Monday, December 30, 2013

Christmas Eve Musings, December 24, 2013. From Lake Bunyoni, Uganda

Christmas Eve Day, December 24

In the US, Christmas music plays. In shopping malls and grocery stores popular “holiday music” tempts patrons to continue their spending. The BBC and public radio stations broadcast the Service of Nine Lessons and Carols from Kings College. If I were at my home in Ohio, I would be tearing up at the last two  stanzas of Once inRoyal David’s City, singing the familiar alto part to Adam Lay  Ybounden, and soaking in the familiar scriptures and relishing the carols familiar and not.

But here at Lake Bunyoni, the music is the birds. The birds sing for Christmas.

Once in Royal David's City, vs. 5 and 6:

And our eyes at last shall see him,
Through his own redeeming love,
For that child so dear and gentle
Is our Lord in heaven above;
And he leads his children on
To the place where he is gone.

Not in that poor lowly stable,
With the oxen standing by,
We shall see him; but in heaven,
Set at Gods right hand on high;
When like stars his children drowned
All in white shall wait around.


Christmas Eve

Sitting here on the dock. Wooden, dug-out canoes rest and bob against each other, slender bodies at rest. A bird whistles above—a trilling and whirring song. Another bird calls a high come here. In the rushes, there is a chuck-a-chuck-a, like a bow dancing on the violin strings. A drum beats in the distance. Christmas adagios.

As I listen, I think that perhaps the sounds of that first Christmas Eve were not too different. There would have been sheep bleating and the soft rustle of hay as cows, and oxen, and donkeys settled for the night. Nature’s adagios.

"Thanks be to God."

The congregation responds to each of the nine scripture readings during the Service of Nine Lessons and Carols with, “Thanks be to God.” It’s the familiar refrain following scripture readings at other Anglican and Episcopal services.  This year, as I listened to a recording of Lessons and Carols, the words “Thanks be to God” startled me at the end of the sixth lesson. That lesson, Luke 2:1-7, tells of Jesus’ birth. It ends with the line, “…for there was no room for them in the inn.”

Reader: “…for there was no room for them in the inn.”
Congregation: “Thanks be to God.”

How startling. We give thanks that there was no room in the inn. We give thanks that God came to us in a stable. Yes. That is something for which to give thanks.


Had Jesus been born in the inn, the weary shepherds would have been barred from the event. It’s doubtful an innkeeper would allow a band of sweaty, smelly shepherds to crowd the hallway. No animals would have snuffled and cooed, and breathed the air where the young family sheltered. God came to us in humble dwellings, “in that poor and lowly stable.” God with us in our sweat and dirt and smells. God with us on and in the earth. 

Thanks be to God.





Saturday, December 14, 2013

Saturday Afternoon at Bethel House

Two days of rain finally came to an end this afternoon. The sun is shining. The solar lamps stand sentinel-like and recharge. The dishes dry in the sun. 

Across the street at the 7th Day Adventist Church, a men’s quartet practices songs from my childhood—songs that my father, Lyle Chase, and their tenor and baritone partners offered during Sunday evening worship. Sometimes Dad and Mom sang in SATB quartets as Sunday evening “special music.” Funny how this place, Beni, calls up memories of the small manufacturing town and railroad stop where I grew up, Corry, PA.

But this day. From my perch at my desk, I look directly at the wall surrounding our compound. Just above stands the top of Renaly’s Alimention, “La Devouverte” (Renaly’s Grocery Story: The Discovery). Renaly’s is a sort of Beni strip mall. It's a long, low building with several “storefronts.” A bar, a shop that sells food items and sundries, a coiffure, and a pharmacie operate on the premises. Renaly’s Alimentation livens our evenings with a repetitive playlist at volumes that meriting a call to local authorities for “disrupting the peace” in the US.

The gospel quartet has disbursed. The street now plays its music. Motos rumble past as the bass and percussion. A radio at the alimentation sings a tenor line. Women call out greetings and a group of children plays behind us. A baby cries a sad melody against the harmonies. A songbird chips an occasional ornamentation, a grace note frequently lost in the din. Sometimes the delicate note calls out of a slice of quiet before the downbeat.

I have to think in these terms and find beauty in the din. Otherwise the sounds crash against each other and scream insults. I want quiet. I want only the songbird’s singular and gentle grace notes. I want the motos and the radio and the honking to cease. 

I want. I want. I want.
 
If I were in the US right now I would be railing against the onslaught of holiday advertisements, cheap music, and the siren call to buy more than I can afford or anyone needs.

So, I have a choice. Wish. Want. Stew in “If only” and “Why don’t they…?” Or accept what is and change what I can. “God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change, the courage to change what I can, and the wisdom to know the difference.”


Oh….and enjoy the sun!




