St. Patrick's Breastplate

Today's is St. Patrick's Day. I'll wear something green in solidarity with my Irish friends. I hope they'll forgive me for allowing myself to be captivated by a hymn rather than a pub song, however. It's the hymn attributed to St. Patrick, I bind unto myself today (see The Hymnal 1982, #370). 

The hymn speaks of God's expansive presence and all-embracing love.

Thanks be to God.

Enjoy an arrangement sung by St. Peter's Singers of Leeds.

1 I bind unto myself today
the strong name of the Trinity
by invocation of the same,
the Three in One and One in Three.

2 I bind this day to me forever,
by power of faith, Christ’s incarnation,
his baptism in the Jordan river,
his death on cross for my salvation,
his bursting from the spiced tomb,
his riding up the heavenly way,
his coming at the day of doom,
I bind unto myself today.

3 I bind unto myself today
the virtues of the starlit heaven,
the glorious sun’s life-giving ray,
the whiteness of the moon at even,
the flashing of the lightning free,
the whirling wind’s tempestuous shocks,
the stable earth, the deep salt sea
around the old eternal rocks.

4 I bind unto myself today
the power of God to hold and lead,
God’s eye to watch, God’s might to stay,
God’s ear to hearken to my need,
the wisdom of my God to teach,
God’s hand to guide, God’s shield to ward,
the word of God to give me speech,
God’s heavenly host to be my guard.

5 Christ be with me, Christ within me,
Christ behind me, Christ before me,
Christ beside me, Christ to win me,
Christ to comfort and restore me.
Christ beneath me, Christ above me,
Christ in quiet, Christ in danger,
Christ in hearts of all that love me,
Christ in mouth of friend and stranger.

6 I bind unto myself the name,
the strong name of the Trinity
by invocation of the same,
the Three in One and One in Three,
of whom all nature has creation,
eternal Father, Spirit, Word.
Praise to the Lord of my salvation;
salvation is of Christ the Lord!

Women's Stories

I've been "wearing" three different lenses when I read the Bible: the lens of women’s voices and experiences, the lens of justice and mercy, and the lens of care and responsibility for the created world or the world of “nature.” Reading with these lenses reveals stories and descriptions previously hidden in the shadows of neglect. The lenses of women's experiences have opened up three stories recently (italics are mine).

From the conclusion to the book of Job (42: 12-15)

So the Lord blessed Job in the second half of his life even more than in the beginning. For now he had 14,000 sheep, 6,000 camels, 1,000 teams of oxen, and 1,000 female donkeys. He also gave Job seven more sons and three more daughters. He named his first daughter Jemimah, the second Keziah, and the third Keren-happuch. In all the land no women were as lovely as the daughters of Job. And their father put them into his will along with their brothers.

I’m no Bible or ancient history scholar, but it seems significant that (1) Job’s daughters are named (but the sons are not); and (2) there is a statement that Job put them into his will. From what I do know about the ancient world, women were accorded no status. They were property. They were handed over to their husband’s brother if their own husband died. But here, in Job, we see the beginning of putting things right—putting things back in place as they were in Eden before The Fall, when Adam and Eve were equal, of one, with shared gifts and responsibilities. These women are named in the scripture. And Job acknowledged their worth as human beings, equal to their brothers, and put them into his will.

So I rejoice with Job’s daughters. They have names. They are people. They receive protection and property. Certainly there is much more in this passage. But I rejoice in this different order, a different understanding of women, of one’s daughters.

From the story of the birth of Moses (Exodus 2:1-10)

(v. 1-3) About this time, a man and woman from the tribe of Levi got married. The woman became pregnant and gave birth to a son. She saw that he was a special baby and kept him hidden for three months. But when she could no longer hide him, she got a basket made of papyrus reeds and waterproofed it with tar and pitch…  

[The sister keeps watch over the baby in the reeds. Pharoah’s daughter finds the baby, and when the sister offers to “find one of the Hebrew women to nurse the baby,” the princess agrees.] 

(v. 9-10) “Take this baby and nurse him for me,” the princess told the baby’ mother. “I will pay you for your help.” So the woman took her baby home and nursed him. Later, when the boy was older, his mother brought him back to Pharoah’s daughter, who adopted him as her own son. The princess named him Moses, for she explained, “I lifted him out of the water.”

Moses’ mother saw that he was a special baby. A small sentence. But a profound one. This mother, who has no name in the story, recognizes that her infant is special. Did God speak to her? What words did he whisper into her heart that she knew she had to take action to protect her child, not only because he was her son, but also because “he was a special baby.” And what courage she exhibited. This Pharoah knew nothing about Jacob and how he saved Egypt from ruin during the time of famine some 300 years before. Under this brutal Pharoah, the Israelites suffered “crushing labor” and the murder of their infant sons. Who knows what Moses’ mother risked by devising a plan to protect her child?

But then the greater courage and the deep pain. After caring for her son for some months, perhaps a year or more, nursing him, loving him, tending to his needs, she hands him over to the tyrant’s daughter.

