On Saturday, Leif and I toured Soweto, one of the townships outside Johannesburg, South Africa, with our friend Pierre (pastor of Third Place—an amazing church). We admired the vibrant culture marked by creative and colorful artwork as well as the pride exhibited by both our taxi driver and our guide of Soweto’s bus terminal and mall.

Soweto is the story of success—a township coming alive, growing in a post-apartheid nation.

But poverty still marks the township.

We were given a tour of one of the slums. The overpowering smell of garbage, urine, and feces filled our nostrils whenever the wind blew in the wrong direction. Though the temperature was only 90 degrees or so, it felt like 110, and I found myself scurrying for shade trying not to throw up in the heat. We visited one of the shacks—where the proud owners allowed us to tour their 500-square feet house divided into three small rooms and a kitchen where twenty-three people lived.

Ironically, their wallpaper was newspaper ads of expensive products they could never afford.

The most difficult part of touring the shacks for me was standing in the heat as a slum resident, a young teenager, delivered a 25-minute presentation in the 90 degree heat near the outdoor restrooms (the only type of restrooms in the slum) on why he preferred the bucket outhouses to the new blue chemical port-a-potties. He noted that after the port-a-potty chemicals are changed each week, those who use the restrooms feel sick and experience increased respiratory issues.

After five minutes of smelling chemicals and feces, I was convinced. A gal on our group asked, “Are you okay?” I looked at her and said, “No.”

The next day a number of South Africans from the church we were visiting asked, “Did you enjoy Soweto?” I stumbled over the question. “Yes, I guess so,” I responded at first.

Then I had more time to think.

“No,” I began responding to those who asked. “Soweto isn’t anything one enjoys—it’s something that makes you uncomfortable in a good way.”

I felt sick for a portion of a day. Those who live in the shacks often feel sick for a lifetime.

That was Saturday. Today is Thursday.

I’m no longer in the dark shadows of poverty but the white halls of poverty.

I’m at the offices of the White House meeting with the head of Office of Faith-based and Neighborhood Partnerships with a select group of faith leaders.

Instead of the poor and oppressed, I see the wealthy and powerful.

Instead of the uneducated, I’m surrounded by people with multiple doctorates.

Tonight, I’ll eat a meal prepared by Tal Ronnen, a celebrity chef known for cooking for Oprah.

How does one survive such transitions? How does one embrace the poor yet not shove off the wealthy? How does one not cling to comfort in a world of inequality?

I’m wrestling with such questions.

And as I wrestle, I’m reminded of the words my friend Pierre spoke when we were in the slums, touring the poor—an idea that still gnaws on me.

Surrounded by the depths of poverty, he looked at me and asked, “How do you follow Jesus in this? In other words, knowing what we’ve been given, how do we live as followers of Christ?”

I looked at the small portrait of poverty that is multiplied millions of time over on the continent of Africa—and around the world.

“I don’t know,” I responded. “You tell me.”

“It’s not easy,” Pierre said. “But I believe it begins by recognizing each person, and not just walking by them. When we engage with each person, we give them dignity.”

Throughout the rest of the day, I watched as Pierre went out of his way to greet people, ask their name, share his own, and connect.

It is not the only step, but I believe it’s the first step. That’s just as true when surrounded by the rich and powerful in the White House as it is in the slums of Soweto.

And I hope to be more intentional about that wherever I am.