Tuesday, December 3, 2013

The Armor of Light

Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness, and put on the armor of light, now in the time of this mortal life in which your Son Jesus Christ came to visit us in great humility; that in the last day, when he shall come again in his glorious majesty to judge both the living and the dead, we may rise to the life immortal; through him who lives and reigns with you and the Holy Spirit, one God, now and for ever. Amen.
One of my favorite prayers. The Collect for the First Sunday of Advent.

Sometimes "the works of darkness" are an avaricious ogre, dripping with chaos and slinging terror. Sometimes they personify as a rapist, a corrupt official, an abuser of power, a murderer, a thief. But most days, at least for me, the works of darkness slip in between the cracks of my own humanness. They show up, as they did this week, as small irritants, a meltdown over difficulty learning Swahili, frustration with too many tasks for the available time, self-doubt, judgmental thoughts, pride, a sprinkling of anger, and a dash of gossip. Yup. The works of darkness. Not pretty. Not anything of which I’m proud.

But, thanks be to God, the gift of grace gives us strength to “put on the armor of light," and we feel its weight (or its lightness?). Once I choose to put on the armor of light, I can’t help but experience the immediate and mundane differently. When I put on the armor of light, I assume a new posture in the world. My head lifts and my eyes waken to beauty large and small. My ears hear laughter and song. My hands open to blessings, and my heart opens to joy.

If I put on the armor of light and look back on the week, I relish the simple pleasure of cooking squash on Thursday and the resonant tenor voice behind me in church this morning that caressed then lifted up words of praise. I am reminded of a wooden ceiling bathed in sunlight, like the hull of a great ark, and the treasure of a massive floor of hand-laid stones that will soon be secreted away with a layer of cement. Draped in the armor of light, I smile at the raucous incongruity of wedding party photos while a hen pecks her way in an among the guests, and the trio of turkeys who waggle their way into meeting space where the UCBC faculty is gathered.


Yes, give me grace to cast away the works of darkness that creep into my thoughts each day--the small but pernicious doubts, jealousies, and judgments. Give me grace to put on the armor of light, stand in humility and give thanks.





   

Wednesday, November 20, 2013

A Not Untypical Day

The day draws to a close. Georgette has prepared and set our dinner: goat, roasted potatoes, cauliflower, and a tomato and onion salad. An afternoon rain has washed the air, and the evening is cool.

As I look back on the day I wonder what I accomplished. The documents that need drafting remain tasks on a list. The documents that need review and revision wait their turn. Yet, the day feels full and I am tired.

The morning began with an unplanned skirmish with our cats. Frieda and Midogo (“Little one”) apply their scavenge tactics outside and inside the house. We keep the bread in a metal casserole dish, put avocadoes in sealed containers, weigh down the lids of serving dishes with plates, and generally try to keep the cats out of the living/dining room area. But they are persistent critters.

This morning, when I got up at 5:00 to start hot water and claim some quiet time, the cats stole into the dining room, jumped onto the table, and managed to push off the lid protecting a few pieces of meat from last night’s supper. I shushed them out, set myself up on the porch to read only to be startled by clanging in the dining room. Somehow the cats had managed to push the door open and jump back onto the table. A battle of wills and tactics ensued for the next 20 minutes until I won. Or did I? It was time to get ready for a 6:15am Swahili lesson.

Yes, Swahili began this morning. Monday and Thursday morning, 6:15-7:15. French is Wednesday and Saturday, 8:00-10:00. Swahili lesson concluded, and the UCBC faculty van arrived to take us to school.

Once on campus there were greetings, turning on the computer, and setting up for the day. Currently we have power and Internet on campus for only 2-3 hours/day. Until the power turned on, I ticked off tasks on the list, queued up emails in my Outbox. Musafiri, the Service Learning Coordinator, and I had planned to meet at 10 and begin working through documents. Power and password problems on the laptop that is storing those documents thwarted plans, however. When the power came on at 10:15, emails loaded up in my laptop, and I scrambled through another round of communications until I joined a colleague for a meeting at 11:30. Chapel followed, noon-1:00, then it was lunchtime. Another meeting convened from 2:00-3:00, after which I headed for home and an hour of studying French.

Did I accomplish anything substantial? I don’t think so. After the early morning cat wrangle, I did turn the day over to God and asked that God use the day and me. I don’t know how or if that prayer was answered. There were no powerful interactions or profound conversations.  I don’t know that I made anyone’s day any brighter. Probably not. I was more concerned with trying to “do” what was on my “list.” I only hope that I did not stand in someone’s way, frustrate a colleague, ignore a student, succumb to selfishness, or give in to pride.

Hmmm… to be honest, I did capitulate to selfishness and pride. No one else would know that pride and selfishness rented a small room in my heart today. But I know.