What did she feel? What anguish must she have suffered? For how many days and nights did she weep? Did she know solace at any moment?  Did God say anything to her? Did God console her? Give her any relief from a life of cruel slavery? We don’t know. That part of the story has been lost, just as her name was lost.

I mourn for Moses’ mother, for her loss and pain. I also lift her up and celebrate her as a woman of courage and faithfulness.

Moses, Zipporah, and their family travel to Egypt from Midian (Exodus 4:24-26)

On the way to Egypt, at a place where Moses and his family had stopped for the night, the Lord confronted him and was about to kill him. But Moses’ wife, Zipporah, took a flint knife and circumcised her son. She touched his feet with the foreskin and said, “Now you are a bridegroom of blood to me.”…After that the Lord left him alone.

A woman of action. A woman of agency. That is Zipporah. I don’t remember this story. In all my years of Sunday school and church, prayer meetings and Bible studies, I have never heard anyone talk about Zipporah and how she was responsible for saving Moses from God’s anger. And God was probably pretty ticked at Moses. After all, Moses had been protesting and pleading with God to excuse him from going back to Egypt (at least 5 times between Exodus 3:11 and 4:14). Zipporah recognized that her husband had been whining and acting the coward. She took action to carry out the family’s part in the covenant and circumcise the son.

It's a story tucked away, brushed over, and neglected. Yet it’s a story of courage, a story of agency and action, and a story of responsibility.

How many other stories have been hidden in the shadow of neglect? I look for them and share them with the women with whom I work and live here in Beni--women who have their own magnificent stories.

Surprise Gift

Yesterday morning there was a call from the hallway, “Mama Mary.” I opened my bedroom door to see Maou, our guard, standing in the hall. “Mama Furaha apeleka huyu” (“Mama Furaha sent this.”). He held out a small, thin plastic bag, the ubiquitous shopping sack of Beni. Inside the bag were four handfuls of freshly cut, tender basil leaves. They glistened in the darkness and smelled glorious. 

“Mama Furaha hapa?” (“Mama Furaha’s here?”).

“Hapana. Watoto alipeleka” (“No, the children brought this.”).

I’ve known Mama Furaha since 2010. Until last summer, she served as cook at the international staff house, a role she had for four years. Mama Furaha makes the most succulent samosas and the crispiest frites. She pays attention to what people like and accommodates (and surprises) with her culinary skills and a charcoal stove. She is a consummate teacher, whether she is showing how to make samosas or coaching Swahili in a gentle, encouraging manner.

Mama Furaha lives out her name in spite of hardships. Health issues, a husband who struggles to maintain a job and sobriety, and raising three grandchildren do not dampen Mama Furaha’s spirit. Furaha means joy or happiness.

Mama Furaha knows that I like basil and enjoy a salad of it with chopped tomatoes, fresh spinach (if it’s available), avocado, and a little onion. She also knows that we don’t have basil growing at Bethel House, the guesthouse where I’ve been living for the past several months. Her gift yesterday was an expression of love. Last evening, while relishing my salad, I offered thanks for Mama Furaha and her loving kindness.

This afternoon I’ll visit her to say,“Thank you, dear friend,” and ask her to join me when I move to my own home here in Beni, in two weeks. I’m hoping she will be willing to help manage the house, cook, and continue as my Swahili coach. I’m hoping she will continue to grace me with the joy of her spirit.

Living in a Red Zone

Area map

Yes, we’re living in a red zone here in Beni, as declared by powers that be. Yes, the Congolese army is fighting ADF-NALU. Yes, Beni is the headquarters for military activity. Yes, one sees more soldiers and army vehicles around town. 

The history of this conflict, like most conflicts, is complicated and many-layered. It’s easy to fall into the “good guy/bad guy” trap to simplify the story and get one’s hands around it. But simple explanations demean the story. I won’t even try to explain the issues, describe the actors, or outline the history. There are plenty of resources for that (thank you, Kyle Hamilton, for your diligence in keeping information and resources on the CI website current).

Home from market

I simply want to make clear that red zone, like any other label, is just that: a label. It’s an attempt to sweep all the puzzles pieces into a pile so they fit into one box. But each of those pieces is just one part of an entire story with complexities, nuances, vignettes, joys, and fears. The sky piece and the flower blossom piece echo nothing of each other. The grey cloud in the right hand corner reveals nothing about the piece of red dress on the child in the lower left hand corner. Yes, we live in an area labeled red zone. But that label ignores the joys, friendships, and daily life challenges that breathe because life moves forward.

UCBC women students

Shops, schools, and churches carry on. The motos run. People go to the market, sweep the street in front of their kiosks, wash laundry, prepare meals, have weddings, deliver babies. UCBC women students discuss how to encourage each other and create opportunities for their voices and their gifts. Reflection days and chapel and classes proceed. 

The fighting is outside of town. Depending on whom you ask, it’s anywhere from 20 to 50 or more km from here. Last week some students reported hearing occasional sounds of artillery in the distance. But there are no such claims this week. Sure, when two or more folks get together, the discussion includes the latest about the conflict. But people also talk about family, work, school, and church.

