What does it mean to be a Lutheran?

I just got back from a year representing Saint Andrew Lutheran Church as a missionary in Argentina. The ELCA program, known as Young Adults in Global Mission, sends young people to spend time with communities in other parts of the world. My placement was at a small Lutheran church about an hour from the downtown Buenos Aires, where I helped out with youth activities such as First Communion and Confirmation classes. That job was entirely more difficult and also a lot more fun than I had anticipated, and of course the best part was getting to know the kids, their families, and their stories.

I also worked in the church’s central office where I learned about the Argentine church’s numerous service projects throughout the country. This position also gave me the opportunity to visit several project sites to meet the people, share mate (a bitter green tea) and write about my experiences on an English-language blog. All in all, this was an amazing mission year.

For as special as my projects were, however, they were only part of my life in Argentina. When I wasn’t at work, I was hanging out with friends, or buying groceries, or staying in touch with family. Wherever I went, people would usually ask me where I was from and what I was doing here. When I explained that I was with the Lutheran church, many gave me a quizzical look: “You mean Mormon?” many would ask. Growing up in Midwestern America, everyone knows what Lutherans are. In Latin America, however, where the majority of people are Roman Catholic, all of the protestant faiths sort of get grouped together in people's collective consciousness-—Mormons, Pentecostals, Adventists, and yes, Lutherans. And so many times over the course of the year, I had to explain what it means to be a Lutheran. I had never had to do this before, but it proved to be a very worthwhile task. It forced me to look inward and “rediscover” the core tenets of my own faith: namely, God’s overflowing love and forgiveness, and Christ’s invitation to join together in communion with one another. Thus as I shared my faith with others, my own faith was strengthened and deepened as a result.

As Christians, we are part of a global communion of believers—the Body of Christ, as Paul liked to call it. To everyone who supported me--whether in prayer, communications, or financially--I cannot thank you enough. And based on the power of my experience, I also invite you to examine and rediscover your faith by sharing it with others. After all, you don’t have to leave the country to be a missionary!

So, Buenos Aires, I’ve been here for seven months. What’s it like?

For one, it’s no longer strange to speak Spanish all day. I used to wake up each morning and dread the mental punishment of translating my thoughts into another language. Now, it’s no big thing. In fact, my inner monologue sometimes slips into Spanish. That’s a little surreal. On that note, I sometimes will wake up with a clear memory of an amazing or bizarre dream, but with no idea whatsoever which language it was in. In fact, you (my friends and family) are all perfectly bilingual when you show up in my dreams. Congratulations!

Language is not the only thing that’s become more comfortable. Many things that seemed so strange at first have become my new normal: two-hour commutes on the train, getting very little sleep, watching my back. I’ve also gotten to know most of the people in the four blocks between my house and church, and it’s not uncommon to hear my name (“Cristian!”) shouted from the bakery, the laundry detergent store, the fruit stand, or any of the various second-floor apartment windows. It always reminds me of the song “These are the people in your neighborhood” from Sesame Street, which I sometimes whistle as I walk down my street.

Finally, I’ve lost count of how long I’ve been here (last night I counted nearly seven months), but not of how long I’ve got left (exactly fifteen weeks from today). And I know that remaining time is going to fly. Months disappear by in the blink of an eye, and as I become more aware of just how little time I’ve got left here, I’m trying to squeeze all of the juice I can out of each day. I’ve learned many things here in Argentina, but probably the most profound has been the importance of living every moment to its fullest. And that is certainly something that I plan to bring home with me—exactly fifteen weeks from today.

Climbing toward a new window on the world

As a part of our second retreat, we set off one morning on a day hike up a small mountain near our campsite. Aside from being a great time (and a good workout!), the climb served as a metaphorical halfway point for our year in South America. As we made our ascent, I thought of how our first few months here had indeed often seemed like an uphill struggle—following a rocky, sometimes unclear path along which every step required extraordinary focus and energy, and moving toward a place that we knew would be worthwhile but that was yet unknown.

Slowly but surely we climbed— helping each other over the rough patches—until we finally arrived to behold la Ventana, a natural rock window that sits at the top of the mountain and gives the place its name. Looking down through the window, we could see the entirety of the path we had ascended; the many steps (and missteps) of our journey finally made sense once we had reached our destination. We could also look out over the sunflower-drenched plains and contemplate the vastness of the world spreading out before us.

From this height—and at this point in our mission year—the landscape had a certain peace about it, and I was both humbled and inspired by its greatness. A few fellow hikers pointed out that the form of the window was eerily similar to a map of Argentina, and the significance of seeing the world from an Argentine point of view was not lost on me.

We didn’t have much time at the top, however; as clouds gathered and rain started to fall, we barely had time to catch our breath before it was time to make our way down again. And if you haven’t had enough metaphors already, this leg of the journey was literally dripping with significance!

Although the drizzle made the way slippery and our steps unsure, the knowledge and intuition we had acquired on our way up nevertheless served us well on our way back down. Rocks that had once seemed foreboding now served as landmarks, and the signs that had counted up from one to ten now accompanied us down as friendly faces along a well-worn path. Being familiar with the terrain made it easier to appreciate the beauty around us. More and more, I can also feel this coming true for my other ‘landscapes’ here in Argentina.

By evening we arrived back at the same place where we had started—our campsite—but we now saw it with new eyes. It was still our home, but because of our journey we could better appreciate its position in relation to its greater surroundings. It was just a day hike, but I hope that our rapidly approaching return to the United States will likewise live up to the words of T.S. Eliot:

With the drawing of this Love and the voice of this Calling
We shall not cease from exploration
And the end of all our exploring
Will be to arrive where we started
And know the place for the first time.