For good reason, the Confession of Sin opens the Order for Compline, the daily service of evening prayer. So I offer it up, even now, as I review the day:
Almighty God, our heavenly Father: We have sinned against you, through our own fault, in thought, and word, and deed, and in what we have left undone.For the sake of your Son our Lord Jesus Christ, forgive us all our offenses; and grant that we may serve you in newness of life, to the glory of your Name. Amen. 


Tuesday, July 16, 2013

Taking Action

It was not a pretty week last week. Well, I was not very pretty last week. The line up of tasks, responsibilities, and needs crowded against the counter like mad shoppers on black Friday, jostling and tugging, refusing to queue up or take a number for service.  Then my computer, which has been suffering maladies for the past three months, briefly sank into a coma. It felt like my partner against the mad onslaught threatened to leave me completely defenseless.

At least that’s how it all felt.

In the moments of computer lucidity, I shot off an email asking for prayers for encouragement and strength and wisdom and anything else my friends could think of.

My computer popped a few aspirin and came back to work. The day proceeded and I checked off a couple of items on the “to do “ list. But my heart still sat heavy and I couldn’t seem to lift my gaze from my own feet. That evening I allowed a series of events to compound my despondency until my own discomfort impelled me to take personal inventory, admit my part, choose willingness to have God remove those character defects, and take the action to do so.

The next morning, Psalm 16 greeted me and the last verse spoke directly to me: “You show me the path of life; In your presence there is fullness of joy; In your right hand are pleasures forevermore.” I have to take action. I have to walk the path. I have to accept and live into that fullness of joy. I have to take from that right hand, or grasp that hand for comfort and direction.

An unsettling image came to mind. It was the image of a stubborn, selfish child in the playground, sitting on the outside of the circle, watching everyone else have fun while choosing to wallow in self-pity. It wasn’t a pretty image. It’s certainly not how I’d want others to see me.

Clearly an attitude change was in order. Not just an attitude change about my view of circumstances, but an attitude change about my posture toward God and God’s promises and gifts.  There is a path of life. But standing at the edge and waiting for some miracle is not the same as stepping onto that path and walking into the miracle. I believe that there is fullness of joy in God. But I have to choose to live into that joy and extravagant grace. I have to lean into the wind of it for propulsion. And the hand full of pleasures (the Common English Bible translates, “Beautiful things are always in your right hand.”) invites me to take and hold.

I can’t say for certain what made the difference that day, and the days that have followed: prayers for strength and encouragement offered up by friends and loved ones, my attitude change, or a renewed understanding and willingness to take action with God. But I can attest to renewed strength and joy over the last few days. I can also affirm, based on experienced, that God works with us as much as for us.


Saturday, July 6, 2013

Whispers

Alain, one of our economics teachers, wears joy. His face glows with it and his eyes glint with a smile. Even in the rush of the day’s tasks, Alain projects calm and confidence—not that self-cultivated confidence—but that deep, abiding assurance that “all will be well, and all will be well, and all manner of things will be well.” It is a joy rooted in a faith forged out of trials and deliverance, hardships and grace. But on Thursday something like worry or sadness lined Alain’s face. We chatted briefly and he admitted to some concerns troubling him and his family. Our conversation sat heavy in my pocket.

Then a disappointing email greeted me when I logged on at school. A grant application to strengthen our library and provide training for UCBC faculty and staff was denied. It was the second time we’ve submitted to this particular grantor, and the second time we’ve been denied. Training needs and services to develop our library loom beyond our capacity and our resources. The news more than disappointed me. It slashed my spirit then sat on my shoulders like a gargoyle the rest of the day.

A phone conversation later that evening unlocked a trunk full of personal worries and concerns for loved ones who have their individual needs, concerns, and challenges.

I went to bed Thursday night pleading with God for provision, for deliverance, for healing, for miracles.

Friday morning began in the early morning quiet with whispers of truth and encouragement.

First I heard my dad’s voice, “There is something better. There is a reason. God has something better in store.” I believe that. It’s what I’ve experienced. I’ve also experienced dark times when all doors slammed shut and times of grace, when light seeped through the cracks and miracles sprouted.

Then two Old Testament passages came to mind. The first was Psalm 121, “I lift my eyes to the hills—from where will my help come? My help comes from the Lord, who made heaven and earth….” When I’m feeling defeated I look down in appearance and my eyes look to the ground where I see a road strewn with trash, streams clogged with litter, and my own two feet plodding along. But when I look up in the daytime, I see the magnificence of the Rwenzwori Mountains. When I raise my gaze at night, the sky speaks in stars. My riding instructor once told me to look where I want to go, not at my hands holding the reigns, or at the ground. If I look low, the horse is likely to stumble and I’m more likely to fall.

The other passage was Proverbs 3:5-6 (the last verse my dad quoted to me before I said my good-bye to him in 2010). “Trust in the Lord with all your heart. Lean not to your own understanding. In all thy ways acknowledge Him and He shall direct your path.”  Yes, trust with all my heart, not just part of it, if that’s even possible. I cannot know full confidence in God if I do not trust fully. If I trust part-way, then my confidence will be partial. Will it even be confidence?