I love the fact that life goes on.

Cooking for all-campus meal

Regardless of what one thinks about the conflict—its sources, antagonists and perpetrators—that life goes is a statement about resilience, courage, and the gift of being able to “live in the moment.” And that is something most of us (self included) relearn daily, regardless of where we live. In fact, that's one of the gifts of Congo—joy in the moment. We are instructed to pray, "Give us this day, our daily bread."

Sure, there are precautions. I don’t go out at night. But then, I don’t go out any night. When I walk from UCBC to home, I don’t traverse the quiet paths through “the bush,” but the main road. I keep my phone loaded with airtime units, extra cash on hand, and my passport with me. But I do this regardless of what color we are or aren’t. 

Leadership and key staff at CI-UCBC keep ears and eyes on the situation. Through a variety of networks and contacts, they obtain and verify information. They also laugh, whistle in the hallway, rejoice in the day, attend to the needs of others, and “do the work God has given us to do.”

And so I follow their lead.

Cain, Enoch, and Noah

Have started reading the One Year Chronological Bible (New Living Translation), thanks to friends Ned and Marilyn. Thursday’s reading included Genesis 4, 5, and 6: the stories of Cain and Abel, Seth and his descendants, the generations from Adam to Noah, and the beginning of the Noah and the Flood story. A couple of musings.

Cain

Cain seems generally to be known as the murderer of his brother, as someone driven from the family. Yes. Cain did kill his brother. Yes, he was driven away to live in the land of Nod, the land of “wandering.” But God also protected Cain with a mark. He continued to watch over Cain. And Cain’s descendants were artists, craftspeople, and caretakers of animals. Not a bad legacy.

God, in God’s great mercy, provided means by which Cain knew redemption.

Thanks be to God.

Enoch

Among the other daughters and sons that Adam and Eve had, was Seth (Genesis 5:3), “a son who was just like him—in his very image.” And the verse just before, the writer reminds us that God created human beings, to “be like himself.” Hmmm….

But what strikes me about the story of Seth is the listing of his descendants—eight generations’ worth. We have Enosh, Kenan, Mahalalel, Jared, Enoch, Methuselah, Lamech, and Noah. Each one gets three verses that follow the same pattern as Seth.

When Seth was 105 years old, he became the father of Enosh.
After the birth of Enosh, Seth lived another 807 years, and he had other sons and daughters.
Seth lived 912 years, and then he died.

• Age of father and birth of next son in the lineage.
• How many more years the father lives, "And he had other sons and daughters."
• The final age, "And then he died.

Until you get to Enoch. Enoch “became the father of Methuselah. After the birth of Methuselah, Enoch lived in close fellowship with God for another 300 years, and he had other sons and daughters. Enoch lived 365 years (hmmm.....), walking in close fellowship with God. Then one day he disappeared, because God took him.” [my italics]

What? Enoch just disappears, “because God took him?” What did Enoch’s family think? Everyone else died. Disease. Sickness. Wounds. Old age (different idea of old age back then). The kids come home from school. “Where’s Dad?”

Mom answers, “Didn’t you see him the fields?”

Enoch is simply gone. Vanished. Was there panic? Did the family and friends create myths and legends about his disappearance? Where they angry? After all, Enoch was a righteous man. He “walked with God.” I imagine family and friends crying out, “He walked with you, God. Why did you take him? What right do you have?”

And for what purpose? Why did God do this? “Take” Enoch? Why not give him an honorable and peaceful death surrounded by wife, children, and grandchildren? Simply because God can do this? Only to offer this hiccup in the narrative of Seth’s descendants so a layperson like me stops to wonder, “Hmmmm….”?

Noah

Genesis 6. The beginning of the story of Noah and the Flood.

Verse 6: “So the Lord was sorry he had ever made them [humans] and put them on the earth. It broke his heart” (my italics).

What powerful language. God’s heart breaks. He is in sorrow. She is in sorrow. Our ways hurt God. Did God’s heart break over her disappointment with us? God’s hopes and expectations dashed to smithereens? Did God’s heart break because there was no longer anyone with whom to "walk in close fellowship”? Did God’s heart break because he knew what had had to do to fix things?

But these things didn’t remain fixed. Look at the mess we’ve created around us since the flood famine, war, poverty, slavery (ancient, 19^th century, and now), rape, murder, greed. Surely God knew we’d mess things up the first chance we had. God is and was God. All-knowing. All-powerful. God was not, is not, a dummy. God had foresight and foreknowledge, back-knowledge, history in His hand.

I don’t care about different interpretations, doctrines, dogmas, formal text or dynamic text translations. What matters is that all this mess, “broke his heart.” I think it “broke her heart,” too.

Then Noah appears on the scene. “Noah found favor with the Lord.” Noah “walked in close fellowship with God.” Same language that describes Enoch. In the midst of everything and everyone else, here was someone who “walked with God.”

Maybe that’s the reason for the story. That’s the lesson.

Thanks be to God.

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 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 7^th 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!