Listening

It´s a primary task of a servant leader, of a Christian wanting to live and work as Jesus did, and of a good friend. It´s part of my job back in Wisconsin, and it´s certainly what I want to do here in Central America. I mentioned in another entry, I think, that people speak English in many places I´ve visited so far, and it´s been easy to listen in those places. I understand what I´m hearing, and just by virtue of sharing the same language, I seem to have permission to ask questions.

It´s different when the language isn´t shared. I may very well be able to form the initial question in Spanish, and I may even understand the general message of the response. My fear is that I wouldn´t understand enough of the message to respond well ... with an appropriate emotional response or a follow up question that would indicate that the other person has been heard and understood. This matters when the topics are casual things such as the weather, holidays, or the movies. It matters with less casual topics, such as family, the work of the Church, and government policies and practices. It matters most -- and I feel the weight of it greatest -- when the conversation is about fears and failures, hopes and asperations, and visions of God´s reign in the world.

I carry in my heart the weight of my inability to listen particularly to the victims of nemagon poisoning. I wanted very much to spend time with the people who live in the shantytown I mentioned in my first entry about Managua. They´ve been living there for five years, a protest for the use of the pesticide that has left hundreds of people dying, without compensation, recourse, or hope. There´s no missing this shanty town. You can´t get the mall without passing it ... and right across the street is a project constructing houses that will be used by government officials. The injustice is blatant! The disregard for human dignity and life is palpable! And the United States´role in it is ... well, I don´t know a word strong enough to finish that sentence.

I wanted to hear the stories of these men, women and children who live under shelter no more sturdy or permanent than too-worn tarp or old black plastic garbage bags. I wanted to hear the stories I can´t read on the internet (even if I could find a recent update!). I wanted to hear them, and I wanted them to know they´ve been heard.

What I hear well is Scripture. It speaks to me clearly. Sometimes it speaks the words I need to hear for myself -- words of hope, mercy, and direction. Sometimes the words are those my soul can´t summon to my brain, words that would express my thoughts and feelings in a way that I could share them with others. And sometimes, the words are those I can imagine others saying ... praying. Psalm 44: 23-26 is a resounding example of the latter, as I hear the protesters lament:

Awake, O Lord! Why do you sleep?
Rouse yourself! Do not reject us forever.
Why do you hide your face
and forget our misery and oppression?
We are brought down to the dust;
our bodies cling to the ground.
Rise up and help us;
redeem us because of your unfailing love.

My only consolation is that God hears, listens, and responds infinitely greater than I ... and without fail. What I´m left to do is learn the language that closes the communication gap. I pray that my mind and heart are open enough so all that´s left to be opened are my ears.

Please God, let it be so.