Field Education (International)

Striving for Un-American Christianity?

2010-07-11T10:57:00.004-05:00

I believe firmly that God’s kingdom knows no division. For the kingdom of God to be in our midst, then, we have to see our allegiance as being to God, not country. This is why I love experiencing the church outside of the US. It is amazing to feel part of the body of Christ in a place you’ve never been before and to realize that connection comes because Christ has made us one. And I think the unity Christ has made for us goes even beyond the church, to all humankind, regardless of their beliefs, and to all of creation. Through Christ, all things are reconciled to God. (Side note: I just finished reading Jesus Before Christianity by South African theologian Albert Nolan, which touches on some of this. Now I am starting his newer book Jesus Today: A Spirituality of Radical Freedom. I am incredibly humbled to think that Nolan will be speaking on 31 July at Koinonia’s Courageous Conversations, which I spoke at last month, and I hope I get to go!)

I’ve been thinking a lot about unity the last couple weeks. First, because everyone is talking about how the World Cup has brought everyone together. And it is true, there has been a beautiful sense of community surrounding the beautiful game and I am sad that the tournament will be over tonight. But, in light of this, I’ve been wrestling lately with what it means to be American. As a Christian, can I be proud to be an American? Certainly, I am thankful for the many gifts and freedoms our country offers. But when I travel abroad, I always get a little sensitive about American-ness, perhaps because “our culture” gets forced on the rest of the world. Hollywood, materialism, pop music, McDonalds—this is not the America I love, but this is the American culture that people see and know. And, unfortunately, so much of the message that people hear coming from the US is saying that everyone should be like us. I certainly do not think that is true—we may have some good things to offer, but other people and cultures and places have so much to offer us. It was for these reasons that I struggled to preach this past Sunday. My assignment for the 4^th of July was to preach about soccer and religion in America for our World Cup soccer sermon series. I started with a disclaimer about why I think it problematic to have a “4^th of July service” at churches in the US and how church and state at times mix badly in our country. I then used the testimony of US goalkeeper Tim Howard to fit the theme and share a message I felt was faithful to the Gospel.

I am still figuring out where to draw the line with national pride. When I went to see the US play, I struggled to walk through the streets cheering loudly and waving the flag like the rest of the fans. My friend laughed that I was being so sensitive. And, yes, I was taking pictures with "the enemy" just before the game. I certainly felt proud when the US won, but was not too sad when they later lost to Ghana. I guess right now, I just feel like, as a minister of the Gospel, I should emphasize our higher allegiance to God and downplay my own country, whose influence so often is inappropriately large and whose societal values often seem to contradict the way of Christ.

Dislocated Exegesis

2010-07-05T05:18:00.001-05:00

Kathy Randall: Lela, Maseno, Kenya
In Chuck Campbell's preaching class, one of our assignments was
dislocated exegesis. Basically it required reading a specific
scripture passage for an hour in a place that you normally wouldn't
read scripture. Given examples were in a bank or hotel lobby, at a
hospital, on a bus, or somewhere that you felt out of place. I read my
passage on the C-1, the main undergrad bus at Duke. I ended up having
to ride three buses, because they kept shutting down the route, and I
thought that it was interesting to read about an outcast, and have to
give up my seat so often.
I had no idea how forceful an actual experience of true dislocation could be.
On Friday, I was sitting in the hospital again, this time supposedly
healthy, waiting for my lab results. Since I was waiting, I got out
something to read. My Bible, of course, it is the easiest to carry,
and I was preaching on Sunday. I began to read 2 Kings 5:1-17, the
healing of Naaman. As I was reading about Naaman, who had to leave his
home to be healed, I realized that I was also away from my own home,
waiting to be seen, as Naaman waited to be healed.
As I preached the passage on Sunday, the girls at the primary school
showed how spirit filled worship can be, and showed me how powerful a
community that lives and worships and praises together can be. I
praise God for those girls, I praise God for the words I received in
preaching, and I praise God for allowing me to see that the lessons I
have been learning are truly essential to all of my work, in every
place I go.
Let me not forget that.

How Do Your Gardens Grow?

2010-07-01T01:56:00.004-05:00

"He turns a desert into pools of water, a parched land into springs of water. And there he lets the hungry live, and they establish a town to live in; they sow fields, and plant vineyards, and get a fruitful yield.” (Ps. 107:35-37)

Coming to South Africa, I was eager to learn how gardens were helping feed the hungry and bring people together to provide for themselves. But, I had no idea there would be so many gardens! On TV last night, I saw that one of South Africa’s Idols winners has a gardening program where he and his family help start gardens at schools and in communities across the country. But what I find even more exciting is that almost every time I go to visit a non-profit organization, gardening is a major part of the work they are doing. Phakamisa, a ministry of Pinetown Methodist, has gardening classes and helps establish community gardens. Hillcrest Aids Centre has a small vegetable garden for their respite centre and has a nursery where they sell plants and they start seedlings for the community gardens started through their granny support groups. Valley Trust has a demonstration garden and teaches permaculture classes. A children’s home in the Valley of 1000 Hills has gardens and they allow community members to grow their own crops on the property that they can then sell. Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary is starting a garden to train their pastors so that they will graduate prepared to help keep these beautiful gardens growing and feeding families. It makes me so happy to see the wonderful ways that God can bring people together to tend the earth and experience for themselves the joy of growing food.

It also seems very appropriate that so many faith-based organizations are realizing that the care of people involves caring for the land that will produce the food required to care for the people. It goes back to the covenant seen again and again in the Old Testament—the interconnectedness of relationships between God, land, and people. That said, I am always a little leery of the blessing and cursing language surrounding this covenant in the Old Testament because I think it often gets misused. Reading Psalm 107, one might assume that God punishes us for our sins and blesses us for our good behavior. I do not believe that a God whose mercy is over all things acts in such a way. But I also do not believe that we can say it is all rubbish, for there is truth to be found in these Scriptures.

When I read Ps. 107:17, (“Some were sick through their sinful ways, and because of their iniquities endured affliction”) I do not think it means that God makes people sick because they sinned. But, I do think that our sinful ways have caused much sickness. When we pour harmful chemicals on the earth to make food grow bigger or faster or increase yield, we are not honoring God’s good creation. We are acting in greed, thinking we can manipulate the land and improve on what God has given us. The chemicals we’ve used have made us sick with cancer and killed our soil. The unhealthy processed foods we have engineered have given us diabetes and obesity-related health problems. This is a direct result of the sinful ways we have treated the land and our bodies, not honoring them as sacred creations to be cared for with respect. Sadly, many of those with the least resources have suffered the most from these decisions of greedy corporations. They have had no choice but to eat that which was made available, even though it leads to bad health.

But to say that God curses us with these problems makes it seem as if it was God’s desire. I believe that God desires that we carefully tend to the land so that we can receive its abundance. Thus, when we plant gardens and seek to honor God through honoring the natural cycles of creation, we are able to receive this blessing that God intends. This is how we find the blessings described in Psalm 107:35-37. Thanks be to God for the many ways that God’s kingdom is coming to earth in this way!

Experiencing the Methodist Church Across South Africa

2010-06-28T11:21:00.005-05:00

I just got back from a few days exploring other parts of South Africa, and what a joy to be received by Methodist Churches across the country! In Johannesburg, I met up with Shirley, who I became friends with during our first few days at Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary (see my first post for more about that.) Shirley was preaching on the Sunday I was in town, so, I got to hear her preach a wonderful sermon on Naboth’s vineyard in her home church of Pimville Methodist in Soweto. Preaching in English and Sesotho, with translation into Xhosa, she shared a message of the need for Christians to say “We are not for sale.” She reminded us not to give in to greed, but to remember we are made in God’s image. Shirley and Vuyikaso, another seminarian from SMMS, also showed us some of the historic places in Soweto, including a memorial museum to the 16 June 1976 youth protests. (me, Vuyikaso, Shirley and Ryan and I are pictured there at right) And Shirley’s mom cooked us one of the best meals I’ve had here in South Africa!

I also spent a couple days in Cape Town, where I visited Central Methodist Mission, where Alan Storey is pastor. Although he was away, I met Ivan Millwood (see picture above) who shared about the history and current mission projects of CMM as well as of Buitenkant Methodist. Buitenkant, just a few blocks away in the famous District 6 (whose museum it now houses), was the church for the people who were categorized as “coloured.” Ivan was a member there before moving to CMM when the two churches merged a few years ago and spoke about some of the tense times and various protests and demonstrations in which he and other church members had participated. Throughout both of these visits, it was a great privilege to hear about events I’ve read about from people who lived through them. I’ve also been re-reading With God in The Crucible (by Peter Storey) which has sermons that speak about each of these places, and it has been powerful to experience these places and to think of his powerful words of hope spoken during some of their more grim history. What a prophetic witness he offered—I am amazed at the truth of the Gospel that rang through and the way God’s kingdom is continuing to unfold, just as he said.

Forced Dependence

2010-06-27T12:29:00.001-05:00

Kathy Randall: Lela, Kenya
For my entire life, I have been fiercely independent. I can do it all
by myself, thank you very much, if it's fixing something, finding
something, or going somewhere new. If I don't know it already, I can
learn it myself, and I can figure out how to find the answer. I am a
new American girl, and we can do it.
In Kenya, this independence will only kill you. As one who does not
understand the culture, and cannot possibly see all the subtleties of
a situation, if you try to do it your way all the time, it just will
not get done. Healthy, it is easy to think that there are some things
that I can do myself, especially since I have over a year and a half
experience in the country. But when I am sick, I am forced to depend
on those around me. I have to listen to those who have taken it upon
themselves to care for me. Twice now, I have been to the hospital,
eight days apart, because I was truly sick. My "light was gone" from
my eyes and my face. We had to go there to see a doctor, run labs, and
get prescriptions. Twice now, it has been the same man to drive me.
Charles, a member of the Kenyan Umoja board, has a car, and has been
kind enough to take me the hour drive into Kisumu.
In October, Peter Storey asked me where I saw Christ in others. I
didn't have a good answer then, more because I had been so stuck on
surviving independently in Kenya the first time, that I didn't have a
good way of approaching the way I was ministering. Here, blessedly, I
have not been so independent. As a perpetual guest for seven weeks
straight, it forces me to receive hospitality, when I am much more
used to giving it, rather than receiving it.
A dependence on others is the necessity in ministry, regardless of
which country it happens to occur in. Working in ministry, a pastor
can try to do things herself, and things may seem to work for a while,
but the spark in the fire will soon grow dim, and all energy will go
to keeping the embers lit, consuming the pastor, and then smothering
the flame.
In ministry, as we look for Christ in others, we can also be Christ
for them. Renée pointed out that so many times we are focused on the
giving portion of reaching the lonely, imprisoned, hungry, and sick;
being Christ to them as we serve. Sometimes, though, we have to
receive this care, as the lonely, imprisoned, hungry, and sick, and be
the one that are Christ for others to serve. This has been a very
difficult lesson to learn, and it has taken two rounds of getting laid
flat on my back sick for a couple of days to learn. I cannot do
everything myself. I couldn't before, the fact has just now been
emblazoned in my being.
One thing I noticed, as I have been communicating by text to my
friends and family, that my predictive text program on my phone
recognizes serving and resting as the same keystrokes. How perfect. Of
course, once I am well, I will continue to work and go out to learn
more about these fascinating and amazing people with whom I have the
privilege to live. But for now, as I rest, I will receive the gift of
depending on these who have been placed in my life at this time to
care for me, so I can learn from them.

Kenyan Roulette

2010-06-26T06:44:00.001-05:00

Kathy Randall: Lela Station, Maseno Division, Kenya
Meals, served at a Kenyan table, are generally brought in heat keeping
thermos like bowls. You never know what is in the three to seven bowls
until the prayers are given and dinner is open. Generally the ugali
will be out, served on a plate like a huge cake of twice thick grits,
but sometimes even that is hidden. It is like a treasure hunt, seeing
what is on the table.
There is, however, an element of danger in each meal served. It could
be that what is under one of those innocent lids is something that you
don't want to eat. A rare occasion for me, but it still occurs. And
then there is the fact that the hidden things, the things that you can
never see with the naked eye might be hiding in any of these dishes,
or even on the serving utensils, or in the ubiquitous cups of chai.
In my time here, I am now in my second round of losing at Kenyan
Roulette. I don't know what it is this time, all I know is that I hurt
and feel weak. Again, I'm glad it is me, and not my teammates. I've
been sick in this country before, so I should be used to it, but I'm
not very good at being sick, I'm a horrible patient. So. We'll see.
Pray that maybe I won't lose at the next round.

Tentmakers in Kenya

2010-06-25T09:35:00.001-05:00

Kathy Randall: Grail Centre, Daraja Mbili, Kenya
This past week I have lived in a community house of lay women who have
taken a vow to live in community and service. The week didn't begin so
well, because I was ill, but then I revived, and was able to learn
exactly where I was and how they do their work and service.
One of their services to the community is a community college,
basically a technical school. There they offer courses in basic
instruction in computer use, tailoring and dressmaking, and motorbike
maintenance. These courses are offered at a low cost to the
surrounding rural community, students who have found that they need
further skills before they can enter the workforce.
I met with the computer class yesterday. All the students have
completed secondary school, so they are fluent in English. We talked
about life skills, integrity, and what to do as an upright citizen in
a corrupt system. They were good to talk to, and once I had been
speaking for a while they really opened up to conversation.
The man who teaches tailoring is also an interesting person. I had
asked about getting a dress made, and he was the one recommended. So I
went to meet Simon.
Simon has been partnering with the Grail for 3 years, as a teacher to
those learning tailoring. He told me how much fabric I needed, and
where to get it in Kisumu. Then I brought the material in, and he
proceeded to make me my Kitenge. My traditional Kenyan dress. It looks
great.
After he had made it, I continued to speak to him. Simon is not only a
tailor and a teacher, but he also is a pastor in training. We spoke
about our calls to ministry, and were able to encourage each other in
our pursuit of our respective calls. As I was leaving, I told him he
was like Paul, a tentmaker, or tailor, who also spreads God's word.

Hospitality in the Hospital

2010-06-25T09:34:00.001-05:00

Kathy Randall: Kisumu, Kenya
Friday a week ago was not my best day in Kenya. It began well, a phone
call for a birthday, but when I hung up I had to make a choo stop. And
I realized I was unwell. I was supposed to be preaching again, like
the previous day, but I quickly realized that I could not do that. I
could barely stand. I could not look at food. Not a good condition to
have anywhere, but especially on a day when you are supposed to be
moving. I had my things packed, living out of a suitcase facilitates
easy packing. And my host and organizer arrived, Ibrahim, a great
resource for Umoja, to bring me and my things to the pastor's house,
originally so my luggage could wait there while I was preaching at the
community group, now just so I could await the next plan. Thankfully,
the pastor had the wisdom to but me in a room away from the bustle of
the house, and I laid there, my temperature rising, strength leaving,
until Ibrahim arrived with a Sprite, and the drive to call our
director, Joseph, and say that I needed to go to the hospital.
I knew I didn't need to go. I never go to the hospital. But then he
began to tell me the symptoms of malaria, and my temperature was at
least two degrees above normal, and I thought that it would not be a
bad idea. Just in case.
First, though, I had to get to my new homestay. This involved Ibrahim
and a helper to carry my luggage. I may have packed relatively
lightly, but I could not have carried my things this day. We went to
the main road, intending to pick a Matatu, but luckily someone was
leaving the compound and going our direction, and had three seats
open. So we were able to be dropped at Daraja Mbili (literally: two
bridges. Only one remains, but the name hasn't changed). We then had
to walk up the hill and up to the grail centre. Only by force of drive
was I able to make this walk, it is either a quarter or a half of a
kilometer, the signs say both, but it was enough to wear me out
completely.
Finally, Charles, one of the pastors on our board, arrived, and
proceeded to take me into the hospital in Kisumu. The Aga Khan is the
private hospital run by the Islamic foundation in the area, and is the
best hospital in Kisumu. In two hours, I saw a doctor, had labs drawn,
was given a place to lie down because they didn't want me to faint on
them, my BP was 100/36, received the lab results from the doctor,
prescriptions, and had them filled. It was approximately from the
beginning to the end of the second USA world cup game. I left, $42
poorer, but in possession of drugs for my amoebas and bacteria
invading my body, and some pain pills to ease the back spasms I'd been
having for the past three days. Not bad, not bad. I drank water and
ate the next day. And now I am all better.

The 2010 FIFA World Cup is HERE!

2010-06-13T09:08:00.003-05:00

Sunday, June 13; Pinetown Methodist Church, Durban, South Africa

What an exciting time to be in South Africa! Football Fridays reached their peak this Friday, with almost everyone I saw wearing a yellow Bafana Bafana shirt to support the South African national team. The church office and many businesses closed early so that everyone could be home to watch the 2010 FIFA World Cup Opening Ceremony at 2. People have been waiting for this moment for 6 years, since it was announced in May 2004 that South Africa would host the first World Cup on African soil. Friday’s ceremony was beautiful, featuring music from South Africa and other African nations, traditional and modern dancing, colorful fabrics arranged in to the shapes of Africa, the world, and the FIFA 2010 logo, and of course the loud sounds of the fans blowing their vuvuzelas.

(Vuvuzelas are plastic horns popular at soccer games, as seen in this picture showing the students and teachers cheering on the students playing in an inter-house “mini World Cup” at Pinetown’s John Wesley School on 4 June. The sound of vuvuzelas has been a constant here the last few weeks!)

After the opening ceremony, everyone rallied to support South Africa in the opening game against Mexico. When Tshabalala scored South Africa’s only goal, you could feel the excitement erupting across the country. The soccer fever has spread to everyone. Today, Pinetown Methodist kicked off a World Cup Soccer sermon series. Everyone was encouraged to wear soccer shirts to church. At the earlier services, Pastor Ulinda Pembrooke talked about the importance of goals, both on and off the field, in the world and in the our spiritual lives. I preached at the 11 o’clock service, which is conducted in isiZulu (although I was speaking in English!) A common theme was that this soccer event has truly served to unite us. Ulinda said she had a feeling on Friday similar to how she felt during the election in 1994. The World Cup has brought people together again, made them proud to be South African, and proud to welcome the world to this beautiful country. Nkosi sikelel' iAfrika (God bless Africa) and all the peoples of the world, especially during this time when all the world is focused on South Africa for this wonderful World Cup.

