“We are all in the gutter, but some of us are looking at the stars.” Oscar Wilde, Irish writer, poet and aesthete (1854-1900)
We had seen enough of Nairobi for a while. The pollution and dust burnt our eyes while the abject poverty stung our souls. Sixty percent of the city’s population lives in areas we would consider unfit for habitation. Schools and orphanages of children whose only crime was being born HIV positive. We journeyed to a rescue mission full of kids whose families had abandoned them to a life in a garbage dump. Then there was the trip to Kibera, the second largest slum in the world. Poverty existed there so harsh it made the life of the poor in the U.S. seem almost attractive. How could a loving and gracious God exist in a place like this? It was sometimes too challenging to accept. So now, we were headed out of town for a brief respite.
Into the highlands we went. Urban blight yielded to the expansive greenery of tea farms. Women harvesting tea leaves, waved as we passed by. Their clothes were brightly colored, even cheerful. “Gathering baskets” hung from their backs; babies were cradled in front. The harvest had been bountiful. We proceeded to the brink of the Rift Valley. The ridge was dotted with souvenir shops. The retaining wall of a rest area where we stopped was painted with images of animals and a Bible passage: “Blessed is everyone who fears the Lord, who walks in His ways (Psalm 128:1).
A long descent along the ridge led us to the valley floor. For several hours we bounced and lurched along rutted, rough roads, dust devils swirling up on both sides. 224 kilometers from Nairobi we came to the portion of the Serengeti Plain known as the Masai Mara. Masai is the name of the tribe of people who occupy the area. They are readily recognizable by their bright red blankets often in tartan plaids.
“Mara” means “spotted” as the landscape appears spotted by the varieties of brush and trees which flourish there. “The Mara” is stunning. No gardener can trim the acacia trees as perfectly as do the giraffes. When the sun filtered through the clouds in shafts of pure light one could almost imagine God’s voice coming down from above (He is a baritone to me, but She could just as easily be an alto).
The morning after our arrival we headed out on a “Game Drive". The vistas were awe inspiring and the game plentiful. The two-way radio was alive with the voices of the game spotters. Though the voices spoke in Swahili one could easily discern when there was a sighting of something special: a treed leopard or perhaps a black rhino. The radio crackled to life and we were off again; the dust flying from behind our vehicle. Jackie, a superior court judge, sat in the bucket seat across from mine. As we jerked and jolted along she suddenly turned to me. “You know,” she began. “When we were in Kibera, we saw what man created.” “Here on the Mara, we see what God created.”
The world is not an easy place to live. Bad things happen to good people. Atrocities are perpetrated on the innocent often in the name of justice. Ever since Adam and Eve ate from the fruit of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil we have struggled. If it is good for me, it matters not if it is bad for you. What is more, amid all the damage and neglect we have inflicted upon the earth and each other, we still find time to occasionally look heavenward, shake our fist at the sky and wail, “God, how could you let this happen.”
Our relationship with our God is passive-aggressive. “God, I am in charge, but don’t let anything bad happen to me.” “You fix it!” We treat God like an absentee landlord rather than a life-long companion. A companion who weeps with us, rejoices with us, mourns with us, triumphs with us. Our life will take us through dark tunnels, but we will also experience great light. The Apostle Paul calls us to be “children of that light.”
It would have been easy for our spirits to be weighed down by some of what we experienced in Kenya…shunning the light in favor of the darkness. But, if we had despaired, the peel of children’s laughter, the beat of drums, and the sound of feet dancing would have gone unheard. If we had forgotten God was at our side, we would have missed the prayers offered up for us, rising with the smoke of the incense. The many messages of God on buses, vans and storefronts would have been unread.
If we had despaired we would have been deaf to the angelic voices of the sisters and novices at Mother Teresa’s Missionaries of Charity Convent. The children's mantra “How are you?” would have gone unacknowledged. In our darkness we would have missed the love we felt in the neat and tiny homes we visited. And, on that last night in Dandora, by the low light of flickering candles, we would have missed the heart-felt, spontaneous professions of faith offered up by the parishioners of Holy Cross.
But God was our companion and we did not despair! Instead, we carry those moments of joy with us forever. Our souls touched in such a way, we can shake the red dust of Dandora from our shoes, but we shall never remove the experience from our hearts and the glow from our souls.
Dear God: To you I lift up my soul.
“Goodbye, Farewell, Amen.” Title of the final episode of M*A*S*H, March 1983
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, August 27, 2010
Friday, August 20, 2010
Listen First
“Seek first to understand, then to be understood.” ~Stephen R. Covey, 7 Habits of Effective People
We descended into Kibera led by one of the district elders. This “illegal city,” built on the steep slopes of a long valley, is located on the outskirts of Nairobi, Kenya. A single dirt road runs along the facing slope. Packed dirt pathways wend their way up and down the hillsides like hamster trails, connecting hundreds of small hovels, most the size of a bedroom, housing six to eight families each. I was reminded of a clubhouse, made of scrap wood, tar paper and corrugated chicken-house roofing, my brothers and I built as kids.