When I opened to the day’s reading in Forward Day by Day, the whispers continued. Simon of Cyrene was forced to carry the cross for “some poor man about to be executed.” The reflection suggested that the situation, ugly and distasteful as it was, opened the door for Simon of Cyrene to participate in one of Christianity’s major dramas. And while the early days of persecution of the new church drove the new believers out of Jerusalem, it also spread the Way.

None of us—Alain and his family, my friends and loved ones, even me—are not where we are by accident. We are, each of us, where we are to be at this moment, facing what we are facing for a reason and a purpose, and for a season. In those difficult seasons sometimes all we can do is look back to times of deliverance and blessing and provision and miracles and listen for whispers of encouragement.










Wednesday, July 3, 2013

Continuing to learn

Since arriving in Beni, I’ve been living at Bethel House, a guesthouse that CI-UCBC rents for visitors, international staff, and the visiting Congolese teachers. Conversations around the dinner table open doors to sharing and friendships. They are also impromptu French (for we Americans) and English (for the Congolese) lessons.

To be honest, at first I wasn’t eager to be housemates with visiting professors. While UCBC cultivates a cadre of quality teachers who embrace the vision, mission, and practices of UCBC, the university has to lean on visiting Congolese teachers to fill out courses—common practice in DRC where Congolese professors earn the greater part of their salary by traveling from institution to institution, teaching “their” courses. The system has emerged out of necessity and fuels corrupt and self-serving practices. There are fewer than 1000 Ph.D.-prepared professors across the nation, and many of DRC’s professors, eager to protect their secure way of making a living, keep the PhD pool limited by impeding younger teachers from obtaining advanced degrees. They further line their pockets by such practices as requiring students to pay for the class syllabus or have their exams graded. Then there are sexual abuses. Just another set of reasons why UCBC is nurturing its own cadre of teachers.

It’s in this context that I’ve “developed an attitude” toward all visiting teachers at UCBC. I've assumed that they are all “bad guys," and have had to ask God’s forgiveness for holding prejudices based on generalities. Perhaps it’s no coincidence that the prayer one offers before a meal is called grace.

We were three Americans and three Congolese at dinner three weeks ago when our Congolese friends dove into the topic of DRC politics and the government’s failure to meet the country’s needs. Losa, a linguistics teacher from Kisangani; Pastor Tsongo, a chaplain from Bunia; and Leoni, an economics teacher from Butembo asked the question, “So what are we teaching in our universities? Our politicians are products of our universities, and look at how poorly they lead.” They continued to lament the condition of their country and the paucity of leadership.

With Losa
They also opened the door for me to offer, “Well, that’s exactly why UCBC exists. It’s what Congo Initiative and UCBC are about—raising up ethical, Chrisitan leaders who are transformed, who are different, who take responsibility to bring positive change to their country. But what do you see? Are our students at UCBC any different from students at other universities?”

Without hesitation, the three guests nodded, “Yes.” Losa  described UCBC students’ willingness to work, both in class and outside of class. He spoke at length about how UCBC students participate in the work program and help to maintain the campus facilities and grounds. Pastor Tsongo and Leoni concurred. “At other universities, students destroy property. Then the university fixes the room or the facility, and the students tear it down again. That doesn’t happen here.” They went on to comment about service learning and the work program. Losa recounted to Pastor Tsongo and Leoni that during his first time at UCBC in 2010, students, faculty, and staff spent a day doing community service and picking up trash around the city. “I have never seen students do that. And the teachers and administrators were working too.”

A view across campus
“And you have Internet,” continued Leoni. Nevermind that our Internet is limited and slow. Leoni was impressed that faculty and students have easy access to computers. Yes, computers are only a tool, but in this context, in the eyes of area residents, that UCBC provides Internet service and computer access is a mark of success.

Leoni applauded UCBC's bilingual education. The others concurred that to interact on the global stage, Congo’s leaders, teachers, and business folks must be able to converse in English. In fact, every visiting Congolese teacher I’ve met over the last two months expresses a desire to learn or improve her or his own English.

Finally, my dinner companions noted that students and faculty live out their Christian faith. Leoni pointed to chapel attendance, with its music and worship. Then she came back to what she saw in students’ behavior—showing respect, working hard in their studies, demonstrating kindness, and participating in manual labor to help maintain the campus. 

The admiration these three expressed for UCBC encouraged and humbled me. Would Leoni, Losa, and Pastor Tsongo be able to point to my witness and example?

