Once again, I closed the newspaper and tried to think of better news, instead of reading about another murder.   Once again, I passed in front of the yellow tape a policeman had put up at the scene of a crime. Once again I wanted to cry out to God on behalf of the families involved. One more death. One more kid. One more driver. One more child. One more woman. One more is too much and is one more than necessary. When a human life is lost, the feelings of powerlessness and the inability to feel comfort are natural, and lately the feeling of powerlessness has begun to feel normal. But in the last few weeks, I have also been trying to reflect on new ways to listen to the Spirit that guides us in the midst of such trying times.

“Listen! Your brother’s blood is crying out to me from the ground.” – Genesis 4:10

Recently I have been reading a book called Power & Poverty by Dewe Hughes. He mentions this passage from Genesis 4:10, analyzing reactions to injustice and the incorrect use of power by certain groups. Though in and of itself it is such a powerful message in the context of the struggle for power, I realized that the very literal words have a much deeper meaning than I ever previously noticed.  Something special about this verse is that it is God himself who is talking; he recognizes what is going on. This should be enough to allow us to breathe more easily. God knows. God does not ignore what these hands are doing. But more than that, God speaks of the blood as a symbol of life and he speaks of your brother. What a great implication this has on my identity. The blood that has been shed is part of my blood! He also speaks of a cry – a voice that calls out for justice, a voice that speaks out of the ground, the lowest place on earth, the point from which the shed blood cannot be gathered again.

Every one of these words can be deeply analyzed, but I have found myself thinking over and over again of the phrase as a whole: ‘Your brother’s blood is crying out to me from the ground.’ I can almost hear it as if it were spoken to me! I ask myself, ‘Can you not hear it? Have you not realized? What are your going to do with that voice, that cry?’

In the middle of the city of Kingston, Jamaica there is a statue in memory of the children who have died in tragic circumstances. The title of the sculpture is ‘Gone too soon’. It is surrounded by the names of hundreds of children whose lives have been taken and the date of their murders. When we visited, we were told that at the unveiling of the statue, one of the hopes expressed was never having to write another name on it. This has not been the case. But despite the circumstances, the first step is being taken: the cry of the bloodshed has been heard. As symbolic as it can be, as little as one monument represents, it is doing something.  There are people who are writing down one more name, one more date. And they seek justice.

Some of us have the privilege of walking in the ‘lowest places’ and being witnesses of the tragedy, violence, and pain that exists in these communities because of injustice, death and scarcity. We also have the privilege of listening to the cry rising up from these low places – a cry that unites us. We are witnesses of a divine voice that recognizes and hears our cry, and He does not remain silent.

Liz Herrera loves to learn, read, have a good cup of coffee and find creative ways to combine her passions: communications, urban ministries, social action and mixed media.  Liz is a journalist and has served alongside the team of CTM Guatemala since 2006 and worked for over 12 years among marginalized populations with churches and non-profit organizations.

I came across a dirty onion tossed out in the sun
Abandoned trash that could not be of use to anyone
It lay upon the filthy ground with darkened, withered skin
That did not let me scrutinize the contents held within

With curiousness, I picked it up and then began to peel
The outer layers off to see what insides might reveal
And as I went about my task reducing surface size
The onion fumes brought searing pain and tears welled in my eyes

Hardened, tainted layers were the first that I removed
But inner rings were softer and the quality improved
And when I reached the onion’s center finishing my tour
I found the core was undefiled; was tender, fresh and pure

I came across a youth in jail his body scarred, tattooed
An outcast of society his manner violent, lewd
Curious I then sought to know how was this youth inside
What was the nature of his soul what feelings did he hide

His outer shell was heartless, hard and tough to penetrate
But as I slowly gained his trust I found a different state
He shed the armor he’d built up throughout his sordid past
To guard against the threats he’d faced that left me quite aghast

Abandoned, starved, despised, abused, rejected through the years
The angst released from woes peeled off brought searing pain and tears
The surface layers of this youth were vicious, mean and wild
But in his depths I found the love and meekness of a child

How can we reach that tender heart, what ways can we devise
To break through callousness; remove what causes youths’ demise?
Not jails but God’s transforming grace should be our fervent goal
Peel off the layers, reach the core, set free their yearning soul

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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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For years all CTM training was done on an informal basis with no degree status tied to any part of our training menu. As the years have progressed, while continuing our informal training with grassroots leaders, we have also had opportunities to accept invitations into formal educational opportunities. This process began in Nairobi, Kenya with a partnership with Bakke Graduate University (BGU) where there are currently 33 Masters students and a doctoral student working on degree’s in Global Urban Leadership. There are also other cohorts of BGU/CTM Masters students in Anchorage, Alaska and Cincinnati, Ohio.

In Latin America, we were invited several years ago by the Central American Theological Seminary in Guatemala City (SETECA) to develop an Urban Missions Emphasis track using our training menu as part of SETECA’s Masters in Ministry Degree. The desire of many in the seminary is that this would expand into a full-scale Masters Degree in Urban Ministry. At this point, we are teaching two intensive classes a year at SETECA and just last week we led a course called “Poverty, Diversity and Social Justice in Latin America.”

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It was an unplanned, serendipitous thing, but on our recent trip to Guatemala we got a chance to visit the Guatemala Forensic Anthropology Foundation (FAFG). Joel Van Dyke, who directs the Strategy of Transformation, wrote about FAFG recently.FAFG is an organization that investigates human rights violations of the civil war in Guatemala through forensic examinations. Forensic anthropologists exhume mass graves, and identify the bodies and determine the cause of death to enable possibility for criminal prosecutions to be brought against the perpetrators. FAFG has currently exhumed more than 5,000 of the 200,000 skeletal remains.

We met with the Rob, the photographer responsible for photographing all the skeletal remains and Jennifer, one of the forensic scientists responsible for assembling the skeletons and determining cause of death. There is a tremendous level of science and unbelievable tedium involved in all of this, including DNA testing. It is mindboggling. But there is also a human side that is hard to miss in all this.

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