I fear it.
I try not to abuse it.
I swim in it, yet I do not see it.
I breathe it, but cannot detect it when I sniff.
I do not know how to live without it--certainly I would not be sending thoughts of my year in Kenya without a hefty dose of privilege.
Privilege has stalked me since I was young. Never the wealthiest in my class, I was often proud that those spoiled children with cable were so morally inferior because of their economic indulgence. But wallowing in that pride allowed me to look away from my great privileges of always having private schooling, always having two working, encouraging parents, always having good roads. Here in Kenya, some of the obstacles I've faced are perceptions of wazungu as privileged. Kids, instead of wanting to play, will practice the second English phrase they learned (second to "Hawayu," of course, the traditional greeting), "Give me 10 shillings." Beggar children in Nairobi and neighbors in Icaciri alike will ask this, because they see a mzungu and he likely has money. They don't look to see that we are dressed shabbily because we don't know how to wash clothes correctly. They do not see our unkempt hair and beards as signs of poverty. They just see a white person. With money.
The worst part about fighting this stereotype (still present among our peers and elders, but they don't just walk around asking for 10 shillings) is that it is truth. If you did not click the link in the last paragraph, click here. The very things about our appearance that I would think could say we are not privileged, because we do not care how we appear, reveal our privilege. The freedom to not care what people think is itself privilege. The freedom to think we are the masters of our realms is privilege.
It is the illusion of privilege to be the cause of the effects around you. "If you study, you succeed" is a story only believable in a situation of privilege. If you have a learning disability, the story is not about you. If you study, you might not succeed. But you're not the same kind of person. You have a named excuse for not being in complete control of your life. I was in a lovely argument yesterday with a determinist who knew these things well. A counselor and a student currently, he saw this inability to control outcomes as sufficient evidence for inescapable fate. I could not follow him all the way; I picture human existence as stretched across the gap of choice and chosen, waiting for the renewal of both internal and external worlds to bring will and outcome into harmony.
So beware of your guilt, America. Even your identity is not safeguarded against the necessity of interdependence in the world. Your wrongs and rights are not only yours, but shared. Beware the hubris of believing an ash cloud unjustly disturbed your plans or of crediting yourself for your academic success. You are privileged. Thanks be to God for granting you the opportunity to fly around the world or study to show thyself approved or drive a smooth road and not even know it. Open your eyes and see how you depend on the postal workers, the road workers, Immokalee tomato pickers, and uncounted hordes of drivers, cashiers, growers, policymakers, administrators, and children.
And continue to work. Because the farmer plants the seed, but does not make it grow. He does not know how it dies in the ground and releases from its belly tenfold or a hundredfold. Do not work on the factory model--successfully or unsuccessfully producing a product--try the agricultural model. Plant a seed. Speak true, loving words or invest in a child's life or actually plant a seed. Don't judge yourself on results, but hope for them. And work for them. Plow, till, but do not credit yourself with the growth. For as much as the farmer has a right to enjoy the fruits of his labor, he could not have prevented a drought. He did not awaken the sleeping seed to the rising joys of geotropism.
May the peace of Christ dream in your eyes new things today as you breathe whatever air in which you find yourself.
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Showing posts with label musings. Show all posts
Saturday, June 12, 2010
Tuesday, June 1, 2010
Huratiti
The year is moving faster and faster. Routine and comfort teach me how to not notice how I spend my time. But it wends inexorably toward late July, when I must needs move again, when I will fly high over the ocean to a mission field closer to home.
"Tundapaa juu (oweo)" sings the radio. One of the most-played songs since we've been here blares in a tinny Kiswahili voice a testimony of transformation. I recently had more of the song translated for me than ever before; on my own, I had only discovered it was a gospel song about flying high (tunapaa juu) and going places (tunaenda). What I learned recently was the story, which is conveniently present in the music video. The singer was born into poverty and a rough neighborhood. He gave his life to Christ and since then has been blessed with wealth and music, marked by a dramatic costume change. "Huratiti"--faster and faster the blessings come, higher and higher the Lord lifts the singer.
My initial reaction to this meaning was disappointment. Here's a decent Kenyan song with lots of play time, and it's just parroting the prosperity gospel. "If you're a believer," I heard, "you'll have a nice jacket like this guy." But when I complained of this to my desk neighbor in the staff room, he told me to give the guy a break.
"It's his testimony. Let him tell it."
And that's just it. It is his story. What would I prefer, that he took credit for his success? As much as the prosperity gospel is a plague, it is not the case that God does not want people to be successful. We need refined eyes to evaluate our success in God's light, but material success is a gift of God--giving glory back for that gift is essential. Rumor has it some study has concluded that Africa in general has grown much wealthier in the past 20 years, but not just the rich getting richer--there are more and more people sharing the wealth, so said this study. So more and more people have the opportunity to tell the story of how God has blessed them materially. The message does not have to be read as "if you are a good little Christian, God will give you that sportscar you want." It can just be "Thank you." It is a story of transformation, of the work of God. So I guess that's ok. But I still want to handle with care--it still rubs me funny.
Our handball team did really well this year. It was fun to watch a team that kept losing their "friendlies"--scrimmages with nearby schools--repeatedly beat larger schools that had discouraged us all season. We advanced a game away from provincials after a few weekends of tournament.
We have had a tiny visitor a few times recently. Sara from across the hall is now old enough to walk. She comes and plays with the Dora dominoes or the dinosaurs or the crayons, with a cute, pudgy, expressive face. Last term (before April) she was comfortable with us and we would go visit and play games with her. But then this term when we came back to school, she had forgotten these bearded wazungu and cried when we came too close. It was another period of getting to know her--she had grown a lot in that month, but now we observe more cuteness than ever before.