Keeping the Balance

2010-06-10T06:43:00.006-05:00

Laura Beach, Pinetown Methodist Church, South Africa, 5 June 2010

What a good Wesleyan service we had last Sunday--the sermon series was on Luke, and we were looking at both the Good Samaritan and the Mary and Martha stories. The preacher then used this to speak about the necessary balance between service and worship. Our Christian lives are expressions of both mercy and devotion, works of charity and works of piety. Since I have been in Pinetown, I have been able to experience both of these aspects—worship and fellowship group Bible studies, as well as the amazing outreach ministries of Phakamisa, Sizanani, Vuleka Trust, Valley Trust, and many more. I can’t wait to be more involved in all of these!

On 4 June, I had the honor of being the guest speaker for Vuleka Trust’s “Courageous Conversations” at Koinonia Conference and Retreat Center (pictured). It was a perfect setting for talking about the covenantal relationship between God, land, and people. It was cool to be able to share some of what I’ve learned from Dr. Ellen Davis, knowing that she will be lecturing in Pietermaritzburg in November. For my part, I shared some of how I’ve come to understand these connections through my work with Cedar Grove UMC and its ministry at Anathoth Garden. I also talked about the need for realizing the balance between focusing on our relationships with God, people, and land, since they are all connected and hold us in the center in tension.

But the best part of the evening was the conversation that followed, as we gathered around the fire to share a simple meal of vegetable soup and bread. The people there came from widely varying backgrounds and this made the conversation very interesting. While some people were talking about simplifying their lives and reconnecting with nature, others were bold enough to say that they really could not find comfort in natural things, and sometimes even found it difficult to go to church, because of all the problems at home. This kept the discussion from being too idealistic, a problem that seems common when speaking in liberal, privileged circles. It made me realize how important the human community aspect is—we must take care of each other and the rest of creation—not just one or the other. I hope I continue to be challenged to stretch my thinking on these issues as I keep encountering and learning from people here who don’t see things the same way I do.

Redneck Shamba Worker

2010-06-09T12:15:00.001-05:00

Kathy Randall: Lela, Maseno Division, Kenya
I am a redneck.
Literally.
I am now the proud displayer of a thoroughly bright burned red neck.
Proud? You might ask. Yes. Proud. Because I worked hard to earn this
red neck. I mean, yeah, it hurts, but it was worth it.
So, here's how it happened. We are staying at a very (very) generous
local woman's house. This fireball of a woman, Margaret, is a leader
in her community, organizing numerous programs such as caring for
orphans and the sick and guiding the area to a consensus to have
running water to every property. She is a brave woman. Her husband
travels and she invites various westerners to live in her house
(including some very strange divinity students).
On Monday she invited the three girls to come help her in her shamba.
"It is very far." [In Kenya, you never really know how far is far
exactly. It could be anywhere from a twenty minute walk to a
treacherous eight (or fourteen) hour drive.] We did not know quite
what we had gotten ourselves into. But we gathered our water bottles
and ventured out into the field.
A brief note: on Sunday evening and into the night, it rained heavily.
Stormed, actually. The roads, already packed red dirt, have the
amazing tendency to turn to slippery mud. But it drains amazingly well
here, considering the closest tarmac is at least a mile or two away.
We waited for the sun to come out and dry up most of the mud, and
amazingly, it did. Sure there were puddles, and sure I managed to dip
my toes inadvertently into the muck before we got out of sight of the
house, but it was not too bad of a start. As we walked on dirt paths
in single file, conversations caught and lost as we spread out and
came closer together on our journey through the Kenyan countryside.
These dirt paths are just wide enough for one person to walk, mostly
one foot in front of the other, narrower than paths on the AT, but
just as muddy in some places. At one point we came out to the
railroad, and walked along the metal crossties cast in 1962. We took
the long way around because the main road was "very bad."
At one point, we came to an outlet from the footpath to a road, but at
the entry to the road the path was eroded, swamped, and basically an
eight foot long puddle in a trench. But, industrious us gathered
stones, and Mama Margaret in her gumboots (rainboots for us) placed
them at step long distances so that we could cross over the expanse of
mud to reach the road. Then we climbed a rocky hill, jumped a few
ditches, passed schools and homes and trees, and came to the red roof
that Margaret had pointed out across the valley when we were on the
rails. After an hour, we had finally arrived at her shamba. Yes. It
was far. And we hadn't even started working yet!
Margaret had bought into a program introducing some new plants into
the area. Imagine my surprise when I saw that the delicious snow peas
and sugar snaps came from her garden! We received a basic primer on
how to pick the peas, and bent to our work, working up and down the
lines of the crop staked to the hill. Back bent to the work of moving
leaves aside to pick the peas that were the proper size, we continued
to fill the sack, and work on in our labors. One of Margaret's workers
found us later, and worked on beside us, together we gathered over
nine kgs of peas. Two hours work for five people. Every Monday and
Friday Margaret and her crew come to gather their crops, and then they
bring them to the collector who pays either fifty or eighty shillings
per kg (she's not sure). In US terms: that's sixty-six cents to a
dollar and six cents. At most, that is eight and a half dollars for
our two hours of work. These peas will be frozen immediately and
shipped to be sold in a supermarket in England. "Home Grown" indeed.
They are sweet, but I'm not so sure it is fair trade. (Margaret is not
suffering for it, but it is a lot of work.)
Then we had to carry it back. Laura placed the large bag (at least ten
pounds) on her head, and managed to walk Kenyan momma style all the
way back to the house, with only one half slip and usually not even
touching it with her hands. Famished, we ate our lunch, and then took
"showers" (cold bucket baths). That was when I found that I had missed
a spot or two when I put on sunscreen. Granted, I did not know that I
was going to be working or walking outside for four hours when I
started, but I should have known better. I am practically on the
equator anyway. I still have a vibrant red neck. But our peas tonight
were so fabulously scrumptious.

Into the Field

2010-06-05T12:51:00.001-05:00

Kathy Randall: Lela, Maseno Division, Kenya
Growing up as a Preacher's Daughter, I have had the opportunity to go
to many funerals and interments. I became accustomed to the routine of
visitation, service, and driving out to the cemetery with the hearse
leading the way. My mother would have us stand at the edges of the
crowd, respectfully silent, even if we did not directly know the
deceased. Today, I was present at my first burial.
Our team arrived to our first homestay yesterday, knowing that today
would be our chance to observe (and participate) in a local burial
service. Last night we went to sleep listening to the amplified
recordings broadcast from the house behind our host's where the wake
was taking place. This morning, we watched our host and a score of
mamas preparing the meal that would be served after the service.
Around ten in the morning, we heard the beginning of the testimonies
of those who knew Susana.
Susana was a grandmother suffering from AIDS. Our director, Ellen
Daniels-Howell, had met her once before, and learned some of her
story. Susana and her daughter-in-law lived in their clay house with
the tin roof, working in their shamba (field), raising maize and peas
and other subsistence goods, struggling to survive. The
daughter-in-law (also sick, also a widow) will have to leave the
house, since the property is not traditionally hers. Unfortunately,
our team did not have the opportunity to meet Susana, but we did honor
her today by our presence at her burial.
We went out her backyard around noon, to go observe and listen to the
testimonies. This tradition of eulogy is continuous, with anyone who
desires to speak about the deceased approaches the microphone and
extemporizes for a unset period of time. When we arrived, we were
found seats in the shade, (with the ubiquitous KenPoly chairs), and we
settled down to see what we could see and hear what we might hear.
We listened to the Dhluo testimonies, with periodic spurts of singing
and clapping, watching the crowd grow and watch us. We estimate that
at least three hundred mourners showed up to show their respects for
Susana. After three hours of sitting and watching, we were told that
we should go take our offering up under the tent. We queued with our
shilling notes in hand, and entered the tent. Shuffling and humming
along to the a capella choir, we approached the place where we were to
deposit our offering. The black plastic bowl was placed on the lace
covering the coffin, directly next to the small plexiglass window
directly over Susana's face, allowing us to see her face, preserved in
death.
We returned briefly to our seats in the shade, but soon our guide told
us to come get behind the choir, again inside the tent. We gathered
again, not really knowing exactly what was about to happen (a common
occurrence here). Soon, we began to sing, and move forward in a long
train toward the shamba off to the side. The coffin followed us
closely as we came up to the grave already dug deep.
We continued to sing, and the preachers read from their service books,
and then four young men jumped into the hole, to receive the coffin,
to lower it down to the bottom of the hole. After they lowered it in,
and jumped back out, the preacher shoveled a spade of red clay onto
the lace covered coffin, with the appropriate words (presumably. I
don't know for sure since they, as the complete rest of the service,
were spoken in Dhluo). We prayed. As we continued to sing, the spade
and two hoes were taken up to completely fill in the grave as we
remained standing around the quickly shallowing grave.
Many hands make short work, the young men rotating between the tools
taking a five foot hill and a five foot hole to level ground in about
fifteen minutes. As they worked, periodically ringing the tools
together to shake off packed clay, spare stalks of the maize from the
field Susana is now buried in came in with the dirt. As the hill
vanished, the crowd closed in around the newly covered grave, and a
final chorus was sung. "Going home to Jerusalem" hope and expectation
gathering in as we closed the service with a final prayer.
In all of my experience of Interments, the burying part is the one
that is hidden from view, not part of our cultural experience. Here,
in Kenya, we waited to see the whole process, so that we could be
assured that each this was indeed a circumstance when we enter our
deceased into the fertile soil. To be buried in your own field, out of
necessity or poetry, seems fitting, especially here where their lives
are so closely linked with this land.

Behind the Screens

2010-06-03T01:37:00.001-05:00

Kathy Randall: Kisumu, Kenya.
It seems so familiar here. It is as if I had never been gone, and
everything is just the same as I had remembered from my time before,
three years ago. But there are things, details small and large, that
show that this is a town, a city, a country which has changed, and the
scars are trying so hard to fade in to the background.
Up at the top of the hill on the main road leading out of Kisumu, just
above the roundabout encircling the statue which looks out over Lake
Victoria, is a huge screen banner for The Nation, one of the national
newspapers. A photograph of Nelson Mandela, and a flip clock showing
the year date of 1991. "We were there" is emblazoned in large letters
over the man who helped bring peace to South Africa. Peace indeed.
This piece of history is hiding evidence. Behind this screen is the
burned out husk of a supermarket store where I had shopped during my
last stay in Kenya.
During the violence following the presidential election of December
17, 2007, riots erupted across the country, mobs overtook the
previously peaceful country, and places like this supermarket were
looted and destroyed. Angry men carrying pieces of tarmac torn from
the already washboard roads stormed through the shops of tailors,
carpenters, and craftsmen.
I was not here to see it. But as I said, I can see the scars. Yes,
they are healing, and Kenya is making strides to a healthier nation.
But still there are pieces which have not returned to the way they
used to be. Perhaps they won't. Perhaps they shouldn't. I hope that we
can learn from the scars here, and learn how to live and make peace in
this place.
That is what Umjoa Project is working towards. Through helping orphans
and vulnerable children by feeding them and allowing for support for
them to attend school, Umoja is helping educate those who will lead
Kenya. The hope of Kenya lies in its children.

visit to Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary

2010-06-02T02:15:00.006-05:00

Laura Beach, SMMS, Pietermaritzburg, SA 27 May, 2010

Photo caption: Some students from SMMS took us on a tour to see some important sites around Pietermaritzburg. This is the monument at the place near Howick were Nelson Mandela was arrested on 5 August, 1962. Pictured (L-R) are Laura Beach, Isidro Cutane, Bonnie Scott, Ryan Spurrier, Neil Vels, Gale Kganyape, Dewey Williams, Dylan, and Thuso Manamela.

What a joy to have our first experience of South Africa be with the Seth Mokitimi Methodist Seminary (SMMS), with whom Duke has a covenant relationship. We are staying on campus with the seminarians and it has been wonderful to hear their stories and receive their warm hospitality. I have been especially inspired by conversations with some of the women here at SMMS. One woman, Shirley, talked about doing her internship in East Cape (internships here are for a year, and as intern you are a full-time pastor). Being from Johannesburg and speaking Sesotho, it was quite an adjustment to go to a rural, Xhosa speaking community. Shirley, however, wanted to be able to preach without a translator, so she read the Xhosa Bible and worked very hard to practice and learn to speak, and by Easter (3 months later) she preached in Xhosa! Hearing this story, I thought, wow, this is exactly the kind of radical love that we are called to practice—this is what Dr. Jennings was talking about in BCS 125!

Worship has been a highlight of our time here—with beautiful singing in Zulu and Xhosa and English and some amazing preaching. We also have seen the sights of Pietermaritzburg and visited the seminary’s new campus, which is under construction. It quite impressive, with lots of open spaces, large classrooms, and plans for a vegetable garden, where seminarians can receive training that they can use in ministry. I wish we could set up an exchange semester through DDS =)

Leaving to Serve

2010-05-27T08:05:00.001-05:00

Kathy Randall: Indianapolis, IN, USA

The team has spent nearly a week in Indianapolis. We have met so many people and heard so many ideas, that it is going to take the whole flight to think through all that we have already learned. Praise God that I am going with a team this time, a team that is going with the sole purpose of serving and loving the people that we are going to see, and most importantly minister with under the presence and calling of God. We are so blessed to be going to spend seven weeks with the Umoja Project, a program through Global Interfaith Partnership.

We leave North UMC (one of the partner congregations) before noon today, and we will not land in Kenya until late in the evening tomorrow. We will be travelling for over 24 hours in the next two days. It will be a very long journey, but it will be so worth it.

As we journey, we covet your prayers for travelling mercies. For us, it will be important that our hearts be broken for the people that we see, that we can see the needs, but also see the people for who they are. Let us learn, let us serve, let us be ministers to all we see.

Contributors, 2010

2010-05-18T13:48:00.004-05:00

Laura Beach, from North Carolina, just completed her second year at Duke Divinity and is serving at Pinetown Methodist Church in Pinetown, South Africa.

Kathy Randall, from Georgia, just completed her second year of Divinity School and is serving with the Global Interfaith Partnership in Chulaimbo, Kenya.

The Haves and The Have-Nots

2009-08-02T14:40:00.004-05:00

Tommy Grimm
Katikamu Parish, Uganda

Throughout my time in Uganda, it’s been difficult to see students often divided between the have’s and have-not’s. There are the boarders, who live at the school in the dormitories, and the day-scholars, who walk to and from school every morning and evening. The boarders use the school classrooms to study every night with dependable light and power. Many day-scholars walk long distances, have household responsibilities like cooking and cleaning, and have to study by lantern at night (when there’s money for kerosene!). I’ve heard many day-scholars say they wish they were boarders.

There are the students who eat at lunchtime, and those who do not. I hate seeing students littered along the school perimeter, standing despondently, while other students line up expectedly with plates in hand in front of the school kitchen. Boarders are required to pay the meal fees, but for many day-scholars, the lunch fee is the first thing sacrificed among the educational expenses.

There are the students with parents, and those without them. There was a visitation day a couple weeks ago, when parents have the opportunity to visit their students at school, to meet their teachers, and to inquire about their children’s grades. Some parents could be seen walking across the campus with bags full of cookies, fruit, and supplies (accompanied with a pocket full of money for the lucky kid, no doubt). Poorer parents brought nothing but rice and meat to share with their child for one meal, providing a break from the regular meal of cornmeal and beans. Some kids didn’t have any parents show up, either because there wasn’t enough money for the travel expenses, or because there is no mother and father, and the guardian has too many obligations to visit. One girl who I’ve become good friends with told me that she usually stays in the dormitory the whole day; the sight of all the mothers makes the memory of her deceased mother too painful.

The examples are legion. There are those who have party clothes for a special occasion, and those stuck in their school uniforms. Those who have money to enter the school dance, and those peering in from the windows outside. Those who have strong enough grades to attend university, and those whose prospects upon graduating are dim.

I hate this reality, but I’ve found it inevitable, even in my interactions with students. When I walk through campus, there are those students whom I recognize, and those whom I don’t. I only know the names of a fraction of the students, despite my best efforts. And then there are the ones everyone knows I’m closest to, and everyone else. I try not to play favorites as much as I can, but I can’t be friends with over one-thousand students. I don’t want to exaggerate my importance to the students, but I know they notice whether the American knows their name or not. They ask me why it is I don’t know their name!

Needless to say, this dichotomy is uncomfortable for me. However, for the students, it’s a part of life. There’s no agony over the separation—for them, of course there are the rich and the poor, the beautiful and the ugly, the sons and daughters and the orphans. It’s a reality they become accustomed to at a young age. You can’t hide differences in a small village with open doors and shared possessions. What I’ve been left grappling with is not how these striking disparities exist in Africa and not in America, but how they’re casually disclosed in Africa and well-hidden in America. Life is unfair, but I’d rather forget that, and I’m able to back home. For a church to embrace the rich and poor, the privileged and the marginalized, maybe what’s is needed is not only a hopeful imagination to envision a different world, but also a dogged courage among those on top to face reality, with all of its needs and indictments.

(The above picture was taken in a nearby village at an annual Catholic celebration for a Ugandan martyr born there. I’m with Nagalema Grace, a student at the primary school where I teach. Grace has become a great friend to me.)

Convicted in Paus Preto

2009-07-31T13:44:00.001-05:00

Last week I visited a quilombola. A quilombola is a completely black community. Historically, run-away slaves established quilombolas during the Colonial period. The communities were self-sustaining and the community members were trained in defense, allowing them to defend themselves from slave owners who tried to re-enslave them. The particular quilombola that I visited, Paus Pretos, is not a historical quilombola; it is not a site where runaway slaves set up their own community. Rather, it is actually more like a segregated ghetto; the government forced a number of black families into this part of the town and just called it a quilombola. The name of the community, Paus Pretos is a demeaning name given by those outside of the community. “Preto” means black, “paus” actually means wood but is more commonly used as a derogatory word for the male genitalia.

