I picked up Cry, The Beloved Country several years ago at a library sale, put it on a shelf and forgot about it. Then this summer, while backpacking in Asia, I befriended a couple from South Africa in Patong. They intrigued me with their stories, and when I found myself with some spare time I finally decided to read it. I knew nothing about the plot, but was quickly drawn in by Paton’s descriptions of a beautiful people on the verge of apartheid and a beautiful land ravaged by drought.

On the surface, Alan Paton’s 1948 novel, Cry, The Beloved Country, is about Africa, South Africa in particular, and the drought-plagued province of Natal, on the eastern side of the country. Paton writes movingly about rolling hills, deep, river-fed valleys, and grassy plains that for millennia served as sustenance for the people of Africa. The geography features so prominently in the narrative, that other reviewers have called the geography “one of the book’s most important characters.” But this novel is set during a period of physical and cultural drought. The land is as barren as the tribal system that European colonialism has broken, uprooted and tossed aside. Beneath the surface is a story larger than Johannesburg, larger than Africa itself. It is a story of heartache and hope amid racial tension, and the possibility of reconciliation.

Cry, The Beloved Country tells the story of two men, both fathers. One black, the other white. Their lives collide through the actions of their sons. Stephen Kumalo, the primary focus of the novel, is an African reverend. He makes the long journey from his rural village of Ndotsheni to the overflowing slums of Johannesburg in search of his sister Gertrude and his son Absolom. Kumalo represents the village elder—wise in his humanity, naïve to the ways of the city, rooted in community and tradition—faced with a rapidly changing world. As he embarks on the train for his first visit to the great city, we read: “The journey had begun. And now the fear back again, the fear of the unknown, the fear of the great city where boys were killed crossing the street, the fear of Gerturde’s sickness. Deep down the fear for his son. Deep down the fear of a man who lives in a world not made for him, whose own world is slipping away, dying, being destroyed, beyond any recall” (44).
In Johannesburg, Kumalo discovers that the city has broken his family, stolen their innocence. His sister is a prostitute, his son, Absalom, a killer with a pregnant fiancé. The city tries to break Kumalo too, but he is strong, and resists. He longs for his village, where the tribal rhythms promise peace and safety, and tries to convince his sister and his son’s fiancé to return home with him. His sister will not come.
​
James Jarvis is a well to-do white farmer. His son Arthur lives in the city where he fights for the civil rights of the black South Africans. It was Arthur that Absalom killed. Jarvis travels to Johannesburg to understand what happened to his son. Jarvis did not know Arthur well, and in mourning, begins to read the articles and speeches he had written in his fight for justice. He meets Kumalo, the father of his son’s murderer, and they realize they live near each other in rural Natal. When Absalom is sentenced to death, both Jarvis and Kumalo return home to the barren countryside.

But something has changed. These men, so separate in wealth, status, culture and race, have both lost sons, one at the hand of the other. Their paths, always parallel, have now come together. Jarvis, who before was content to avoid thinking about the injustice in South Africa, begins using his wealth to help the tribes people in the village. He sends an engineer to show them how to plow the land in new ways that will prevent erosion. He begins work on a dam that will keep water through the next drought. His men show the African farmers how to corral their cattle and collect dung for fertilizer. But why is this progress necessary? Because colonials have segregated society, and pushed the tribes onto smaller and smaller pieces of land, where traditional farming causes erosion, and where water supplies quickly run out.

The novel closes in the early morning on the day of execution. Kumalo goes to a mountain to pray, and meets Jarvis at the foot of the hill, where they mourn together. On the final page, dawn breaks.

​Why dawn? Jarvis and Kumalo have come to embody a future South Africa that Arthur wrote about in one of his papers, a future made possible not through power or law, but through sacrifice and love. “There is only one thing that has power completely, and that is love. Because when a man loves, he seeks no power, and therefore he has power. I see only one hope for our country, and that is when white men and black man desire neither power nor money, but desiring only the good of their country, come together to work for it” (71).

Cry, The Beloved Country is not a utopian dream of easy answers and quick solutions. Rather, Paton reveals the complex nuances of racial and cultural tension and hints as the painful, tedious work that must be done to bring about reconciliation and open the floodgates for the rising tide that raises all ships, waters all fields, and provides nourishment for all our children. The title is derived from a passage where Paton warns about the danger of loving the familiar too much:
              “Cry, the beloved country, for the unborn child that is the inheritor of our fear. Let him not love the earth too deply. Let                  him not laugh too gladly when the water runs through his fingers, nor stand too silent when the setting sun makes red                  the veld with fire. Let him not be too moved when the birds of his land are singing, nor give too much of his heart to a                    mountain or a valley. For fear will rob him of all if he gives too much.”

When we love our home, our culture, the things that make us feel familiar, too much, that love may turn to fear and violence in the face of a perceived threat to our norms. Cry, The Beloved Country offers a sober, beautiful reminder that another way is possible. ​

I started this post right after the State of the Union Address back in January, but before I could finish it, my economics class amped up and I haven't had a chance to finish it until now. With all the craziness going on in the political arena right now, it somehow seems important again...

The ongoing presidential debates mark the perfect time to take a brief look at logic and statistics. On any given issue, statistics are often used to create a bulletproof case, but things aren't always what they seem. In fact, statistics are tricky little buggers. They are used to strengthen arguments and make them appear logical, but how good is a statistic if you can't fact check it? Most of us aren't equipped to go beyond the basic steps of fact checking, even if the Internet makes it possible. 

My rule of thumb: Do a quick Google search and look for multiple perspectives on the issue involved. If it's political, look for both conservative and liberal voices. If a study is mentioned, try to find the original and decipher it on your own, or look for a .edu website explaining it. 