And I am transformed this year. Faster and faster approaches the day when I will return home again to measure such change. It is by no means the end of my exploration, but maybe I will know the place for the first time. To new eyes.
"Tundapaa juu (oweo)" sings the radio. One of the most-played songs since we've been here blares in a tinny Kiswahili voice a testimony of transformation. I recently had more of the song translated for me than ever before; on my own, I had only discovered it was a gospel song about flying high (tunapaa juu) and going places (tunaenda). What I learned recently was the story, which is conveniently present in the music video. The singer was born into poverty and a rough neighborhood. He gave his life to Christ and since then has been blessed with wealth and music, marked by a dramatic costume change. "Huratiti"--faster and faster the blessings come, higher and higher the Lord lifts the singer.
My initial reaction to this meaning was disappointment. Here's a decent Kenyan song with lots of play time, and it's just parroting the prosperity gospel. "If you're a believer," I heard, "you'll have a nice jacket like this guy." But when I complained of this to my desk neighbor in the staff room, he told me to give the guy a break.
"It's his testimony. Let him tell it."
And that's just it. It is his story. What would I prefer, that he took credit for his success? As much as the prosperity gospel is a plague, it is not the case that God does not want people to be successful. We need refined eyes to evaluate our success in God's light, but material success is a gift of God--giving glory back for that gift is essential. Rumor has it some study has concluded that Africa in general has grown much wealthier in the past 20 years, but not just the rich getting richer--there are more and more people sharing the wealth, so said this study. So more and more people have the opportunity to tell the story of how God has blessed them materially. The message does not have to be read as "if you are a good little Christian, God will give you that sportscar you want." It can just be "Thank you." It is a story of transformation, of the work of God. So I guess that's ok. But I still want to handle with care--it still rubs me funny.
Our handball team did really well this year. It was fun to watch a team that kept losing their "friendlies"--scrimmages with nearby schools--repeatedly beat larger schools that had discouraged us all season. We advanced a game away from provincials after a few weekends of tournament.
We have had a tiny visitor a few times recently. Sara from across the hall is now old enough to walk. She comes and plays with the Dora dominoes or the dinosaurs or the crayons, with a cute, pudgy, expressive face. Last term (before April) she was comfortable with us and we would go visit and play games with her. But then this term when we came back to school, she had forgotten these bearded wazungu and cried when we came too close. It was another period of getting to know her--she had grown a lot in that month, but now we observe more cuteness than ever before.
And I am transformed this year. Faster and faster approaches the day when I will return home again to measure such change. It is by no means the end of my exploration, but maybe I will know the place for the first time. To new eyes.
Sunday, May 23, 2010
Rule breaker
(Written a few days ago, but internet was down when we tried in Gatundu)
Searching for paper to start a fire yesterday, I came across my extra fund raising letters and information sheets--the papers I passed out at churches--and was free to use them. Thank you, dear supporters, for pushing me along. I am being transformed by the relationships I have here.
How does this work? I had a discussion about culture recently that made me look for changes in my spectacles. Here's the example we discussed(given by my friend and fellow teacher Maina).
A century ago, a certain African ethnic group thinks twins are cursed. So, they burn them or leave them out to die. A white man, upon moving to the area, sees this as a tragedy and adopts the ones left outside, rearing them as his own children, watching as they become upstanding, powerful members of the society that originally rejected them.
Maina's conclusion: they weren't cursed. The culture was wrong. I don't dispute that, but from an epistemological perspective, the culture doesn't learn this about itself naturally. I mean, if the culture's rules were followed, no one in the culture would be able to evaluate it. The "culture" of abandoning twins is only seen to be unnecessary when broken. Now, elders of this community have two options in this scenario: (1) continue as if the grown, intelligent, successful twins are still cursed, or (2) rethink the cultural stigma. This rethinking process is only made possible by the rulebreaking of the white man. You can't examine your glasses if you don't know where they start and your eyes end. This person, because of his culture's ethic, has given people an opportunity to examine their worldview. Breaking someone's rules were the only way to show
So here, I questioned a worldview yesterday when it sounded like someone wanted Kenya to become America. When I go home, I want to question Americans about progress without reevaluation of worldview. New eyes and a bigger imagination make better change. Without imagination, rich people moving to the suburbs decades ago engineered neighborhoods which can now only be reasonably navigated by car. People accept an hour commute by car every morning, but shun a 45-minute commute by foot. Without imagination, we get stuck with either-or political parties, both extremes offending sensibility. Imagination is sometimes the ability to see through conflict to underlying unity, to see a way forward to reconciliation. And new paths are sometimes only revealed when we observe the consequence of "breaking" the culture. But how do know what to break? I don't think we are ready to have our culture broken by running around naked. It has to be slow and halting--people don't listen to a stranger in a strange land. Change perceptions by breaking them perceptibly, not by completely changing people's ways of life and thinking. They tend to kill over that.
But maybe imposition is breakable--consider that as a point of contention. Our (Euro Americans') personal property and our time is so sacred that visits are limited to invitation only. I don't often hear of people (outside of a university setting or really close friends) simply dropping by someone's house to say hello or to ask a request, or especially to spend some days there. The overnight is the biggest imposition of all. Is it because we are so used to using our guest rooms as studies (which is convenient)? Do we worry that there's not enough cereal in the pantry for our guest's breakfast ($5 says there is)? No. Because we don't have to. Our culture says it's an "imposition," so we're not likely to receive unexpected guests and go without leftovers. But a gospel of abundance kills the overgrown American concept of scarcity of time. A gospel of community ends the individual's tyranny over house and homestuffs. So I encourage you, impose on someone this month. Within reason and especially within compassion, of course. Impose on someone to show them that you call them a part of your life. Give someone an opportunity to do so, and help them examine their cultural spectacles.