The faculty van
In the days since this conversation I am attending to my attitudes and behaviors, with the Congolese culture of hospitality as my example. As a start, I now look forward to the round of morning greetings that ring in the work day. Each passenger who climbs into the faculty van offers, "Bonjour!" and greets each rider by name. Arrival on campus opens up another round of greetings, complete with handshake and a couple of exchanges of "Comment allez-vous?" or "How was your evening?"

I used to brush these exchanges aside as a delay to the day's start. I've now come to appreciate the opportunity to stop, look someone in the eye and intentionally acknowledge her or his presence. There is something human, kind, and affirming (dare I say, Christian?) in such exchanges. 

Sure, one could breeze through each greeting without intention, just as one can recite the Lord's Prayer, the national anthem, or any other familiar set of words. But one can also embrace each exchange as a blessing, a brief moment of grace, and an example of God's daily work of redemption and transformation.

Wednesday, June 19, 2013

Excused Absences


Attendance policy for “Creation Care and the Common Good,” my English class, follows the UCBC policy: Unexcused absences for more than 25% of class sessions result in no course credit. That translates to three absences for class. Unfortunately, I neglected to think through the possibilities for excused absences
  • A pounding rainstorm immobilizes all foot and moto travel and pins Beni’s residents, including students and teachers, under shelter. A thunderstorm breaking loose at 7:30 am delays an 8 am class for by thirty minutes or more.
  • One’s family schedules your dowry ceremony on a class day. Congolese weddings and all their preparations involve the entire family—as in the larger, extended, family (e.g., aunts; uncles; elder cousins; aunts and uncles of aunts and uncles; parents’ cousins; etc.). Weddings are the responsibility of the groom’s family, so when the family decides the date of important meetings and ceremonies related to the wedding and marriage preparation, the groom must comply.
  • A sudden dispute erupts between one’s family and the landlord. The parents call their son, a student, to help settle the problem.  Need for the son’s assistance is urgent, and during the school day.
  • Students enrolled in an Economics class learn on Friday that they will leave the next day for a three-week research project several hours drive from Beni. And, yes, they’ll be staying out at the site for those three weeks.

Monday, June 10, 2013

Safety on a Moto

View on the road
Two or three times a week I pay 600 Congolese francs (FC), about $0.54 USD, for a 6km “taxi” ride between the UCBC campus and home. It’s cheaper than New York City rates and far more exciting. I no longer bargain with the driver on the price. Bargaining may serve some social benefit, but in the mind of this American, it wastes time and energy. Besides, I know the going rate is 600 FC. Sometimes the driver shakes his head and demands 1000 FC. Does he assume that this American I has money or is ignorant of the going rate? Perhaps his beginning price is 1000 FC for every customer. I walk away only to be chased by the same driver with, “Okay-Okay. 600 francs.”

Taxi park in town
Every speedometer and tachometer of every moto I’ve taken register 0 kph and 0 rpm. Perhaps all potential taxi drivers are required to disconnect these devices before receiving their license? I have no idea how fast we go. Thirty mph? Forty? Is that 15 kph or 60 kph?

We weave in and out, first left, then right, between other motos and passing trucks overloaded with products and people. We dart around drivers carrying 4-foot bales of charcoal as big around as the trunk of 200-year old oak tree. My favorite is the occasional pig strapped across the back of the moto or the goat, at ease with the passing scenery, front legs draped over the lap of a human passenger and back legs dangling on the other side.

Protocol demands that, unless one is a child, the passenger keeps her or his hands to self. No wrapping around the waist of the driver, regardless of the speed or the weave. I usually begin a ride with one arm twisted behind me to clutch the back of the seat in a vain attempt at safety. However, should there be an accident, and the moto swerves, falls, or throws me off, a death grip on the seat would yank my arm out of its socket, destroy my rotator cuff, and snap a few ribs in the process.


Ah! My need to control persists, even in Congo!

Wednesday, June 5, 2013

Radio Tele Bilingue, Voice of Transformation

Kaza, Director of RTB
“We are trying to change the manner of broadcasting,” explains Kaza, Director of Radio TeleBilingue (RTB), CI-UCBC’s radio station. Kaza speaks with confidence and conviction. “You know, if someone is speaking about political matters, he must have the right voice. And if he is talking about social matters, it takes a different voice.” But the change Kaza references goes beyond a broadcaster’s voice to the way that RTB does business. Corruption victimizes the media in DRC, as it does many other services and institutions. 

“There are two ways that corruption is possible in the media: coupage and facture,” explains Musafiri, Chief of Programming. “But you won’t find coupage in a French-English dictionary. It is a Congolese word from coupe (the French to cut).” Coupage occurs when, after an interview, the reporter tells the subject, “We will print this story if you can pay us,” in essence holding the story hostage.

