My Deconstruction Story, Part 7

 Now, for the rest of the story, as they say. 

The journey I mentioned in My "Deconstruction Story #5" was to return, as an almost 50-something, to the world of academics. 

The first step into this new adventure was to begin the Master of Arts in Development and Justice, or MAGDJ, at Multnomah University. The MAGDJ program wrecked me in the best possible way. Some will say that Multnomah University (formerly Multnomah School of the Bible) has walked away from its biblical foundation. Some will say that it is straying too far from orthodoxy. Some will say it is leaning too far towards other ways of thinking. Maybe. While Multnomah may have a different focus than it did when it was first started (it was a Bible college), I would say the old adage, "If its Bible you want, you want Multnomah" still holds. It is, admittedly, a different way to look at the Bible; not necessarily through the myopic lens of evangelism and missions. Instead, the emphasis is on living out the Gospel in real life or, as Dr. Paul Metzger describes it, "moving into the neighborhood," just like Jesus did. 

Going back to school when you're almost 50 years old is intimidating. The feelings of insecurity on the first day of middle school are, surprisingly, very similar to the feelings of insecurity on the first day of a Master's program (or a Doctoral program, for that matter). As I boarded the plane for the short flight from Uganda where I was wrapping up a MAMO trip, I was actually sick to my stomach. 

There was, of course, no need to be afraid. Not only was everyone converging on Kigali experiencing a similar sense of anxiety, every one of us loved Jesus and had been called to step into a difficult conversation. It was a gift to step into that conversation together. 

It is still difficult to write about the experiences I shared with my MAGDJ cohort in Rwanda. We looked deeply into the brokenness and ugliness of the genocide. We visited places where men and women committed unspeakable acts of violence against other men, women, and children. We saw the evidence of war that was preserved in Rwanda's Parliament Building. We visited the Kigali Genocide Memorial. At one point, I collapsed on the packed red dirt, tears streaming down my face, lamenting the brokenness I saw at a level I had never before imagined. There were no words. In many ways, there are none still. It may sound callous, or even cruel to say this, but God was in the midst of that darkness. Knowing that brought comfort even as so much of what I had wrongly assumed about humanity was stripped bare. 

It was during this time that I was introduced to one of my favorite books, Walking with the Poor by Bryant Myers. In it, Myers defined poverty as "the absence of shalom in all of its meaning" characterized by broken and unjust relationships (p. 142). Having seen the harsh realities of material poverty in Uganda, this new definition required a lot of contemplation. Something about it, however, resonated. Poverty was much more than not having money or the stuff money could buy. It was about something far, far deeper. 

It would be some time before dots would begin to connect; the depths of the truths I would come to understand couldn't yet be articulatd that summer in Rwanda. But realization would come.