The people in the community survive without some of the most basic needs. They lack access to water, good education, and a hospital. Their only source of water is rain, they have a contraption that collects the rain water for the community but if it does not rain, there is no water. There is a school in the community, but they do not have enough educators. I spoke with a man who said that his dream was to become a writer, but that he did not know anyone in the city who worked in industry except service or agriculture. Many of the children have disabilities because the nearest hospital is over an hour away (an hour away driving and no one has a car). But even that hospital is small and all the serious issues, for example, being born with a physical disability, has to be taken care of in a hospital in a major city. The closest major city is Maceió which is more than 3 hours away (driving).

It is, perhaps, the hardest thing in the world to see other people’s pain, other people’s needs, other people's dispair and to not be able to do anything about it. I felt so angry, and so frustrated, and so powerless. But the experience convicted me to the core. When I think about my life and the plans I had for it: sitting in the library trying to find a new innovative way to discuss the meaning of I Corinthians, or reading a law book trying to pass the bar, or trying to write a dissertation in Womanist theology. I realized right there in Paus Pretos that none of it matters unless my goal is to help people that are in need. As long as I am sitting by trying to bring myself glory in the name of God, instead helping to create God’s kingdom on earth, I have failed.

Not in the States...

2009-07-20T10:54:00.002-05:00

Tommy Grimm
Katikamu Parish, Uganda
7/20/09

I love moments here where I think with a smile, “This would never happen in the States.” (I try to limit the number of times that thought is connected with a scowl.) Yesterday, I was on a ferry traveling back from a visit to an island on Lake Victoria. It was raucous inside, but from anywhere in the cabin, you could hear above the noise a woman singing hymns and gospel songs. As I listened to her belt “I Surrender All,” I considered how in the States, everyone would be either annoyed at her or embarrassed for her. But here in Uganda, it’s hardly unexpected or inappropriate. And if it did bother someone, he would let her know, and she would respond however she wanted, and no one around would feel even a twinge of awkwardness (except perhaps the visiting Westerners). As I wrote a letter to a friend and counted the minutes until I’d be terra firma, I was glad to share the company of Ugandans.

A similar experience occurred a couple of weeks ago. I was on a taxi-van with a couple Duke friends and three Ugandan passengers. An older woman gets on with her four grandchildren. There aren’t enough seats for her grandchildren, and the old ma’s lap clearly isn’t big enough to accommodate all of them. But these children need to get home, and the other passengers don’t have any special right to their squat of space, so the kids just crowd around their grandmother, sitting on the laps of other passengers or cramming between their legs and the seat. Not wanting to be left out, I grab one of them and place them on my lap (another thing I love here, how parents less protective of their kids with strangers). After we got out, my friends and I discussed how that would have been uncommon in the States, how we expect a certain amount of personal space in public settings. (When I see a movie in a crowded theater, I’m constantly thinking about the distribution of my arm rests, whether they’re being equally shared or not). Personal space is unheard of here.

I’m grateful for this extended time in Uganda because, hopefully, it’s stretching my social imagination beyond what I have lived and known in the States for the past twenty-six years. Through experiences like the ones above, I come to question why I have certain expectations and assumptions for who I am and how I interact with my surrounding community. The Church is called to be a peculiar people whose culture is formed around the gospel, but there is no non-enculturated space we can inhabit. Rather, it’s through living among strangers with strange cultures that we see how much we toe our social line and how we might better live out our Kingdom identity.

Walk Away, Grieving. (Tiffany Thomas: Maceio, Brazil)

2009-07-13T07:13:00.003-05:00

When he heard this, he was shocked and walked away grieving, for He had many possessions. Then Jesus looked around and said to his disciples, “How hard it will be for those who have wealth to enter the kingdom of God!” – Mark 10:22-23

When reading the gospels, I have always skipped over the story of the rich young ruler. Of course, I read it but I don’t linger in the verses or meditate on its meaning. It is a story (depicted as a historical event, not a parable) in which a young, wealthy man kneels before Jesus and asks what he must do to inherit eternal life. Jesus tells the young man to follow the commandments. Unsatisfied with this answer, the young man states that he has followed the commandments. He was looking for more than following the basic rules; he wanted to do something that would give him purpose and eternal fulfillment. Jesus looks at him and says, ”You lack one thing; go sell what you own, and give the money to the poor, and you will have treasure in heaven; then come, follow me.” The man declines this proposal, making him the only one in the Gospels to refuse the invitation to follow Jesus.

This story was ringing in my ears as I went to stay at a beautiful beach house this past weekend. In order to get to the beach and the beautiful houses built around it, you have to pass by a huge favela. A favela is the area where the marginalized poor are forced to live. A couple of weeks ago, I visited this particular favela:

It was a very hot June day, the sun was high in the sky. We drove into an area that looked like a normal, middle-class neighborhood. We parked, and I thought to myself, “If this is the favela, the people are living just fine.” We walked behind a row of houses and stopped at a very steep cliff. From the cliff, when I looked straight down, I could see into a huge valley where hundreds of small shacks are stacked vertically on top of each other. There was a stone path that led one from the top of the cliff to the shacks. There was no rail. There was no wall. If you slipped you could fall vertically into the valley or onto a roof of a shack. We were shocked when our Pastor began to make his way down the steep cliff. He jumped from stone to stone and motioned us to follow him. My heart was in my throat the entire time I descended the hill. Before I could celebrate my small victory of making it down alive, I was struck by sheer sadness of the place. The shacks were so close together. There were places were the dirt path just ended and you had to jump down to another dirt path. I was saddened even more when I entered one of the shacks. It had exactly two rooms. When I entered the first room, I found myself in a small, dark, damp room consisting of one large mattress and one small wooden chair. After walking three steps, I was in the other room. This room seemed to be the kitchen, the only clue being the small refrigerator in the corner of the room. There were dirt-stained clothes hanging to dry from a clothes line running through the center of the room. There was trash falling out of the small trash can onto the dirt floor. The walls in this room were not complete; there was a large square hole where a window should have been. The family that lived in the house was warm and welcoming. There was an elderly woman, a younger woman who was pregnant, a toddler, and three other children (ages ranging from 6- 9). The children were wonderful, but as I played with them questions began to run through my head. First, I wondered why the children were not in school, as it was 11:00 AM on a Wednesday. Second, I looked at the one mattress and wondered where did everyone sleep? When did this woman have enough privacy to conceive a child?

I was full of so many questions as we left. I was trying to figure out what could be done, what should be done. But before my idealist notions could begin creating a Brazillian Utopia, I was snatched back into reality. The pastor informed me that I would be staying with a family in a favela for a week. When I heard this, I could not believe it. The words just would not register in my mind. I would be staying in a two-room shack with one bed for an entire family? I would be staying in a house that lacked complete walls? From that moment on, my mind pondered all of the different dangers that awaited a young American girl who ventured to stay in a Favela after dark. After much fret and fear, I finally told my host mother that I was not willing to say in a Favela. I did not feel safe. I would not willingly put myself in that situation. I could agree to spend the day there, but by nightfall I need to be safely out of the community. My host mother spoke with the pastor and I have not even seen a favela since then, except the one I pass by when I am headed to the beach.

They write books about people like me, people who claim to be in solidarity with the poor but refuse to actually experience and understand their reality. The story of the young rich ruler is my story. The young rich ruler is me. I study theology because, like the young rich ruler, I want to do more than just follow the basic rules; I want to do something that will give me purpose and eternal fulfillment. Like the young rich ruler, I have bowed before Christ, claiming to dedicate my life to his mission. But, I cared more about my belongings and my person than I cared about the mission of Christ. Jesus is there in the Favela. Jesus is there in the two-room shack. I refused to follow him there. I could only walk away, grieving.

Graceful Speech. (Tiffany Thomas: Maceio, Brazil)

2009-07-09T04:24:00.001-05:00

But the LORD said to me, "Do not say, 'I am only a child.' You must go to everyone I send you to and say whatever I command you. Do not be afraid of them, for I am with you and will rescue you," declares the Lord. – Jeremiah 1:7 & 8

No one can deny the vast importance of speaking in ministry. From Sunday morning sermons, Wednesday night bible studies, pastoral counseling, ministry is seemingly centered on the ability to speak. I accepted my call to ministry at the age of fifteen. From the moment I articulated my call to ministry, I have worked in the church. I began teaching bible studies, preaching, and leading the youth group at the age of fifteen. I became a licentiate preacher at the age of 19. Over the years, I have been trained in the art of speaking. I have been trained to work with words as an artist works with paint. Ministry, for me, equated to always having the right thing to say.

Going abroad to Brazil has shattered my very arrogant concept of ministry. As the spoken language is Portuguese and I only understand enough of it to get by, I seem to never have the right thing to say. My syntax, grammar, sentence structure would make a toddler laugh. I scramble for words like a middle school adolescent scrambles for her books when she has fallen down the stairs: hurriedly, embarrassed, and ashamed. I have never been so afraid and anxious at the thought of speaking. But speak I must. Despite the language deficiency, I have come to Brazil to do ministry. I have come to establish relationships and to be a part of a religious community. I must speak! So I speak. I struggle for words; I use my hands; I keep a dictionary in-hand. But I speak.

This experience of working very hard to communicate has taught me that communication is not based solely on words, but also on love and on grace. I marvel at how many people I have gotten to know, home many beautiful conversations I have had, despite my lack in language. Communication is taking place, not because of my profound way with words, but because of the love of the people who are patient with me, and the grace of God that provides all of us with understanding. This experience has humbled me immensely. It has taught me to put more trust in God’s grace, rather than my own abilities.

Living Without A Door (Tiffany Thomas: Maceio, Brazil)

2009-07-03T12:09:00.001-05:00

My bedroom door has always been an important part of my life. I used my door as a communication tool; I often slammed it to show my anger and discontent. It was a source of privacy because I shut my door when I wanted to be alone. Finally, my door was a source of security in which I could only go to sleep at night if my door was closed. I currently live in a house in which my bedroom lacks a door. When I realized this, I was certain that I simply could not live wihtout a door. How would I change clothes? How would I have personal time? Most importantly, how would I sleep?! I needed privacy. I needed security. I needed a door.

Living without a door has been one of the most enlightening experiences. First, as it turns out, I can sleep just without a door. Also, living without a door grants total access to my personal space. People come into my room whenever they please, without knocking (as I write this in my journal, my host mother just came in to open the window to give me more light). They come in to retrieve things from the closet, to look in the mirror, but mostly, they come in to chat and to hang out with me. They come in to see how I am doing and to practice their English skills. Initially, I was very uncomfortable and I wondered how they functioned without a bedroom door. Where was the privacy? Where was the ´´me time´´? But I have found that my bedroom is a microcosm of this community. The people live in a community without doors. While the apartments have actual doors, neighbors run in and out of each other´s houses without knocking, children eat with different families, and everyone gathers together inside and outside of the homes to talk, dance, and watch tv. Everyone in this community is so familiar with each other that I thought that they were all related in someway. I finally asked my host mother about the other people that always come into the house, ´´Voces son familia?´´ (are you all family?). She responded, ´´Familia da Igreja´´ (family of the church). I was in awe when I realized that everyone in this building attends the same church. That´s right folks, I am witnessing real and actual church community. I thought that this was something that only took place in the biblical book of Acts. I thought that this was something that Christians could attempt to do but never accomplish, like counting to infinity. But I have found that Christian community can exist when we get rid of the desire to be closed off, when we let people into our personal space, when we treat our Christian brothers and sisters as actual brothers and sisters. Christian community can exist when we decide to live without doors.

Faithfully witnessing to the dying in Uganda

2009-07-03T03:50:00.002-05:00

Heather Bixler: Hospice Africa, Makindye, Kampala, Uganda

Denise and I have had to grapple with what it means to faithfully witness to those who are dying, particularly as hospice chaplains and volunteers. How do Christian chaplains (or Muslim chaplains, for that matter) who are deeply convicted of the Truth of their faith address the spiritual needs of those patients who are religiously Other? This is the tension of living in a pluralistic society with which chaplains must contend. In fact, it is a tension every Christian who believes in the uniqueness of the Christian story must come to terms with, as well.

There are some Christians (and other religious groups) that operate under the assumption that they are the sole instruments of salvation for those with whom they come in contact, and that if they don’t “save” them before they die, they will be condemned to hell for all eternity. Frankly, I find this anthropocentric soteriology unsettling, not to mention theological untenable. The goal of hospice care is not to win the souls of the dying before it’s too late. As a Christian caring for the dying, I am called to recognize them as the mysteriously “blessed” of the beatitudes – the weak, the mourning, the sad and broken and poor. And with those people, I both encounter and proclaim Christ.

I think that most hospice workers would say that impinging their beliefs, however True, upon a dying patient is wrong. Urging a patient to “accept the truth” as they lay dying rather than resting in the knowledge that our (and their) salvation lies in the hands of a crucified and risen Lord (who, through his own death, raised us all to life) borders dangerously on the edge of self righteousness. I do believe Christ can be “betrayed” by completely eliminating him from the death bed conversation. But I also believe that our attempt at orchestrating death bed conversions, particularly for patients who have already made peace with God and are ready to die with dignity, is also betrayal of Christ. To assume that the main access to faith is purely cognitive and didactic is in and of itself a diminution of the Christian message.

My job is not to secure their place in heaven, because in my theological opinion, Christ did that on the cross two thousand years ago (see Karl Barth). Instead, my job is to care for them, to listen attentively and without judgment, to answer honestly when asked, to speak truth when truth is ready to be heard, to change bandages on incurable wounds and hold trembling hands, to experience their suffering as my own, but ultimately, to give as Christ has given to me. And I firmly believe that those who are “on their way out” so to speak are in a far better place to ponder (and perhaps understand) the Truth of God’s saving work, not to mention the power of the Resurrection, than a healthy, able-bodied, able-minded Duke Divinity MDiv student like myself. So, I’m not sure if we need to equip ourselves with a sophisticated account of how God’s saves people in Christ in order to minister to the dying. What hospice workers, and chaplains, need most are those habits of being and doing that witness to the Kingdom of God to those already broken by the fallen world. I think Catholic lay-woman, doctor and hospice worker, Shelia Cassidy, says it best:

“I believe that those who work with the handicapped, the dispossessed and the dying have very expensive ringside seats at the fight: we have a close up view of players who are stripped of sophistication and pretence, of the comforting outer garments with which men cover their nakedness, their vulnerability and their shame. Surely then, we have a duty to report back the truth of what we see: that the facts are friendly; that the blind see, the lame walk, the lepers are cleansed, and the good news is proclaimed to the poor – that the kingdom of God is among us, and that herein lies our hope.” (Sharing the Darkness: Spirituality of Caring, 3)

Witnessing the Christian message involves becoming the Christian message, Christ’s hands and feet. We as the Church are called to embody Christ through our actions as a sign to the broken, fallen world. In the words of St Francis of Assisi, we are called to go forth and proclaim the good news of the gospel wherever we go, and “when necessary, use words.” As Michael Cartwright states, “what Christians throughout the world can do – with confidence and humility – is to bear witness to the good news by fostering the kinds of habits and practices that enable would-be disciples of Jesus Christ to remember the saints and the martyrs.” If we truly believe that God has created all, loves all, and seeks relationship with all, we can safely speak of this as the universal spiritual need of human beings to be in relationship with God. And if we want to truly and faithfully witness to that God, we can do so by our ethos, as signs pointing to God through our care, particularly our care of those deemed useless by society (the dying).

St Francis’ prayer is, I believe, a perfect prayer for those who work in Hospice: “Grant that I may so much seek to be consoled as to console; to be understood as to understand; to be loved as to love; for it is in giving that we receive, it is in pardoning that we are pardoned, and it is in dying that we are born to eternal life.” Could it be that the simple, embodied acts of patient consolation, humble understanding, and compassionate love proclaim the True Hope in found in Christ to those dying? I think St Francis would say so. And could it be that, in turn, caring for the poor and weak and broken-bodied assists us in working out our own salvation, coming face to face with the True Hope found in Christ? I think St Francis would say so, as well.

Getting Ahead

2009-07-02T08:55:00.001-05:00

Katikamu Catholic Parish, Uganda
Tommy Grimm

The other day, I had a conversation with a Ugandan friend about how difficult it is to “get ahead” here. She has a stable job, for which she’s thankful, but would like to return to school to become more proficient with computers so that she can find work that pays more. But school is expensive, and the culture here isn’t conducive to saving money. She told me about how she tries to put a little money away each month, but there’s always one person or another coming to her with pressing needs, begging for money for a child’s lunch at school, for medical bills, for a family member’s burial fees, or for a host of other needs, mundane and extraordinary. She said that time and again her heart is moved, and she gives away what little she has saved up. I remember reading in the book Africans and Money Matters that because resources are so limited in Africa (in general), there’s a high social value on sharing what one has. Anyone who abstains from this practice is ostracized from the community.

As I listened to my friend, I thought of Jesus’ parable in Luke of the rich fool (Lk 12:13-21). Jesus warns the crowd to “take care, and be on your guard against all covetousness, for one’s life does not consist in the abundance of his possessions” (v. 15). He then tells a story about a man whose land produced a bountiful harvest. Faced with a significant surplus, the man decided to build larger barns to house his financial boon. The man believed this would provide for a leisurely retirement, or at least an extended vacation. However, that very evening, the man dies and “[his] soul is required of [him]” (v. 20).

I’ve often wondered what it would look like to live according to this parable. Saving a nest egg and accounting for the inevitable rainy day is part of our financial mantra in the West. If someone doesn’t comply with our system, choosing not to pay for insurance or save for retirement, we resent having to pay for their poor planning. The goal is to achieve financial independence. Jesus, on the other hand, seems to advocate a community of financial interdependence through generous giving, in which members trust in their Father to provide for them—which often comes through the gifts of others, just as God had provided for the needs of countless others through this Ugandan woman I was talking to. It might keep her from getting ahead in financial standing, but it might also be providing her with “moneybags that do not grow old—with a treasure in the heavens” (Lk 12:33).

