I Want To Hold Your Hand

PART ONE: Dude Looks Like a Lady

Walking down the main street in Luganville, Vanuatu has provided many "huh...interesting..." moments for me.  From the way people dress to the manner in which they interact with each other, there seems to be no shortage of cultural differences to be observed.

A few weeks back I pulled into the main gas station in order to pick up a couple things like bread and peanuts.  Unity Shell is not like the average convenience store back in the U.S.  Inside, there is a hardware shop, a pretty decent grocery, a sizable clothing section, and a place to buy a wide variety of household items.  As I turned off the ignition, I noticed a man sitting down on one of the many benches outside.  Most likely he was waiting for a transport truck to take him back to his home village.  He caught my eye for a few reasons.  First off, he was old.  Being old in a country with an average life expectancy of 55 is an achievement which sticks out boldly.  Secondly, he was in the middle of lighting the tobacco in his pipe.  Thick smoke hung around his head, searching out every crevasse in his deeply worn face then clung desperately to thick, wild, white hair before being borne away on the tropical breeze.  He turned toward me when I shut the driver's side door causing the front of his sweatshirt to be plainly seen.  Pandas.  Cartoon hugging pandas.  Lots of them.  Pandas, hearts, and embroidered three-dimensional flowers were prominently displayed on his hot-pink sweatshirt. One set of pandas were locked in an embrace which formed the shape of a heart.  I realize fashion is not even the idea of a thought here in Vanuatu since extreme poverty dictates that people wear whatever is affordable in the Chinese run stores.  However, the materialistic western mentality of "the clothes make the man" is hard to keep at bay sometimes.

In another instance, a young man with medium length dreadlocks approached the local pastor I was with.  He  had a very warm smile, broad shoulders, and a muscular build which is very common in young ni-Vanuatu men.  This man's faux angora v-neck sweater was red and, while it was not adorned with cute cuddly pandas, it did have a shimmering sequins heart smack dab in the middle of his chest.  Not only was this something I would typically consider to be rather feminine but, this article of clothing was sized more for a 10-13 year old.  His midriff was exposed and the sleeves only made it about 1" past his elbows.  To me, it's not so much the wearing of these articles of clothing which renders me speechless, it's the vast contrast. You see, this does not delve into the realm of metrosexuals—men in western society who feel comfortable wearing salmon and lavender hues, getting manicures, and spending more on personal primping products than others spend on a mortgage — no. Ni-Vanuatu men are pretty doggone manly.  They spit, holler, whoop, dig for boogers in public, work the earth, kill small woodland (jungle) creatures...you know...manly things. So, to see a manly man walking with his head held high while adorned by apparel typically marketed toward the opposite sex exposes pieces of my heart I still need to surrender.

How many sermons have I heard/ preached about not looking on the outside?  Was Christ not abundantly clear regarding which part of a person He looks at and which part of that person actually matters?! And yet I struggle to not make character judgments solely based on woven fabric and thread.

PART TWO: I Want to Hold Your Hand

You know the movie poster for Disney's new movie, The Lone Ranger?  It shows the Lone Ranger and Tonto, two men with passion and purpose in their eyes, ready to take the bad guys to task.  Now, imagine they are holding hands.

Before coming to Vanuatu, my wife, Merissa, and I had been given some insight into the culture here. Of the many new and different things we were told we might encounter, one in particular stuck out to me.  You see, the Melanesian people of Vanuatu hold hands with members of the same sex as a sign of friendship and closeness. I have observed this behavior first hand and it is not just a few isolated cases. This is a prominent practice. On some occasions I've seen two men walking side by side with the pinkies of their inside hands linked while machetes are firmly grasped in their outside hands. Yet another image which I have trouble reconciling in my mind.

The other day I drove up to an area known as Fanafo in order to find some building supplies for a local kindergarten. The local pastor I was with had asked two adolescent boys to accompany us since they are from that area and knew who best to talk with. I had stopped the car in order for the pastor to make a few inquires and looked back to ask the boys how their school day had been. Turning around I noticed they were gently caressing each others palms. My cheeks and ears flushed as I stammered something unintelligible in Bislenglish (Bislama-English ramblings). I'm such a goober.

Before I even had time to acclimate to this manner of conduct, the stakes were raised even higher. Because I am now established in growing relationships, it was certainly just a matter of time before...(gulp) someone tried to hold my hand.