Anyway, that's some stuff I've been mulling over recently. As far as happenings, Josh and I had a nice visit to Meru to see Deanna and Sweetwater, a game reserve in Nanyuki. It was beautiful--saw my first elephant in the wild. It was small and feisty. Breaking a branch, it shooed our bus along the road away from its private munching grounds. I had no way to tell it we were not going to hurt it, especially while we kept roaring at it with our beefy engine.
Searching for paper to start a fire yesterday, I came across my extra fund raising letters and information sheets--the papers I passed out at churches--and was free to use them. Thank you, dear supporters, for pushing me along. I am being transformed by the relationships I have here.
How does this work? I had a discussion about culture recently that made me look for changes in my spectacles. Here's the example we discussed(given by my friend and fellow teacher Maina).
A century ago, a certain African ethnic group thinks twins are cursed. So, they burn them or leave them out to die. A white man, upon moving to the area, sees this as a tragedy and adopts the ones left outside, rearing them as his own children, watching as they become upstanding, powerful members of the society that originally rejected them.
Maina's conclusion: they weren't cursed. The culture was wrong. I don't dispute that, but from an epistemological perspective, the culture doesn't learn this about itself naturally. I mean, if the culture's rules were followed, no one in the culture would be able to evaluate it. The "culture" of abandoning twins is only seen to be unnecessary when broken. Now, elders of this community have two options in this scenario: (1) continue as if the grown, intelligent, successful twins are still cursed, or (2) rethink the cultural stigma. This rethinking process is only made possible by the rulebreaking of the white man. You can't examine your glasses if you don't know where they start and your eyes end. This person, because of his culture's ethic, has given people an opportunity to examine their worldview. Breaking someone's rules were the only way to show
So here, I questioned a worldview yesterday when it sounded like someone wanted Kenya to become America. When I go home, I want to question Americans about progress without reevaluation of worldview. New eyes and a bigger imagination make better change. Without imagination, rich people moving to the suburbs decades ago engineered neighborhoods which can now only be reasonably navigated by car. People accept an hour commute by car every morning, but shun a 45-minute commute by foot. Without imagination, we get stuck with either-or political parties, both extremes offending sensibility. Imagination is sometimes the ability to see through conflict to underlying unity, to see a way forward to reconciliation. And new paths are sometimes only revealed when we observe the consequence of "breaking" the culture. But how do know what to break? I don't think we are ready to have our culture broken by running around naked. It has to be slow and halting--people don't listen to a stranger in a strange land. Change perceptions by breaking them perceptibly, not by completely changing people's ways of life and thinking. They tend to kill over that.
But maybe imposition is breakable--consider that as a point of contention. Our (Euro Americans') personal property and our time is so sacred that visits are limited to invitation only. I don't often hear of people (outside of a university setting or really close friends) simply dropping by someone's house to say hello or to ask a request, or especially to spend some days there. The overnight is the biggest imposition of all. Is it because we are so used to using our guest rooms as studies (which is convenient)? Do we worry that there's not enough cereal in the pantry for our guest's breakfast ($5 says there is)? No. Because we don't have to. Our culture says it's an "imposition," so we're not likely to receive unexpected guests and go without leftovers. But a gospel of abundance kills the overgrown American concept of scarcity of time. A gospel of community ends the individual's tyranny over house and homestuffs. So I encourage you, impose on someone this month. Within reason and especially within compassion, of course. Impose on someone to show them that you call them a part of your life. Give someone an opportunity to do so, and help them examine their cultural spectacles.
Anyway, that's some stuff I've been mulling over recently. As far as happenings, Josh and I had a nice visit to Meru to see Deanna and Sweetwater, a game reserve in Nanyuki. It was beautiful--saw my first elephant in the wild. It was small and feisty. Breaking a branch, it shooed our bus along the road away from its private munching grounds. I had no way to tell it we were not going to hurt it, especially while we kept roaring at it with our beefy engine.
Tuesday, February 9, 2010
Comfortably Numb
My fever was over 100, I discovered Friday on my phone's unit converter after leaving the nurse's room. I then waited to be called to the doctor with the other ER patients. I sat and had some fizzy fever-reducing tablets. Earlier in the day, I lay out in the sun because blankets in my room weren't warm enough, but equatorial rays toasted me comfortably. I was nearly Pink on one side before I turned my head--gotta keep both cheeks even. "Hello?" I'd been called and couldn't quite hear the directions over the loudspeaker. Hesitantly walking to the door I thought I was supposed to go through, a doctor quickly found me and sat me down. He checked things off the clipboard as we talked, and gave me a ticket to go to the lab and get tested for...malaria. Oi. So back to the waiting room I went to queue at the barely-manned counters. I prevented fainting by sitting down on the floor for part of the wait. It was nice and cool. And not even wobbly, like it looked from far away. But eventually, I got to the front, paid my dues and headed for the lab.
Just a little pinprick and an hour's wait for results, and it was back to the doctor. No malaria. Grr. I was almost disappointed. I'd had a bad fever for the whole day, a debilitating illness, and it's just an infection? Not even one worthy of cipro? I went home with my amoxicillin and tylenol, happy to have found the simple solution and wondering if it was mostly in my head.
