Reflections on Kenya

Psalm 105:16-19

¹⁶When he summoned famine against the land, and broke every staff of bread,

¹⁷he had sent a man ahead of them, Joseph, who was sold as a slave.

¹⁸His feet were hurt with fetters, his neck was put in a collar of iron;

¹⁹until what he had said came to pass, the word of the Lord kept testing him.

REFLECTION

Today’s passage reminds me of a great story, and the psalmist reminds me of a great storyteller. Now we’ve all encountered bad storytellers. There’s the one who gives so much detail that you await the end of his story like you do the second coming. And then there’s another whose story lacks so much detail that you wonder what the point of it was, or the one who mixes details of different stories and forgets the point himself. Then there’s the one who is so utterly amused at his own story that he is the only one who enjoys it. But the worst, the absolute worst, is the person who continues to tell a story that you’ve already heard, after you’ve said to him, “Yea… you told me.” At first glance, it looks like the psalmist is the worst offender. After all, she uses Psalm 105 to recount a story that God’s people have heard many times before. But when we take a closer look, we find that she offers incredible insight regarding the significance of the story to all believer.

While preparing my reflection I was attentive to the fact that many of you have had some type of interaction with our Kenyan brothers and sisters through the Umoja Project, and I did not want to offer you a story that you had already heard. But I realize that my assignment today is not to entertain you with exciting or sentimental stories as though you were reading Chicken Soup for the Soul. Rather it is to worship with you, so God can remind us of how important it is to tell the right story, the right way.

In her recounting of Israel’s stories, the psalmist mentions some great people of the faith; Abraham, Isaac, Jacob, Joseph and Moses. But she is careful to emphasize God’s deeds, not simply those of the people. This is evident even in our short passage with the language she uses that records God’s activity. It is clear that God sends famine on the land, that God sends Joseph as part of God’s plan of provision, and that God’s word continues to test, or refine Joseph. The psalmist teaches us that telling, and retelling, and retelling stories of God’s faithfulness are vital to our faith, and that though God calls us to participate in these stories, we are never the main focus of the narrative.

 Our Kenyan brothers and sisters have learned this lesson well. They are keenly aware of God’s presence and activity, waiting in anticipation for what they have already seen, careful to frame their experiences and stories through a theocentric lens. Stories of joy are narrated with God’s blessing; stories of pain and suffering are narrated with God’s providence; stories of loss and grief are narrated by God’s comfort; stories of lack and abundance are narrated with God’s provision; and stories of daily living are narrated through God’s faithfulness and presence. Everyday activities like praying upon entering a house to acknowledge God for giving us a safe journey home; and thanking God for rain, or for the ability to catch a matatu quickly, or for fresh eggs… all of these actions are demonstrations of remembrance and acknowledgement. The faith of many Kenyan brothers and sisters is incredibly strong, partly because they recognize how important it is to tell the right story, the right way. Like the psalmist, they reiterate God’s activity rather than that of people in narrating and understanding life’s events. Like the psalmist, they teach us that our feelings, our positions, and even our perceptions are valid, but all of these come secondary to God’s activity. Like the psalmist, they show us that the correct posture for approaching and narrating stories is with the question “What is God doing, and how can I be a part of it?”

During my time in Kenya I saw God doing ordinary things in extraordinary ways, and doing extraordinary things in ordinary ways. I saw God forming and strengthening relationships between Christians who had just met. I saw God digging in the soil and harvesting maize. I saw God walking with clumsy Americans who got stuck in the mud during rainy season. I saw God holding a boy suffering from sickle-cell. I saw God using people, in spite of people. I saw God consoling a frustrated seminarian who thought she knew the story of the Gospel, only to find that she was narrating it the wrong way. I saw God doing the same things in Kenya that God is doing at 38^th and Meridian. And that is completing a story told thousands of years ago, by calling God’s people to participate in and retell it.

We retell the same story to ward against forgetfulness, lethargy, and irreverence; to remind ourselves that only God is the author and finisher of our faith; to remember that our lives are part of a greater narrative of redemption. We use our lives to both tell and witness to God’s story. So I ask you, what story is your life telling? To what are you testifying? Let that story be one worth retelling. Good stories are worth hearing more than once.

May God give us ears to hear the Gospel story again, so that even if there be moments in which we say to God, “Yea… you told me,” we follow such a statement with a plea; “Now tell me again.” 