Slowly we picked our way down the first slope. The path was narrow, steep and rutted, partially filled with greenish gray-blue sewage. As we neared the bottom of the valley the path bent slightly to the left, then to the right. The base of the valley came into view. Here, in the bowels of Kibera, the sewage run-off from a portion of the city collected in a large brackish pool of unidentifiable sludge. The only means of getting to the other side was an Indiana Jones-like bridge which crossed a narrower part of the sludge pool. “Bridge” would be a beneficent term, as it was no more than scraps of wood fastened together into something like a ladder.
We crossed safely, but as we watched in horror, a pig on the opposing bank lost its footing and slid into the sickening ooze. It squealed miserably as it struggled for purchase on the bank, finally scrabbling out of the mire, with a slick coat of brackish green still clinging to its skin.
Our circuitous route led us up the opposing hillside. We weaved in and out between shacks, ducking pieces of metal roofing which jutted out, carefully stepping across the sewage filled ruts to wider places in the path. Teresa’s foot suddenly slipped into the muck. Quickly she pulled it out, but a horrible stench followed with it.
As we continued up the path, we were greeted by the chants of children: “Muzungu,” “Muzungu,” meaning “white person” or “European person.” Sometimes they played and chanted: “How are you?” “How are you?” “How are you?” their voices strangely harmonic creating a surreal self accompanied ballet. They were not mocking us; rather they were greeting us.
The path crested. Ahead of us a long level cut, running parallel to the hillside, formed a kind of “Main Street.” We turned right onto this thoroughfare of sorts. As we walked along, I realized the small shanties on both sides were the Kiberian version of store fronts: promoting goods and services alike. Vegetables, handmade tools, cooked food, woven clothes; even Kung Fu movies were available for purchase. The local laundromat was a simple round metal tub in which two men washed clothes using only their bare feet. It was a day, just like a day anywhere else in the world: people “work’n for a liv’n, just try’n to get by”. In that instant, Main Street, Kibera was Main Street, Anywhere-in-the-World.
Turning right again, we started back down the hill. Carefully negotiating the treacherous path we again made our way to the valley floor and back up the hillside returning to the place on the dirt road where we had begun. Nearby four little boys were playing their version of soccer with a ball made of knotted rags. Turning uphill one last time we began our final ascent up the steep hill to the summit where our bus was parked. Children’s voices chanted behind us, “How are you?”
Over half the population of Nairobi resides in slums like Kibera. There are more than 150 of them in areas we would consider uninhabitable as they are located in flood plains, on steep slopes like Kibera, or in hazardous industrial areas like Dandora. The circumstances which lead to the existence of these slums, or “illegal cities”, are many and complex. Not surprisingly, greed and corruption are high on the list.
This does not mean there have not been efforts made to correct the problems. The World Bank has poured millions of Kenyan Shillings into Kibera in an effort to bring electricity to the area, but to no avail. Curiously, one of the reasons attempts at change have been ineffective is no one ever asked the residents what they wanted. No one took the time to ask the question, let alone listen to the answer! “What do you want?”
Stewardship can easily be confused with the capitalistic model of the transfer of goods and services. If you’ve got, what I’ve got, you should be happy. In other words, if I give other people what I have (i.e. the kind of possessions or the amount of money) then that will solve their problems. Unfortunately such an approach, though well intentioned, can be misguided.
During a reception in our parish courtyard I noticed a homeless man from the park next door. He was comfortably seated in an out-of-the-way place listening to the music. Being the Good Samaritan I imagined myself to be, I made up a plate of food and proudly presented it to the man. He graciously accepted it. I went on about my business smugly congratulating myself for being such a “good steward”. When we were cleaning up afterwards, I discovered the untouched plate of food under his empty chair. I complained bitterly to one of my coworkers who simply responded, “Maybe he wasn’t hungry?”
As stewards we are often called upon to ask questions rather than remedy situations. Busy minds and busy mouths lead to hearts which are blind to real needs. “Big egos have little ears” (Rev. Robert Schuller). Open ears, a still tongue, and empty, available hands are sometimes the greatest gifts we can offer someone. Asking sincere questions, waiting for and listening to the answer are a great place for a steward to start.
By the way: “How are you?”
Dear God: Remind me daily I must hear my brother and sister first, before I can help them.
