Strawberry Fields

Before and during the Great depression, my grandfather, William Emmitt Newell, was a small truck farmer, living and growing his crops in the red dirt near Marion, Mississippi, just outside of the Queen City of Meridian. Grand-daddy raised turnips, tomatoes, potatoes and corn, gathered fresh eggs and sold chickens to city folks who missed the farm and its load of special treats.

Somewhere along the way, Grand-daddy, along with his brothers and some other small farmers in the area, decided to get into the strawberry business. With large families, the Newells always had plenty of help in planting, tending and harvesting this cash crop. Although sex-role designations of the day usually steered girls to indoor work, an exception was made in the matter of sweaty strawberry cultivation; my father and every one of his nine siblings had a hoe and a row and everyone was expected to hoe rows of strawberries!

When the juicy red berries, which my aunt named Marion Beauties, were ready for harvest, they would collect them, place them in those small, wooden crates, affix the prized Marion Beauty label for which the Newell boys (Grand-daddy and his brothers) were known, put them in the back of a Model T (which had been converted into a truck) and take them to the nearby railroad spur. Within a day, the strawberries were usually loaded on a large, un-air-conditioned railcar that waited at the spur and, later, connected to a train such as the M&O (Mobile & Ohio) which was headed off to market in St. Louis and elsewhere. On another occasion, I’ll tell you about the time the train didn’t show up on time and the Newell boys’ strawberries spoiled during the wait.

Although strawberry production is ancient, modern strawberry farms were introduced in Greece during the 1960s in the northern section of the country. Over the years, cultivation on a large scale has extended to the south, developing especially in the Peloponnese.  Today, in Greece, strawberries are grown on large farms and harvested by immigrant laborers from nearby Balkan countries, as well as countries in Southern Asia and Northern Africa.

Recently, in the strawberry producing area of Manolada in Greece, nearly thirty immigrant workers were beaten and two were killed when they stood up to their bosses and demanded to be paid. Strawberry growers allegedly opened fire on the unarmed protestors who asked for a paycheck after working without pay for six months. It is an open secret that, in exchange for the tiring job of strawberry cultivation, workers are forced to live in long, low, unventilated sheds, required to pay rent to their employers and rarely compensated for their labor. Since many of the workers are undocumented, the bosses expect that they can exploit them for profit with impunity. This is another form of human slavery practiced, often with government turning a blind eye, in this part of the world.

In November, 1966, the Beatles recorded a song written by John Lennon, entitled Strawberry Fields. Most Beatle-ologists now believe that John was recalling and reflecting on his personal sense of not fitting-in, from his childhood. Strawberry Field, the Salvation Army orphanage located on Beaconsfield Road in Woolton, Liverpool, England was the site of a much-loved annual fair, attended by John with his Aunt Mimi, following the untimely death of his mother. In the woods nearby, the shy little John often played alone, perhaps finding solace from the trauma and upsets of his timid, tiny world. If this song is featured prominently in the Sgt. Pepper’s Lonely Hearts Club Band album, which seems to deal with a return to childhood, perhaps John was expressing his own sense of early estrangement from the ordinary world.

John seems to have discovered a desperate, personal coping mechanism for life’s confusions when he says, “Living is easy with eyes closed, misunderstanding all you see.” But, he also gives voice to his personal angst with the line, “it’s getting harder to be someone.” Acknowledging a potent sense of isolation and estrangement, he admits, “No one I think is in my tree, I mean it must be high or low.” Repeatedly, in denial and escapist lyrics, Lennon counsels that the struggles of Strawberry Fields are, “nothing to get up about,” because, “nothing is real,” suggesting that his only recourse was to cower inside himself, in this self-imposed pretense.

I wonder how my Grand-daddy, that uneducated, but supremely ethical and honest man and devoted follower of Jesus Christ, might feel about the treatment of strawberry workers in Greece? I wonder if my father, a one-time strawberry picker, sincere Christian and deacon in his Baptist church, would identify with strawberry workers and insist that they be paid for their labor. I wonder if, like the imaginative John Lennon, my Grand-daddy and my Pop would tell me to close my eyes and pretend that “nothing is real?” I wonder ….    

Going to Church and Growing Older!

