“America is comfortable, but Haiti is alive.” I’ve been pondering this lately. It’s a quote from one of the teenagers on our last Haiti team after their reintroduction to life Stateside. I’ve decided I agree.
In America, we get our food at Dairy Queen in less than two hours - sometimes less than two minutes. Our roads in our capitol cities are paved. We have freezers. We have coffee makers. We have Skittles and crunchy peanut butter and gel pens.
Haiti is different. Haiti is hot. The only time you’re even remotely cold is when you’re taking a shower in unheated water. The roads to even the nicest resorts are full of potholes. It stinks. Somehow the city has managed to maintain both poverty and pollution. The Internet connection is inconveniently iffy. It’s impossible to find strawberries.
Haiti’s not very comfortable. But it most certainly is alive. They sang in the streets after the earthquake. Churches meet in the streets still. They hold services till midnight. They don’t even stop singing if the power goes out. Children dance in the aisles. Adults raise their hands and get on their knees.
So. If we are comfortable, and they are uncomfortable . . . are they alive, and we are un-alive?
I don’t know, it’s almost like they’ve discovered something - some deep, hidden secret - that’s been too slippery for our fingers.
I saw the secret in Gyver, the 14-year old preacher. What would he have been like if he grew up in the States? With video games, facebook, movies, and air conditioning? He’d be a good kid, sure. But would he be on fire for Jesus, so passionate about his Savior that you can’t even ask him how his day has been without getting a 45-minute sermon? How many Gyver's are hiding in our midst, buried under too much TV? Gyver’s not comfortable. He’s a fatherless teenager who lives in a tent. But Gyver is alive.
I saw the secret in Pierre, one of our translators. Pierre is a pastor in Haiti - a pastor who works for free. If he was in the States, he could get a paying position, drive a nice car, shepherd a large congregation. If he was in the States, his congregation might actually have a roof over their heads. Pierre's church in Haiti meets in the streets. The mission God's given them is to go into the tent cities and find families they can give houses to. How many Pierre's are hiding in our midst, buried under too much money? Pierre's not comfortable. He can't even afford to buy a refrigerator for his wife. But Pierre is alive.
I saw the secret in Jeff, my favorite blind boy. The only blind boy I’ve ever known. If Jeff was in America, he might not be blind at all. He lost his sight one eye at a time, separated by a span of four years. Perhaps his blindness was treatable; perhaps it was preventable. Even if it wasn’t, Jeff could have learned Braille, gone to a school for the blind, probably even gotten a job. He wants to be a pastor in Haiti. He can’t read the Bible, and he wants to be a pastor. I heard him quote verses to a group of American teens. When they asked him how he knew so much Scripture, he said God had given him a gift for remembering. How many Jeff's are hiding in our midst, buried under too much safety? Jeff’s not comfortable. He’s a blind boy who can’t read. But Jeff is alive.
We’ve got more comfort. They’ve got more life. That’s basically what it boils down to. So, what would it take to give us more life? . . . What would it take to give them more comfort?
Perhaps the answer to both questions is the same.
“One thing you lack,” Jesus said. “Go, sell everything you have and give to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven. Then come, follow Me.”
