Daphne served with WMF in Romania and the US from 1998 to 2009. Her article appeared in The Cry, vol. 6, no. 2 (Summer 2000).
A journal excerpt dated October 23, 1999:
“Am baut prea mult,” is one of the few things I understand Mr. Munteanu saying as he greets me with a slurred hello, foul breath, and sloppy kiss on my hand. He is right when he says he’s had too much to drink. He speaks with his face too close to mine and rambles on, not knowing or caring that I am barely catching half his words. This is my first visit to the home of some friends in Romania. My friends are Mr. Munteanu’s five sons – the Munteanu brothers.
The boys are embarrassed, telling us he is drunk and crazy. Cornel awkwardly adjusts the television for something to keep him busy and to divert attention from his father. Gheorghe hides in the kitchen to avoid his father’s tirade and my pity. Marian is not home today; he has escaped his father’s abuse on the streets of Galati for a while. And when did Florin slip away? He was here when we arrived. Vasca, the youngest wears a T-shirt straight from the 80’s with the words “ORIGINAL SIN” printed across the front. The shirt is too large for him and hangs on his thin body. The boy is a light for me in a home where I sense humiliation and hopelessness. He smiles openly and plays simple hand games with me in an effort to make me feel comfortable and welcomed. We laugh together, and I am at ease.
Flies buzz around my face and occasionally land. The smell of alcohol is heavy in the dirty room. Mr. Munteanu is on his knees now, begging for money from us, the guests in his home. The T.V. blares in the background, but not above his thick voice. We watch Ritchie Rich catch his dog, ironically named “Dollar,” in his arms and the offensive cartoon is over. Another happy ending. Mr. Munteanu holds his arms out as he pleas for a dollar….give or take a few pennies. Our visit is soon over. Did I catch more than a cold today? I pull away from another wet kiss, sneeze, and walk out the broken gate.
That autumn day I walked away disturbed, praying that I would “catch” God’s heart for the Munteanu family. Still today, separated from the experience by months and miles, I see that I have much to learn from my short visit to their home. It has been difficult for me to hear what God is saying because I am faced with my own self-imposed humiliation. As I see how I have allowed the enemy to mar my true identity, I am convicted to amend my perceptions of my world and myself. As a child, I thought my parents were too protective about what I was allowed to view on television. No violence – even Popeye was too violent to stay on their short list of acceptable Saturday morning cartoons. No vulgar language – not even the suggestive language of Three’s Company. No sex – no questions asked. But I could watch Ritchie Rich after school every day. I loved it.
It had been years since I had seen or even thought of Ritchie Rich. His reappearance nauseated me. I was humiliated by the fact that I identified with the cartoon character more than I identify with Mr. Munteanu. I was ashamed by what my country had exported to this impoverished home. That day I saw the materialism in which we are submerged in a different context. It sickened me in the way sin should always sicken us – the way child pornography and prostitution sickens us. I was reminded of how desensitized I am in the “land of plenty.”
Even now, after my day at the Munteanu house, comparing a “harmless” cartoon to child prostitution sounds overly radical to my own ears. But I cannot forget that there is a victim to the arrogance and self-concern that is reflected in materialism, just as there is a victim to prostitution, murder and pornography. The rich humiliate not only themselves, but also those who have nothing when they exchange compassion for self-concern. The poor suffer because of the unrighteous lives of people they will never meet.
Mother Teresa said we must be humiliated before we are humble. I believe that humiliation and humility cannot coexist. Humiliation stems from a false sense of self, while humility is found in our true identity. It is no coincidence that Jesus, who was most humble lived in the truth of his identity (I Am). God’s image is humiliated when we fall prey to the lies of this world.
When you come together, it is not the Lord’s Supper you eat, for as you eat, each of you goes ahead without waiting for anybody else. One remains hungry, another gets drunk….do you despise the church of God and humiliate those who have nothing? (1 Cor. 11:22)
As the cartoon played, I could see how the materialism of the western world had clothed Mr. Munteanu in humiliation, screaming of things he should have but could never attain. It pointed to the things in which he could place his identity. Before me was a humiliated man saturated in false identity. He could soak up no more, and it had begun to drip from his tongue and fists and feet onto the heads of his children, anointing his sons with the curse. Mr. Munteanu had clothed his sons in the distastefulness of “original sin.”
Yet Vasca, the youngest, most innocent son was also before me. He was clothed in humility, wearing a cloak of gentleness and hospitality that covered his undershirt of humiliation. Vasca had not considered his own interest, but looked to mine (Phil. 2:4). In the midst of his own embarrassment, he humbly opened his hand to me in friendship.
This morning while I was still sleeping, the sun lifted above the horizon and took the moon’s place in the sky. Now and again they share the sky for a brief hour. But always the sun chases the moon away. Always the moon hides from the sun. So humiliation hides from humility. As humility approaches, humiliation is chased away.
On that rainy day last fall, I witnessed humility chasing humiliation. I saw the gentle graciousness of the son overwhelm the humiliation of the father. And today, I have an image in my mind of Vasca, with his cloak flowing behind him and the sunrise on his feet, running fast on the heels of the moon.