Mez MacConnell  has an interesting and refreshing take on the Tyson Fury furore in his weblog. You can find it at http://20schemes.com/blog/. His main gripe is the way that the world heavyweight champion, suddenly thrust into the spotlight with cameras pointed at him and microphones thrust into his face, has been hung out to dry not just by the media and all the usual social pundits but by evangelical Christians who have taken him to task over his poor theology. MacConnell suspects, as do I, that the problem is not the boxer’s theology but his brashness, his coarseness, his lack of appropriate measured responses. He just says it. He is not bothered by what people think. He is not crippled by the fear of causing offence. He is a boxer and he throws punches. He is not a politician or a preacher. He is not the archbishop of Canterbury. He is simply a very young Christian in need of discipleship, support and prayer. I suspect that the people who didn’t like Tyson Fury won’t like Mez MacConnell either and probably for the same reasons. Yet his voice is one that needs to be heard if the church is to reach beyond its cosy comfortable culture to make disciples of all peoples in a world desperate to hear the good news.

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My colleague who has travelled throughout Africa and inspired many significant projects with partners in Kenya, Burundi and Rwanda made the striking comment as we experienced Haiti for the first time. “It’s as if a chunk of Africa has been lifted and dropped in the Caribbean” he said. In people terms, this is exactly what has happened. In the history of the colonialist’s insatiable lust for the third world’s resources, the pillaging and raping of the land, nothing compares to the evil of the slave trade. It remains the deepest stain on our history. That individuals, people who have been made in the image of God, and who, solely because of their race and where they came from, could be dragged from their homes and land, bought and sold and disposed of, as property, as things, is both hideous and despicable. That governments could collude and benefit from the trade and the Christian church provide the necessary theology to back it up, makes it all the more damning.

The true depth of that stain can be felt here in Haiti. Brought from west Africa by the French to work the land they rose up and defied their masters to become the first independent nation in Central America with a government made up of former slaves. At first first few countries recognised them and they could only begin trade with their former colonial masters by paying a crippling fine as compensation for their loss of earnings – the loss of their slaves. The cruel irony and absurdity of what was happening is hard to swallow. They were obliged to pay their previous owners for the freedom to live in a land which had already been raped. (The deforestation that took place during the colonial period contributes enormously to Haiti’ current problems). At times in their history the Haitians were treated cruelty by their neighbours in the Dominica Republic. The darkest episode took place in 1937 when, under Trujillo’s orders, 10-20 thousand Haitians were slaughtered in a heinous act of genocide and ethnic cleansing. The Rio Massacre, which serves as a border between the two countries, at points, was literally flowing with blood. The recent earthquake and the series of coups and despots only serves to pour salt on the sore of this wounded nation.

Today the colonialists have been replaced with multinationals who have the Haitians by the throat. The innocent sounding “free trade zone” at Ouanaminthe where goods are produced for well known clothing brands, blatantly uses cheap labour in sweat shop conditions.

It is and remains a great stain and an inescapable burden. If you cared at all what could you do ? How could you respond?

For many, catharthis is found in political action when the anger and indignation at injustice propels them into raising the issue, getting people to listen. pillaring governments, writing letters, signing petitions and every legal method of forcing those in power to change corrupt and unjust business. For me it has to be another way. And what I observed my colleagues doing, on the ground at an individual human level, working and helping local people, partners in the communities, epitomised that.

The great stain won’t be removed with money or with years or with good intentions or with penance. The victims will only lose their victimhood when they find their true worth their true value their self respect and their unshakable dignity. That was what my colleagues were working towards and that was what inspired them.

Why is that people use fans to cool things downs (hand fans or mechanical propeller fans in the ceiling) when our oven has a fan that seems to heat things up. A wind in winter can make you feel colder due to its chill factor but the chicken must feel even hotter in the fan assisted oven. So air movement cools thing down but also heats things up. There must a turning point where it flips over from one to the other. The reason why I am thinking this is I am trying to sleep with a fan blowing air around me. It is meant to cool me down but at times I feel I am in fan assisted oven.

The White Man
One of the things that I hate about visiting a poor country (and let’s face it, that is most of the world) is being the white man. The assumption is that you are rich which is true (sometimes obscenely so in comparison) and that you are cleverer and wiser and more intelligent which it is manifestly not. This is such a big thing that it would put me off travelling all together It stands in the way of making true friends. But I am saved by one thing, and that is language. Once people find out that your knowledge of their language is patchy and ragged, the relationship shifts its footing. You become something a kin to a child needing to learn. Someone who needs to be taught new words and have conjugations and cases corrected. It is a swift change of roles and one more likely to form the basis of a good and lasting friendship. That more than anything else makes it worthwhile travelling.

We flew separately to San Domingo. ( I am not sure why. Maybe it was the royalty thing – we were two important to share the same plane or maybe there wasn’t one big enough for the three of us -you take your pick) . I had forgotten (not deliberately) my regulation tee shirt and just hoped I would spot Pastor Poisson (I had seen him on video). The arrival hall was packed as it always is in these occasions with family and friends eagerly awaiting their loved ones retun and screeching and cheering with children running wildly as the exiles came through the door. One couple met half way down the ramp and embraced and quite lost themselves in the unbounded joy of the union. They seemed quite oblivious to the throngs watching till they were finally brought back to reality with the spontaneous applause they provoked. One group was met with a little band accordion, drum, shaker and clapping that surrounded them and followed them out of the building into the balmy night. But I couldn’t find the pastor. I asked two look likely suspects but neither were him. By a miracle, going back and forward through the crowd, I spotted a small piece of ripped-off paper in someone’s hand with the word “Crawford” on it and I smiled.