean that platforms adopted aren't useful or necessary. Some platforms, like medical work or relief for the impoverished, lend themselves more readily to ministry. But the same ulterior motives drive them all: get access, show compassion and preach the Gospel that can save both body and soul.
In JH, I found two platforms at work, moving in different directions but promising to converge somewhere down the road. We would be teaching English, establishing relationships with the minority kids at the middle school. At first glance, it was hard to see how doing the hokey pokey and playing kickball would impact the kingdom. But as we learned more about the vision for the people, we found that our job was to plow the soil of these kids' hearts so that when they return to their homes in the countryside, activities born out of the other platform might have a better chance of bearing fruit.
Obviously I can't go into too much detail, but it was great to see how God places creative, courageous people in the roles where he wants them, and it was encouraging to see that some of the work we did last year was supplemented by these two platforms. As Jesus said, "My Father is always working."
Thursday, September 07, 2006
Chinese Breakfast
JH is a city of a few hundred-thousand people, very small for Chinese standards. And it's in southwest China, very close to some other SE Asian countries. That said, western expansionist regimes like McDonald's, Burger King and KFC haven't made it here--yet.
This meant that instead of munching on Egg McMuffins in the morning, we'd be doing breakfast Chinese style. Americans like grains in the morning, and we usually lean toward the sweet side of the taste spectrum. Hot breakfast is fine as long as it's a country-cooked plate brimming with scrambled eggs, grits and bacon. A gooey cinnamon roll will also do the trick. But if a Cracker Barrel waitress serves up a bowl of spicy noodles and greasy greens when I ordered the Old Timer's breakfast, she'd better be prepared for a riot.
The first morning at the Lu Qiao (Green Bridge), we gathered at the round tables in the hotel restaurant at about 8:30 a.m., and I was promptly reminded why I brought a box of granola bars. The feast, served in large metal pans steam-heated with boiling water, consisted of rice gruel (China's answer to sweet oatmeal), noodles tinged with vinegar and a variety of salty and spicy toppings. There was also a type of bread that looked doughy on the outside but inside had the texture of a stale biscuit.
It quickly became evident that the Green Bridge was not the ritzy Sino-Swiss. There would be no raspberry-topped waffles, sweet pastries or syrup-drenched pancakes. This is authentic Chinese breakfast served in a China far from Beijing, the one that doesn't care about making westerners happy. Realizing this fact got me wondering: Did we bring enough Pop-Tarts?
This meant that instead of munching on Egg McMuffins in the morning, we'd be doing breakfast Chinese style. Americans like grains in the morning, and we usually lean toward the sweet side of the taste spectrum. Hot breakfast is fine as long as it's a country-cooked plate brimming with scrambled eggs, grits and bacon. A gooey cinnamon roll will also do the trick. But if a Cracker Barrel waitress serves up a bowl of spicy noodles and greasy greens when I ordered the Old Timer's breakfast, she'd better be prepared for a riot.
The first morning at the Lu Qiao (Green Bridge), we gathered at the round tables in the hotel restaurant at about 8:30 a.m., and I was promptly reminded why I brought a box of granola bars. The feast, served in large metal pans steam-heated with boiling water, consisted of rice gruel (China's answer to sweet oatmeal), noodles tinged with vinegar and a variety of salty and spicy toppings. There was also a type of bread that looked doughy on the outside but inside had the texture of a stale biscuit.
It quickly became evident that the Green Bridge was not the ritzy Sino-Swiss. There would be no raspberry-topped waffles, sweet pastries or syrup-drenched pancakes. This is authentic Chinese breakfast served in a China far from Beijing, the one that doesn't care about making westerners happy. Realizing this fact got me wondering: Did we bring enough Pop-Tarts?
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)