Reporters  rely on facture (from the French for receipt) to pay their wages or the costs of the news agency. The reporter might request money to cover transportation costs. The subject of the news story or interview might offer to buy fuel for the generator as guarantee that the story will be positive. “There are cases where someone may be known to have taken money. And the reporter knows that. But the person will pay facture so that it is not reported. So it is as if someone has their hand on the news and controls what they say.”
Musafiri checks the program

“We do not do that. It is hard thing to teach our students. But they learn and know that.” The result? RTB has a reputation as a different kind of radio station. “People are afraid of UCBC. They have a conflict of conscience.”

RTB’s tagline says it all: “Voice of Transformation.”  RTB boasts a multi-layered mission that includes educating and developing people. Programming includes such things as Découverte Scientifique, a sort of “science in the news” program; English instruction; and De Venir Leader, a program on leadership development. The radio’s mission is also to train communications students, giving them hands-on experience in all aspects of radio broadcasting to “match theory and practice,” as Musafiri explains. RTB fulfills its mission to proclaim the Gospel and serve as a voice for hope in Christ through such programs as Prions Ensemble, a twice-daily, call-in prayer time; and Kuma Tumayini (There is Hope), a Swahili-language, Bible session.

Hulda, Swahili Program Coordinator
with student volunteers
Phone calls and messages from listeners confirm that RTB’s voice carries beyond the 90km radius initially estimated. Listeners from as far away as Lake Albert (255 km to the east), Mambasa (100-120 km to the northwest), and Kikyio, near Butembo (60 km to the south) call to thank the station for its broadcasts. One community 100 km to the east called specifically to request that Pastor David, the one who leads the daily prayer call-in program, Prions Ensemble, come to their village and meet and pray with them.

Collaboration, commitment, and conviction fuel the work. CI friends from the U.S., Doug Jones (radio broadcasting expert and teacher) and Randy Johnson (educator), played significant roles as trainers and financial supporters in the early days of RTB. Funding from Eastern Congo Initiative (ECI) provided for equipment and early training.  Four paid staff (each of whom serves in other capacities at UCBC) and ten communications students who  each volunteer approximately 10 hours per week, keep the radio station alive from 6am to 10pm, Sunday to Sunday. Weekly RTB meetings with the student volunteers focus on program evaluation, as RTB staff insist on cultivating not only an ethical organization, but a professional and high quality one. In order to begin broadcasting on time, volunteer student staff often sleep on campus, rather than at home, so they can open up and begin the day’s programming. Yesterday, Kaza left his home at 5am in order to “open up shop,” and had expected to remain on campus and “on duty” the entire day, until the day’s scheduled concluded at 10pm. RTB is a radio station that is both voice and example of transformation.
Students at work

In spite of the collaboration, commitment, and conviction, RTB has its needs. Staff would like to pay stipend or provide tuition assistance to student volunteers. There is need for additional full-time journalists. Reporters have to organize their own transportation to town (7 km from campus). Communication between town and the station depends on whether reporters have enough airtime or minutes on their own cell phones. Staff struggle to develop a transparent business model that can stand above any potential accusation of facture or coupage

Then Musafiri points out, “We don’t know how, but there is always fuel for the generator.”

Monday, May 20, 2013

Community at Work


Mixing cement
“So how do you appreciate how we work together?” The question came several times during the day. More than 300 women, children, and men gathered at the SECA 20 Francophone Church, when many UCBC students, faculty, and staff worship. It's the church where I worship in Beni. Friday may have been a holiday in DRC (Liberation Day), but it was work day for the community of Francophone. For the past year or so, the church has been building a new sanctuary community style. When enough money is collected, materials are purchased, and then it’s “all hands on deck.”

On high
Friday’s scene was an OSHA nightmare. Men climbed ladders to straddle open rebar 20 feet, 30 feet, or more above the ground. They hoisted themselves up and slid down poles when a ladder wasn’t available. Two helmets, more appropriate for riding a moped than for a construction site, were the closest thing to a hardhat. Children dashed through the work area, a patchwork of lumber scraps and nasty-looking nails. They retrieved buckets, just emptied of their 10 pounds or so of cement, that bounced to the ground from 20 and 30-feet up. On two occasions a worker purposely dropped his hammer from his perch on a crossbeam. Flip-flops and sandals outnumbered close-toed shoes by 3 to 1. Socks, generous (?) donations of castoff clothing from other parts of the world, served as work gloves.

Hauling empty buckets
The scene was also a community dream and magnificent drama of spirit and joy. When I arrived at the site at 9am, activity had already been in full swing. Pots of beans were cooking for lunch. A DJ and sound team directed the crowd to its chores, played praise and worship music, acknowledged and publically thanked individuals, and cheered on the crowd during the day with “Au, courage!” “Asante sane, Bwana!” (Thank you, Lord!), “Mungu akubariki sana (God bless you!).”