When I was a child, I had a fever. When it was pretty springtime (or occasionally in the fall) and the flowers of Minnesota or Michigan woke to greet the world, I would be ill. Sinusitis would take over my breathing for a couple days, but invariably I would miss a week or two of school. Every morning I would feel terrible and not able to go to school. Then, a couple hours later, I'd wish I weren't "sick" so I could go ride bike or play. In the evening, I'd be almost well, eating and joking, but then after dinner I would begin to deteriorate, sniffly and pitiful as I went to bed, not expecting to go to school in the morning. I often wonder how much of that was my own expectation interfering with my body's healing. Did I expect to be sick in the morning? Did I want to just skip school for a week?
Back at school today, I feel and act fully recovered, but I wonder out of habit, is it real? Did I really just get better immediately from my terrible sickness? I know that's what antibiotics do, but was I really needing to be that sick? I probably exagerrated a bit. But then I devalue my own experience, my own feelings about it at the time. I cannot function without trust in my senses, but I know they're broken, too. I don't perfectly see the world. I've got all these bits of me between me and das Ding an sich, that I'm just used to looking through. My eyes cover themselves. But experience is real, perception is real. "Is there anybody in there?" I have to assume you are real, too. For sanity's sake. But I must question my self-deceit, as I seek to live and experience and perceive truly and fully. I must tell myself truth if I am to tell others anything like it. Devaluing experience in general leads to escapism or Buddhism. If the world was good, if very God calls it so, I wish not to escape this world but to purge my illusions about what is truly good. To shine light. But I can't even tell which parts are false, whether I'm doubting unnecessarily or convalescing overmuch. I want to make sure I am not avoiding the world for the sake of escapism or timidity, but I need fresh eyes to see which parts are worth surgery.
Just a little flavor of the philosophical stuff I like to play with. I trust in the light, which will bring all things into itself, into knowledge of self, other, and God. God's good world is all around us, but it is broken. The world is beautiful, good, enjoyable, but we must not affix ourselves to the brokenness but to God's repair. He's still working on me--I'm not done dying--kids under construction--this is not how I am--Christian soldiers...with the cross going on before. "Behold, I am making all things new."
I saw a bright kid the other day who had just been given enough money to attend secondary school. I saw a poor mother who had just come to the hospital with no money for pills, but she was grateful for her son's diagnosis. I saw a bullying episode defused by a few quick words. I read a packet on proposed changes to Kenya's Constitution. I am glad to not be sick anymore, because I miss things when I'm distracted by myself.
Just a little pinprick and an hour's wait for results, and it was back to the doctor. No malaria. Grr. I was almost disappointed. I'd had a bad fever for the whole day, a debilitating illness, and it's just an infection? Not even one worthy of cipro? I went home with my amoxicillin and tylenol, happy to have found the simple solution and wondering if it was mostly in my head.
When I was a child, I had a fever. When it was pretty springtime (or occasionally in the fall) and the flowers of Minnesota or Michigan woke to greet the world, I would be ill. Sinusitis would take over my breathing for a couple days, but invariably I would miss a week or two of school. Every morning I would feel terrible and not able to go to school. Then, a couple hours later, I'd wish I weren't "sick" so I could go ride bike or play. In the evening, I'd be almost well, eating and joking, but then after dinner I would begin to deteriorate, sniffly and pitiful as I went to bed, not expecting to go to school in the morning. I often wonder how much of that was my own expectation interfering with my body's healing. Did I expect to be sick in the morning? Did I want to just skip school for a week?
Back at school today, I feel and act fully recovered, but I wonder out of habit, is it real? Did I really just get better immediately from my terrible sickness? I know that's what antibiotics do, but was I really needing to be that sick? I probably exagerrated a bit. But then I devalue my own experience, my own feelings about it at the time. I cannot function without trust in my senses, but I know they're broken, too. I don't perfectly see the world. I've got all these bits of me between me and das Ding an sich, that I'm just used to looking through. My eyes cover themselves. But experience is real, perception is real. "Is there anybody in there?" I have to assume you are real, too. For sanity's sake. But I must question my self-deceit, as I seek to live and experience and perceive truly and fully. I must tell myself truth if I am to tell others anything like it. Devaluing experience in general leads to escapism or Buddhism. If the world was good, if very God calls it so, I wish not to escape this world but to purge my illusions about what is truly good. To shine light. But I can't even tell which parts are false, whether I'm doubting unnecessarily or convalescing overmuch. I want to make sure I am not avoiding the world for the sake of escapism or timidity, but I need fresh eyes to see which parts are worth surgery.
Just a little flavor of the philosophical stuff I like to play with. I trust in the light, which will bring all things into itself, into knowledge of self, other, and God. God's good world is all around us, but it is broken. The world is beautiful, good, enjoyable, but we must not affix ourselves to the brokenness but to God's repair. He's still working on me--I'm not done dying--kids under construction--this is not how I am--Christian soldiers...with the cross going on before. "Behold, I am making all things new."
I saw a bright kid the other day who had just been given enough money to attend secondary school. I saw a poor mother who had just come to the hospital with no money for pills, but she was grateful for her son's diagnosis. I saw a bullying episode defused by a few quick words. I read a packet on proposed changes to Kenya's Constitution. I am glad to not be sick anymore, because I miss things when I'm distracted by myself.