Lydia M.

Rise and Shine

I woke up about seven times this morning, each time trying desperately to ignore the crowing of the roosters outside of my window. Determined to be heard, these feathered alarm clocks made a noise that pierced through cement walls and thick windows, deep sleep and even ear-plugs. As I reflect upon this morning’s wake-up call I am reminded of the personal growth and theological enlightenment I have attained during my short stay in Kenya. Some of my experiences here have served as alarm clocks waking me from a slumber of ignorance and arrogance that undergirded a comfortable Christianity and a passive posture of service to others in need. Before this experience, I believed that I understood the importance of helping others, so I offered assistance when people requested my aid. But I never sought out persons to help, and rarely initiated service to others that I knew had a need. My ignorance kept me sleep-walking, as it were, through the halls of my school, through the streets of my neighborhood, and even through the aisles of my church. My arrogance kept me proud of the few moments of service in which I actually opened my eyes.

I came to Kenya with eyes wide shut, but was jarred out of my slumber after only a few days by alarms that would not quit. They resounded when I saw a six-week-old infant starving, and heard a widow cry for rain because it was her only source of water. The sounds grew louder with the stories of girls denied education so their parents could reap dowry, and with the children who walk an hour barefoot up a stony mountain to go to school. Even during times of joy I could hear the ringing in the distance. I could not go back to sleep, but the pain I felt from waking up was so intense that all I wanted to do was hide under the covers of a dreary consciousness. I tried harder to shut my eyes and stop my ears, but found it impossible to revert to my previous state of slumber. I had to wake up. My eyes began adjusting to the light illuminating my own desperation, and they began searching for a gospel powerful enough to save the soul and nourish the body. My ears strained to hear the sound of self-surrender, the silent but profound confession of my own finitude and God’s boundlessness. I was (and am) being challenged to practice a gospel greater than myself; one centered on God’s mission rather than a personal agenda. To practice anything less is to be unfaithful. So I surrendered.

This submission caused me to wrestle with difficult questions concerning service to others. If compassion means to suffer with, how does living in privilege affect ministry? If I seek to serve without resources, how great of an impact can I truly have? I am still working through these questions, but Paul’s statement in Philippians 4:12 has provided a foundation on which to build. The apostle says, “I know both how to be abased, and I know how to abound: every where and in all things I am instructed both to be full and hungry, both to abound and suffer need.” My experience here is teaching me the importance of coupling work with faith, and that part of such work is to maintain a consciousness of those who suffer. This is one way that I must live out the gospel.

As I close I remember the words that my mother used to sing to wake my sister and me, “Rise and shine and give God the glory!” Her musical instruction captures the objective of my awakening in Kenya. As I rise from my slumber, shine through the light of God’s truth, and give God glory by constantly being mindful of his people, I learn to celebrate the joy of greeting a new day... Even if it is ushered in by a rooster. 

Lydia 

Blessed Be Your Name

I was in a mood on Monday.

After spending two days and countless shillings talking to AAA automated phone messages trying to reload the debit card I had bought through them (which I bought because it was “fast and convenient to reload”), I had had enough.  I even went, as my roommate calls it, “Chicago” over the phone on some poor guy who obviously had no authority whatsoever to do anything about my situation.  Lydia and Camille, being the wonderful people that they are (and probably noticing the fire-breathing mood I was in) thought it would be good to pray.  I tried to think about something other than the fact that I was going to have to call my mom to take off work and help me out while Camille said a prayer that I didn’t hear a word of.  When she was finished I went right back to being angry at everyone and everything.

As I sat down to try to think who I could call to help me (or at least someone I could yell at) we heard a soft knock on the door.  Lydia opened it to find two of the young students at Mawego Girl’s Secondary Boarding School standing on our doorstep.  We immediately invited them in.

The girls giggled like it was a special treat that they got to come and talk to us.  It reminded me of the way I used to feel when a favorite teacher would let me follow her into the staff room to get something.  This made me laugh for two reasons.  The first is the realization that I actually am old enough to be a teacher (weird) and the second is that it could be a treat for anybody to come and sit down with me (also weird). 

I’d like to say my mood dissipated instantly, because I’d like to be that kind of person, but it didn’t.  Anyone who knows me knows that doing anything involving finances, institutions and automated phone messages is like asking me to jam pencils into my eyeballs.   Actually, I would prefer to jam pencils into my eyeballs.  But the girls quickly told us they had come to collect the lyrics of a song we had sung the night before for something called “entertainment.”  Entertainment is an hour or so on Saturday night where they get to hang out, dance, sing songs and generally entertain each other.  We had taught them the song, “Blessed be the Name of the Lord.” 