Lunchtime
When it was time to mix cement, the DJ/announcer directed some people to shovels and cement, others to carry water, fireman-line style. Ten and twenty-liter jerry cans cut in half with handles fashioned from rope or heavy-gauge wire, served as water buckets then cement buckets. When it was time to pour cement, the sound crew called out instructions, and each of us found a place in one of several lines to haul cement or return emptied buckets. As music played, we danced and sang. Lagicia and Aimee, two UCBC students, took me under their wing. In addition to translating instructions that I couldn’t follow, they were my Swahili and French teachers and culture and dance coaches for the day.
DJs for the day

It's amazing that there weren't any injuries, given the number of people, the working conditions, and equipment. Well, maybe it isn't so amazing. After all, this was a community of faith, united for one purpose that day, working under the protection of a power far greater than OSHA!
The only hardhats on site

Tuesday, May 14, 2013

God-carrier


I’m selfish. I admit it. I want people to do things the way I think they should be done. I want events to unfold according to my expectations. I begin too many sentences with I.

But when I give in to God and allow that people and events do as they are supposed to do, God either teaches, surprises, or blesses me. God has been sprinkling blessings amidst the teaching lately (“a spoonful of sugar helps the medicine go down?”).

For this stint in Beni, I’m living at Bethel House—a house that CI-UCBC is renting to accommodate international staff and visiting professors. For the first time we Americans (currently it’s Americans who make up “international staff”) share living space and meals with Congolese professors. It’s a grand opportunity for cultures to brush up against each other.

This past week I’ve been harboring ill feelings towards one of my “housemates.” He hasn’t done anything to me. He’s just been who he is, wrapped in his personality, preferences, and values, a product of his culture and experiences, with views about gender and class shaped by all of that and more. And, of course, I’ve been wrapped in my personality, preferences, and values. I, too, am a product of my culture and experiences, with views about gender and class.

I confess that earlier this week I did not want to spend time with this teacher. I was not interested in getting to know him or engaging in conversation. I had developed opinions and maintained prejudices based on a handful of observations. My selfishness and tendency towards judgment stood firm.

Then Desmond Tutu challenged me in that loving, impish voice and that gentle, magnanimous spirit. Krista Tippett conducted an interview with him in 2010 for On Being. Early in the interview Bishop Tutu responds to a question about the “dynamite” power of the Bible. He says, “We are created in the image of God….Each one of us is a God-carrier,” then proceeds to tell the story of a township parish he pastored early in his ministry. The members were poor, many of them domestic workers in the white enclaves in another world. Most of the women were called “Annie,” and most of the men were called “Boy,” because the whites insisted the African names were too difficult to pronounce. Tutu would tell his congregants, “When they ask ‘Who are you?’ tell them, ‘I’m a God-carrier. I’m God’s partner.’"

God-carrier. We’re each of us a God-carrier? Yes. Created in God’s image. Yes, we are. We are. Not just me. Not just the people I love, or the people who are my friends, or the people I enjoy being with, or the people with whom I gladly and expectantly share my life. But even the moto-driver who insists on charging me double the going rate for a ride between Bethel House and the UCBC campus is a God-carrier. The Congolese youth who stares and shouts, “Muzungu!” when I pass is a God-carrier. My temporary housemate is a God-carrier. Ouch!

Have I become great friends with this other teacher? No. But as I’ve allowed my heart to soften, mealtimes are more pleasant, at least for me. I’m less inclined to focus on what I find distasteful. I’m kinder and gentler and more inclined to act as a God-carrier myself.

Monday, May 6, 2013

"We are perishing!"


One day he got into a boat with his disciples, and he said to them, “Let us go across to the other side of the lake.” So they put out, and while they were sailing he fell asleep. A windstorm swept down on the lake, and the boat was filling with water, and they were in danger. They went to him and woke him up, shouting, “Master, master, we are perishing!” And he woke up and rebuked the wind and the raging waves; they ceased, and there was a calm. He said to them, “Where is your faith?” They were afraid and amazed, and said to one another, “Who is this, that he commands even the winds and the water, and they obey him?”  Luke 8:22-25
The disciples have gotten a bad rap. They are criticized for their lack of faith, “The disciples had the master with them. They had no need to fear. Nor do we have reason to fear, if we truly have faith.”

Really? “The boat was filling with water, and they were in danger.”

I try to imagine what it was like. Water swirls at our feet. Howling wind shrouds the moon and baffles the stars. The only horizon is the next wave galloping wildly toward the boat. According to Matthew and Mark, “The boat was being swamped by the waves.” Who wouldn’t be scared? Every system in the body jerks to attention. The brain is wired for survival. In response to the threat, adrenaline and a flood of other hormones let loose. The heart beats wildly. Muscles tighten. Executive functioning gets shoved to the back wall. In the moment, all we know are fear and panic and the need to survive.

It's what I felt when the out-dated, Russian prop plane with torn seats and loose ceiling panels suddenly and momentarily dropped in altitude. It’s how I felt years ago when I thought my life was falling apart, every experience and hope for my young family crumbling to dust. It’s the fear I knew at the prospect of losing a child to the ravages of disease and the aftermath of trauma.