He was a friend of advanced age and faltering health. I was his Pastor, making what I thought was a routine home visit. Before his health had gone south, he had easily found other activities more inviting than church attendance. As he told me about his deteriorating strength and the recent word from his doctor that his time on this earth was short, I moved physically and emotionally closer to him; all of my training and my caring instincts signaled that he was about to tell me something that he felt was profoundly meaningful.

When I gave him freedom to express himself, he said, “Well, preacher, I guess I’ll need to get back to church. I’m even thinking about returning to that men’s Bible study class I used to attend.” “Why is that?” I responded, in my best client-centered counseling style. He looked at me as if this should have been evident to any man of the cloth and nearly shouted, “I’ll need someone to carry my casket when I die!”

Long ago, I was taught that religiosity persists when it provides either meaning or belonging or both. I recalled this anecdote recently when I heard the report of new research on the impact of loneliness and social isolation on human health (http://www.wbur.org/npr/175283008/maybe-isolation-not-loneliness-shortens-life). Scholars at University College, London based their work on a substantial body of research which has long shown that both loneliness and infrequent human contact can shorten one’s life and actually make one sick. The scientists expected to find that, when combined, these two risk factors would be especially dangerous.

Researcher Andrew Steptoe reported a surprising conclusion to his study: “Both social isolation and loneliness appeared initially to be associated with a greater risk of dying. But, it was really the isolation which was more important.” While persons with greater levels of loneliness are apparently more likely to die, it is also true that they are more likely to have other risk factors, like being poor and having chronic health problems. When these factors are controlled, however, the added risk associated with being lonely disappears, according to Steptoe’s research.

On the other hand, people who invest less time with family or friends or at meaningful social events are significantly more likely to die, regardless of income or health status. While it is a fact that loneliness among the aged hurts, actual social isolation is much more likely to kill!

If every person defines loneliness differently, it is also true that individuals have varying tolerances for it. Self-definitions of loneliness may be changing in the Internet age. Social isolation, on the other hand, is a more stable and more easily defined social reality, less influenced by subjective definition, remaining far more powerful. The rise of social networking may tempt some to believe that they are connected with others; thus, they are less likely to report themselves as lonely. But the lack of actual, human-to-human social intercourse, no matter how temporarily obscured by electronic connectivity, remains a powerful detriment to human well-being. Lack of meaningful interaction with others seems to be a causative factor in increases in both mortality and morbidity.

Miraculous drugs promise longer lifespans and contemporary cyber capacity may impart a fleeting sense of community and connective relief from isolation and loneliness. It remains true, however, that nothing enhances life’s health like ongoing, actual and affirming interactions with human beings around significant shared world views. Obviously, interacting with real persons in a supportive atmosphere has practical benefits; it can provide assistance in such everyday aging concerns as monitoring health symptoms, securing attention by health professionals and finding meaningful pursuits that help one to focus on other than personal problems. But something else seems to be at work here. Actual social interaction appears to enhance overall health and to encourage the will to live.

So, in the final analysis, lining up potential pall bearers may not be the only reason to return to church in one’s golden years. Early in the Bible, we are told that “It is not good for the man to be alone.” (Genesis 2:18a, NIV) Beyond the comfort of beliefs about the hereafter, the reflection on life’s (and death’s) absolutes and the investment in meaningful causes and younger generations, seniors may actually receive many here-and-now blessings by regular social interaction through church worship attendance and even by returning to Sunday School!

See you at church next Sunday!

 

The King Under the Car Park!

Some British scholars have long suspicioned that one of their former kings was buried beneath a modern parking lot. After much research by the University of Leicester, it was recently confirmed that, indeed, the remains unearthed there were those of Richard III, the last Plantagenet King of England. About 100 miles north of London, a group known as the Richard III Society recently and proudly proclaimed that DNA records from a distant relative now confirm that an excavated skeleton once held the body and bluster of the former king from the fifteenth century.

Richard Three was mortally wounded in the Battle of Bosworth, the last great skirmish over the crown in the War of the Roses. The dead or dying Richard was flung naked across a horse and carried back to Leicester. Sometime after his death, his remains ended up buried in the local church. Not long thereafter, Henry the Eighth trashed the church and, in current time, that very sacred space has become a profane parking lot.

