Who Ate The Goat?

(Disclosure: Names of locations have been altered to protect those involved in the goat-slaying.)

Duffy’s in Africa, meanwhile I’m in Georgia. For lunch today one of us was served Tilapia (including its eyes, tail, and skin still intact) and the other one was served BBQ goat. I sat looking at my lunch, I couldn’t help but be amused that I had packed Duffy an entire suitcase of food to take to Africa, but had come to Georgia unprepared.

So…how did I end up with “leg-of-goat” on my plate today (yes…I was served the pet goat, Duffy was served our fishy friend)? I came to Georgia this week to meet my colleagues at in “Hotlanta” and a small town, let’s call it “Granola”, Georgia. Excluding the wrong turn down a one-way street, playing chicken with a city bus, and swerving over 3 lanes of traffic to flip an illegal u-turn…the trip in Hotlanta went fine.

The trip to Granola; however, was truly a “cultural experience”. Arriving in Granola after 3 hours of driving (including a 45 minute detour to make a Starbucks stop), I was greeted by a warm and caring staff member. She excitedly shared the history of the company and introduced me to members of her department.

Then we headed out of Granola to visit the Farm. Our company was originally founded out of a bi-racial commune, established in the 1940’s to show a picture on earth of what heaven would look like. Truly cutting edge, this community of bi-racial believers challenged the social norms of the society, defied the KKK, and were willing to die for what they believed in.

Fast forward to 2009 – the Farm still exists, in many ways untouched since the 60’s. I was expecting the 2009 version of the Farm, but once we turned into the gravel driveway, I felt the years spinning backwards to the 60’s. Personal hygiene standards were low, the grounds appeared disorderly and unkempt, and some of the houses appeared abandoned and dilapidated. The women didn’t wear makeup or fix their hair, and when I glanced down…..nope….they didn’t shave their legs either. Under layers of dirtiness, the men had scraggly beards, messy pony tails, and shy demeanors.

The sad part is…I’m not making this up or poking fun, and I would hate to hurt their feelings as they were such nice hospitable hosts. I’m a good sport! I can go to a commune and hang with the people, eat goat for lunch, and play with the kids. It wasn’t until later that it really sunk in that this Farm was supposed to be the mecca of our company, but what did it really say about us? Our goal is to eliminate poverty housing, but in many ways, these people at the farm were living in worse conditions that the those in the inner-city. In some ways their organic lifestyle seemed superior, but I couldn't help but wonder if they were missing it in other areas.

I think the message they wanted to get across, was that they weren't concerned with material things, but I think they may have taken the concept to the extreme. By totally disregarding social standards of hygiene and how to present yourself, I can't help but wonder if they are trying to keep themselves a little isolated from the rest of the world. Without a tour guide, there’s no way I would’ve known wear to go once pulling in the driveway, nor would have had the guts to venture forward to ask. If this is supposed to be “community living” it didn't appear welcoming or inviting for a newcomer such as myself.

Which got me to thinking…I wonder how welcome those communers would be in my city or in my house? How would they feel when comforted with the opulence of North Dallas or in the grandiose mega churches of DFW? I guess God has a place for all of us – those that like to bathe and get pedicures, and those who prefer to go without. I think the key is to never be afraid to love someone in a different circumstance, to take the time to sit with them in their comfort zone, be open to seeing how God has blessed their life, and give thanks for His provision…over a little plate of BBQ goat.

God bless that poor goat.