A Lesson in Culture II: Furro Love (Tiffany Thomas: Maceio, Brazil)

2009-06-29T18:32:00.001-05:00

June is a party month in Brazil. Throughout the month, there are many (and I mean MANY) parties to celebrate the saints. These saint holidays began as Catholic holidays but are now permanent markers of the culture and everyone celebrates the saint holidays, despite religious affiliation. The most popular way to celebrate the saint holidays is to have a Furro party. At Furro parties, people dress in the traditional garb and dance the traditional dances of the culture. The word ´´Furro´´ is a rather new term that developed in the midst of WWII. During WWII, the US built a base in Brazil and in an attempt to make the American soldiers feel welcome at the Saint parties, the people put signs outside of the doors that read, ´´For All Parties.´´ Over the years ´´For All´´ has been shortened and Brazilianized to ´´Farro.´´ I have been to quite a few Furro parties this past month. And I can say that times have not changed since WWII. The people have gone out of their way to make me feel welcome at their parties. They have this welcoming attitude not just at parties, but always. I have never experienced hospitality like I have experienced it here. These people have taught me to break down the barriers that I put up against strangers and outsiders. They have shown me how to love all people, not just the ones that I am close to. We have been filled with God´s love and this love is for all.

Complex Complexion: Musings on Race in Brazil

2009-06-24T20:54:00.004-05:00

From a Discussion about race with a 25 yr old Brazilian woman:

Janile: I am branca [white]. But because I have mixed ancestry and my skin isn’t so white I am really morena [brown/mixed]. But because my skin is not so dark I am considered white.

Me: what am I?

Janile: You are negra but no one would call you negra. Black people take offense to being called negro. It isn’t offensive, it is a racial category but all black people call themselves moreno, not negro. I think they should call themselves negro because that’s what they are.

From a discussion with Pastor about race:

Pastor: what is the black to white ratio in your church at home?

Tiffany: it is 99.999 % black. What is it at your church?

Pastor: Ehh, everybody is mixed.

Race is a very complex subject in Brazil; it is almost incomprehensible. It is difficult for me to understand the complexities of race in Brazil because race in the United States is very objective. In the US, during the slave era and immediately following, laws were made to keep European Colonists (and their descendents) from mixing with the slaves (and their descendants). Of course, mixing did take place and laws were made to regulate the lives of those of mixed ancestry, referred to by many as “the one drop rule.” Law dictated that anyone with any definable or discernable African ancestry was considered black, and thus subject to the oppression and subjugation reserved for black people. No matter how light you were, if you descended from black people, you were black. This division in the US society birthed the black culture. The black culture extends far beyond skin color. When I say, “I am black” I am not just talking about my complexion. I am talking about an identity with a community of people with a shared history.
But in Brazil it is different. First, Brazilians classify race differently than Americans. There are three commonly used terms to talk about race: “Bronco” for white, “Moreno” for brown or mixed, and “Negro” for black (excluding the terms for people of Indigenous “Indios” or Asian descent “Pardo” which together make up less than 1% of the population*). Classifying race is done by the color of skin, rather than ancestry. A person with two black parents could be classified as white. As my conversation with the Brazilian woman suggests, race classification is very fluid. Second, racial mixing is very common. Unlike in the US, racial mixing is considered a good practice. Because intermixing is a common and a generally accepted practice, many Brazilians assert that race does not exist (as seen from the conversation with the Pastor). The statistics that haunt Brazil would scream the contrary. The majority of the poor in Brazil are nonwhite, and, the majority of those who are educated are white.* The question I have been pondering is: how is it that race does not exist but racism does?
Race does exist in Brazil. I, and my colleagues, have experienced race while being here in Brazil. When we walk down the street, our beautiful dark skin seems to glow, attracting all of the eyes of passersby, as if we were mythical creatures read about only in books but never seen in real life. The first question many people ask upon meeting us is, “Are you from Bahia?” Bahia is a state that has a high concentration of black people. When we were in a small village, little children followed us around making African tribal sounds because they assumed we were from Africa. I can attest to the fact that race does exist. Moreover, racism is an issue. I have seen, with my own eyes, the positive correlation between dark skin and poverty. My goal is to develop the vocabulary to have a serious conversation with the Pastor about race in Brazil.

* Telles, Edward. Race In Another America: The Significance of Skin Color in Brazil. New Jersey: Princeton University Press, 2004.

Fighting the Fear

2009-06-18T22:35:00.003-05:00

If I were to do an honest analysis of myself I would have to state that I have a lot of growing to do as a minister. Effective ministry is the ability to make human connections with conviction, enthusiasm, and boldness. I have conviction. I have enthusiasm. I lack boldness, particularly when the humans I am supposed to connect with are different from me. When I meet people who are sick, deformed, dirty, my first instinct is to back away, not to move forward with open arms. It takes a lot of courage for me to do the opposite of what my instincts are telling me to do. Two particular incidents allowed me to see this weakness within myself:

I had the opportunity to visit a boy who suffered from cleft-lip and palate, his lips and teeth were completely misshapen. He was a very pleasant boy and he loved to sing. He was very excited to have visitors and he performed two or three songs for us. For the majority of the visit I looked down at the floor, studying the dirt. I did not stare at him because I did not want to be rude. More importantly, I looked down in order to control the impulse to run away. But I realized that in looking down at the floor I was being more hurtful and harmful in the situation than I would if I stared at him. So, I worked up the nerve to look into his eyes. His eyes were so bright and he was so happy. I could see that he was genuinely happy to have company and to be able to sing for an audience. When I finally put my self aside, I gained a connection with an amazing boy that I would not have had otherwise.

Also, I had the opportunity to meet the oldest woman in Cha Preta, Brazil. She was 103 years old. When we went to meet her I was petrified by her appearance. She was very thin and frail, and, there was just an empty socket where her right eye should have been. After glancing at her from the living room, my legs became cemented to floor and I could not bring myself to enter the bedroom. But the pastor insisted that I come in and take a picture with her. I swallowed my fear, entered the room, and said hello. She said hello back and articulated delight to meet Americans. Then, we took a picture together. I’m thankful for the opportunity to meet her and make a connection with her because she died the next day.

These two incidents showed me that a shepherd cannot be afraid of sheep. There is no place and there is no time for fear.

*The accompanying pictures have been removed out of respect for the people. I do not want to confuse presentation with exploitation. For further information about the Cleft-lip and Palate condition please visit www.hopkinsmedicine.org/craniofacial/Gateway/CleftLip.cfm*

A Lesson in Culture Part I: Afro-Brazilian Worship

2009-06-17T21:02:00.003-05:00

I recently had the opportunity to observe an Umbanda worship ceremony. The Umbanda religion is a mixture of ancient tribal African beliefs as well as Christian beliefs. The worship service I attended was extremely fascinating. The service took place in a house with a large open room in the front. In the corners of the room were two altars that stood opposite one-another. The altar on the left consisted of red objects and images that I am unfamiliar with. The altar on the right consisted of statues of Jesus, Mary, and various saints of the Christian tradition. The participants of the service were primarily females of various ages. The leader of the group was a woman dressed in white; she was introduced to me as a Holy Woman. They began the worship service by kneeling at the altar to the right. Next, they began chanting and singing in a circle. Afterward, they began to dance and sing in a circle until a deity or spirit possessed one of them. When a person became possessed, they moved to the center and began to prophesy to and greet each person in the room. John the Baptist was one of the spirits possessed a woman and greeted me. Unfortunately, due to the language barrier, I have no idea what he said. I really wish I had a better understanding of Portuguese!

I am not sure what to make of the worship service but I am glad that I was able to witness it. I want to say I believe that the worshipers were actually communing with deities and spirits but I do not believe. I want to believe because I am so fascinated with and envious of their cultural memory. They have held on to a belief and a tradition that extends back to Africa, prior to slavery. I am inspired to see their African roots prevailing despite hundreds of years of slavery and oppression. I, too, long to remember Africa.

Cha Preta I

2009-06-16T23:51:00.003-05:00

This past weekend I went to a small city called Cha Preta. The name literally translates “black land” because many years ago there was a fire that caused many of the trees to look black. I stayed in a house that doubled as a church. The whole experience was very difficult. The house/church was poorly structured so when it rained (which was often because it is currently the winter/rainy season) water would leak into the rooms. This caused everything to be damp all of the time. Furthermore, it caused an infestation of mosquitoes. I know I accumulated over thirty mosquito bites during my five-day stay. Also, on Saturday morning the water ran out in the whole city so there was no running water, which made bathing and using the bathroom a challenge. Eating and drinking became a challenge as well because of the sudden lack of cleanliness due to the lack of water. My co-interns and I heavily discussed the idea of leaving the city due to the health and sanitation concerns but we decided to stay and I am glad we did. I kept thinking about the people who lived there. The people who were enduring living conditions worse than us. People who didn’t even have running water to lose. People who did not have the option to leave. These thoughts in mind gave me the strength to stay one more night. Being there made me consider a few things:

1. Why am I here?
When we met the different people in the city one of the first questions was always, “why are you here?” That is such a good question. It made me analyze and articulate my purpose and intentions for not only Cha Preta but also my visit to Brazil as a whole. It made me realize that I was there not to get an impression of what life is like in Brazil or to give an impression as to what Americans are like; I was there to make an impact. Moving from impression to impact was difficult because there is a temptation on both sides to focus on the spectacle aspect of the visit. When we arrived to the city is was if we were a traveling circus that had just come into town. The people, young children to old adults, followed us around and just stared at us. We invited the people into the church to talk to us and they refused. They preferred to stand outside and watch us as if were a live show. Initially, I was really irritated that they were watching me as if I were this unknown exotic creature, there for their amusement. I then realized how hypocritical I was being. I entered into their city, walked around their town, and entered their houses with no intention to actually stay and help with their various needs. My intention was to look and leave. But in the short amount of time there, I feel I was able to make an impact rather than an impression. The people finally began to respond to our attempts to talk to them. They eventually came inside the church to talk to us rather gaping from a safe distance. We also ventured out to be with them in the streets. I played soccer with the kids and I taught a couple of the older kids to play American football (who knew growing up a tomboy would become a ministerial tool?). When it was time to leave many of the children and adults said they were sad that we were leaving and made us promise to return.

2. What can I do?
When I saw the devastation of the city I became very discouraged by my desire to fix the problems. I walked the streets of the people and saw their problems. I broke a shoe trying to get down the dirt road of the poor communities. I saw, first hand, how badly they needed streets and sidewalks. They needed clean and running water. They needed a hospital. They needed a facility to cater to the high concentration of people with physical and mental disabilities. They needed teachers. They needed so much. And my first response was to calculate the need and to figure out how to provide the solutions. If I just had enough money, I could fix these problems. If I just had enough people, I could fix this city. But then I realized that even assuming that I could get enough money to rebuild this city [which is a VERY liberal assumption] what about the people in the next city? What about the people living in my city? What about the people all over the world? I realized that no matter what I do, it won’t be enough. So then I began to think, “Why do anything?” It was very discouraging but I think it was a lesson in humility and was very helpful. I am not God. I can’t heal the whole world. But I can do my part. I can’t ever do everything but may I never be content to do nothing.

Accepting Hospitality as a Spiritual Practice

2009-06-16T22:32:00.001-05:00

In Lauren Winner's book, Mudhouse Sabbath: An Invitation to a Life of Spiritual Discipline, she states that hospitality is a spiritual practice. She proposes that being hospitable to others is a tool to gain spiritual growth. I would like to add to her proposition: accepting the hospitality of others is also a spiritual practice. Being a stranger in a foreign land is quite an arduous task. I have always considered myself independent and self-sustaining. Accepting others' kindness and hospitality is very difficult and has forced me to do two things:

1. Conquer the Inner Five Year Old

My mother has always traveled a lot and when she left for more than two days I came down with a form of homesickness that I have coined “momsickness.” When I was “momsick” everybody suffered. One particularly acute case of “momsickness” took place when I was five years old and my mother left for California for a week. While she was gone, my brother and I stayed with a friend of the family. I really liked the woman but I was so unhappy that I could not accept her attempts to make my stay more comfortable. I refused to eat the food she cooked, I kept a foul temperament, and I cried all of the time. I can still see the hurt in her face when I refused to eat the dinner that she cooked for me.
Here in Brazil, I feel the momsick child in me rising up and I have been trying very hard to conquer it. I first realized that I was developing homesickness when my appetite vanished. One of the ways that Brazilians show their hospitality is by feeding me. A LOT. Breakfast, snack, lunch, snack, dinner. The snacks are large enough to be considered meals and dinner is eaten very late, anywhere between 8:00 -11:00 pm. I have been struggling to accept their hospitality by eating everything that is put in front of me. I am not hungry. I haven’t been hungry for days. But I eat couscous at 9:00 am and chocolate cake at 12:00 am and everything in the middle (including really strange things that I would much rather not put into my mouth) because in their offering, they are being hospitable. And in my accepting I am trying to show my gratitude.

2. Conquer the Introvert

I consider myself an introvert with extroverted tendencies. I am naturally shy and quiet, and I like to keep to myself. Over the years I have trained myself to fight these natural inclinations and I have learned the art of conversation and charisma. I have taught myself to be outgoing. I have always prided myself on my ability to walk into a room and begin and maintain a conversation with anyone. But the language barrier here in Brazil has severely hampered my ability to be outgoing. It is easier to follow my natural inclinations to be quiet than to attempt to communicate. It is easy to be present and yet not present. It is easy to be in my own world, completely disconnected from the conversation or the people I am with. Conquering the introvert requires new learning, new skills, new talents, new ways of communicating despite the lack of knowledge of the language. And it requires new presence. It is tuning into a conversation even when the only words I understand are “he,” “she,” “and,” “go,” “is,” and “there.” When I figure out how to do this, I will be sure to report my findings.

"What is your staple food?"

2009-06-09T09:30:00.007-05:00

(written June 8th)

Since today was my first meeting with one of my English sections, I began class with an extended introduction about myself and then let the kids ask me questions (I’ll be teaching two sessions of English at the secondary school, and Math and Religious Education at the primary school). Ronald asked me, “What is the staple food where you come from?” It’s a common question, yet I always struggle to answer it. The staple in this area of Uganda is matooke (mah-TOKE-kee), a strain of not-sweet bananas that are prepared like mashed potatoes. It’s usually served with one or two sauces over it, along with any and every other dish piled on top of it (e.g. beans or greens). It tastes pretty good. We have it with the priests almost every lunch and dinner, as in the picture (which includes a sister from India who works at the health center on the compound--an occasional lunchtime guest). Other areas of Uganda eat posho (POE-show) as their staple, corn powder mixed with water and boiled into a mush. Because it’s cheaper than matooke, the students at the school here eat posho and beans everyday for lunch and dinner. Your staple food is a part of your background. It testifies to the region you come from; the land and the climate that made a certain meal most popular.

But how should I answer Ronald’s question? Hamburgers? Pizza? Casserole? That there’s no simple answer in itself doesn’t bother me. What embarrasses me a bit in front of Ronald and his classmates is that as an American and Westerner, I have the blessing of not being bound to a staple food. At my dinner table at home, there can be foods grown and produced from a different part of the world every night. I have no doubt that there are benefits to having a diet constrained by the land, climate, and season—such as a greater appreciation for the mere fact of food arising from a closer connection to the processes that produce it. The way the priests enjoy lunch and dinner, you’d think they had discovered the ambrosia of Olympus. I’m sure many Ugandans here appreciate their food far more than many Americans, despite the difference in variety. However, when asked, I can’t help but feel uncomfortable over the disparity between my “staple” diet and that of my students.

Funny note: two teachers from the school walked with me to the Internet cafe, so they were able to translate the squealed exclamations of the village children we passed. As usual, one child yelled out (in Lugandan), "White man!" But then his friend responded, "No, he is not a white man! He is an albino!" =)

A reflection on human suffering and the broken body of Christ:

2009-06-05T04:47:00.002-05:00

Yesterday, we spent most of our time with the children at the hospice day care in Makindye. There weren’t very many because school is back in session, so the children that were there were especially sick, because they had to drop out of school. Most were pretty active, most likely because they are HIV+ but are on ARVS, so they feel healthy enough. Except for Patience, who walks slowly with a crutch, due to a bad leg, or perhaps something more grave, as in neurological.

The daycare for children doesn’t consist of much programming, for better or for worse. Just a lot of sitting around, talking and joking with one another. For those who feel healthy, perhaps a game of football or catch. They speak mostly in Luganda, so it’s difficult to know what’s going on, but they all seem genuinely happy, easy going, despite their grave diagnoses. I’ve wondered what this sort of experience would be like in the US – spending the afternoon with dying children, children who are supposed to surpass me in years, but will likely die within the next 5. I’m not sure if the atmosphere would feel the same in America….I have a hunch that it would be pretty difficult, even though (or perhaps because) America has much better health care. In a place where sickness is the norm and medicine is not a god (or at least an unreliable deity), one must learn to live with illness better, or accept it as a normal fact of life.

In America, to be sick is to be a leper; few terminally ill people are seen in everyday life, just like people with disabilities. Their illnesses or malfunctioning bodies do too much to remind us of our own mortality and frailty, and in a nation so obsessed with the Baconian project of immortality, it’s best to shut up the ill and frail in institutions rather than allowing the incurable to teach us something that Amy Laura Hall describes as ‘embodied discipleship’ through caring for real bodies, bandaging real wounds, seeing real scars and imperfections on the human body, scars and imperfections similar to those witnessed by the disciples when Christ appeared to them in the Upper Room after his resurrection.

I saw a man yesterday with a gigantic hole in his leg, maybe an inch wide and an inch deep. Both legs were extremely swollen and he said he was in pain. When he pulled up his pant leg, my first instinct was to look away, as we are apt to do in America out of respect (or, more realistically, out of fear and revulsion). But this man, Richard, seemed to take comfort in our presence there with him, knowing that he could reveal his broken body to us without judgment or disgust on our part. There is some sort of imparted dignity, some sort of empowerment or respect that comes with witnessing the wounds of others. In my witnessing, I bear the pain and burden of the one who is sick. I begin to have compassion (which literally means “co-suffering”). The wounds of others are there and they are real, and I, a mere observer, am only a witness to that pain. But through that witness, I must come to grips with the reality of what I am seeing, rather than pretending to live in a world where bodies are perfect and suffering is nonexistent.