Modern-day archaeologists unearthed the skeleton in an earlier dig. Since Richard III had scoliosis and since the skeleton evidences a curved spine, secondary proof provides additional confirmation to the DNA verification. Apparently, poor Richard had his buttocks punctured and his head decapitated, likely due to the nasty and symbolic acts of his enemies in the immediate post-battle celebrations surrounding the death of the monarch. There is now a plan afoot to reinter the royal remains within the currently sacred space of Leicester Cathedral, an American football field’s length from the current car park.

This scenario got me to thinking about the fickleness of human fate, the transient nature of social geography and the limited potency of once-powerful earthly institutions. Kings and potentates, especially in conflict-ridden lands and times often conclude their lives in very un-royal circumstances. Remember the once imperial, egregiously powerful and fabulously wealthy Saddam Hussein, who ended up hiding, like a rat, in an underground Iraqi hole in the ground, with some unused jockey shorts as his only treasure? But, I have also seen similar things happen among the un-royal. As the one-time Pastor of a church located in the wealthiest zip-code in Houston, Texas, where dirt still sells for at least a $1 million an acre, I witnessed, up-close, the final state of some very rich and powerful people. I can attest to the reality that times change, power is fleeting, even lots of money is no guarantee of long-term dignity and, of course, death comes to all of us. A once-proud and powerful king buried beneath a common, utilitarian slab of asphalt or a once-sacred space that now is striped so that people can park their motorcars and “pay & display” – these are but parables of what happens to every one of us and much of the terra-firma that is hardly as firm as we would like to believe.

All of this got me to thinking, not so much about real estate gentrification or decline, but about what “permanent footprint” I and my cherished institutions should aim to leave on this planet. If the ecological people have alerted us, and rightly so, to the effects of our individual and corporate “carbon footprints” which we leave on the earth’s surface, I am wondering, today about the emotional, ethical, moral or historical “footprint” I and my family, my church, business or school should aim to leave behind. Knowing that, someday, like old Richard Three, most of what I have worked hard to build, as well as my time-worn and battle-scarred bones will be erased or entombed somewhere in a humble, dark and unrecognizable place, what evidence that I once lived do I want to remain?  What, indeed, do I wish to leave behind as a legacy?

As I reflect seriously on these existential and indeed extraterrestrial questions, I am convinced that most people actually care little about a fancy gravesite or an elaborate marker representing their lives or institutional efforts. Despite messianic visions and selfish needs to make an impact or to leave a “mark” on this old world, our powers are actually quite limited and our time is always shorter and less than we want to admit. How about you? What are you up to in the “here and now” that has a “snowball’s chance” of being significant, beyond the ravages of time? What message would you aspire to “shout out” from beneath the car park?

Lucy, Hizzonor and Me!

“Back in the day,” when Lucy got into trouble, as she nearly always did, Desi would eventually come home from work, enter the apartment and you knew exactly just what he was going to say when he discovered one of his wife’s misadventures. With that heavy, Cuban-accented English, the handsome band-leader would look directly into the frightened eyes of his zany, red-headed, madcap wife and say: “Lucy! You’ve got some splainin’ to do!”

I thought about that classic, memorable phrase from fifties sit-com television recently. It popped into my head in the middle of a report on the death of controversial and outspoken former Mayor of New York City, Ed Koch. In the retrospective on Koch’s political career and the review of some of his notable, acerbic, public comments, one of his infamous Koch-isms jumped out at me. The Mayor is reported to have often said to those opposed to one of his positions: “I can explain it to you, but I can’t comprehend it for you!”

While I’m not ready to endorse all of the colorful lines of the former mayor, who often yelled out his limousine window to New Yorkers on the street the question, “How am I doing?”’ he actually was quite close to saying something absolutely profound about interpersonal communication. He almost artfully articulated two essential and practical components of healthy interpersonal interaction. With what some may perceive as naïve impertinence, I herein dare to tweak or redact hizzonor, guided by a sincere respect for the recently-deceased elected official, but also by a desire to advance the dialogue.

