“The man who finds his homeland sweet is still a tender beginner; he to whom every soil is as his native one is already strong; but he is perfect to whom the entire world is as a foreign land.”

~Hugo of St. Victor



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Tuesday, September 18, 2018

Diaspora




Diaspora
Alien, stranger in this world, Other
We left our home but our home has not left us. 

Home
Place of our dreams, place of our Selves, place of our blood.
That place which brands us, marks us, delineates us.
A pastiche of memories and meanings,
Constantly changing while remaining unchanged.
Home
That place we belong to which we no longer belong.
Our roots, our bondage, our past, our future.
It haunts our dreams and taints our tongues.
It shapes our souls and our social introductions.

“Where are you from?”
            The Dark Continent, The Motherland
            The place you do not know and have not known.
            Hidden in mists and misconceptions, 
            Ignored in ignorance, exoticized in effigy. 
Where are we from?
         Do you really want to know?
         Should we really tell you?
         How can you begin to understand?
         How can we begin to understand?

Where is Home?
         We knew once.  Then we left.
         Chasing dreams or chased from dreams.
         Seeking greener pastures, expelled from natal pastures.
         Pushed or pulled, drawn or compelled.
Where is Home?
           Both here and there.
          Neither here nor there.
          In the home of our birth, we have become Other.
           In our adopted home, we remain Other.

Where do we belong?   
      Everywhere.  Nowhere.  Anywhere.
      In a land not our home, in a land not our own.
      A land of aliens, strangers, and others
      In a land where we have become the alien, the stranger, the Other.

We are Diaspora


                 

Wednesday, September 12, 2018

Sauti Ya Watu: Sound of the People, A Dedication

Photo Credit:  May 2005, Mashimoni, by AIM team member


"Read there!" Joy (not her real name) said as she pointed to a poster on the wall covering up part of the dirt and sticks making up the wall of their family's home in Kibera.  

"Sauti ya watu," I replied, phonetically sounding out the words on the poster.  She liked this game and had already made me read her brother's homework out loud to her.

"You know!  See, you know how to speak Swahili," Joy said as she rocked back and forth on the little wooden stool in laughter.  

"Sure, but I have no idea what I just read," I replied and looked at her for a translation.

"That means 'the sound of the people'," she explained.  Her face lit up in a brilliant smile.  "Now, read it again!"  


 I was 19.  At the beginning of that year, I didn't know where Kenya was on a map, had no desire for cross-cultural ministry, and absolutely no desire to work in Africa's second largest slum.  However, God has a sense of humor and called this punk college kid to seven months of youth ministry in Kibera.  To say that my life paradigm was destroyed would be an understatement.  I was torn down and rebuilt from the inside out, irrevocably and irreversibly by the relentless love of God.  

My team mates wept in compassion and pity at the glaring, rotting picture of poverty we experienced our first time in the slum.  I am a lousy Christian and didn't cry.  It smelled and I couldn't possibly see how such a timid and superfluous human being as myself could be used by God there.  I was not inspired.  

That month, I met eleven year old Joy in her green checkered school uniform.  She spoke in a whisper and watched me warily.  After hours of Bible studies, football (soccer) in the park, craft projects, and walks through Kibera, she decided we were friends.  I quickly found that beneath her shy facade was a sarcastic, vivacious young heart who delighted in bossing me around.  


 “Find your way,” she told me as we crossed another stream on the way to her house.  I had only been there once before and had no idea how to get there through the checkerboard of mbati roofs and dusty paths.  She pushed me in front to take the lead again.  

  "Mzungu, you are lost!  That is not the way!" she said as I failed to find the turn.  She laughed loudly and took over, taking my hand to lead me over a stream full of muddy water and trash.  She pointed out the prostitutes and the drug dealers as we walked through her sprawling dirt world.  Then she taught me her favorite song and discussed our plans to play football that weekend.  

Soon, we ducked in through a low doorway into a dark, cool room, about 10ft by 5ft, where she lived with her father, stepmother, three younger siblings, and occasionally some cousins.  She slipped behind a curtain and changed out of her neat, green school uniform and emerged wearing a pale, yellow dress, dingy ruffles fluttering off the edges in well-worn ribbons.  She pulled out her precious bag of popcorn from Bible study.  She saved it for her siblings instead of eating it herself.  

"Now, mzungu, read it again!" she said as she laughed.

"Sauti ya watu," I answered obediently.

"You will be speaking Swahili soon," she said. 

The sun set on us in that little room, full of laughter.  We told stories, sang songs, and drank chai for hours.  Before I left, we took each other's roughened hands and prayed together.  A lingering peace and love immersed that little dirt room while we prayed.  After hours there, it still wasn't long enough.


My heart broke for Kibera that day.  I came home and wept for the slum like I hadn't been able to yet.  It wasn't the bad stuff that broke my heart, but the good stuff.   Joy's laughter and delight, her generosity and her love.  She taught me about the beauty that could be found in the slum and that is was brought me to tears.  

That was the year that I learned the peace that surpasses all understanding can be found even in the slum.  That year also taught me about the brokenness and ugliness of sin hidden beneath facades of wealth and twinkling lights in my suburban life in Los Angeles.  Yes, ugliness and beauty are universal, in both poverty and wealth, as is the presence of God and His plan for redemption.

Over the years, as Joy's childlike features melted away to reveal those of a young woman, still one of the first things she would say to me was, "Do you remember?"  

"Yes.  Sauti ya watu."  

This blog is dedicated to sauti ya watu, to the sound of the people.  To the youth of Kibera who became my mentors in life, love, and faith.  You taught me God's relentless capacity for redemption and planting beauty and hope in all of life's circumstances.  You taught me to laugh, to sing, to dance, and to ask deeper questions about the things which matter most.  You taught me how much I have to learn and how much I love learning.  

It is my hope to fill these pages with more sauti ya watu, because Jesus loves the sound of the people too.

"After this I looked, and behold, a great multitude that no one could number, from every nation, from all tribes and peoples and languages, standing before the throne and before the Lamb, clothed in white robes, with palm branches in their hands, crying out with a loud voice, 'Salvation belongs to our God who sits on the throne, and to the Lamb!'" Revelations 7:9-10


Tuesday, September 11, 2018

Isaiah 58:6-12


Isaiah 58:6-12 New International Version (NIV)

6 “Is not this the kind of fasting I have chosen:
to loose the chains of injustice
and untie the cords of the yoke,
to set the oppressed free
and break every yoke?
7 Is it not to share your food with the hungry
and to provide the poor wanderer with shelter—
when you see the naked, to clothe them,
and not to turn away from your own flesh and blood?
8 Then your light will break forth like the dawn,
and your healing will quickly appear;
then your righteousness[a] will go before you,
and the glory of the Lord will be your rear guard.
9 Then you will call, and the Lord will answer;
you will cry for help, and he will say: Here am I.

“If you do away with the yoke of oppression,
with the pointing finger and malicious talk,
10 and if you spend yourselves in behalf of the hungry
and satisfy the needs of the oppressed,
then your light will rise in the darkness,
and your night will become like the noonday.
11 The Lord will guide you always;
he will satisfy your needs in a sun-scorched land
and will strengthen your frame.
You will be like a well-watered garden,
like a spring whose waters never fail.
12 Your people will rebuild the ancient ruins
and will raise up the age-old foundations;
you will be called Repairer of Broken Walls,
Restorer of Streets with Dwellings.