Jesus laid his wounds bare for us. St Francis, when he received the gift of stigmata, struggled with whether or not show his wounds to the world, though he eventually decided that they could serve to edify the Church. Mother Theresa, whose feet were deformed from years of wearing the cast-off shoes too small and ill-fitting for her (or anyone’s) feet, let her feet serve as a witness to her discipleship. I think there is a lot of mystery surrounding the physical healings that Jesus performed, but I think we can glean some meaning from the fact that Jesus didn’t heal everyone. The healings he did perform were, according to the author of John, SIGNS of God’s power, glimpses of heaven, of God’s intention for the world. But those left broken in body were no less loved and blessed by God. In fact, through Christ’s death on the cross, their brokenness has itself become a sign of God’s love for the world. Just as their bodies are broken, so was Christ’s, on behalf of the sinful world. Just as they experience the pain of mortality and falleness in their bodies, so Christ bared that pain in his own body, thereby redeeming human flesh through the incarnational mystery.

In no way am I trying to idealize suffering nor am I attempting to make it sound better or more holy than what it actually is. I do not want to minimize the need for good medical care, research, and institutions. But in light of modern medicine and ever-growing medical technology, we cannot forget the cruciform Christ, the body BROKEN for us on the cross and at the altar. Each time the Eucharist host is broken, we remember Christ and God’s saving work. Could it be, also, that when we gaze upon the wounds and brokenness of our fellow brothers and sisters, that we, too, can remember Christ? Could the suffering we experience in our mortal bodies serve to remind us of the suffering servant, our lord and master, Jesus Christ? Perhaps suffering is not an absence of God or a question of theodicy. Perhaps instead it is an opportunity to identify with Christ’s own suffering, for as Christians, the cross lies at the center of our faith.

Tommy touches down.

2009-06-01T10:46:00.004-05:00

After about twenty-four hours of boarding announcements, stewardess questions and in-flight movies, I arrived in Uganda with my classmate and summer cohort George at about 9pm yesterday. We gathered all of our luggage (praise God), and before I could begin to read the collage of cardboard signs held by the anticipating mass outside, our supervisor—Father Joe—emerged to give us a welcoming embrace. We loaded his pickup truck with our bags, drove through Entebbe and Kampala, the capital city, and arrived at Father Joe’s parish two hours later. I was happy to discover the route to be paved the whole way. Another priest and a brother woke up to welcome us, and we retired for the evening after a late night snack of bread and tea. Thank you for your prayers for safe travel.

We’ve been given today off to recuperate and unpack. George and I walked around the school complex for a bit this afternoon. There are about 950 total students who attend the primary and secondary schools. I’ll find out soon what I’ll be teaching. It looks to be a challenging task—there are about seventy students per class! Tomorrow, we’ll officially become acquainted with the school, beginning with daily chapel at 6am (!), and we’ll meet a committee who will assist us with any questions and problems we have. Wednesday will offer a unique experience. We’ll gather outside of Kampala with throngs of people to celebrate the national holiday of the Ugandan martyrs. The day commemorates the martyrdom of faithful Ugandan Christians more than a century ago for their refusal to worship the king’s idols. There will be no American succinctness that day: mass begins at 10am, and will last more than four hours, only to be followed by more speeches. I’ve been told people will be there on pilgrimages from Kenya, Rwanda, Ethiopia, and all over Africa.

Building relationships here is like exercising an atrophied muscle. I’m so used to ending interactions as soon as the common ground has been covered. Once the first prolonged pause arises, someone generously creates an escape (“Well, you’ve got work to do…”), and the day can continue. Here, though, I can’t escape to my cell phone, my car, or my pressing schedule. There’s no day that’s so important that it takes precedence over relationships and their entailments. Prolonged pauses are incorporated into the rhythm of conversations here with the same openness as outsiders are incorporated into living community. The warmth and charity of my new Ugandan friends provide an exercise in learning the extent to which we’re not “to neglect to show hospitality” (Heb 13:2).

(The red brick building in the awkward picture above is where the parish’s three priests live. I’ll take my meals there. It has a parlor with a tv. Before dinner, I’ll join the priests and others to watch the news. The blue house is where George and I are living, called “The Duke House.” We each have our own room with a desk and a bed, with a common bathroom joining us.)

Uganda: A Crash Course!

2009-05-28T15:19:00.003-05:00

Denise and I arrived in Uganda 11 days ago, but it feels like much longer. In many ways, we've been given a crash course in all things Ugandan since our arrival, including lake fly and flying ant invasions in our home, eating matooke (smashed bananas) and rice for almost every meal, being called "mazungu!" by most people who pass you in the street, navigating the commute to Kampala via matatu during morning rushour, and receiving wonderfully humbling Ugandan hospitality and welcome everywhere we go.

Father Stephen is down-to-earth, fun, and passionate - great attributes for a field education supervisor as well as a friend. He has done a great job planning for our coming, with all of its ambiguities, and making us feel right at home in this new country. The house we are staying in really does feel like a home away from home. And we've enjoyed getting to know our neighbors (though we can't say the same for the neighborhood stray dogs!).

We've also been exceedingly blessed by our first two weeks at Hospice Africa. It's an amazing organization helping the most vulnerable people in society live out the rest of their lives with dignity and without pain until they pass away, with hope, peacefully. We've spent a lot of time with palliative care doctors and nurses on home visits, seeing patients and perscribing medicine to meet their needs, free of charge. Many of these people are deeply impoverished, so HA also provides them with some basic food staples every few weeks. They are truly a model of hospice in Africa, and serve as such for the entire continent. Students from around Africa, as well as the world, come to HA to learn more, volunteer, and recieve training in palliative care. Besides ourselves, we have met individuals from the UK, Canada, the Congo, and Kenya who have come to HA for various internships and research projects. It truly is the place to be.

Denise and I took a really fun trip with Father Stephen's "minor seminary" students (ages 12-18) to the western (and in my opinion, most beautiful) part of Uganda this past weekend. We went along with 150 young Catholic school boys, as well as a handfull of priests. Besides the nurse and the school secretary, Denise and I were the only women in a sea of guys! We really had a blast, and hopefully we'll be able to provide more details about that soon.

I know Denise and I both really look forward to witnessing the ways God is moving in the lives of people here, particularly those who are suffering from terminal illnesses like cancer and HIV-AIDS. I have no doubt that God speaks to the vulnerable and, therefore, speaks to us through the vulnerable. All we must do is turn our ears towards those in need to hear the voice of God.

Uganda: Every Tribe

2008-07-26T05:57:00.005-05:00

"After this I looked, and there before me was a great multitude that no one could count, from every nation, tribe, people and language, standing before the throne and in front of the Lamb...And they cried out in a loud voice: 'Salvation belongs to our God, who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb." Revelation 7:9-10

Last Sunday my colleague Angela and I traveled with a priest to one of the 16 missions overseen by our parish church. These missions are composed of parish members who have no means to travel the distance from their extremely rural and isolated villages to the main church. They are visited by the priest for a service perhaps once a month (or less).

We bounced along a fissured dirt road past increasingly isolated and sparse villages, and then priest turned off the mud road and onto what appeared as a overgrown footpath barely visible amid the weeds. We drove for miles into the Ugandan “bush,” lurching and jostling between banana trees and cassava plants. The priest explained as we drove just how difficult life is at many of these missions. The people live many miles from the nearest store of any kind, and not a single person owns any sort of vehicle. They grow all the food they eat, but basic commodities like sugar, salt, and soap are very difficult to acquire.

When we arrived at the mission, the congregation was already gathered and had been patiently awaiting our arrival for several hours. Their humble church is in such poor condition that there is serious risk that it could collapse any moment upon their heads. Just the week before I had visited the rubble of another mission church which had collapsed upon and injured several church members. Therefore at this mission the congregation was avoiding danger by sitting outside under a canopy of tarps tied together by banana leaves and held up by sticks.

Part of the reason for our visit on this particular Sunday was to dedicate a new well that had been paid for by an American church. The gratitude of the villagers was overwhelming, because up until now their nearest well had been several miles away. It would take the children the better part of the day to collect jugs of water for their families and carry them home. Many children, we were told, had been drinking bacteria-ridden pond water. All the important persons of the village stood up and gave speeches about the need to care for this precious well, and a whole committee was selected to supervise and guard it.

At the end of the service that day, the priest appealed to those could afford to do so to try to save enough to give 500 shillings a month to help support their church, whose latrine is collapsing in addition to the building. This is the American equivalent of about 30 cents, but for many in this mission, to even think of sparing such a sum would be a major gesture of faith. 30 cents a month, a mighty sacrifice. My heart aches even in recalling it, and I find myself burning to cry out, “My American brothers and sisters in Christ, what are we doing?! What have we done?! We begrudge God the smallest sacrifices when the widow’s offering (Luke 21:1-4) is real and is happening every single day. Let us open our eyes and see our lives and hearts truthfully! Our brothers and sisters in Kikungo are calling us to repentance.”

The headmaster of the mission school told us that of the 350 students attending, only 30 will eat any sort of lunch each day. As guests, of course, we were served a lunch of matooke (steamed green bananas) with a kind of broth composed of little chicken bones that had been covered in water and cooked in banana leaves. As I watched the people around me hungrily consuming handfuls of matooke, I’ve never been more honored to partake of a meal.

What I will remember forever, however, is around in the middle of the service and seeing men and women with their hands clasped together and their faces turned upward, singing praises to the great mercy of Yesu Kristu (Jesus Christ). It hit me as I stood there that if there really is such a place as the “ends of the earth,” I might be pretty close to it, yet even here the name of Jesus Christ is honey upon the lips of a hungry people. The praises of God are being sung in corners of the globe we have never imagined, in places we as Americans can barely fathom. Here in the bush where survival is itself a daily struggle, even here the name of Jesus Christ is lifted high. And God is pleased by their worship. He is so, so pleased. We ourselves have become witnesses of Scripture fulfilled, of the ancient promises of God being made good. God is writing His name on all nations and tribes and tongues, and they are being called His People. Glory to the name of the One who has done this! Amina. Amen.

Meghan Good (with Angela MacDonald)

Learning & Loving in South Africa

2008-07-25T18:30:00.002-05:00

I have learned much about seeing God in every situation. I have realized that God is not limited to my beliefs about Him. I have never thought of myself as one who puts God in a box, but I have come to realize that some of the “rules” and traditions that I have abided by have constricted me to believe in a big God who works within a big box. God has shown me that He is so much bigger than my mind and preconceived notions allow Him to be, and that He is not by any means limited to work in the ways that I associate with being right. I have undeniably experienced God working in ways which some may deem as unorthodox, and rightly so. I have come to believe that our theological ideas of orthodoxy are quite different from what God deems as orthodox. Although I believe that orthodoxy is theologically necessary for us, I have been awakened by the fact that God does not only work in the midst of orthodoxy, His presence and power can be found where heresy and apostasy are present. God does not need orthodoxy—although He works within it, He also works without it. Since God is sovereign He manages to even use the unorthodox to glorify His name. My semi-tightly woven theology has slowly been unraveling to make more room for a God that cannot be contained by man's doctrines and ideals. So, maybe it is not right to say God is unorthodox, but it is better to say that God is not limited to our ideals of orthodoxy. My mind and heart have become more open to the way the Spirit of God works in this world. There is more of an acknowledgment and acceptance of God's mystery that is at work. So, in whom did I meet Jesus during this stay? I met Him in the relativists, heretics, Pharisees, and the drunkards. Praise be unto our God who has revealed Himself in mighty ways, taught me more about Him here in South Africa and who shall forever graciously be destroying the boxes that I attempt to force Him into.

She Told Me Her Name

2008-06-26T05:32:00.002-05:00

A group from England was here last week and we spent most of our time working at the Miss Stone Center (The Meals on Wheels Program), but we also went to two villages and they put together a program to lead for the children at the churches. On Tuesday we were at the village of Monespitevo and the group from England were leading the children in a lesson about Daniel in the Lion's Den. Of course, local children heard that something was going on, so during the craft, a group of children were seen peeking through the gate. Jo, one of the people from England, invited them in and all of a sudden we had almost doubled the amount of children and there were only two translators. At first it was chaos as we tried to get the children situated and started on their craft. Two young girls came to me and I realized that they were too young to write the Bible verse on the craft. I tried to tell them who I was in Macedonian, but they were too shy to answer me, so I began to copy the bible verse on their craft in Cyrillic. Halfway through writing the verse I recognized a phrase that one of the girls was saying. “Yas suhm Adriana.” My head immediately came up and I realized that she was talking to me, and that she had told me her name. She then proceeded to tell me the other girls name and asked for mine. Although this may seem to be a minor event, it was huge for me. I recognized a Macedonian phrase and did not have to think about what it meant, I just knew. Not only that, but I could answer her back in Macedonian and could even understand more of what she was saying. It was a very joyous evening for me.

This experience has given me a little more confidence to try and speak more Macedonian to the people around me. I have realized that since then, more people are willing to talk to me in English and will even help me a little in understanding more Macedonian. Language is very important to Macedonians because it sets them apart from other cultures and contributes to their identity as a people. The people here seem to respect me for just trying to learn it. Not only that but I can now ask and understand a person's name, which is also extremely important to identity as well. The people here are proud of their heritage and their history and learning more of who they are, even their name and language, is important to them.

Reflecting on this has made me think about how important identity is for me and for others around me. I am very proud of my name and the history behind that, as well as where I come from. Loletuth and Kentucky are a way for me to explain why I am the way I am. I also think that the fact that I am Methodist also contributes to my identity. It is common here for people to say what church they go to, especially if they hear that you are working in one. For them, the church you attend is part of your identity, even if it is not part of your actual life. This concept makes me think of what identity in Christ actually means. For most of the people here, it is what church you belong too, and not the way in which you live. There is constant bickering between the Protestants and the Orthodox over which church is better. Often times you wonder if many of these people understand that in essence it truly does not matter; it is how deeply you live for Christ and not what church you attend. My identity is defined by what God is doing in my life and more importantly, how do I express and live out that identity for others? It is this question that I must answer myself and also what I should to understand about others as well. To seek to learn their identity not just by their name, place, and language, but by who they are in Christ. Of course, this requires me to love them no matter the cost.

Perhaps I have placed too much emphasis on the language barrier and need to think outside of the box and find an even deeper way of communicating my identity and the identity of others. I can connect to others because I have put on Christ and can find others who have done the same. It is through this identity that we can find our connection and a way to communicate that is truly beyond earthly means. We have the connection of our identity in Christ. Not only that but I must try to find a way to challenge others to find their identity in Christ and to learn how that identity is far more revealing of who you truly are then even your name, place, and language.

I do rejoice in the experience of being able to begin understanding Macedonian, but I also realize this means that I now have to seek to understand who people are beyond that, and realize it is probably something I should have been doing all along

Preparando (Getting ready)

2008-06-05T21:49:00.002-05:00

Two months ago, my wife (Stephanie) and I (Daniel) never would have imagined that we would be packing up and going to Peru for the summer. When I walked into the office to find out where we would be this summer, I was startled to hear that we were being asked to go to South America for the summer. After considering this possibility, we could see how God had been preparing us for this opportunity. Just this past year I had been asked to do an internship with Spanish-speaking children at La Estrella Resplandeciente. In the internship, I was able to learn from Pastor Lucho Reinoso, who is from Peru and taught me about Latin American diversity and cultures, from the the volunteers, and from the children, who taught me how to listen and not assume that I know what they are feeling or experiencing. Also, I was given the opportunity to improve my oral and auditory Spanish proficiency. Moreover, Stephanie and I became friends this past year with a couple at our church, one of whom is Peruvian and just moved to the States. Needless to say, the offer of a placement into Peru opened a window into a portion of God's desires.

Seeing God's hand throughout our two month preparation, we have been blessed with wonderful mentors and prayerful friends and family. We are excited to leave in a few days to see what God has in store for us to learn, the relationships God will orchestrate, the ways God will use us. Only God knows what will happen.

The Gogo's Garden

2007-07-18T05:15:00.000-05:00

Many times I have read the Psalms of praise as redundant phrases that foster God’s ego, they no longer become the cries of my own heart but at times empty words sent up to God. This was until a professor of mine taught me how to truly read the Psalms. She offered that one way in doing that was creating a picture in your mind of what the Psalmist is painting. Since my new understanding Psalm 148 has been a Psalm not only of praise to me but one of hope in a new creation both materially and spiritually in this world. The Psalmist paints a picture of creation as it was when God first ordered it into being. She goes through each command that God gave in the cosmos. I would like to think that her Picasso was not only one of memory, but mission. She sets forth a vision for what the world can look like again, a picture of garden is what I gather from the text. I have preached on this vision of “green” living and environmentally friendly living and new life and have even tried to take steps in my own life to see the garden come alive again, but it wasn’t until I met a Gogo in her garden that the Psalmist vision took hold of my heart.

A week ago I went to visit Gogo Teresa’s garden which the Phakamisa ministry helped her to start. I not only saw her garden but seven others which she had trained and helped other woman to start. The gardens were not just a hobby for the gardeners but they were actually their only hope for food in their forsaken part of this land. The Gogo’s lived in informal settlements and townships. Most of them cared for up to eleven grandchildren or other children that have been orphaned in the community. Many of the children that they love, feed, bath, and care for have AIDS and would die if not for the Gogo’s guardianship.

As we drove with “Mother Teresa”, the name many of her friends called her, we stopped at all the different gardens and met all the other Gogo’s who ran the gardens. Each one was so proud of her spinach, tomatoes, Zulu Cocumba, pumpkins, onions, peppers, and potatoes. Each vegetable had its proper place and they explained to me how they planted and nurtured each of the different plants. They told me how they were given simple seeds and how they grew to be food for them and their children. Which not only provided something to put on the dinner table at night but also helps give the nutrients they need for their ARTs (Anti Retriviral Treatment) to be effective in their bodies to fight against AIDS.

Teresa’s garden was the last one way saw that day and it was the biggest garden, not because of her work alone, but because she had invited others in the community to plant there as well. The garden became a community undertaking providing not only food but the soil for relationships to be planted, rooted, and grown. In many ways the garden provided new life. The simple Gogo played God and was literally the hands and feet of the creator as she planted new life in the soil that was given to her, while at the same time planting hope and happiness in the children and other Gogos that she continually helps.

