The Camp

Our group drove in a single vehicle, carefully maneuvering the narrow streets. The slush-like snow coated the landscape, giving a dreary appearance and making driving a challenge. I'd volunteered to accompany a humanitarian group to a refugee camp in Eastern Europe to learn what was happening in this part of the world and how I could help, and honestly I had no idea what to expect. I wondered what I was getting into and thought about the apparent futility of human effort. Millions of Syrians were fleeing their homes with no set destination or definite means of survival. The term "refugee" had almost exclusively come to mean Syrian refugees, and it seemed that everyone was talking about it and few were taking action. I had no idea what to do myself, but I felt I had to do something.

The Russian essayist Fyodor Dostoevsky wrote, "To live without hope is to cease to live", and I wondered when exactly we humans lose hope. Is it when we see the debris and flames out the window, knowing it's just a matter of time before we pack our belongings and leave? Does it happen as we hug a loved one goodbye, knowing we must leave town while they must stay? Does it happen when we try to escape across the border for the third time and are turned away? How does hope find its way to the brokenhearted and misplaced?

 I was roused from my musing as our van pulled into the cement parking lot in front of the camp. A handful of youth kicked a ragged soccer ball, backing away as we walked up to the building I was acutely aware of how out of place we seemed and wished I had dressed more plainly. Evan*, the leader of our group, asked for the camp director, and a few minutes later the robust, eager man walked up to us and shook hands with us. He talked with Evan for a few minutes in a language I couldn't understand, and then Evan turned to me, saying, “He's asking if you could play your violin now.” I looked down at my hands, cold and stiff, and stuck them in my pockets to warm them. 

The director led us into the building, a weathered gray-brown cement complex. I tried to ignore the peeling paint, moldy corners, and merciless cold. As we passed the staircase, water dripped down the cement and pooled at our feet. “They're scrubbing the bathrooms upstairs,” the director said. I shuddered at the endless possibilities for sickness given the lack of health care, immunizations, proper nutrition, and immunity, especially during the cold winter months. We turned several corners into a large gathering room, bare except for several stacks of plastic chairs. While the rest of the volunteers arranged the chairs in rows, I tuned my violin and warmed my hands. I glanced out the window and watched the clouds break and sunlight gently hit the cold cement floor, dust particles dancing in the rays of light.

Turning around to face my audience, I caught my breath at the number of refugees in the room. The older men stood in clusters closer to the doors and the women and children sat quietly in plastic chairs. I caught the eyes of several little ones sitting with their mothers. Their faces were so beautiful, I thought. Full of promise and innocence despite the hardships they faced so early in their lives. I took deep breath and lifted the instrument to my shoulder, closing my eyes. I played melodies of yearning, of desire, of forgotten times. I played lilting jigs and dances. I played Middle Eastern tunes I'd heard from a movie. And then I heard clapping. Looking up as I played, some of the listeners were standing and clapping to the music. More joined in, stomping their feet to the rhythm. I smiled and picked up the beat, thrilled to have engaged the audience. Children shyly left their seats and danced. Did I catch a smile in their eyes?

 I cannot say for how long I played, but it must have been an hour at least. I didn't want to stop and lose the moment, the suspension of time. The union of cultures, the togetherness. With full hearts, my group left the refugee camp later that evening after distributing relief items. The clouds had broken and a handful of stars glimmered in the night sky. It seemed that I had touched infinity in the moments while I played for the refugees.

This isn't about heroism in humanitarian work or how great the West is. Perhaps I would never feed enough hungry people, or help them find their loved ones, or fix their documentation issues that prevent them from crossing the borders into new countries, new lives. While all these are vital parts to alleviating the crisis, there is a beauty in simplicity and sometimes even the smallest contributions have great impact. What the music did for their spirits is beyond my knowledge, but I dare not forget their glimmering eyes.

Hearing His Calling

   

Expectations for Christmas break with my family overseas involved exploring local coffee shops, photographing the beautiful architecture, hiking in the mountains, and enjoying catching up on sleep. I got that, and much more. I did not realize the extent to which God would open doors for me to get a glimpse of the devastating conditions that the poor in the world live in. I wasn't prepared to see children digging in the trash bins for plastic to sell to provide for their families. I didn't know about the tension between ethnic groups that caused the unfair treatment of the poor. I didn't know what to do about the beggar I passed every five minutes. I found myself speed walking past them when I didn't have cash. The reality of poverty came over me in waves, overwhelming and confusing. It's not that I haven't experienced this before, but you begin to see it in a new light when you consider Jesus' ministry. The Son of God went to the misfits, the beggars, the children, the sick, the prostitutes, the tax collectors. Everyone that Christian culture seems to keep at an arm's length and use hand sanitizer after encountering. We've somehow bought into the idea that a quick-pop missions trip or sending money with missionaries is all that we can do. Now, I'm not saying that either of these things aren't helping; they are a wonderful way of serving. But I think that Jesus calls us to something more - something tremendously uncomfortable and sacrificial and wonderful - if we can hear Him calling in the streets, see Him in the faces of the desperate.



       The early Christians wrote that when they did not have enough food to share with the hungry people at their door, the entire community would fast until everyone could share a meal together. I think there's something key about this: they saw each other as brothers and sisters, and did not want to experience blessing while neglecting their Christian family. Somehow along the way, we have forgotten that God blesses us so we can bless others. Like the master who entrusted his servant with money and expected him to put it to good use, our resources are not our own. In his book "Radical", David Platt writes that the Church is prone to "blind spots" - serious moral, ethical, or spiritual dilemmas that we do not recognize until much later, after we could have done something about it but didn't. Like slavery in the 19th century. Platt states that the Church today has been captured by wealth and prosperity, building up "a kingdom on earth" instead of practicing extravagant giving and caring for the poor. So here I am, trying to figure out if I should even put money in the hat of the beggar I am walking by. It might buy him lunch, but he needs much more than that. This isn't my problem, but suddenly it is.

All I know is this: the stars that burn brightest are the ones that died thousands of years ago, and their light is still traveling through time and space. One day we're going to be six feet under, and most of the things we take so seriously now will not be remembered. That's the thing about life - nothing is long-lasting; wealth can be lost in an instant, and all temporary pleasures must end, being replaced with eternal joy of being in the presence of our Lord, if indeed we have experienced salvation in Jesus. He came to set us free, and commissions us to set others free. He entrusts us to spread His light around the world, to be His sacred messengers. Giving becomes more than our finances - we give ourselves. We joyfully hold nothing back from our Savior who gave His very self to us. In doing so, we become part of His incredible plan for the redemption of humanity, and, like the stars, can leave behind us a light that will burn long after we are gone.