Yes, Mr. Mayor, it is indispensable for one to splain oneself. Desi and I would agree. And, you are also correct that, no matter how well-done the explanation, genuine and effective communication between persons doesn’t happen until or unless the other chooses to work hard to comprehend the message that is being sent. We should always ask those with whom we disagree “How am I doing?” on that. And (here I try to enhance the mayor’s line), healthy comprehension of another’s position must be done from the point of view of the message-sender. You are correct, Mr. Koch, that no one can comprehend for another. But genuine hearing of the message, especially on difficult subjects, only happens when both sides strive to comprehend, not only from their own point of view, but from the perspective of the other.

This is what I hear, these days, when folks refer to someone who may disagree with them as just not getting it. Perhaps that is what many moderns mean when they say, about a particular point of view, “I get that!” By the way; I am not focusing here on any one particular subject about which we might tend to disagree. Choose any of the many issues that increasingly have come to divide our world and have resulted in so much rancorous polarization in fields such as economics, politics, religion, child-rearing, the shape of the family, law-enforcement, fracking, climate-change or even the entertainment industry.

Run a little experiment. Check it out for yourself. Are those with whom you are in disagreement capable of splainin’ themselves? On the other hand, are you competent to splain your own contrarian views? Do you seek first to understand, then to be understood? And, most importantly, are you willing to crawl into the perspective of the other and comprehend it from behind the eyes, from his or her point of view?

I often see this process unsuccessfully struggling to work itself out in the ceaseless ranting that now routinely passes for communication on Face Book and other ostensibly high-tech methods of personal or political advocacy. Sadly, there is precious little splainin’ by those who vociferously promote a cherished position and seek to convert others to their personal side. Because so much vitriolic advocacy these days appeals subtly to our fears, I suspect that many are unable to explain their positions because they have been swept along by an emotional torrent that allows for little introspection and rational analysis. What results is a kind of knee-jerk reaction which further eschews serious consideration and drives directly to ever-more-simplistic conclusions, where the issue easily gets personalized and a spokesperson for the opposite view is depicted as evil incarnate. Likewise, anyone else who disagrees is also demonized. Because it is so easy to hit the “Like” button or to share someone else’s language, swept away in our Irrational fears, we are often enticed simply to borrow someone else’s rhetoric or to be carried along by the emotional undercurrent of a frightening but persuasive presentation.

In the end, like Lucy, I must take responsibility for splainin’ myself; and, with the Mayor, I must do the hard work of comprehending. But, also, in the audacity of this (humble-but-accurate) blog-writer, I must also take on the perspective of the other guy to the extent that, whether or not in the end, I agree, I get it. Sadly, too often I am afraid to risk examining my own hidden fears and unexamined motives for accepting or rejecting a particular position, I can neither splain my own stance well or get what the other person is advocating.

I’m trying hard to splain myself. Do you get it? How am I doing?

Dona's Desire!

She honored her teacher and the others in her English-as-a-Foreign-Language class by working hard to prepare a verbal presentation. It was November 28, 2012, the day that we would celebrate a century of freedom for her native land, Albania. During the class break, when many at PORTA – the Albania House in Athens were celebrating with soft drinks, cookies, flag-raising and home-made treats, she told me that she would offer a presentation to her upper-level class after the break; I asked her not to do it until I could return from similar celebrations that were happening downstairs.

When I returned to her classroom, Andrew, her teacher, asked, “Dona, did you have something special that you wanted to present?” Her eyes darted about with some anxiety as she said, “Yes,” looking nervously at the notes she had written in pencil in her notebook. With an inner bravery that likely has conquered her fears on many occasions, she began to speak, looking directly at me; it was as if she wanted me, uniquely, to understand her story and as though this telling was intended as a special gift for me. With hard-earned English fluency, she struggled a bit, always teachably accepting the slight corrections to grammar, syntax or word choice offered by her teacher and her fellow English-language learners. She never lost the open, responsive spirit typical of a good language-learner, despite her powerful desire to tell her story.

She reminded me that she had taken this independent initiative to do this unassigned project following an exhausting day on the job, despite the reality of her weariness from work. All of our adult Albanian students are tired after their work - if they are fortunate enough to have a job. But Dona was determined to write-out and practice in English this special talk. The celebration of her motherland’s day of independence and its freedom from external domination is important to her. And she sincerely wanted to tell her treasured story in my native tongue.