I sat down to write down the lyrics while the girls talked to us.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

They spoke about the exams they were taking.

Blessed be your name.

They told us what it was like to live in a boarding school.

Blessed be the name of the Lord.

They told us about how they preferred being at boarding school where they did school work from 4:00 am to 10:00 pm.

Blessed be your glorious name.

Because at home they were responsible for house chores and cooking and that didn’t leave much time for studies.

Blessed be your name, on the road marked with suffering…

Then they began to tell us their dreams.  One of the girls (an orphan who had shared with the group the day before that she often felt others looked down on her because she was an orphan) told us that she wanted to be a doctor.  The other one quickly added that she wanted to be a news broadcaster.

Though there’s pain in the offering…

Then they told us that they were on their way to their next class (it was 7:00 pm).

Blessed be your name.

I quickly finished writing down all the lyrics, had them check that they could read my handwriting, reminded them how to sing the pre-chorus (Every blessing you pour out I’ll, turn back to praise, When the darkness closes in Lord, still I will say…) and sent them on their way with a quick, strong, hug.

When they left I heard Lydia say, “Wow, Camille.  God really answered your prayer to remind us why we were here.”  The prayer I hadn’t even heard.  God answered it anyway and God answered it in a way that made me know God was up there, laughing at me, mischieviously showing me what was important, forcing me to remember why I’m here and who God is.  All I wanted to do after the girls left was laugh at myself and at the mischievous and loving God that surprised and even sometimes tricked me into remembering my love for that God.

Blessed be the name.

Lindsey

Jesus in the Market

Last Sunday I went to a Catholic church.  In some ways this was refreshing, because the service was in English and I am at least familiar with Catholic theology.

I participated in what prayers I could, clapping when I didn’t know the words and wishing I could learn the dances that were a part of every processional (of which there were three).  I also tried to think about something other than my throbbing knees as we knelt for what seemed like hours at a time.  I tried not to fidget, watching older people and young children handle the kneeling with ease.  After I tried to focus on praying for something other than the kneeling time to be over, we had communion and the recessional. 

The family had warned me that the service would be longer than usual because it was a communion Sunday.  This made sense to me as communion Sundays in America tend to be longer as well.  What I didn’t realize was the recessional at the end of the service would take a good part of the day.  My host family asked if I would join the recessional and, not having any idea what I was getting myself into, I said, of course.

The recessional was a walk around the village, where the priest held the host (the communion wafer) and the congregation followed, singing and clapping.  It was a form of praise and also a form of evangelism.  As we walked along the road and mutatus (15 passenger vans that are the main form of public transportation) honked and passed by dangerously close to the congregants, we would stop every so often, kneel down one the side of the road in the sun and praise Jesus for being in our midst.  The processional followed a dangerously narrow passageway over a bridge while semi-trucks sped by us and ended in the market place.  There in the middle of the market place, the congregation knelt down and prayed to the host, then walked back to the church for the benediction. 

When I asked the priest about that recessional he said, “it is to remind people that Jesus is in our midst and to thank him for being there.”

Kneeling in the middle of the market place while people sold goods and stared all around us was one of the most powerful church exercises I’ve ever been a part of.  What would it look like in America if the churches and faith communities literally brought God out of the church into the market place? 

This is something I’d like to bring back with me to America (perhaps with less kneeling), but to be intentional in bringing God into the ordinary, every day places and not just in the church, to be reminded that God is there even in our grocery shopping, to be reminded that even in the market place God is there, could help us all out a little bit.

Lindsey

Expecting the Unexpected

One of the best and scariest things about Kenya is learning to expect the unexpected:

You don’t expect that the answer to the question, “Where is the bathroom?” to be, “Do you fear lizards?”

You don’t expect that when a “program” is set up for you that means you are handed a piece of chalk and told, “you have an hour with class 8.”

You don’t expect that when you are introduced in church you are also told that you will be bringing the word today…after this prayer.

You don’t expect that the “processional” at the end of the service will be an hour long walk around the village.

You don’t expect to have six waiters for five people.

You don’t expect that “signing the guest book,” means having a three course meal.