“We are perishing!”

This story isn't about lack of faith. In my humble opinion, sermons that use this story to challenge us to buck up, believe, and put our trust in God miss the point. This isn’t a rubric against which we evaluate our faith:
  • Remains calm in the face of danger. 
  • Acts confidently and with conviction when faced with challenges. 
  • Verbalizes absolute trust in God.
This is a story about Jesus’ great love and our surprise that, in spite of the physical evidence otherwise, there is hope. There is salvation. There is protection. There is provision. I don’t hear a critical Jesus. I hear a gentle Jesus—the voice of the parent comforting a child wakened by a nightmare. “It’s OK. It’s going to be OK. I am here. I am here. There is no need to be afraid."

Saturday, March 23, 2013

"I just want to hear your voice"

One day last week my daughter sent me a text. "Do you have five minutes to talk? I just want to hear your voice."

There was only one response to that request. "Absolutely!"

What a gift. My daughter wants to connect! This simple request and admission touches that tender place deep in my soul, that place of rooted love. (By the way, in case any of my other kids reads this: "I have the same excited response to texts from you, my dears. No partiality. Honest!")

Anyway, five minutes turned into an hour-long call. During that hour I experienced a deepening of relationship, especially as we wound our way through the quotidian to the more intimate. I listened to wonders and worries, joys and anxieties. We laughed with each other. We listened to each other. The invitation had opened the door to conversation and sharing.

I wonder if God sometimes tries to get my attention. "I want to hear your voice."






Friday, March 1, 2013

Hope

Yesterday's (February 28) meditation in Forward Day by Day (excerpt copied here) opened my eyes.
If you have strolled at sunrise on an eastward-facing beach, perhaps you saw sunlight reflected in blinding brilliance across water. Your eyes could accept only shielded glimpses, and from wherever you glanced, the glorious path on the water followed, as if your vision drew the light toward you. Biblical hope is like that. 
In contrast, our use of "hope" is a four-watt nightlight. If you say, "I hope it doesn't rain," the fulfillment is "iffy." Hope in God is not. Ordinary hope is no match for the hope attached to our unchanging God, so the Psalmist wrote with Confidence, "You are my hope"(Psalm 71).
In the New Testament, Christ is hope's focus. Christ-centered hope cannot disappoint because its certainty is rooted in the cross (Romans 5). This hope gives life, so that Jesus could declare, "Anyone who believes...has passed from death into life (John 5:24).... 
There have been so many times that I've clung to this hope, this knowledge. Even when I had no clue if the answer was behind Door A, B, or C, or in Drawer 79, I have known peace and assurance in the this wider, deeper hope.

I didn't always think about hope in this way. In my teen and early adult years (maybe even into my middle adult years) hope was that four-watt nightlight. But somewhere along this road of life, Biblical hope took root. A sliver of morning light gently cascaded into brilliance.

I've been clueless of the progression, unaware that the nightlight has been swallowed by the splendor.

This hope is a gift crafted out of life's challenges and wrapped in the prayers of family and friends.


Friday, February 15, 2013

"A surprise encounter"

According to the reports, yesterday's One Billion Rising was the largest day of mass action to stop violence against against women. Activities in over 203 countries included meetings, workshops, mass rallies, performances, and flashmob dances. It was a great day, and I was glad to discover that there were many events throughout Ohio, including here in Westerville, at Otterbein College

More exciting, however, was an email from Jonathan Shaw, a PhD candidate in history at University of Michigan, and soon-to-be teacher at UCBC! The subject line read, "A surprise encounter." Here's the message:
I am at...the "Missing Peace Symposium" at the United States Institute for Peace this week in Washington, DC. It's a forum to discuss ways to address the problem of sexual violence across the globe. Speakers have included world-renowned academics, the UN's chief administrator for women's rights, a Nobel Peace laureate, US congressmen, and..... a UCBC alumni!  
I discovered this earlier today when I found myself sitting next to a very elegant looking lady who also looked quite familiar. Turns out was Francine Nabintu, a communications student in UCBC's first graduating class. She's here representing HEAL Africa and she will be talking tomorrow on a panel.  I left her tonight engaged in a deep conversation with the Tanzanian ambassador to the United States and a department head from UC Berkeley. 
Praise God! He is already using UCBC's grads to influence people across the world! Francine told me she learned so much at UCBC and loved her time there. God is blessing, in so many ways and in so many lives...
It's a small world, and UCBC students are working to transform it--even in Washington DC.
Yes, it is a small world. But God is a big God who transforms lives and communities. And I believe, as I suspect Francine and Jonathan do, that we can end the violence against women and bring peace where the horrors of war have prevailed for far too long.

Francine's graduation photo