In Gogo Teresa’s vision and in her mission I was able to see with my own eyes and even taste with my own taste buds the picture the Psalmist painted in Psalm 148. I did not know that day as I entered the informal area made of sticks, a few bricks, and lots of rubbish that I was in fact stepping into the Garden of Eden recreated by the heart of God and the hands of the Gogo Teresa.

We had CHURCH.

2007-07-10T10:21:00.001-05:00

This past Sunday morning we celebrated the 13th anniversary of our little church. The people spent the weekend with each other, but Sunday was the big day. Last week, at the end of the service, we planned the food schedule for the weekend. Each of us committing to bring something to contribute to the meals so that the church would not be stressed financially by the weekend. I brought disposable plates on Saturday, and Sunday, I brought a chicken. Yes, an actual entire chicken (already dead), but head, feet, intestines and all. It was a first for me. I walked to church with chicken in tow, giggling with Meredith along the way about the fact that I was currently carrying a chicken carcass.

When we arrived, Cesar was teaching Sunday school and there were lots of visitors listening to what he had to say. We knocked on the door of the kitchen and our friend let us in. I was so surprised when I walked into the kitchen because there behind the table of chopped up vegetables and the other 5 or 6 whole chickens was a MAN in an apron and a chef’s hat. Another man was helping him, along with two young women. I have been going to this church for about two months now, and before Sunday, never saw a man in the kitchen.

He invited us in, told us to sit, and gave us bread and tea. Then they told us stories of snakes in the jungle and other adventures. It was a great way to start the day.

The culto (worship service) began while we were chatting, so we snuck out of the kitchen and found a seat in the crowded little storefront church. The culto included children singing, young people presenting what they learned in Sunday school, the young adults leading the congregational singing, a sermon by the District Superintendent, more singing, lots of praying and a benediction by a woman (which is a big deal).

I spent the majority of the service with tears in my eyes, wishing that I had more time here, and knowing that God was really there with us. After the service we had a HUGE meal (the typical Peruvian sized lunch), and some good fellowship. We had CHURCH.

As I was leaving I thanked the chef for his work, kissed so many cheeks, and went to say goodbye to Cesar. I asked him as I was walking out who this man was who was cooking for us today. He said, “Oh, Estefani, He is new. He came up to me a few days ago and said, ‘I know how to cook… why don’t you let me help?’” I stood dumbfounded for a minute, Cesar laughed at me and said, “I was surprised, too, but what a gift. God is good.”

Back on the Streets

2007-07-09T08:15:00.000-05:00

Well, I am back on the streets. For a few weeks I have been out of my regular routine due to confirmation camp, flu, and a visit to the Drakensburg Mountains. So I have been getting places mainly by car. I also have had to stop my running routine because of the flu but today I was able to walk to church and then back to the lodge where I stay. Then I went on a forty minute jog with my pastor upto Howie's Hill to get a great view of Pinetown, the city which I am staying in. Then I walked back to the church and here I am. When I walk I am usually the only white person on the roads walking and I get the privilege to see so much of the kind of "real life" of everyday life for a person here. I get to see mothers spanking their children for being naughty, or men running to get to work on time, children walking home from school, etc. I noticed today how much I missed walking on the streets. It made me realize how easy it is to create or own little bubble of a life. When we have transport for the most part we can see what we want to see when we want to see it and if there is something that we might not want to see, well, we can speed right past it. So, the past few weeks, it feels as if I really have been living in the white christian woman's bubble. Whether the surroundings I have found myself in have been in places of poverty or privilege, I have chosen to go there and have been able to prepare myself for those experiences. It has been a true blessing to be out of a bubble and on the streets. I wonder if any others of you in international places have experienced this kind of bubble as well?

The Clinic

2007-06-25T22:01:00.000-05:00

I recently spent a week translating for a Clinica Mobil. This is basically a doctor’s office in a trailer. The clinic offered services in General Medicine, Pediatrics, Dentistry, Ophthalmology, and Gynecology. They needed seven different translators, one for each different clinic, plus one in triage (getting all of the basic information down), and one in the pharmacy (which offered free medicine). Cesar needed Meredith and me to serve as translators. From the moment we arrived at the first day of the clinic, I was so impressed with the group of volunteers. It was about 9:00am when we arrived with the other translators, and there was a hustle and bustle underway. Half of the team from Central UMC in Florence, SC was already working hard on the construction of a church in Concepción (a town about 30 minutes outside of Huancayo), while the other half was organizing their medical posts. Not one of theme seemed unhappy to be there.

Because I am a woman (there were few women translators), I was needed in Gynecology. Meredith got to spend the day playing with children in Pediatrics, while I learned a whole slew of new vocabulary, as one would imagine, in order to accommodate our patients.

The second day of the clinic we were in a pueblo near Huancayo called San Jeronimo. The line was already wrapped around the side of the building when we arrived. We served many women that day, some pregnant, some not… some sick, some well… but there is one woman whose face will never leave my memory. For the sake of honoring her privacy I will call her Maria. Maria came to see us late in the morning. I asked her the usual questions while Sloan, the OB/GYN nurse, took down my translations of her answers. Then Maria began to cry. I walked over, and sat beside her on our make-shift exam table and asked her what she felt that she needed that day. She said so meekly, “I fear that I might be pregnant.” Sloan immediately grabbed a pregnancy test out of the many mounted containers of medicine, and we directed her to the bathroom so that we could do the test in the privacy of our trailer. When she returned, I hurried her to the front of our line, much to the dismay of some of those who were still waiting… I had to do some crowd control, to which they responded graciously. I helped Maria up on to the exam table where she looked at me with fear and dread. Because I was the translator I was the one who had to tell her that indeed she was pregnant. I took a deep breath, and invited her to relax and do the same. She cracked a little bit of a smile. Then I told her, “Maria, the test is positive, which means that you are pregnant.” She began to cry.

Sloan told me everything that I needed to explain to her, from the approximate due date of the baby, to prenatal vitamins, to the clean-home delivery kit. (I am pretty much a pro at explaining how to cut an umbilical cord). I asked Maria if she would like to talk to a pastor before going home. She said that she would, so I ditched my post at gynecology for a few minutes, thanked the women in line for their patience and then escorted Maria to the church (which was the waiting room). I invited her to sit and went in search of Cesar Sr. (my supervisor’s wonderful dad), for a pastoral presence to be with Maria. When I couldn’t find him, I felt kind of defeated, and went back to sit with Maria for a few minutes. We sat in silence while she held my hand and cried. Then I realized something.

I heard myself saying inside my head, “Stephanie! YOU are a pastor. Why don’t YOU do this??” I know that sounds like a pretty delayed response… how could I have been so slow to realize it? I was so caught up in my tasks as a translator for the week, and a teacher during my time in Peru, that I forgot that indeed I AM a pastor. I confessed my idiocy to Maria, and asked her if she would like to talk to ME. I felt a little unqualified, but indeed she wanted me to listen to her. We talked about how this baby, even though it is baby #6 being born into uncertain financial situations, is a gift. I told her that God loves her and her child, and that the Psalmist tells us that God knits us together in the wombs of our mothers. I touched her newly pregnant stomach and told her that there was LIFE here. She put her hand on top of mine and said, “Sí, Mamita… sí.”

After we prayed, she cried and I choked back tears. I told her that I would be praying for her. She kissed my cheek and held me in an embrace for a long time. I was being summoned back to Gynecology to translate and I needed to go.

That afternoon, I saw countless faces of women who came in and out of the clinic. I played volleyball with a couple of school girls while we were waiting for our next rush of patients. I can’t remember any of their names, and only a few of their faces. Later that afternoon, as we were about to leave, I saw María walking past the clinic with 4 small children chasing after her grabbing on to her legs, and saying “!Mamí! Mamí!” She looked up from the kids for a moment, still carrying her prenatal vitamins and other medicines, and our eyes met. For the first time that day, María smiled. I jumped down out of the clinic (keep in mind that it is a trailer you have to step up into), and she turned around and walked back to me. I kissed her face and told her that I loved her. She held my hand for a minute, said, “God bless you, Mamita,” smiled, and walked away holding her vitamins in one hand, and the hand of her 3 year old with the other.

Come for Supper!

2007-06-21T14:11:00.000-05:00

So! Last weekend, I made a fabulous, jet-setting trip (read: my flight was rebooked, I heard my name in the airport multiple times as I almost missed connections, and when switched to another airline, my luggage was oh-so-conveniently lost) back to DC and "the" Universityfor a dear friend's wedding weekend. Though many of us haven't seen each other in some time, we all came together from around the country to gather and celebrate the love, laughter, friendships, and blessings of our lives. It was so refreshing to spend time with the girls, and feel so instantly at ease and at home with folks I just don't get to see much anymore, but who I love all the same ... Not to mention, I'm realizing how important REST and RESPITE are to the daily life of a minister (or any human being, for that matter!). Sometimes we just get into a rhythm and go go go, not realizing we need a break or vacation until we arrive there. Only in the last week or so has the work here at L'Arche gotten to be just a bit tiring (okay ... exhausting), so I am glad that the opportunity for self care presented itself and I capitalized on it!

After such a great reunion of friends, it was completely to my surprise that when I arrived back in Canada, I found a very special note waiting for me!

"Amey Come For Supper Love Linda." Haha ... this gives new meaning to the idea of making one's requests known! Let me explain a bit ... Linda is a wondeful, energetic, joyful woman who lives in one of the L'arche houses down the street. She visits Corner House (my home) every Tuesday for supper. For whatever reason, Linda has taken quite a liking to me and is very insistent that I come spend time with her (how sweet!) She works with Leah, an MTS student at Duke, and always asks when Leah's "sister" is coming (ahem ... this is me, though Leah and I are opposite in appearance in almost every way!). Whenever we see each other at a L'Arche gathering or in passing, she invites me to sing and dance and spend time with her ... For Linda, there is something very critical about relationship and bonding that is connected to sharing a meal and communing with one another. It is important enough to write a note (my name is even spelled correctly! wow!), a brief but direct letter to make sure I knew I was invited, welcomed, and wanted for dinner.
I cannot tell you (a) how completely hilarious this was, knowing Linda's buoyant personality, or (b) how deeply touching this was. I had just spent a crazy weekend in the States being reminded that the concept of "home" is rooted in relationship, in community, in knowing and being known, in loving and being loved. With nostalgia and the comfort of being "home" with close friends in hand, I returned to the Corner House to find myself, once again, at home ... fully welcome, deeply missed, and truly loved. Moreover, to find myself among amazing people I now call friends who I never expected to be so close to!

My invitation reminded me of the words in Revelation: "Listen! I am standing at the door, knocking; if you hear my voice and open the door, I will come in to you and eat with you, and you with me." (3:20). How many opportunities to dine together, with God or the people of God, do we miss every day? Christ invites us daily to "come for supper," to be filled with daily bread, to feed others along our way. Do we take the invitation seriously? Do we realize the sign of love and relationship that supper represents? The pace of life here at L'Arche is so different from the rushed and hectic pace of life in the "real world," and it has slowed me down enough to be grateful for the smallest of moments in the days. L'arche has shown me the beauty of sharing life together, and made so clear the reality that communion/community/relationship are at the heart of what it means to be the people of God. I'm just grateful not to be so wrapped up in the sounds of society to miss the gentle knocking of Christ upon my heart through this experience.
May we all take a moment to enjoy the abundant feast of life before us, and share our joys and gifts on this journey. Take time for God, take time for self, and take time to "Come for supper ..." Oh! And as for Linda, we have a dinner date planned next week ... I can't wait!

Linda with Talia and Donna at Corner House.

Poopy Pants

2007-06-21T06:53:00.000-05:00

As a young child (well it actually lasted into college) I suffered from an awful "Audreyism" as some of my friends my call it. My problem was getting very excited, which doesn't seem like a problem within itself, but what would happen when I got excited was really the difficulty that was distressing. You see when I would get excited I would pee in my pants! Well a few days ago I met my match in a young boy from Claremont.

Last Tuesday I went with Phakimisa on a field trip to St. Mary's School (an all girls private school). Each year the girls in the school prepare a package for a different child in one of the preschools that Phakimisa supports. So around 10:00 am we loaded thirty children on each taxi (what we might call a 16 seater bus) and made our way to the school. For many of the children involved this was their first time on a taxi and their first time seeing a whole lot of white people. Once we got to the school the staff played with them for a while, then the bell rang and a rush of girls dressed in blue uniforms rushed to greet the children. We all played on the tennis courts for a while and then went to the little party that was set up with biscuits, and tea, and presents. For the three to five year old this venue was really like Christmas, it only happens once a year and is full of gifts and surprises. So each of the children were called by name to come and receive their gift and they all sat with the girls and played with their toys and had biscuits and tea. As we were wrapping the afternoon up the children started to head back to the taxis, but one boy was still waiting in the grass and had the most distressing look on his face. I went to him and asked what was wrong and why he had such a sad face on and got no response. So I helped him stand up and when I did there was a new smell in the air other than freshly cut grass. So I looked on the ground and saw nothing, then I turned my head and saw the child's pant was completely brown. I then saw the need for the sad face. His teacher took notice and came over and took him to the bathroom, where he lost his pants and came to the taxi butt naked. By miracle in his gift he received pants and was able to where those. I inquired why the boy pooped in his pants. I didn't know if he wasn't potty trained or didn't know where to go. The teacher's answer was so simple: "He told me that he just got so excited that he pooped his pants!"

Speaking from experience, I must say it is a bittersweet problem to have. Many times your happiness, most thrilling moments are stained in some way by the mess you make. My heart ached for the boy as I noticed what real vulnerability there is in being excited, even in truly experiencing life. As one whose pride increases with age, as one who tries to keep her emotions under control (and bodily functions these days), and as one who might even exchange truly living for perfection, it was refreshing to be with a boy who simply let it all hang out. It was amazing to see a little boy who let himself experience life so much that he had no control over his body or his actions. Maybe this is the kind of freedom that Christ has set us free for. Not that we are now free to use the bathroom wherever we want but maybe it is this kind of freedom, which lets us truly live, that is the factory of love. I pray that I might experience this freedom of life more and more while I am here. I pray that I might be so wrapped up in life, and the liberating presence of Christ that all I can think to do is to love, and maybe once, just once be so excited that I pee in my pants!

The River

2007-06-17T09:32:00.000-05:00

Last Friday morning Meredith and I left for La Selva (the Amazon Rainforest) where we were asked to teach a weekend seminar. As we were driving to La Selva I began to feel a little bit puny for the first time in my 5 weeks in Peru. Perhaps it was the winding down the mountains, taking each curve a little bit faster than I would have if I were driving; but I am convinced that my puniness was largely because the music that was accompanying our journey for the first couple of hours was not any kind of beautiful Peruvian melody, but the dissonant sounds of a tea salesman. That’s right… tea. The funny thing about the trip is that I would have probably enjoyed some tea, but the man gave a shpeel that lasted at least an hour before he began to walk up and down the aisle of the bus aggressively and loudly attempting to guilt people into buying his tea. I generally do not react violently to situations, but I was about 1 step away from lurching over my seat, throwing up on him and then shoving his tea in his mouth so as to mute his unnecessarily loud sales pitch. Then, I realized that Jesus probably would not have done that, so neither should I.

The second half of our trip began as a group of 3 musicians boarded the bus. They were funny and friendly, and won my heart as they played the music of the Peruvian Andes that I love. As they were playing, the mountains changed from the dry high mountain ranges to a lower range covered completely in green. We were getting close to La Selva. I opened my window and breathed the air of the Amazon rainforest for the first time in my life. We were almost there.

After a 5 hour bus ride, and a one hour car ride, we arrived in Pucharini. We were greeted by the most beautiful scenery; their names were Moises, Ruth, Sadith, Dan and Brion. This family housed and fed us for three days, and became our friends. We taught our “seminar” Friday and Saturday, relying heavily on Godly Play to tell the stories of the Old Testament. On Saturday after I facilitated my last class, we played, worshipped, had dinner, sang songs in the native language Ashaninka (taught by the children of Pucharini at the dining room table of Moises and Ruth), and slept like babies. When we were awoken early Sunday morning by the rooster crowing and the dog barking, we went to go bath in the river.

Even though, by our North American standard we were filthy, in some ways I have never felt so clean. There was something that I can’t seem to name that changed in my soul in those minutes of washing my face, feet and hair in el Rio Perene. It was as if I was cleansed of the grime of the city, of my life of convenience, of the annoying tea salesman, of my pride, and of my fear. Something about bathing in this river woke me up. Maybe it was the cold water on my face, or the balancing act I did on the rocks, but in those moments when Meredith and I were guided to the river bank by Sadith, our 13 year old hostess, I felt the Spirit of God with me more strongly than I ever have before. (This is Sadith.)

After our last bath in the river on Sunday morning, we were driven up to the church, which is high into the green, jungle-covered mountain. We talked, played and laughed for about an hour before the service started. Moises invited Meredith and I to come into the sanctuary to ask which of us would be preaching. Meredith looked at me and said… “It’s your turn.” She had preached off the cuff on Saturday evening in a time of prayer, singing and praise that we had to end our time of teaching. I sat down on the banco (bench), covered in leaves and probably lots of small bugs after playing in the jungley hillside with the kids and opened to the Psalms. The whole weekend, I had been hearing the words of Psalm 8 play through my mind. So, we prayed the Psalm together and by the grace of God, there was a sermon.

The same God who loves that obnoxious tea salesman, who sings through the traditional music of the Peruvian Andes, who covers the mountains with green, who fills the riverbeds with sparkling water, who shines through the faces of Moises, Ruth, Sadith, Dan and Brion, who leads me to the riverside, who cleanses me of my sins, who guides me with her hand on the steep walk up from the river… I felt that same God with me as I fumbled through my spontaneous Spanish sermon, and remembered that God’s name truly is majestic in ALL the earth.