Tuesday, February 2, 2010
Memory
The children were tested this week. From Wednesday to Friday, we "invigilated" our own exams and other teachers' as the students spent an hour or two forging 20% of their term grade. Another 20% comes in the next set of exams and then the final 60% for the final exam. High pressure and heated competition forge students whose choice between welding apprenticeship or medical school might be shaped by a single day's work in a classroom. These students know they compete for few national university spots, so any time they spend doing anything but study they feel they have wasted. Or so a recent University graduate said to me yesterday. There is certainly little opportunity for the boarders to do anything else. After supper, they go back to class to study on their own until bed. Saturday, we have elitist class--extra fees, extra attention. It's not all bad. This most recent Saturday we measured the height of the flag pole with clinometers we had fashioned from our protractors.
As I try to get an angle on the extremely hard-working students, I continue to have English barriers. Besides obvious things like speaking loudly and slowly in front of a group, individual communication is not usually smooth. Forget puns, especially if they're thrown in haphazardly, and move more toward big gestures with silly voices or innuendo. A pun takes too much explanation, and only interesting double meanings justify explanation. A student the other day, a couple hours after I took a picture of her at her request, said to me, "You will remove those for us later?" She gave me no preface but a glance at the camera--"picha" or "snap" in the sentence would have clued me in. Ms. Wacera was nearby, and I was grateful she knew what the student meant. I couldn't even tease afterward with the difference between delete and develop, because the student had only just learned the word "develop." But I tried [to lose the game].
Here I am, taking pictures in a new place far from home--far enough to actually learn something from the Christmas letter I received for the first time--and things pass on. There is a melancholy guilt, a wistful Sehnsucht, attached with leaving. Even if you only leave your own culture because you don't fit and want to blame not fitting on culture shock, you miss things. I love my home, my people, our ways (well, mostly). And glimpses of "how we do things back home" tend to float unbidden through my mind when emptied.
The year is half over--half full, I guess, of opportunity for growth. The relationship building now has a possibility, a responsibility to grow deeper than simply exchanging cultural notes, but I am not yet Kenyan. It is still comfortable and easy to get stuck on talk of home. I have to remember how to move past this--when in a new place, the things and people that mattered before just do not compute here. But some things always matter. The language describing these things changes, as do the customary smokescreens, but everyone loves talking about things they love with people they love. I think it is better to want to know what someone thinks because of their personhood, not their nationality.
Josh put a sad CD on before he left. These ramblings are totally his fault. The Fray. Blame them, too. And probably Canada, but I don't remember why.
I remember you, people back home. And I miss talking to you, and being a part of your lives. But not enough to leave now. Jesus makes life here, too--abundandantly as he tends to, and I am a part of other lives I am not yet ready to leave behind.
As I try to get an angle on the extremely hard-working students, I continue to have English barriers. Besides obvious things like speaking loudly and slowly in front of a group, individual communication is not usually smooth. Forget puns, especially if they're thrown in haphazardly, and move more toward big gestures with silly voices or innuendo. A pun takes too much explanation, and only interesting double meanings justify explanation. A student the other day, a couple hours after I took a picture of her at her request, said to me, "You will remove those for us later?" She gave me no preface but a glance at the camera--"picha" or "snap" in the sentence would have clued me in. Ms. Wacera was nearby, and I was grateful she knew what the student meant. I couldn't even tease afterward with the difference between delete and develop, because the student had only just learned the word "develop." But I tried [to lose the game].
Here I am, taking pictures in a new place far from home--far enough to actually learn something from the Christmas letter I received for the first time--and things pass on. There is a melancholy guilt, a wistful Sehnsucht, attached with leaving. Even if you only leave your own culture because you don't fit and want to blame not fitting on culture shock, you miss things. I love my home, my people, our ways (well, mostly). And glimpses of "how we do things back home" tend to float unbidden through my mind when emptied.
The year is half over--half full, I guess, of opportunity for growth. The relationship building now has a possibility, a responsibility to grow deeper than simply exchanging cultural notes, but I am not yet Kenyan. It is still comfortable and easy to get stuck on talk of home. I have to remember how to move past this--when in a new place, the things and people that mattered before just do not compute here. But some things always matter. The language describing these things changes, as do the customary smokescreens, but everyone loves talking about things they love with people they love. I think it is better to want to know what someone thinks because of their personhood, not their nationality.
Josh put a sad CD on before he left. These ramblings are totally his fault. The Fray. Blame them, too. And probably Canada, but I don't remember why.
I remember you, people back home. And I miss talking to you, and being a part of your lives. But not enough to leave now. Jesus makes life here, too--abundandantly as he tends to, and I am a part of other lives I am not yet ready to leave behind.
Sunday, January 10, 2010
Time to eat
Happy New Year from Kenya! School has begun--we went back Wednesday for three days of remembering students' names, rejoining the company of our fellow teachers, sharing stories about holidays, and even a little teaching. But now we are back in Nairobi, preparing to leave in the morning for Zanzibar! Tomorrow is our first retreat as a YAV group. We go to Zanzibar in conjunction with ITC, the Interdenominational Theological Center in Atlanta, GA. They seem like a cool bunch so far--we worshiped with them this morning and had dinner with them Friday. They will be good resources on this retreat as we discuss how God is working and study the structures that we have seen. I heard two of them preach this morning, and wish to commend to you some of the things I heard (but I cannot reproduce all the magnificent alliteration of both speakers. props to them).
Today we remember Jesus' baptism, and ours too, hopefully. Baptism is an inauguration into a new way of being. We are anointed into the presence, the purpose, and the power of God--the indwelling of the Holy Spirit through a path Christ walked, with the approval of God the Father. Not merely to heavenly peace, but to power through the indwelling of the divine. As in, the God of the universe, holy and mighty, who has come to us as a person, comes in us wandering people to make us new and air out our dank spaces. The purpose of baptism is not merely to enrich a single person, but the whole body of Christ. Growth is no isolated incident. It must be systemic.