Here's an example from President Obama's 2016 State of the Union Address:

According to this speech, the U.S. spends "more on our military than the next eight nations combined." Presented this way, the numbers seem outrageous. Why are we spending so much on national defense when no one else even comes close? (By way of comparison, in 2009, U.S. defense spending accounted for 40% of global arms spending, and in 2012, our defense budget was 6x larger than China's).

The holidays threw me out of the habit of writing, but I promise to have regular posts again soon. In the meantime, watch this video from Evelyne Reisacher. I studied under her during my M.A., and she became one of my favorite professors for her compassion and insight.

Dr. Reisacher is professor of Islamic studies and intercultural relations, and this video (from an evangelical conference) is a must-watch for Christians concerned about the future of Christian/Muslim relations, Islam and the West, or Muslims in America... especially this election season.

I hate to admit it, but the people linking Daesh with the end of the world are right. Not in the way they imagine, of course—yesterday's violence is not a sign of the apocalypse or the fulfillment of an ancient prophecy (unless you count Lamech ).
 
These attacks mark the end of the world only for those whose sense of peace and security is now forever altered, for those who will never feel safe in a concert hall again, for those whose loved ones will never return, and most of all, for those whose lives were tragically cut short.
 
For the victims of these attacks, the world has already ended. The safe, modern Paris they once inhabited is gone. Carefree nights strolling along the Seine, eating and drinking at the bistros and nightclubs will be replaced by anxious meals at home. Concerts that once provided entertainment and a sense of escape will now trigger only flashbacks. Happy dreams will be replaced by nightmares. Some will even move away from the city, returning to small town life with a haunted look in their eyes.
 
They now exist in a different world, a world where nothing is safe, a world already inhabited by every rape victim, every domestic abuse survivor, every combat veteran, every innocent child whose cries were stifled, every person traumatized and scarred by violence.
 
But while their world has ended,
 
                                          …ours has not

Memorial Day is a day to honor and remember those who have fallen while serving in the armed forces. It began shortly after the Civil War as survivors on both sides gathered to commemorate the dead. Those of us who have never served, who have never faced the threat of death from enemy fire and IEDs may never fully grasp their sacrifice. ​Nor will we know the world that might have existed if they had lived. How many dreams went unfulfilled? How many children were raised by single parents when a mother or father was cut down? What gifts would these men and women have brought to the world?

We lay flowers and plant flags on their graves to remember... and to hope that these tragedies will not occur again. 

This Memorial Day, let's do more than honor those who have fallen.
 
Let's make today the day that we stand up and say “War is still too frequent” and work for a world where there are less combat veterans and less combat casualties because there is less combat.
 
It’s time to make a change. We can no longer focus on whether we are justified in putting boots on the ground or sending drones into the air. When violent events have gone that far, we have already lost. Instead, let us focus on how we can promote a more just and peaceable society where every nation and every people group flourishes together.
 
It begins in peacetime, with how we treat our own poor, with how just our own society is, with who we vote for in the next election. It begins with our international relations, with our foreign aid. We must keep our promises, we must never exploit the disadvantaged, we must encourage healthy sustainable growth, we must build trust and use our power to heal. A rising tide raises all ships: the way forward is not found in policies isolationism, tariffs and closed borders. To make the world a better place for ourselves, we must make it better for others.
  
The late Dr. Glen Stassen, my former ethics professor, coined the term “Just Peacemaking” to describe this way of acting in the world. He learned nonviolence marching with Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr., who learned it from Gandhi… whose nonviolent revolution in India was based on the Sermon on the Mount.
 
These are the ten practices of Just Peacemaking, as taken from Sojo.net:

• 1. Support nonviolent direct action.
• 2. Take independent initiatives to reduce threat.
• 3. Use cooperative conflict resolution.
• 4. Acknowledge responsibility for conflict and injustice and seek repentance and forgiveness.
• 5. Advance democracy, human rights, and religious liberty.
• 6. Foster just and sustainable economic development.
• 7. Work with emerging cooperative forces in the international system.
• 8. Strengthen the United Nations and international efforts for cooperation and human rights.
• 9. Reduce offensive weapons and weapons trade.
• 10. Encourage grassroots peacemaking groups and voluntary associations.

From Just Peacemaking, edited by Glen Stassen (Pilgrim Press, 1998)
- See more at: https://sojo.net/magazine/january-2005/ten-practices-just-peacemaking#sthash.HNmeioOp.dpuf

In the dark about the Syrian refugee crisis? Here's a short video explaining how it started and what it means:

Fairy tales always occur in dark and evil times. No story ever begins with the phrase: “While living happily ever after.” The point of a fairy tale is to express hope in a fantastical world that reveals the hope in the real world.[1] So, they begin in darkness and end in light.  Pan's Labyrinth (2006) is a fairy tale—but not the Disney kind. This film draws on a much older tradition; the European stories of the Brothers Grimm and Charles Perrault, who were not afraid of the darkness, but used it to paint beautiful, tragic stories that are still with us today. It's hard to believe that Pan's Labyrinth is already almost ten years old, but maybe that is a testimony to its greatness.

[Note: This review assumes you have already seen the film and are familiar with basic plot details]

Set in the spring of 1944, Pan's Labyrinth takes place in the aftermath of Spain's civil war between the fascist and communist parties. Ofelia is a young girl with a strong imagination struggling to make sense of family trauma and societal violence. The movie begins as Ofelia and her pregnant mother Carmen travel to a remote wooded town to meet her new stepfather, Captain Vidal. There, in a decrepit labyrinth, she encounters a faun who believes she is the lost princess to a forgotten kingdom. Giving her three tasks, the faun promises her immortality if she completes them successfully. The remainder of the film follows Ofelia as she tries to accomplish this herculean mission.