The Face of Jesus

2007-06-12T08:17:00.000-05:00

I have been praying over the last few days to see the face of Jesus. One would think for a seminarian this would be a rather regular occurrence, but for some reason the past few weeks my eyes have been preoccupied in looking at the whole new world that I am living in rather than where Jesus might be within it. Yes, I have reflected on the church and Jesus working in and through the church through the different ways they are engaged in the community. I have even been wrapped up in what Jesus seems to be doing in this place. But I have been yearning to see Jesus and really praying for that. Today I saw her.

This morning I spent my time with Phakamisa Ministry at my church. The word Phakamisa means "to lift up, and let grow" in Zulu. The ministry does many things but primarily trains women to be preschool teachers and caregivers in their townships. The ministry runs five days a weeks and four of those mornings begin with a time of worship. The worship time is spent in singing, prayer request, and the lighting of candles (a candle is lit for every person they might know who has died in the past two weeks, six candles were lit today). In the service today Jesus was sitting next to me. She was small and had the most beautiful smile that was laced with wrinkles on both sides. Her eyes as well were painted with the wrinkles only brushed on by wisdom. Between every prayer there was a song and during each song she would rise and slowly walk to the music and pray as though she carried the world on her 75 year old shoulders. This Gogo (a name used for woman who are older and caregivers) took care of eleven children in her small home.

In our closing song I began to think about this Gogo and also began to think of Jesus, and his words in Matthew saying, "Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of heaven belongs to such as these." In that moment I knew Jesus had shown up for me! And also that Jesus shows up everyday to the eleven children she gives care too! In that same moment Gogo's cell phone went off with some obnoxious tune and she quickly grabbed it out of her shirt (many people keep it there so no one will steal it). The ring abruptly shattered my highly spiritual moment. Yet, after that we both laughed and hugged, and she held my hand through the closing prayer rubbing it gently as could imagine Jesus did when Matthew says, "when he had placed his hands on them, he went from there." I started to tear up during our prayer, for in her touch I realized that I was simply a little child who needed a touch from Jesus, and as Jesus always does, he showed up!

Taking it Easy

2007-06-11T16:02:00.000-05:00

Greetings again from Guatemala.

Having spent the better part of a decade at Duke, I´ve gotten pretty used to being busy, to always having an assignment to turn in or something to check off my to-do list. So my first week here, I saw all the sights, studied real hard and started to get frustrated that I was not yet fluent in Spanish. After all, I had been immersed in it for a whole week. As it turns out, I needed to relax a little.

When I signed up to go to Central America this summer, somewhere in my mind I was thinking that I´d have a nice, laid-back summer. And for the most part (at least so far), I have been right. Granted, I´ve had some struggles and I´ve had to make some adjustments, but I´ve got it pretty good here. I learn Spanish for a few hours in the morning, my adopted Guatemalan sisters have lunch ready for me when I get home, and I have the afternoons and evenings free to do pretty much whatever I want. I have a lot of free time and very few responsibilities. And to be honest, there have been some days where I was bored out of my mind. I think I have walked down every street in the city. And I can only conjugate so many verbs and hike up so many mountains. With nothing pressing to do, I´ve really had to learn how to relax.

In some places, taking it easy is part of the culture. I´m not sure that´s the case here given the speed at which the buses dart around mountain curves. And I have never heard people honk their car horns so often. In any case, relaxing isn´t really part of the culture I have been in for the past few years. As such, I´ve had to work really hard at slowing down and taking it easy.

And work I have. I´ve found a couple of quiet little cafes. And I´ve bought a few good, used books. And I´ve spent hours at a table drinking the same (no longer) hot chocolate. It´s all still fairly new to me. And I admit, I have been tempted, while sitting in one of my favorite new spots, to make a list of all the things I need to do before I head to El Salvador later this week. But I´ve held off, because in forcing myself to relax, in forcing myself to slow down and take it easy, I think I´m learning a little more about what it means to be human. As a student in the Divinity School, I´m blessed with many wonderful opportunities and experiences. But often, I find that it´s not until well after those experiences that I even realize how wonderful they were. But even my reflection and belated enjoyment are rushed by the need to get on with the next thing.

But now I´ve had a taste of what it´s like to slow down, to live in the moment, as they say. And I rather like it. I can get lost in my thoughts. I can read a book for fun. I can stare off into the distance, watching the clouds dance up the side of the mountain without worrying about what´s not getting done. I can truly begin to feel the life and love that fills every place because I´m no longer busy plowing right through it.

Seann Duffin
M.Div. ´08
Quetzaltenango, Guatemala.

And a picture ...

2007-06-07T10:15:00.001-05:00

This is a picture of a core member and myself on a walk last week ... another assistant was taking random shots and got this one. I hope you all are enjoying the simple moments in life, wherever you are (especially to you friends in South Africa -- I know how cold it is!)

Love,
Amey

Rhythm of Life

2007-06-07T10:13:00.000-05:00

Note: This is my reflection for the Center for Reconciliation. I hope you enjoy! - Amey

Tap. Tap. Tap. My outstretched hand gently raps upon the maple dining table in shared anticipation by all seated in the round. For a moment silence echoes a reminder of the gift that is to come, the beat of our hearts relinquished to the steady sound of fingertips suspended in midair. Lauren* is hungry and rocks her body to and fro in time with my hand, her fiery eyes fixed trance-like upon the heavens. With a heavy sigh her eyes meet mine with an intensity that, under other circumstances, would be riddled with austerity. But the eyes of my heart perceive this look to be one of compassion and love. Eyes again focused away but with expert quickness, Lauren grips my hand and instinctively takes over the beat. In a rich, gravelly contralto, Lauren slowly makes out the first few words of the familiar song. Kum-Bah-Yah! Out of tune, the others at the table eagerly join in on My Lord! Kum-bah-yah! Internally I shed a tear of joy, knowing that while it is perhaps polite to ask, overwhelming evidence indicates that God has not just ‘come by here,’ but permanently resides in this place.

This scenario takes place nightly before dinner at Corner House, my home in L’Arche Daybreak. Daybreak is but one part of an international federation of communities dedicated to living and working alongside people with profound disabilities. For my placement, I and other house assistants participate in and share life together with the core members of our community. Those here with disabilities are indeed at the ‘core’ of life, not because they are less independent, but because their simple gifts of love and grace prophetically speak to the world about the true essence, the very core, of life in Christ. L’Arche seeks to understand itself as part of the body of Christ by creating intimate and authentic community with those whom the world easily ignores. With faith and commitment, L’Arche creates home; I am eternally grateful to be part of this family.

The scenario above features Lauren, a brilliant woman who loves to sing, play, and listen to music. Lauren does not communicate verbally, but is able to form some words and utilize hand signals to convey her desires. She is dependent upon assistants to help her in most aspects of life but displays amazing alertness and vibrancy.

Like most of us, Lauren requires a good deal of time to establish a bond of trust before she will allow a person into her space. Upon our first greeting, she was agitated and disinterested. Our second greeting left me with scratches. After that, I made sure to give her space, but slowly began to form a bond with her through music. Lauren loves to hold your hands while you clap or keep time against the arm of her wheelchair. Where words aren’t always adequate, melodies seem to fill the spaces between.

One day, as I sat down to fiddle around at the piano, another assistant asked Lauren if she wanted to play with me. She rolled her wheelchair closer and gently placed Lauren’s hand upon mine. This was one of the sweetest touches I have ever experienced. As I played, Lauren moved in closer and closer. I looked her in the eyes as we sang a worship melody. Without warning Lauren grabbed my arm and rested against me; in that moment, time stopped. After weeks of working, Lauren’s hug confirmed the love and trust we have begun to share.

How much easier would life be if we so fully trusted God? The ladies I work with depend on others for everything, but are so gracious and grateful in the process. When Christ calls us to follow, He does not always include a detailed map. Rather, we are to trust the leading and direction of the Spirit with faith to believe that God makes our paths straight and will provide our needs. L’Arche reminds me of my own dependency upon God to be my daily sustenance; it is the only way I can live and love abundantly. As I look forward to the sacred moments and lessons of my time here, I pray the cadence of life here is one I will not quickly forget.

Amen.

Eyes to See

2007-06-04T21:26:00.000-05:00

Okay, okay ... my apologies for disappearing in, well, Canada (here is where I must tell you that I still feel just a bit silly posting on the international blog ... but a technicality is a technicality!). It isn't that I haven't wanted to share. In fact, I've got quite a few drafts saved in Blogger as we speak. I just have had a difficult time in my attempts to be authentic and real knowing the inadequacy of language to express this experience ...

You see, three of the four core members (those living with disabilities) in the L'arche home that I live and work with are unable to communicate with words. And, as someone who LOVES to talk, er, I mean ... as someone who loves to write, and has a deep appreciation for poetry, means of communication, and rich theological texts ... I've realized yet again how much language fails us, and how profound the adage actions speak louder than words really is.

What do you say to an amazing woman who is surviving muscular leukodystrophe? As a child, her parents were informed that she would probably not live past ten years of age. Next month, I will be here to celebrate her 35th birthday. Don't tell me that miracles don't happen. Don't think that eloquence quickly bridges the echoing silence that grips my heart every time I see her precious, sacred soul.

I'd like to share a story about this amazing woman (I'll call her "Sasha"). When she was diagnosed with this devastating disorder as a child, her parents were informed that she would soon become blind. Her father was stricken with grief, but, as he tells it, Sasha's mother brought him back to reality. Knowing that their beloved daughter would soon be able to see no more, they made the decision to fill her mind with as many beautiful visual memories as they possibly could while they still had time.

As such, the entire family (mom, dad, Sash and her younger brother and sister) piled into an RV headed initially to visit family six hours north in Canada. And where exactly did they end up? In Tijuana, Mexico!!! Can you believe it? They traveled throughout Canada as well as the States. Riding through the desert, the family drank Coke after Coke to keep cool and keep quiet. Sasha rode on her father's back as the family hiked the Grand Canyon. Not to mention, she has been on EVERY single ride at Disney World. In the midst of tragic news, her family chose to breathe life into their daughter. To show her the world while she had eyes to see, so that when her physical sight failed her she would always perceive and remember with her heart.

Her hearing is fading these days, but I speak in a calm voice and make sounds that she can recognize. Comfort is the priority in a daily routine that cycles around medicines and tubes and creams. She never learned English, but I sing to her anyway. She doesn't leave the house these days, so I sit alongside her and gently massage the hands that do not unclench on their own. I move quickly to apply pressure to the soles of her feet when her muscles begin to violently spasm. I clumsily attempt gentleness as I hourly reposition her small body.

Every time I look at Sasha I behold the beauty of the Lord. I cannot tell you how humbled I am to see her wide, blind eyes gazing up at me. The wave of love and compassion that she causes to wash over me is indescribable. And I am convinced that she is indeed able to see. Perhaps not the forms and faces of those around her. But Sasha sees the heart of God. She isn't concerned about what I look like, dress like, act like, want to be like. She has no use for the things deemed important by the world. She sees prophetically beyond all of these things and searches my heart for that which is authentic and that which is real. She can see love and compassion, and God's lavish outpouring, more clearly than anyone I know. She sees beyonds my many flaws, and is teaching me what it means to truly love, to truly be Christ in the world.

With blind eyes and no words, Sasha speaks. She speaks of what it means to be a part of a body, a community, founded in love and compassion and grace. She speaks of the amazing faith and heart to survive the worst of circumstances. She leads me into a greater knowledge of the Kingdom. Her profound message is one that causes me to stop and reconsider the gift of breath I breathe each moment, and to more fully engage ministry definitively as an act of service.

Sasha's eyes are wider than mine. They are filled with something altogether lovely. They are of a keen clarity. I pray God continues to use her to give me new eyes to see ... she has already filled me with beautiful memories and visions that my heart will never lose sight of.

Paralyzed by Politics

2007-06-04T05:56:00.000-05:00

The past few days in the part of South Africa that I am located (the Natal Region- the North West Coast) have been very interesting and have opened up for many political conversations. The word in the air is strike! Yes, last week workers that get paid by the government (teachers at public schools, doctors and nurses at public hospitals, construction workers, road workers, etc.) have been on strike. Not all of them, but a vast majority. Their plea is for a 12% increase in their pay, not that much when you consider higher up officials in the government have recently received a 30% increase or more to their salary. For South Africa this will be a telling moment about the post 1994 Government. Many wonder if democracy will reign, it seems that most of the people I have talked to believe it will and even believe the full request will be met. This topic struck up a conversation between me and two doctors from this area who were friends of friends and not really associated with the church. One of them worked in the private sect, the other in the public sect. Race was of course a man topic at hand. They spoke about the equity that occurs in the workplace (this is a formula for race at the workplace, both private and public, different for every area and even for most businesses. The goal is to balance the race within the workplace) and how it is a good thing but also frustrating because if there is no one that fits the race description one is looking for then the job does not get filled. In the course of our conversation they mentioned Cuban doctors. This sparked my interest because of my huge connection with the Cuban Methodist Church.

The conversation started with them simply explaining the process of doctor exchange with Cuba but ended in a rather heated battle, of which I went away rather bruised with much to think about. The main source of heat surrounded the topic of South Africa's involvement with Cuba. I did not understand why South Africa, a country which fought for liberation of its people, would be in close relationship with Cuba, a country which I have always understood to have a fairly oppressive government. I thought my question was fairly rational, yet my political conversation partner thought that it was filled with Western North American propaganda. His response to me was a quick comment on the oppression that the American government has on its own people and expressed to me that my thoughts on Cuba were taken from my Western perspective. He explained to me how Cuba helped South Africa win its independence from Namibia years ago and many people in the East or other third World countries view Castro as an anti-imperialist hero. And even if the government saw injustice in an ally country he told me that many times countries will overlook domestic issues of their allies in fear of a lack of international support. (This is also a way to explain South Africa's silence to the oppression in Zimbabwe at the current moment.) I understand all of these politics but at the same time it does make me rather sick that fraternity pledges have become the litmus test for international relations rather than integrity or ethical standards. I guess it is time for me to crawl out of my naive notions of the world and accept the reality of international relations.

Over the past few days I have accepted that I do have a western mind. I am coming to understand that not everyone has the ability or strength or desire to have armed forces and is unwilling to wage war at the drop of a hat or get involved in another countries domestic policy because they have issues. All of that I can understand. I think what my doctor friend did not understand about me is that although I have grown up with a Western mind of privilege and prosperity, I am not comfortable with it- my country, my own economics, and my president. I don't think that he understood either that I have been to Cuba twice, and have heard and seen oppression in that place, as well as a great health and education system, but it is not a coincidence that many of the doctors who came on exchange from Cuba found spouses and have stayed in this country. I understand that international relationships between countries are complex but I also understand the web that is oppression is complex, and as an American I am apart of that complex mixture of oppression simply by buying clothes from a company that maintains sweat shops. This complexity leaves me rather paralyzed at the moment. Yet, I know the church has something to say, to the strike the government workers are involved in, to the politics of countries such as Cuba, yet, I wonder how the church says what it has to say. Every situation is different and requires different tactics of resistance so I guess I can't know the answers to all these issues right now! But, what I do know is that I cannot stay paralyzed by politics and either can the church. So for right now I guess I must pray for the Holy Spirit to snap me out of my paralyzed state and show me in each moment where I must speak , or smile, or hug, or say no, or simply pray.

Slowing Down

2007-06-01T15:45:00.000-05:00

Hello again from Guatemala. I was happy to read Audrey´s post (see Small Words below) about communication difficulties and the need to use small words. Believe it or not, the four of us who came to Guatemala with little to no Spanish skills have had our fair share of communication difficulties. And while it is awkward to use very simple words and even more awkward to use only one verb tense, I have been amazed at what I can say and what I can understand if I have the patience to try.

Monday through Friday we are enrolled in a language school here in Xela. Most of my time is spent learning verb conjugations and memorizing vocabulary words. But sometimes I have been able to just sit down and talk with my tutor, Luis. Now, I have a patient and curious teacher who asked me to tell him about Methodism. Over the course of two afternoons, I explained to him the history and structure of The United Methodist Church--to the best of my knowledge and ability anyway. I´ve also explained to Luis the crazy concept of camping out for Duke basketball tickets. And conversely, Luis has told me about the Guatemalan civil war and the complex structure of the fan base of Los Super Chivos (Xela´s professional soccer team--2007 national champions, by the way).

Using only the most basic concepts and phrases, we have learned a whole lot about some seriously complex issues. But like I said above, it has taken loads of patience (mostly on Luis´ part). His willingness to use only small words and to sit patiently while I flip through my Spanish-English dictionary to find the word bishop or conference or tent has allowed us to communicate information that is important in our lives. The understanding is partial, at best, but I´m pretty certain that is better than no understanding at all.
Being spoken to only in Spanish has changed the way I listen to others. I can´t think ahead or prepare a response before the other person is finished speaking. I can only concentrate on every word, hoping for some understanding. Now, I wonder what will happen when I return to the U.S. and can once again speak in my native tongue to other English speakers. I wonder what I will be able to explain or what I will be able to understand if I slow down and use simple concepts, if I use small words, and if I listen patiently while others try to explain to me something that is important to them.

Seann Duffin
M. Div. ´08
Quetzaltenango, Guatemala

Ruth

2007-05-30T12:52:00.000-05:00

Since my last blog post, my week has consisted of a youth retreat (for a detailed account read meredithinperu.blogspot.com), a delightfully church-filled Sunday, a week of preparing for and teaching two different classes, and my attempt at fighting off this cold/cough that is attacking a good percentage of Huancayans because of the sudden drop in temperatures. But amidst all of the things I have been doing, I feel anything but overwhelmed. I feel peace.

As I prepare to leave today for another retreat with a different group of high schoolers, I am thinking about my favorite part of last weekend's retreat. It was not the hilarious crisis of painting our group "banderola"/flag, nor was it the fact that one of the students swiped the key to the main door of the girls casa, nor was it the endless screeching of the girls who would not go to sleep, nor the sad truth that we did not have running water the next morning, nor that we began our devotional at 7:30 am (try herding 24 cranky chicas to a time of prayer at that hour). No, my favorite time of the retreat came in an unexpected package.