Dona’s contribution was more than just a demonstration of a growing conversational English competency. It was more than an exhibit in cross-cultural communication. It was even more than an illustration of the powerful desire for human freedom for all peoples. Dona illustrated why we teach English-as-a-Foreign-Language to at least one hundred Albanians during every session at PORTA. We want Albanians to speak the English language, of course, to widen the world of opportunity for them. But, what is more, we want Albanians to be able to verbalize what is important to them, to articulate the deepest treasures of their hearts and their most prized values.

Thanks, Dona, for doing just that!  

Immigrant Jesus!

It was the final session of the term and the students in the Level One, English-as-a-Foreign-Language class had convinced their teacher to have a party. Although it usually doesn’t take much to get this particular teacher, (or any Albanian, really) to a party, the plan was to study for an hour and then, to have a Christmas party. Janice and I planned our schedule so that we could show up in time for the celebration.

As soon as our vehicle turned on to Dikaiou Street, where PORTA – the Albania House in Athens is located, we could hear the lively music, blaring away. Because this first-year class is larger than most, we offer it in the Gallery, where Albanian artists often display their works. A professional trio (clarinet, accordion & guitar) was providing the music and “the joint was rockin!”

As is too often the case, when we arrived, these adult students showed far too much deference to us, hurriedly making a space of honor for us at the head table. From out of nowhere, plates of delicious, home-cooked food began to appear for us. Raki, the traditional Albanian “home brew” was served and we did lots of toasting, all around.

Before us was an exultant crowd, dancing, partying and enjoying each other. Janice and I have come to know most of these people only since the beginning of the school year. I recognized that they come from a variety of backgrounds. Back in their home country, some were doctors, engineers and professional people, while others did not complete high school. Some have ancestral links to the historic Roman Catholicism of the north of Albania, the traditional Orthodox Christianity of the south or to the Islamic or Bektashi faith traditions from throughout the country. But today, few if any of them have any sort of personal faith of any kind, owing to the fact that, for half a century, their homeland was dominated by a dictatorial, radical, Communist ideology which required them to live as though there is no God. What unites these Albanians is that all are immigrants in Greece; they have come here in search of a better life, despite the reality that Greece historically, has been antagonistic toward immigrants - most especially Albanian immigrants.

The other feature that fuses these good people is that, despite their differing backgrounds, each has found help, hope and wholesomeness through PORTA. At a time in Greece when these qualities are in short supply, PORTA has literally been an open door of opportunity. Indeed, when Edi Rama, the former Mayor of the capital city of Tirana, Albania and the Albanian Socialist Party’s nominee for Prime Minister was recently in Athens, he referred to PORTA as “a bright, shining light for Albanian immigrants in Athens!”

When the music ceased and I rose to make an extemporaneous speech to this disparate, partying crowd, my mind raced as I thought about my improvised remarks, in this context. Albanians are tolerant of my limited fluency in Shqip, their traditional language. But, my anxiousness had more to do with content and context, than language.

We work hard at PORTA to respect all who come through its doors. Albanians know that we have come to them in the name of Jezusi. They understand that, although PORTA’s program includes many things, every, single thing that we do, we do to honor Jezusi! They also understand that we strongly believe in spiritual freedom and that we never attempt to push our faith on them. They know that we always want them to be free to decide for themselves where to place their personal faith. But the party was a Christmas party and I felt an honest urge to speak about what English-speakers sometimes refer to as “the reason for the season!”

But how does one speak of Jesus to a group of people with little apparent need for or interest in religion and even less information about him? I reminded these friends that, like them, Jesus came from an immigrant and oppressed family. Joseph & Mary were forced to abandon the familiar comforts of home at an awkward and inconvenient time when, under the pressure of a tyrannical, foreign government, they left Nazareth and travelled by foot to a destination that must have seemed a lifetime away from familiarity. Although Christians piously sing about this “little town of Bethlehem,” for them it surely must have been a strange place, where they found themselves not belonging, perhaps unprepared, surely unable to secure lodging, certainly unwelcome and definitely required to register for the patently unfair purpose of paying egregious taxes Even before any post-partum adaptations, the fragile, holy family, including the only recently-circumcised, infant Jesus, was coerced into becoming impromptu immigrants again and exiles-on-the-run, when they fled to Egypt, to escape the tyranny of Herod’s imposed, yet insecure power.