The second message encouraged us, like Naaman, to humble ourselves to God's transformative power. It comes to us through simple means of grace that can seem simultaneously too easy and too mystical, and obedience is the way to healing. Pride will keep us unclean, as we refuse the gracious gift of God for our well-being.
Both sermons pointed me to a Gospel that was vital and relevant. Encouraged by Pastor Edward Furi of PCEA St. Andrews (among others), the Gospel's immediate importance has been on my mind recently. Obviously, the promise of God is not merely for the life to come. It is life here, too, but in FULL. It is prosperous by God's sanctified definition--not necessarily by your own or your boss's or professor's incomplete longings. It is for peace and joy and justice in God's good world, not just in heaven or in the new earth. The Gospel is now. God gives peace today. And all we have to do is jump in.
Take the plunge. Seek the light. Be anointed again in Spirit and Truth this New Year. Take up wholeheartedly the means God gives you to know and to love God and neighbor. May the one by whose help we have come empower you for his life-giving mission. Today.
Today we remember Jesus' baptism, and ours too, hopefully. Baptism is an inauguration into a new way of being. We are anointed into the presence, the purpose, and the power of God--the indwelling of the Holy Spirit through a path Christ walked, with the approval of God the Father. Not merely to heavenly peace, but to power through the indwelling of the divine. As in, the God of the universe, holy and mighty, who has come to us as a person, comes in us wandering people to make us new and air out our dank spaces. The purpose of baptism is not merely to enrich a single person, but the whole body of Christ. Growth is no isolated incident. It must be systemic.
The second message encouraged us, like Naaman, to humble ourselves to God's transformative power. It comes to us through simple means of grace that can seem simultaneously too easy and too mystical, and obedience is the way to healing. Pride will keep us unclean, as we refuse the gracious gift of God for our well-being.
Both sermons pointed me to a Gospel that was vital and relevant. Encouraged by Pastor Edward Furi of PCEA St. Andrews (among others), the Gospel's immediate importance has been on my mind recently. Obviously, the promise of God is not merely for the life to come. It is life here, too, but in FULL. It is prosperous by God's sanctified definition--not necessarily by your own or your boss's or professor's incomplete longings. It is for peace and joy and justice in God's good world, not just in heaven or in the new earth. The Gospel is now. God gives peace today. And all we have to do is jump in.
Take the plunge. Seek the light. Be anointed again in Spirit and Truth this New Year. Take up wholeheartedly the means God gives you to know and to love God and neighbor. May the one by whose help we have come empower you for his life-giving mission. Today.
Wednesday, October 21, 2009
Dusty Gatundu no longer
I do my own laundry here. This does not mean I go to the first floor and throw my clothes in the washer or even take public transit to the laundromat. It means I put soap in a bucket, fill it with water, then fill another with just water. Then, washing, agitating (with some friction), and rinsing complete, the clothesline becomes home to jeans, shirts, trousers, and socks. Our cautious site coordinator told us to be more discreet with other items, so they go to the line in my room. The efficacy of this washing style depends on the skill of the operator, but as much as I worked really hard to get the soil (Africans respect it too much to call it “dirt”) out of my cuffs and trouser hems. There are pieces of Africa stuck so firmly in my wardrobe that I cannot but take them with me.
I was counting on that. A year in a place will leave its mark, and this place has things to teach me from language and geography to how to respect people in a different way. I have yet to see what dirt I'd like to leave with the people here to remember and respect my culture. It's easy to be a friend, and sharing the love of Christ is why I'm here. So that's part of it.
There was a wedding yesterday! One of our fellow teachers took us to his family's home, where we learned some Kikuyu, had some delicious food, and learned to slaughter a chicken. We got to the wedding late (I don't think we knew when it started), so we caught people as they were going to the reception from the service. It was remarkably similar in what happened (waiting, food, announcements on a low quality speaker, cake). It was pretty tame--there was no loudness and little dancing, just smiles, family, and friends. The tradition here is to have a married couple for Best Man and Best Woman. Or whatever it's called. They not only help plan the wedding, they advise the couple--early troubles in marriage are not taken to parents or counselors, but to the best couple.
Finished Sir Gibbie--we’ll see what I read next. Last one was Confessions of an Economic Hitman. I recommend either and especially both. I read an edited version of Sir Gibbie which was terribly easy to read for all the ramblings filtered out. Theres a Wilde Picture that I think will be next, but it is on my computer--will need something else for the staff room.
The rain is here almost every day, and my time is up.
I was counting on that. A year in a place will leave its mark, and this place has things to teach me from language and geography to how to respect people in a different way. I have yet to see what dirt I'd like to leave with the people here to remember and respect my culture. It's easy to be a friend, and sharing the love of Christ is why I'm here. So that's part of it.
There was a wedding yesterday! One of our fellow teachers took us to his family's home, where we learned some Kikuyu, had some delicious food, and learned to slaughter a chicken. We got to the wedding late (I don't think we knew when it started), so we caught people as they were going to the reception from the service. It was remarkably similar in what happened (waiting, food, announcements on a low quality speaker, cake). It was pretty tame--there was no loudness and little dancing, just smiles, family, and friends. The tradition here is to have a married couple for Best Man and Best Woman. Or whatever it's called. They not only help plan the wedding, they advise the couple--early troubles in marriage are not taken to parents or counselors, but to the best couple.