My group had been semi-participatory throughout the retreat, but were a bit reluctant to talk about the theme of the weekend: La Amistad de Jesús/The Friendship of Jesus. Saturday morning we discussed different things that build walls between ourselves and others; And in the afternoon we were to discuss family relationships. The morning went relatively well and the kids seemed to enjoy their time together, despite the fact that they were tired and un-bathed. Yet, when it came time for our afternoon session, every attempt at a conversation-starting question that I asked was responded to with dead silence, the occasional yawn, and sometimes a cricket chirp. I recalled that in one of the facilitator planning meetings we discussed the art of story telling, and how powerful it could be. I began to tell one of my favorite stories of the Bible, the story of Ruth. I framed it in a contemporary setting, Ruth being from Lima, Naomi and family from Huancayo, etc. I told the story quietly, and the kids were leaning in, trying to hear. They actually wanted to hear the story. After I finished telling the story, we talked a little bit about the family of Ruth and Naomi, and discussed what that teaches us. It was beautiful. But this was not even the best part.

My group of 10 fifteen year olds decided that for their presentation to the entire group of fifty-something people, they would re-enact the story of Ruth as though it happened today. The kids were so creative and fearless in their practicing of the drama. Two girls sat with Bible in hand and recounted each detail of the first chapter, which was proving to be the toughest to coordinate, as you have the deaths of Elimelech, Mahlon and Chilion. After a series of interesting twists to the story, the kids finally perfected their drama.
During the presentation, which was about 15 minutes too long, the kids had the full attention of their peers, full of applause and yelling. What was so special about this scene was not the goofiness of Mahlon and Chilion who had an entire drawn out section of courting Ruth and Orpah (a detail left out by the story’s original redactors), nor the words “where you go, I will go” from Ruth to Naomi, and not even the way that Mahlon learned one line of the Wedding March that he played over and over again throughout the entire wedding scene of Ruth and Boaz (another detail omitted by its authors).

I could not wipe the grin off of my face during the entire dramatic presentation because I realized this: They got it. They spent the last hour of our group time picking phrase by phrase through the tiny book of Ruth so that they could tell the story of a different type of family who loved each other dearly. Yes, they got it. And because they got it, so did I.

Simple Words

2007-05-29T06:41:00.000-05:00

Hello Friends! First of all I must apologize for my lack of blog post. I have found that every bit of time I have allotted to blog has been taken over by an amazing conversation or a sudden turn in my plans, and I have to admit that I will have to submit to those surprises before I submit to the blog. Hopefully I can share those surprises along the way! I am now in Pinetown, South Africa and have been since Thursday! I was whisked away on a church family camp (family meaning church family) on Friday and got back on Sunday. It was a wonderful opportunity to meet people and understand the dynamics of the church a little bit. The folks on the trip were both black and white. The blacks being mostly Zulu and the whites being mostly from English descent. It was a weekend of firsts for the church, the first time they had done family camp, the first time they had a camp that was of mixed races, and the first time many people met each other, even though they went to the same church. Its interesting how different services can divide people but also interesting how weekends away can bring them together! More thoughts on this weekend later. One thing I did find striking was how often all of us had to use simple words in talking to one another. I befriend a little man named Stingo (4 yrs) and he spoke Zulu and would speak to me in Zulu like I knew what he was saying, it was rather funny. My only responses to him were simple words in English, like, "You are such a good boy!" or "You can run so fast" or "wow, you are swimming!". Although little was said it felt like much was being communicated in simple words. Every time I spoke with him he had the most amazing smile on his face, and the same when he spoke to me. It made me think about how much I talk and many times don't say anything! Overall in the area that I am in and the people that I have been surrounded by it seems that simple words, even among adults are common. I heard one woman tell another today, "good girl" when she heard of a mission project she was involved in. Simple words actually remind me of my grandmother who often would communicate in simple but meaningful words. She has always been so slow to speak and quick to listen. I believe this is how Jesus must be...slow to speak and eager to listen, and when he is listens he truly hears and when he speaks it is simple, yet sensational! May all of us in our complex new cultures find ways to use simple words!

2007-05-24T16:31:00.001-05:00

Greetings from Guatemala. The four of us--Paige Martin, Cindy Frisch, Jonathan Anderson, and me, Seann Duffin--arrived here in Quetzaltenango, Guatemala on Sunday afternoon. I think the biggest challenge for us so far has been settling into a routine. Don´t let anyone tell you that it´s easy to go to a country where you don´t speak the language. Of course, that is why we are here. For the next four weeks, we will be studying Spanish at a language school in Quetzaltenango (or Xela, as the locals call it).

As soon as I stepped off the plane in Guatemala, I knew that, for the next ten weeks, my life would be completely different than it is back home in Durham. As I´ve wandered around Xela and gotten to know my host family, I have had plenty of opportunities to think about privilege and possessions. I am a self-avowed middle-class, educated white male who is used to a certain standard of living. My accommodations here are not quite as comfortable as those to which I will return in July. However, I´ve noticed something strange. I am no worse off without all those things. In fact, my life might even be easier not having a car, sharing a bathroom with 6 other people, and being able to check my email only once in a while. I have much less than I´m used to, but I still have everything I need. Three meals each day, a warm bed to sleep in, and clean water to drink.

I miss the luxuries of home, but I feel incredibly lucky to have what I have here, because I encounter people each day who do not have even the basic things that I have. We´ve been so busy here that I haven´t had a lot of time to reflect or form many coherent and profound thoughts, but these are just some of my reactions to my first few days in Xela. And I´d like to challenge all of you back home and abroad to look around you and think about what we think of as necessities. There are a hundred things I thought I couldn´t live without until I came here and began to live without them.

Peace of Christ and love from Guatemala.
Seann Duffin
M.Div. ´08
Quetzaltenango, Guatemala.

What Beauty.

2007-05-23T22:51:00.000-05:00

We have begun teaching. In both of my classes and both of Meredith’s we spent the majority of the first class getting to know our students and doing typical “first day stuff.” We talked about our syllabi, our final projects, our hopes for the classes that we are teaching, and gave general introductions to our different courses. (The photo is of one of my classrooms.)

The most profound moment for me was tonight as I was listening to Meredith teach. Meredith and I are attending each other’s classes so that we can help if we get into a Spanish mental block (which happens more often than one would think), so that we can offer suggestions of other ways to approach a tema (theme/topic), and frankly, so that we can learn from each other. This partnership has been wonderful, and the moment of beauty was something I was able to observe because I did have to think about what I was going to say next. I was able to be a listener—something that I think we fail to do often in our daily hurried lives.

Meredith’s class at one of the seminaries is about Diakonia—the life of service. After the basic introductions and syllabus discussion, we participated in a dinámica (game to help with learning). The basic notion of the game is to pass out little sheets of paper and have everyone write their name on their sheet. Then they pass the papers back in (with only their name written on them), the leader mixes up the papers and redistributes them so that everyone receives a sheet with a different person’s name written on it. The student then writes on the paper something that they want for the other person to do. For example, “sing your favorite song,” “recite a poem,” “dance around the room,” “act like a monkey.” Ultimately, each person has to do what they wrote down, not what they were assigned to do. This embodies the notion of “doing unto others as you would have them do unto you,” but in the context of service, Meredith taught us that it breaks down the “us” and “them” barriers… reminding us that we are all “Hijos de Dios” (Children of God).

Gladys, a women in Mere’s class, is about 70 years old…the oldest in the class by a good 45 years. She goes to our church and has a spirit so kind that one cannot help but feel at ease around her. She wrote on the paper she received during the dinamica an instruction for her classmate to sing a song of praise aloud to all of us. When it came time for Gladys to do the action she had assigned her friend, she struggled to come up with something to sing, and appeared a little bit flustered. Without missing a beat (literally… no pun intended), the members of the class began helping her sing the song, and before we knew it, we were all singing. This, my friends, was a moment in which, without any doubt in my mind, the Spirit of God was present in our little classroom. The words we sang were:

Tú has venido a la orilla
no has buscado ni a sabios ni a ricos
tan sólo quieres que yo te siga.
Coro: Señor, me has mirado a lost ojos
sonriendo has dicho mi nombre,
en la arena he djado mi barca,
junto a ti buscaré otro mar.

Lord, you have come to the lakeshore
looking neither for wealthy nor wise ones.
You only asked me to follow humbly.
Refrain: O Lord, with your eyes you have searched me,
kindly smiling, have spoken my name.
Now my boat's left on the shoreline behind me;
by your side I will seek other seas.

It was beautiful.

Cold, but Warm

2007-05-22T12:55:00.000-05:00

Well, I'm sitting on the steps of the "White House" aka the administration building at John Wesley College (really its just a big white building and that is how it got its name- really no correlation to the White House in the US ) hoping my Internet connection will stay long enough for me to send in this blog. At the moment it is 8:00 pm in South Africa, but 2:00 pm according to my internal time clock. So I am exhausted and very cold sitting here on the steps of the White House, it is about 40 degrees and to a girl from Florida, that is cold. Yet although it is cold, it has been incredibly warm at John Wesley college.

The students greeted us when we got here with hugs and kisses and a meal that they had prepared for our arrival. We said we were tired and not hungry, but we must have just been jet lagged because we ate all the food on our plate and sat with them at their table for over two hours talking. We all had to rationalize that we needed sleep and they needed to study to move us from the table, but I'm sure if reason were not apart of the picture we could have talked for hours, and since then we have been able to. Our conversations have been warm as well. It seems that in the respect granted by new situations and strangers we are able to really listen and hear and wonder with each other. Most of our wondering is of course grounded in the area of church since we are all preparing to be pastors of some sort. It has been remarkable to see the similarities between the strengths and struggles within both of our churches that are 8000 miles apart. Maybe those of you in other international context can relate. We talked about the lack of the prophetic voice of the church, the struggles concerning mission and outreach, attendance and discipleship, economic class, racism, and the struggle in countering the prosperity gospel. Although we did not solve the church's problems or the world's in our small conversation over coffee and tea, it was a pleasure and privilege to talk and listen and wonder with them, our fellow brothers and sisters and ministers, it was actually quite warm!

Contribution in Canada

2007-05-17T13:29:00.000-05:00

Well, after an hour and a half plane ride (indeed, my pilot had a lead foot!), I found myself in a very chilly Toronto last week. It is hard to believe that I am already here, fully immersed in one of the most profound experiences of my life -- living and working with the invisible, those with profound disabilities, those easily forgotten because they do not contribute to society.

This idea of contribution had me thinking yesterday on my day away. As I meandered through the Art Gallery of Ontario in downtown Toronto, I came across this painting titled "Woman in Bathtub" (Alex Colville). Between a still life of a jar of apricots and a portrait of Henry VIII (bringing horrible flashbacks of the English Reformation to mind!), lay this naked woman in a bathtub. The theology behind all of this? In short, this picture reminded me of Abigail*, one of the ladies that I live and work with here in L'Arche. Abigail has cerebral palsey, which means that she is unable to control her muscles or communicate verbally. She is known for her famous smile, however, by which we communicate. As such, this week I have been trained in the personal care of Abigail, to include how to bathe her.

As I stared at this painting, I couldn't help but think of how helpless Abigail is while in the bath. Whoever is assisting her is unable to turn away, for in a few brief moments alone she could slip down and drown. She requires constant attention, loving care, and gentleness. And, of course, she needs our help to be washed clean. And, as I looked at this woman in the bathtub, I couldn't help but think of the condition of humanity. How we, as people, are in need of someone to watch over us. Someone to give us constant attention, loving care, and grace. And, of course, to be washed clean from the sins that pollute our very being.

Perhaps the idea of contribution, woven into our societal obsession with progress and innovation, needs to be revisited with a different lens. For when we see ourselves from God's perspective, we realize that if our acceptance into the body of Christ is based on our contribution to the Almighty God, we are in trouble. Rather, God sees something valuable in each person, fearfully and wonderfully made. And with every breath, we all have a chance to contribute to bringing God glory, even if it isn't in the ways that we typically expect. Even if it is reflected in the care with which I wash Abigail's body. Even if it is reflected in the humility, surrender, and enviable trust that Abigail demonstrates towards God, and those who desire to serve God by serving her. I'm just so very grateful to be a part of this experience. Abigail, as well as the other members of this community, have contributed to my life and ministry in more ways that I could have ever expected or imagined. I only pray that I have something to offer this community that has already given me so much.

Believe me ... bathtime will never be the same.

*Name has been changed for privacy.

The Little Things

2007-05-15T10:03:00.000-05:00

el 15 de mayo, 2007

Today begins our third full day in Huancayo. After some drama with our flight on Thursday (a mechanical problem with the plane kept us from leaving in time to catch our connecting flight), we had to reschedule our flights for Friday, getting us safely to Lima Friday night. We were picked up by Gladys and Raul (the most wonderful Peruvian travel agents) at midnight and taken straight to our hotel to rest. On Saturday we rode from Lima to Huancayo for 7 and a half hours on a bus that went up over a n 18,000 foot peak and gradually down into the valley (about 10,000/11,000 feet) where Huancayo is nestled.

We spent Sunday morning in worship (about 3 hours), an afternoon of almuerzo (lunch) with the church community, and errand running with Cesar and family. The day ended in our cute little piso (apartment), with the sounds of the city accompanying my life here.

Since I arrived, I have been thinking about the little things that seem to make this experience so wonderful. The little things like seeing the smiling faces of Gladys and Raul as we sleepily wandered through customs into a crowd of strangers; the little things like the two tiny Dramamine pills that made the bus ride so much more bearable; the little things like being greeted by name in Huancayo--Cesar approached me saying, “Estefani?” to which I responded, “Cesar?”… we had a moment; the little things like meeting one of the students of the high school Sunday morning in worship whose name is Estefani, we bonded over our names; the little things like playing a made-up game with several children and a role of tape; the little things like the random heavy rain shower that caused a bunch of water to shoot through the window of the van into the face of my supervisor’s son, Diego (age 10), subsequently causing me to crack up to the point of tears. I love these little moments of peace, comfort and JOY that remind me that our lives would not be at all profound if it were not for the little things that tell our stories.

Yesterday, (Monday) was our first “official” meeting with our supervisor, Cesar, during which we talked about all of the things he hopes for our time here. The idea of teaching in this setting is intimidating, but also empowering. I pray that I can learn enough to be an effective teacher. Our classes at the seminary begin on Monday, May 21. I am teaching Monday nights from 6-7:30 and Thursdays from 6-9:15; my classes at the high school begin the same day in the afternoon.

Very soon, I will begin teaching in the high school about the Kingdom of God. Today I remembered that the Kingdom of God surely is found in the little things (the mustard seed, the leaven in the loaf, the friendly smile of a stranger, the rain). Don’t get me wrong. I’m not comparing the Kingdom of God to Dramamine. I am, however, recognizing that what is going to make this experience “theologically profound” are the little things that make each day one that glorifies God. I am excited to see how God will use the little things of tomorrow to make such a day!

Vamos...

2007-05-09T13:34:00.000-05:00

Tomorrow I leave for Peru.

As I sit among the piles of clothes, books, travel documents, and my own personal pharmacy, I break from my packing and semi-anxious pacing to remember why I am going in the first place.

My supervisor’s instructions were extensive. He asked us to teach both in the local seminary as well as in the “Colegio Metodista”/Methodist High School. In the seminary, I am teaching a class called “Acompañamiento Pastoral de Jovenes”/Pastoral Accompaniment of Youth. He wants me to discuss ways to embody effective pastoral ministry with youth as we pursue goals and dreams for the life of the Church. In the high school, I am working within the topic of “El Reino de Dios y Justicia Social”/The Kingdom of God and Social Justice. I am so excited to begin learning from the people of Huancayo, but am anxious that they might be getting the short end of the stick by having me as their teacher. I pray that God will truly be in our midst, and that I we will recognize Jesus in each other's faces.

When I was in Peru last Spring, I learned what it felt like to truly feel the Spirit of God, and to recognize God in our midst in the "now", rather than after reflection. The simple words of Daniel Iverson’s hymn are my prayer today as I prepare for my journey:

Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me.
Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me.
Melt me, mold me, fill me, use me.
Spirit of the living God, fall afresh on me.

My prayer for this journey as that God's Spirit will move, and that I will be faithful enough to see how.

In Preparation for L'Arche

2007-05-05T10:06:00.000-05:00

Amey Victoria in May 2006 working in Tegucigalpa, Honduras.

In six days I will leave for the great unknown that they call Field Education. In only six short days I will find myself groggy, possibly having slept but with equal potential to have kept watch through the night packing, waiting alone in a chilly airport to catch my 6:00am flight to Toronto. In six days, God created the heavens and the earth. And in six days, I will begin my brief but powerful experience serving in the L'Arche community for the summer (www.larchedaybreak.com/). Funny how much can be shaped and formed in but a few days ... funny to imagine that in six days, even this blog entry will be viewed in such hindsight ... funny, not knowing what lies ahead, but knowing and expecting so much!

Fast forward one year, and she is again pulling out the backpack to adventure with God!

Did I mention that I am scared out of my mind? I've noticed my tendencies toward selfishness in the recent weeks. Amidst exams and papers and deadlines and quirky circumstances and misunderstood conversations and questionable intentions (ah, its good to be in Divinity School come finals week), I've found it much easier to be the Myers-Briggs qualified introvert I am than to overly engage life. Everyone else is out for themselves, taking care of their own, so I might as well be, too, eh? (Don't mind me - I'm just practicing my new Canadian endings here). But deep down I know this is just a cover for insecurity. Somehow, the great sweep of papers and tests took off the edge of ministry. Only now, once again, am I realizing the daunting task of serving for the summer. Only now, once again, am I able to reflect on how well (or not so well) I embraced the daily chances to minister and share life together in this past year. And it is only now, having climbed the daunting mountain that is first-year, that I once again realize how marvelously knitted into the plans of God my life actually is ...

And so, I'm headed to L'Arche Daybreak to live in community with adults living with various disabilities, and perhaps most literally, those considered to be the least of these. And yet, I already can see that these who seem to have least have so much more than the world recognizes. Needless to say, there is little room to be selfish here, or to be so caught up in one's own story that we stop seeing the bigger story, God's story. So, as I spend the next six days saying goodbye, getting over myself, and humbling myself for the work of the Spirit, I welcome this blessed opportunity to share, to learn, to grow in the lives of God's people. Pray with me as I embark upon this journey ...