Despite the fact that most of these adults have little prior acquaintance with Jesus, my Albanian friends showed an almost immediate empathy and understanding, as I described Joseph’s family and the newborn Jesus in this fashion. The looks on their faces suggested that they had found a painful point of personal connection with this mysterious, incarnational narrative from long ago. They seemed to identify with Jesus and with his story, when described that way.

Of course, it was just one brief moment, followed quickly by the lonesome wail of an Albanian clarinet and the unspoken search for intimacy, hope and personal meaning embodied in traditional Balkan folk dancing. But, my sense was that the distant, bright-shining light from Bethlehem’s star had, once again, broken through the darkness. Hope so!

A Cross-Cultural Christmas

Since Thanksgiving Day is a foreign concept in the Balkans, it is easier to get in the “Christmas spirit” earlier here in Athens, Greece. As the usually mild, Mediterranean weather turns cooler and November stretches its long, skinny legs, we’re “putting up the tree” because 2012 will most certainly be our last Christmas as residents of Athens. We’ll be out of the country next Christmas and will be retired and back in the States for Christmas, 2014. To commemorate this 2012 milepost Christmas, we’ll welcome our adult sons and wives and will share this holiday time against the backdrop of the dominant cultures in which we do our work.

Christmas celebrations in Albanian culture are relatively new, at least from the perspective of recent history. Since the Apostle Paul preached the Gospel “as far as Illyria” and since Albanians are descendants of the Illyrians, they celebrated Christmas in some fashion from the beginning. But, thanks to 500 years of Ottoman domination, Christmas celebrations were replaced by Islamic traditions. Then, from the mid-twentieth century, Albania was ruled by a paranoid, isolationist, Communist dictator who insisted that there was no God; churches were closed and Christmas celebrations not allowed.

When we lived in Albania, despite the fact that Communism had fallen a decade earlier, a revisionist version of the holiday “myth” still remained. Ingeniously, the atheistic culture captured the essential social functions of a modern Christmas story and rewrote the script from a secular standpoint. By merging the popular Christmas Eve and New Year’s Eve narratives, children anticipate the arrival of the “Old Man of the New Year” - a cross between Father Time and Santa Claus - who brings gifts to good children. Since few Albanians are Christians, the Good News of the coming of the Christ Child in Bethlehem is celebrated by only a small number of Orthodox, Roman Catholic and evangelical believers in Albania.

Until recently, Christmas day in Greece was a minor holiday, when compared with Easter. The pervasiveness of the Orthodox Church, with its preference for celebrating the Feast of St. Nicholas, the patron saint of sailors (December 8), where presents are exchanged and the Feast of Epiphany (January 6), where young men dive into cold waters to retrieve a cross that has been blessed by a priest, makes December 25 less important.

On Christmas Eve and sometimes later, children travel from house to house, singing “kalanda,” Christmas carols. With small triangles and drums, they receive sweets, figs, nuts or coins. Greeks attend midnight mass and return home for a big family meal. Lamb and pork are roasted and “christopsomo” (Christ bread) is made in large, sweet loaves, with various shapes and decorations, reflecting the family profession. The main symbol of the season is a shallow bowl with wire suspended across the rim, from which hangs a sprig of basil wrapped around a wooden cross. Water is kept in the bowl. Once a day, the mother dips the cross and basil into holy water, sprinkling every room of the house, to keep away the “kilantzarof,” (bad spirits) which appear only during the 12-day period from Christmas to Epiphany.

In recent years, secular Christmas, with trees, Santa images, bright lights and retail sales has arrived in Greece. The largest Christmas tree in Europe is now erected in Syntaugma Square; unfortunately, due to riots, the tree was burned a couple of years ago!

When our kids come this Christmas, we'll attend the Christmas Eve service at our Greek Evangelical church and will sing hymns, read Luke’s account and hear the old, old story of how God loved us enough to come and dwell among us. In Greek, we’ll wish them “Kala Christougenna” and in Albanian, we’ll say ““Gezuar Kristelindje!” “Merry Christmas!”