It was a Tuesday. A day that was sure to alter the very course of human history. Alright, a bit dramatic but here's the low down on me. I'm not known for being a super affectionate dude. While in the U.S. I was not a “hugger”.  Many times, I would even have to force myself to give an affectionate pat on the back or place my arm around someone. Even those rudimentary gestures felt awkward. So, for me to hold hands...with another dude?! That's ginormous in my teensy little comfort bubble.

On the bright side, I was sort of eased into this brave new world.

Pastor Peter had told a joke. A joke he found particularly funny. He turned his body and face away from me while fully extending his right arm with fingers outstretched. It was obvious I was supposed to grab them thereby sharing even more in the moment of funniness with him. Was Pastor Peter testing me? What would happen if I didn't take the offered appendage? Am I failing as a missionary? Questions pounded me as I felt my face beginning to form into the same shape it makes right after eating congealed vomit. With a gulp, I took the tips of his fingers in my upturned palm and waited for the world to end. Nothing. Nothing but a strong sense of accomplishment. I, Jeremy Scott Brinkerhoff, had held hands with a man and was the better for it. But now the question of, “when do I let go?” loomed. Pastor Peter's laughter subsided, the moment passed, I gave a slight squeeze and let go. Since I have not received a letter from our sending agency, AGWM, asking for our immediate return to the States, I guess my timing was OK.

My next encounter was more extended and had much greater weight to it.

I had been asked by a local pastor to go and see “Olfala George” who was in town for a couple of days to get a medical issue dealt with. Olfala (old guy) loves Jesus and really wanted to meet the new white missionary while in Luganville. Finding his property, as described by said pastor, I parked my car and starting poking around in an attempt to locate George. Within moments a man about my age came over to me.

“Hello,” he said as he held out his hand for a shake. “What do you want?”

His initial grip was tight which is not common here. As I began to express who I was looking for and why, I began to pull my hand back. Nothing doing. He held onto the tips of my fingers as he dug deeper into his line of questioning. An intensity in his eyes indicated I was not going to be getting my hand back until he was satisfied with my answers. His expression finally softened once I began to relate to him who I work closely with. His grip eased and the interchange took on a friendlier “let's get to know you” air but, my hand still wasn't going anywhere until he concluded our conversation.

PART 3: You Can't Touch This

With all this hand holding going on you would tend to think public displays of affection between men and women would be acceptable. Ohhh nooooo. Quite the opposite, indeed! There is, right now, a major rift in the church due to such incidents. When I say major rift, I am not exaggerating. Pastors within the district are choosing sides—and the accusations are flyin'.

A couple of single pastors have been seen holding the hands of their girlfriends...in...PUBLIC!!! Ahhhhhh!! Through the rumor mill we have been informed this manner of flagrant PDA indicates much more is going on behind closed doors. Since I know one of the accused pretty well, I decided to broach the subject with him. He said he has spent many sleepless nights crying over the nature of the rumors about him. This individual spent quite a bit of time overseas as part of a professional soccer team. During his travels he noticed how husbands and wives in other countries display affection for one another and try to openly operate as a couple or team. In this society, where men and women still sit on opposite sides of the church, his desire for that type of relationship really bucks the established norm. His longing for this style of marriage added to the level of disappointment he felt when he was instructed by church leadership to be married by a specific date. He, along with two other pastors have been given a deadline by which they must be wed. This mandate puts my friend in a bit of an ugly spot. He does not feel he knows his girlfriend well enough yet to make a decision on whether or not they should spend their lives together. On the other hand, he does not want to dishonor the authority of the one who issued the order. To defy this order would be to potentially lose his credentials as a pastor.

In navigating issues of culture, this one has me a bit perplexed. How, on the one hand, can two men hold hands as a sign of friendship but opposite sex hand-holding is seen as the equivalent of fornication. I have attempted to ask this question of the locals but they have as much difficulty answering this question as I have answering why the world I come from is completely opposite.

“Why do you hold hands with friends?”

“Why do you not hold hands with friends?”

“Hey, don't change the subject. My culture is not on trial here...yours is. Oh....”

The topics I have written about above challenge me daily. When faced with issues of culture, it is soooo unbelievably tough to check my perceptions of what is “right” and “wrong” at the door. Too many times I find myself not being, “...all things to all people, so that I may by every possible means save some,” but wishing those around me would conform to my patterns of life. Thankfully I have grown tremendously in this area since being here in Vanuatu. The Lord has been gracious to me and I pray I will learn to be truly gracious to those I am to serve.