'"Now, see here, you got to put that
hurt someplace, and this is where old Bartimaeus learned to put his." He
lifted the fiddle out of the case and caressed it.
"It's beautiful," whispered Fin.
"Aye," he said and
crooked it into his neck. He drew the bow across the strings and the instrument
moaned a forlorn note. "Beautiful, that's what you've got to do with that
hurtin', you got to turn it beautiful." (p. 33)
... '"What's
the gun for?" asked Peter.
Bartimaeus' face darkened. "That's
where all that hurtful stuff ends up if you don't get rid of it. Got to get rid
of it. You don't and it might just get rid of you, see here? I keeps it there
to remind me. I put it down the day I got this fiddle. Swore I would never take
it up again. Done too much hurtin', got to turn that hurt to beautiful, see?
Otherwise the hurt turns hateful and the ole hand-cannon there like to wake up
and do terrible things...terrible things." (p. 34)
This fictional conversation illustrates well the stakes involved in
possessing an effective response to pain and suffering. We all end up doing
something with our pain. If we cannot
frame suffering in an instructive or constructive way, it will become
destructive - harming those around us as well as ourselves.
For close to ten years in northern Mozambique I’ve witnessed the
effects of mis-appropriated pain: family members become isolated, people live
in fear, neighbors are cursed, and there is no rest. Years ago, as we first
began to learn the language and culture of the Makua-Metto people, there was
one word that I was surprised to hear over and over again in conversation:
'uhuva'. It’s their word for suffering, and our friends talk about it all the time.
The problem is that their folk religion does not give them tools to
deal with suffering constructively. The majority of the Makua-Metto people
would consider themselves Muslims, but at the core they are shaped by an
animistic worldview. This folk religion binds them and their pain to a
witchcraft system crammed full of curses, counter curses, spirit possession and
divination. To borrow language from the fictional
conversation above, they lack the ability to take their suffering and
"turn it beautiful."
Coming from my American cultural framework, I slowly came to the
realization that their primary question is not "why" this suffering
happens. Instead, they consistently personalize the evil they experience. They
want to know "who" did this to them. Their quest to determine the
identity of the culprit leads them into divination, which, when indicating a
human target, encourages them to reach for that "ole hand-cannon" -
directing all that pain and anger at another. Human beings must do
something with their suffering. If they are unable to do something
constructive, or interpret their suffering in a way that is instructive, then
they ultimately will do something destructive.
As an American I
could see that there are different ways to pick up the “gun”. Generally those
in my home culture tend to turn this destruction inwardly. We self-medicate
with drugs, escape into television/film, experience depression or practice
self-mutilation. This contrasts with my experience with Africans, who when
unable to do something good with their suffering, generally tend to turn the
'gun' on each other. It seems that this orientation affects the way both cultures
approach scripture as well. The American Christian will focus on texts about
personal sin and forgiveness (internal), whereas the Africans I know are more
likely to concentrate on texts about suffering, deliverance, and protection
(external)."
----
The above quote
is an excerpt - if you are interested in reading more about responding to
suffering - and specifically how that plays out here in the context of northern
Mozambique, please check out my recent article, "Turning it Beautiful:
Divination, Discernment and a Theology of Suffering" in the International Journal of Frontier Missions here.
Grace and
Peace,
Alan
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