Finished Sir Gibbie--we’ll see what I read next. Last one was Confessions of an Economic Hitman. I recommend either and especially both. I read an edited version of Sir Gibbie which was terribly easy to read for all the ramblings filtered out. Theres a Wilde Picture that I think will be next, but it is on my computer--will need something else for the staff room.
The rain is here almost every day, and my time is up.
Monday, September 28, 2009
Mind the pedestrians
Written 27 Sept 09
I've been pointed by a dear friend to ponder the place of Eden in theology. The gist of it is that the Garden is not simply the sundering of humans and God, but a pivot or even a pedestal in human development as a species. The Genesis account of the Garden had humans in a small space, naming animals and living without conflict. They disobey the only command they are given and are banished, cursed. The elements of the curse include working the land, childbirth, and hardship. "Knowledge of good and evil" is the fruit of their disobedience. The snake said they would become like gods, and they did a little. But the elements of the curse allow for humans to grow and develop in unique ways, ways that are now incorporated into our humanity itself. For humans are satisfied in working the land, in raising children, and even in working through adversity. Working the land fulfills better "fill the earth and subdue it" than simple naming of animals, and in romantic relationships and child rearing (and letting go of) there are uniquely complex images of God's love for us. So thinks one Jewish rabbi, anyway. Perhaps this direction to take the text is unorthodox, but it seems to work fine in the text--Genesis does not read "thus the human race was sundered from God" or "thus did humans come to be equipped to know God better." So maybe either reading is wrong if it is oversimplified. They are perhaps opposite faces of a jewel, or mirrors with different hues.
The Road Goes Ever On and On
I asked someone whether the road behind us was Uhuru highway and they responded categorically, "No, that's Waiyaki Way." I was confused--I had been thinking for a while that it was Uhuru Highway. So the next time I consulted my Nairobi map, I checked. Sure enough, right by where we were the road was called Waiyaki Way, but a km east the road was Uhuru Highway (written much bigger). Earlier in September, we heard about Mombasa road (which I think is an extension of Uhuru Highway as well, but I won't offer that nomenclature to a Kenyan). After we had discussed the road for a while, I pointed to it and was corrected then, too--it's not Mombasa road if you point to the side on which the cars go the other direction. It seems like the same road to me.
Out from the door where it began
Two sermons here have pushed the bounds of good theology without actually overstepping them. The pastor at Icaciri High today talked on Jeremiah 29:11, and the plans God has for us. He talked of the specificity of God's plan for us equally as emphatically as he talked of the importance of our aspirations and God's plans to fulfill them. He went almost farther than I was comfortable following talking of God's plan to make us successful, and I was getting all self-righteous, saying to myself "should have guessed from a Jer 29:11 sermon from an itinerant pastor." But I realized he started out from a very high view of God's plan that dictates our actions, and he returned to it after talking of success. I felt stretched--I could not reach both the extremes he seemed to be coming from. A connector came. It was not explicitly meant to connect an intentional paradox in the previous parts, but this was how I interpreted the role of Christ. Heart transformation and new birth are what unifies our success with God's plan. Oh, duh. Humbled after my critical episode, I remembered the first Sunday here in Kenya where I heard a sermon that bordered on answering "who sinned so that this man would be blind?" (but in regard to the current drought). But that pastor, too, apparently disregarded the possibility of tumultuous theology and plunged forward in the Scriptures, speaking truth not by staying on the fence but by disregarding it and passing through.
I won't even connect this here to issues of identity with rural, pastoral, traditional African on one side and American, British, urban, and technological on the other. That's one road many travel here, but starting from different places and going different directions. I cannot predict how that landscape is shifting. I will say that I once heard of a theologian (I don't remember which one, I think it was an early 20th-century person) soaring over the conflict of others with sound, scriptural truths. It would uphold Jacob's Bethel utterance if the God who is surely in Mombasa, Nairobi, and Meru is in Calvin and Arminius, Osteen and St Francis, and split Presbyterians.
I've been pointed by a dear friend to ponder the place of Eden in theology. The gist of it is that the Garden is not simply the sundering of humans and God, but a pivot or even a pedestal in human development as a species. The Genesis account of the Garden had humans in a small space, naming animals and living without conflict. They disobey the only command they are given and are banished, cursed. The elements of the curse include working the land, childbirth, and hardship. "Knowledge of good and evil" is the fruit of their disobedience. The snake said they would become like gods, and they did a little. But the elements of the curse allow for humans to grow and develop in unique ways, ways that are now incorporated into our humanity itself. For humans are satisfied in working the land, in raising children, and even in working through adversity. Working the land fulfills better "fill the earth and subdue it" than simple naming of animals, and in romantic relationships and child rearing (and letting go of) there are uniquely complex images of God's love for us. So thinks one Jewish rabbi, anyway. Perhaps this direction to take the text is unorthodox, but it seems to work fine in the text--Genesis does not read "thus the human race was sundered from God" or "thus did humans come to be equipped to know God better." So maybe either reading is wrong if it is oversimplified. They are perhaps opposite faces of a jewel, or mirrors with different hues.
The Road Goes Ever On and On
I asked someone whether the road behind us was Uhuru highway and they responded categorically, "No, that's Waiyaki Way." I was confused--I had been thinking for a while that it was Uhuru Highway. So the next time I consulted my Nairobi map, I checked. Sure enough, right by where we were the road was called Waiyaki Way, but a km east the road was Uhuru Highway (written much bigger). Earlier in September, we heard about Mombasa road (which I think is an extension of Uhuru Highway as well, but I won't offer that nomenclature to a Kenyan). After we had discussed the road for a while, I pointed to it and was corrected then, too--it's not Mombasa road if you point to the side on which the cars go the other direction. It seems like the same road to me.