Heading South

It’s approximately 10:00 PM—13 hours in to our trip. Through the window on the right-hand of the bus, I watch the majestic sunset paint glowing orange and purple stripes over the bare Patagonian landscape. I take a deep breath and shift in my seat, knowing that in just a few short hours, that same sun will reappear on my left. I begin to doze off as my mind tries to comprehend the
dimensions of this cosmic tango.

In general, I found that traveling by bus over so much terrain gives a person a special sense of perspective that is hard to come by via any other means of travel. When you fly, for example, you cover so much ground so quickly that it can even be disorienting; you can fall asleep over New York and wake up several hours later in Madrid. But when you’re on the 23rd hour of a thirty-hour bus ride—when your back has absorbed each bump along the journey—you start to appreciate the sheer hugeness of the world you’re traveling across.

In a bus, you travel fast enough to cover a lot of ground, but slow enough to appreciate what you’re seeing: the vast expanses of land, dotted every now and then by a house or a horse or an undulating oil well. The high mountain snow melting slowly but surely enough to feed crystalline creeks and serene azure lakes. The elegant, polyrhythmic dance of the sun, moon and stars. In this sense, I found this trip to be a profoundly humbling experience.

Staring out the window as the landscapes melt slowly one into another, one appreciates the enormity of the world. In these moments, it’s hard not to think about God—who else could have created something so huge? It makes you feel insignificant in view of the His awesome creative power. But at the same time, the Gospel tells us that we are not insignificant, but rather that each and every one of us is immensely important to God. He created each one of us out of love—a love that He proved in Jesus’ sacrifice—and He yearns for us to spread His light in this world of darkness.

As we ascend into the snowy cordillera, my iPod randomly chooses a movement from one of Beethoven’s symphonies, and the music seems to echo forth from the mountains themselves. I lose myself in the moment, which leaves me with the following insight:

It is foolish to think that you will change the world alone; that is hubris, and you are setting yourself up for disappointment. Rather, we ought to go about our work peacefully and contently, with faith that it is part of a greater project that is not accidental and is indeed going somewhere.

We are like musicians in a huge orchestra: while from our perspective our individual parts may seem small or incomplete, only the conductor can see all of the music (in fact, He wrote it!) and we must have faith that He will direct it toward a harmonious whole.

Even though we may not always hit all the right notes, it is up to us to play our parts—no matter how humble they may seem—as well as we possibly can.

Things I didn’t know about Christmas

(that I Iearned from hanging out with kids at church and working on this year’s Christmas pageant)

-Baby Jesus’ visitors included “Santa”, “my uncle”, and—my favorite—“Jesus”.

-Angels make ghost noises when they fly—“oooooo”—and attack Joseph in his sleep.

-When Mary tells Joseph she’s pregnant, he looks at her and exclaims “WHAT?!?”

Do you see what I see?

My favorite Christmas song has always been “Do you hear what I hear?”, especially the part where we sing, “Pray for peace, people everywhere”. Because if everyeone in the world (and I mean everyone) were to drop what they are doing right now—working, fighting, worrying, watching TV—to pray for peace, it would actually work; it’s hard to inflict harm on someone when you’re praying. The mental image of that happening, even just for a moment, always gives me goosebumps. Makes me think of swords being beaten into plowshares (Isaiah 2:4).

My favorite version of this song is by Todd Agnew, who adds a short but insightful interlude:

A star, a star, shining in the night:
How does this look from so high?

A shepherd boy, shivering with fright:
How does this look to your eyes?

A king to come, so far and oh so wise:
Are you ready for your surprise?

And God on high, paying such a price:
Giving your Son for His bride!

I especially love the line about the king: following a mysterious star, expecting great splendor and circumstance; I can imagine his surprise when he finds a dirty manger with a humble baby.

Agnew actually has an entire Christmas album called “Do you see what I see?”, which attempts to open up the story of Jesus’ birth by imagining what it might have looked like from the perspectives of other people who were there. He even wrote a song about the inn-keeper, who’s stressed from being overworked, and doesn’t have time for this poor, pregnant couple and their baby. She has no idea that, in turning a blind eye to their suffering, she is actually ‘blowing off’ the son of God. How many times do we do the same?

More feasting--this time Greek

Argentine food is delicious, but it's also very plain, and I often find myself craving something that's not pizza, empanadas, or mountains of grilled meat. So it was with great joy and thanksgiving that I found a Greek food store on my home this week. I grabbed a few items from the counter, which turned out to be spiced meat on a pita, chicken with vegetables wrapped in flat bread, and two little desserts with feta cheese and brown sugar. It definitely satisfied my mounting craving for something 'outside of the box.' And even though I ate it fast because I was hungry, I nevertheless enjoyed it and 'feasted' on it as a gift from God.

It cost fifteen pesos. I didn't have to do that. I could have bought something cheaper and used the extra money to help the poor. And I had the whole train ride home to think about it. This my inner monologue: was it wrong for me to 'waste' money on that food, which brought me so much joy? Which I experienced, gratefully, as a gift from God? Three months ago, the question wouldn't even have occurred to me. Now I find myself asking how much is enough of myself to give, and how much am I willing to sacrifice?

God asks for nothing short of everything. And I want to give it. But how do I do that? What does that mean? If I'm going to eat, I need money in my pocket. On the other hand, if I cling to everything I have, even if I proclaim it as God's blessings, I lack love.

Where is the line, therefore, between being blessed and being a blessing?