Violence is something that a lot of people claim to understand; there are many anthropological and sociological studies about its causes. But, the truth of the matter is that violence is a mystery that comes with being human. I can’t say that I actually understand how violence works. What I can say, is that I am in search of a better understanding of violence in order to also understand peacemaking and conflict resolution. In most of the communities where we work, violence is a constant. What is interesting to me is the result of the violence I see: Internal violence usually ends in suicide and external violence usually ends in murder.

One sunny afternoon in 2005, my friend Brady (who is from Knoxville, TN) and I were hanging out with Clemente, Kevin, and other kids from a slum in zone 3, Guatemala City. Most of them teenagers between the ages of 13 and 19 years old, with the exception of five-year-old Rigo and his seven-year-old brother. Rigo and his brother were playing with marbles on the floor. Chepe and I were talking with the kids, cracking some jokes and having a good time laughing at the “gringo” with the funny accent. For some reason, one of the two brothers lost his marbles and wanted the other one to give him his. I assume Rigo was the one who had the marbles, but I do not know that for sure. Out of nowhere the atmosphere filled with violence and the next thing I saw was a fight between the two little kids.

I have seen kids fighting for toys before, but this time it was just vicious. Rigo’s brother was on top, with his fists closed, beating Rigo down. I do not even know if I have the words to describe the scene, but the fight was brutal. The guys we were hanging out with were fueling the fight, cheering and yelling “Come on! Come on! Harder! Harder!” Brady and I could not intervene. We did not know what to do. I was really afraid the little kids were going to hurt themselves for real. I did not know how to react and stop the fight. Somehow, Rigo made it out of the beat-down and saw his mom walking down the street. Dropping his marbles on the floor he ran as fast as he could to embrace his mom’s legs. He was looking for protection. For a moment I thought, thank God she just showed up, now I do not have to stop the fight! Amazingly, when Rigo hugged his mom’s legs, instead of finding care, security, and love he found a kick right into his belly and an angry voice yelling, “Don’t be such a pussy! Go fight your brother like a man! That is how you learn dumb ass!” I could not believe what my eyes were witnessing. It felt like being right in the middle of an intense Flannery O’Connor story.

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I lived in Tacoma, Washington for the last two years of my life (summer 2009-summer 2011.) I got a master’s degree in leadership (although I’m still not really sure what that means), held three teaching assistantships, and did an internship with the Center for Transforming Mission.  Now, I am back in Guatemala. I returned three months ago and I am continuing to re-enter my context and getting used to the differences in food, safety, and weather. During my time in Tacoma I became aware of the different racial, social and education dynamics surrounding me. I got used to people being scared of me (I assume because I am a 6’2” Guatemalan with long hair and a beard), people following me around the store (just in case I would break something of course), and people being surprised by my ability to speak English and play the piano. The latter, I assume, was because we Guatemalans do not have pianos and English teachers on this side of the border. I felt and dealt with what it is to be treated as a minority.

During my first week back in Guatemala, I thought things would return to normal where I was part of the majority population, a brown guy surrounded by brown people. But I was surprised.  People still follow me around the store, move to the other side of the street when they see me walking and are surprised that I speak English. What I find more interesting is the fact that being “white” is still better in a “brown” context.

Not too long ago I had a really intense experience when I went to the bank with a friend from the United States. We were in Antigua, which is a beautiful city and was originally the first capital city of Guatemala. My friend and I went to exchange some money at the bank. When we got to the front desk my friend realized he did not have his passport, so he asked me to exchange the money for him. I was getting ready to make the transaction when the bank attendant told me, “I cannot exchange the money for you.” “Why is that?” I asked. “Because you are Guatemalan and you do not have an account with us.” For a moment I felt really offended and discriminated against, so I did not answer immediately. After a few seconds I asked, “Are you telling me that I cannot exchange dollars in my own country because I am not white and I am Guatemalan?” “That is exactly what I am saying sir,” she replied. She looked to the security officers and in a matter of seconds both of the guards were right behind me ready to escort me out of the bank. “Don’t worry,” I said, “I have two legs and I can walk.” I talked to my friend, in English because he does not speak Spanish at all, and when they heard me speaking in English they relaxed and left me alone.

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During my second year of Bible College, working in the informal settlements in Guatemala City, I thought I was going to save the day. All the knowledge I was acquiring at that time gave me a false idea of power and capability to provoke systemic change. The academy had become my reality to the point that I was omitting the reality outside the walls of the seminary, which was fueling my ingenuity. I was so cloistered and my view of life and ministry was so conservative that I thought the experience of a people and their anxieties was not as important as the “message of salvation.” That idea also paved the road for me to ignore God’s work and stop being surprised by His grace.