You don’t expect to make children cry/scream just by looking at them.

You don’t expect your skin color to make you the most interesting person at most public gatherings.

You don’t expect to be showered with more hospitality and gratitude than any one person could ever deserve.

Lindsey

Tears

Today I experienced my most difficult home visit. It was a female student from Bar-Andingo Primary School. She was a partial orphan, and had lost her mother. Her father is aging and ailing, and she assists in taking care of him.

While sharing her story, she began to weep. She did so silently. In fact, she was so silent about it, that we did not realize she was crying. She was mourning her mother, who died when she was 4 years old. She is now 13. I have been welcomed into so many homes, and listened to so many stories. However, I have not seen anyone express their sorrow the way she did today. I think that in visiting many homes and hearing the stories, the magnitude of loss is given second priority. But this experience reminded me how much some of the other students need and deserve to just let the tears fall.

So today, I shed tears for the students who have lost--parents, dreams, and possibly even hope. But I continue to let God lead...

The Struggle

I came to Kenya believing that I would have no trouble adjusting to whatever Kenya threw at me.  I tend to be pretty flexible and don’t put a lot of value on showering in a shower, so really, what could Kenya throw at me that the Appalachian Mountains hadn’t already?  I was used to being in a place where I was the obvious outsider, a place where I barely understood the accent and a place where the every day comforts we expect in middle-class America were not present.  I knew it would be a new experience, of course, but I didn’t really expect to be shocked.  I didn’t believe that my ideality would come in sharp contrast with reality.

I also felt that my faith was prepared for whatever I saw in Kenya.  Like most young, idealistic Christians, I pride myself on having a nitty-gritty faith.  I want to believe I have a faith that doesn’t shy away or gloss over things like poverty or injustice, a faith that believes in a vulnerable peace in the midst of a violent world.  In short, a faith that has some substance, a faith that has something to say.  In my secret heart, even though I didn’t admit it to myself until later, I think I believed this faith would be new and exciting to the Kenyans.  I would have something to share.

But that was where I was surprised.  I have found no need or want for that kind of faith here.  In the rural areas where I am staying there is no such thing as glossing over poverty and injustice.  It is part of every day life.  The things I pride myself on, reminding people that the world is not perfect, rural Nyahera has no need for.  They know, every day, that things aren’t perfect.  I see families led by 12 and 13 year old children and boys crying in the classrooms because they do not have blankets.  Where are my ideal notions in that place?  Where are my ideas of what missionary work is?  I am both ashamed that I cannot help and ashamed that I feel it is my job to help.  So I stand utterly helpless and at the same time thankful that these children would share their pain with me at all. 

I have been trying very hard not to romanticize my experience, to be careful of my language and watch what kind of pictures I am taking, etc.  But for all my education and careful crafting that goes into a blog, I’m still asked to use a bucket at night for “short calls,” just like the family I am staying with (forgive my honesty).  This is what I’ve discovered:  This internship isn’t really about me at all.  It’s not about what I have to say and my words aren’t nearly as powerful as I’ve come to believe they are.

So what do I do with my ideal notions of what a partnership looks like?  I remind myself that I pride myself on a faith that lives in the gray.  There is no clear answer here.  What do you do in a partnership where one side seems to have all the resources?  How do you form a friendship with people who speak very different literal and cultural languages?  What can a 24 year old student offer people who are constantly asking her to give something?  If you have black and white answers to these questions, I’m willing to bet that you’ve never really been faced with them.

So I remember that God is found in the struggle.  God is found in the board members in America struggling to answer these questions.  God is found in my host that is struggling to find answers to the overwhelming poverty around her.  God is found in the Kenyan director who struggles to define a partnership and challenge the community in the face of such odds.  God is found in the questions and the realization that it’s really not about any one person, but a shared struggle.

That doesn’t mean I’ve lost my "idealistic notions."  I hope I never do.  I’ve just situated them back where they belong in my mind: in the gray space that tortures and sustains faith.  And when I really feel helpless, God has ways of reminding me God is there, in the gray.

As I walk home, forming these thoughts in my mind, a small child, about three years old, takes my hand in the market.  The child cannot speak English and I cannot speak Luo, but we look at each other and burst out laughing.  How strange and wonderful that we are both together in this place.  The three-year-old child proceeds to escort me home from the market, and we giggle the entire way. 

You see, this thing is not about me at all.

Lindsey