Out from the door where it began
Two sermons here have pushed the bounds of good theology without actually overstepping them. The pastor at Icaciri High today talked on Jeremiah 29:11, and the plans God has for us. He talked of the specificity of God's plan for us equally as emphatically as he talked of the importance of our aspirations and God's plans to fulfill them. He went almost farther than I was comfortable following talking of God's plan to make us successful, and I was getting all self-righteous, saying to myself "should have guessed from a Jer 29:11 sermon from an itinerant pastor." But I realized he started out from a very high view of God's plan that dictates our actions, and he returned to it after talking of success. I felt stretched--I could not reach both the extremes he seemed to be coming from. A connector came. It was not explicitly meant to connect an intentional paradox in the previous parts, but this was how I interpreted the role of Christ. Heart transformation and new birth are what unifies our success with God's plan. Oh, duh. Humbled after my critical episode, I remembered the first Sunday here in Kenya where I heard a sermon that bordered on answering "who sinned so that this man would be blind?" (but in regard to the current drought). But that pastor, too, apparently disregarded the possibility of tumultuous theology and plunged forward in the Scriptures, speaking truth not by staying on the fence but by disregarding it and passing through.
I won't even connect this here to issues of identity with rural, pastoral, traditional African on one side and American, British, urban, and technological on the other. That's one road many travel here, but starting from different places and going different directions. I cannot predict how that landscape is shifting. I will say that I once heard of a theologian (I don't remember which one, I think it was an early 20th-century person) soaring over the conflict of others with sound, scriptural truths. It would uphold Jacob's Bethel utterance if the God who is surely in Mombasa, Nairobi, and Meru is in Calvin and Arminius, Osteen and St Francis, and split Presbyterians.
Tuesday, September 15, 2009
What dreams may come
Today we had a lecture and lunch with a premier scholar and social leader on ethnicity in Africa. He's kind of a big deal. But we weren't told until most of the way through the lecture. He may give Obama's grandmother a call so we can see Obama's family house, Raila Odinga's family home, and our site coordinator's husband's family home, all in a trip. And we spoke of dreams. In his tradition, dreams are the means of communicating with the ancestors, or rather, of the ancestors communicating with you. Children are named after a relative who appears to a parent in a dream near the time of birth. This same man, who reminded us (as have others here) of the importance of sleeping dreams, asked us of our future plans. I, not certain (and greatly intimidated by an intelligent and powerful gentleman), nebulously fumbled my words until he went on to explain that dreams are necessary for progress. And I wish to dream this year. Maybe between the mefloquine side effects and the presence of a culture that respects them, my dreams will blossom. But maybe is lazy. I don't know what I will do when I get myself a profession, but at this point, it keeps being confirmed that seminary is the place for me, so I will dream of that until dreams are stopped. For I won't know if the door or the window is passable unless I go right up to them and try. Lazing around in the hallway of ignorance does not satisfy "when God shuts a door," the proverbs, or even simple curiosity. But what to walk towards? Maybe a dream will appear this year. I have a few dreams in the pipe already, though. I'm coming to think it is better to walk towards them in confidence and hurt my nose if stopped than to get a sore butt waiting around for a direction.
Thursday, September 10, 2009
Some thoughts after a discussion on African Spirituality yesterday, 9-9-09.
Pondering African Spirituality, wondering if an African Christian would be tempted toward works righteousness after being in the habit of appeasing spirits to ensure safety, I wondered
"Do African Christians have a tendency to act in a way in which prayers, blessings and invocations are a way to 1) appease an angry God 2) control a domestic God or 3) ease their conscience about the first two?"
And as I circled these issues, I debated works righteousness, and whether a stereotypical African convert would think themselves in control of a God by prayers and behaviors. But as I realized that Western Christians will wrestle and have wrestled with the issue of salvation by works or grace, I realized that African concepts of spirituality have the equipment to handle the discussion. Because there is a recognition of the Holy Spirit as the ultimate benevolent spirit, with active power, God's reconciling work through Christ can still be given credit for drawing people to God. There is no need in either approach to assume that humans hold the chips of salvation. I am not surprised to report that African spirituality is capable of describing the intricacies of Christian doctrine, with perhaps different linguistic biases. For, as our lecturer said, language is a bridge to wisdom. Different languages have different wisdom.
Pondering African Spirituality, wondering if an African Christian would be tempted toward works righteousness after being in the habit of appeasing spirits to ensure safety, I wondered
"Do African Christians have a tendency to act in a way in which prayers, blessings and invocations are a way to 1) appease an angry God 2) control a domestic God or 3) ease their conscience about the first two?"
And as I circled these issues, I debated works righteousness, and whether a stereotypical African convert would think themselves in control of a God by prayers and behaviors. But as I realized that Western Christians will wrestle and have wrestled with the issue of salvation by works or grace, I realized that African concepts of spirituality have the equipment to handle the discussion. Because there is a recognition of the Holy Spirit as the ultimate benevolent spirit, with active power, God's reconciling work through Christ can still be given credit for drawing people to God. There is no need in either approach to assume that humans hold the chips of salvation. I am not surprised to report that African spirituality is capable of describing the intricacies of Christian doctrine, with perhaps different linguistic biases. For, as our lecturer said, language is a bridge to wisdom. Different languages have different wisdom.
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