When I first started serving in the informal settlements in Guatemala City I though that I was going to change my country; I was going to be the liberator for those living in poverty and oppression. To my surprise, I was completely astonished by the magnitude of the issues facing my country. I was a middle class college boy trying to save the low income kids living in poverty,[1] surrounded by violence, pain and suffering.

After one year I realized that Guatemala was too big to change by myself. I decided Guatemala City would be a more attainable target for transformational ministry. I really thought I was capable to affect the city in some way, and that systemic change was possible through struggle against the oppressive structures created by those in power and the ruling social class.[2] As the time went by, I started noticing that change as I expected was not happening at all. The kids I was working with were not changing their lives and following Christ. Instead, they were getting more involved in the organized crime that rules the city. Then, I decided that Guatemala City was way too big, so I chose to focus my efforts in zone 3, which is the section of the city where drug dealers and other kinds of organized crime mix with ordinary hard working people who live in the slums. That didn’t work either and I ended up working in one street of an informal settlement called Anexo Aguilar. The work among people living in poverty and despair pushed me to find a way to ponder and rejoice in God’s work in a way that constantly challenges my worldview.

In my short experience there are four steps that I have taken in order to reflect and celebrate God’s work among the people I serve; and I have to admit that they are very important in my personal process of doing theology. The first step, as Karl Barth would say, is the “astonishment.” It is very important that everything that has to do directly with theology must be vivid, because the theology cannot be something static. Theology always is a history that becomes flesh within the experiences and actions of human beings.[3] Theology must be lived! Therefore, it’s important that the object of every theological study and existential reflection changes its focus from ethereal and abstract ideas to the experience of our people, our relationship with God, and the images of God that are constantly shattered. That is why I need to understand what happens when the theology gets closer to the human being, when it touches me, when it becomes a part of me. Theology astonishes and amazes the human being.[4]

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St. Joseph, Patron Saint of Carpenters and Workers

A couple days ago, I saw a bumper sticker while I was walking on 9^th street. It said one of the cheesiest things that I’ve seen in a long time. “My boss is a Jewish Carpenter.” The first thing I thought was, “what a piece of crap!” I am not the kind of person who likes bumper sticker faith because I believe that the reductionism of the Scriptures takes us to a place where we live a ‘light’ gospel. But this bumper sticker really struck me a few days later. During the week after I saw the bumper sticker, I began working on the remodeling of the second floor of Urban Grace Church, where CTM’s office in Tacoma is located. I was doing some painting, cleaning and other activities that come with any reconditioning process. One of the hardest things was sanding floors, which can become extremely tedious and exhausting. But, as we say in the world of nonprofits: “It’s all part of the internship.”

While I was working on the hardwood floors I recalled that Jesus has been called by the Christian tradition, the ‘son of the carpenter.’ I assume that as the son of a carpenter he had some experience working with wood because it was his father’s occupation. As I have been studying the Scandal of the Cross recently, it suddenly seemed to me that there is a clear connection between who Jesus was, a carpenter, and what the cross is, a piece of wood. What an interesting thing, to be part of a religious tradition that has as its savior a simple carpenter who died hanging on a piece of wood. Couldn’t Jesus, being God, have chosen a different profession? I mean, the Messiah, a carpenter? Come on! How ironic!

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On May 12^th 2010, my Mom passed away. Her name was Elsa. She is the one who taught me in the ways of God and service to others. She helped me to find my own way to talk to and of God. The cancer was diagnosed as breast cancer stage 4 with metastasized bone cancer. I wrote the following reflection the day we took her into the hospital for her cancer treatment.

There I was, standing in front of a crucifix. Interestingly, I was not in a Church or other religious place. I was standing in line to pay for my mom’s medical care and cancer treatment in a hospital in Guatemala City. The place was not pretty, so to speak. It was not the kind of place where one wants to spend a beautiful summer morning. Sick suffering people and the smell of disinfectant solution in the air merged with people’s faces, fear and despair like in a surreal apocalyptic vision. The paradoxes of life started clashing with each other inside my mind, and the suffering reflected in the face of the crucified Jesus was the perfect sign of anguish f or the situation. For a moment I felt like time was stopping and that life was on pause for a few seconds, and my thoughts started spinning around in my mind. Nothing seemed to make sense at all. All the things I was taught to believe in were not making sense at all. My Mom was in a hospital fighting for her life.

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