“Many a man would rather you heard his story than granted his request.” ~Phillip Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterton, English statesman (1694-1773)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Director for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
We descended into Kibera led by one of the district elders. This “illegal city,” built on the steep slopes of a long valley, is located on the outskirts of Nairobi, Kenya. A single dirt road runs along the facing slope. Packed dirt pathways wend their way up and down the hillsides like hamster trails, connecting hundreds of small hovels, most the size of a bedroom, housing six to eight families each. I was reminded of a clubhouse, made of scrap wood, tar paper and corrugated chicken-house roofing, my brothers and I built as kids.
Slowly we picked our way down the first slope. The path was narrow, steep and rutted, partially filled with greenish gray-blue sewage. As we neared the bottom of the valley the path bent slightly to the left, then to the right. The base of the valley came into view. Here, in the bowels of Kibera, the sewage run-off from a portion of the city collected in a large brackish pool of unidentifiable sludge. The only means of getting to the other side was an Indiana Jones-like bridge which crossed a narrower part of the sludge pool. “Bridge” would be a beneficent term, as it was no more than scraps of wood fastened together into something like a ladder.
We crossed safely, but as we watched in horror, a pig on the opposing bank lost its footing and slid into the sickening ooze. It squealed miserably as it struggled for purchase on the bank, finally scrabbling out of the mire, with a slick coat of brackish green still clinging to its skin.
Our circuitous route led us up the opposing hillside. We weaved in and out between shacks, ducking pieces of metal roofing which jutted out, carefully stepping across the sewage filled ruts to wider places in the path. Teresa’s foot suddenly slipped into the muck. Quickly she pulled it out, but a horrible stench followed with it.
As we continued up the path, we were greeted by the chants of children: “Muzungu,” “Muzungu,” meaning “white person” or “European person.” Sometimes they played and chanted: “How are you?” “How are you?” “How are you?” their voices strangely harmonic creating a surreal self accompanied ballet. They were not mocking us; rather they were greeting us.
The path crested. Ahead of us a long level cut, running parallel to the hillside, formed a kind of “Main Street.” We turned right onto this thoroughfare of sorts. As we walked along, I realized the small shanties on both sides were the Kiberian version of store fronts: promoting goods and services alike. Vegetables, handmade tools, cooked food, woven clothes; even Kung Fu movies were available for purchase. The local laundromat was a simple round metal tub in which two men washed clothes using only their bare feet. It was a day, just like a day anywhere else in the world: people “work’n for a liv’n, just try’n to get by”. In that instant, Main Street, Kibera was Main Street, Anywhere-in-the-World.
Turning right again, we started back down the hill. Carefully negotiating the treacherous path we again made our way to the valley floor and back up the hillside returning to the place on the dirt road where we had begun. Nearby four little boys were playing their version of soccer with a ball made of knotted rags. Turning uphill one last time we began our final ascent up the steep hill to the summit where our bus was parked. Children’s voices chanted behind us, “How are you?”
Over half the population of Nairobi resides in slums like Kibera. There are more than 150 of them in areas we would consider uninhabitable as they are located in flood plains, on steep slopes like Kibera, or in hazardous industrial areas like Dandora. The circumstances which lead to the existence of these slums, or “illegal cities”, are many and complex. Not surprisingly, greed and corruption are high on the list.
This does not mean there have not been efforts made to correct the problems. The World Bank has poured millions of Kenyan Shillings into Kibera in an effort to bring electricity to the area, but to no avail. Curiously, one of the reasons attempts at change have been ineffective is no one ever asked the residents what they wanted. No one took the time to ask the question, let alone listen to the answer! “What do you want?”
Stewardship can easily be confused with the capitalistic model of the transfer of goods and services. If you’ve got, what I’ve got, you should be happy. In other words, if I give other people what I have (i.e. the kind of possessions or the amount of money) then that will solve their problems. Unfortunately such an approach, though well intentioned, can be misguided.
During a reception in our parish courtyard I noticed a homeless man from the park next door. He was comfortably seated in an out-of-the-way place listening to the music. Being the Good Samaritan I imagined myself to be, I made up a plate of food and proudly presented it to the man. He graciously accepted it. I went on about my business smugly congratulating myself for being such a “good steward”. When we were cleaning up afterwards, I discovered the untouched plate of food under his empty chair. I complained bitterly to one of my coworkers who simply responded, “Maybe he wasn’t hungry?”
As stewards we are often called upon to ask questions rather than remedy situations. Busy minds and busy mouths lead to hearts which are blind to real needs. “Big egos have little ears” (Rev. Robert Schuller). Open ears, a still tongue, and empty, available hands are sometimes the greatest gifts we can offer someone. Asking sincere questions, waiting for and listening to the answer are a great place for a steward to start.
By the way: “How are you?”
Dear God: Remind me daily I must hear my brother and sister first, before I can help them.
“Many a man would rather you heard his story than granted his request.” ~Phillip Stanhope, 4th Earl of Chesterton, English statesman (1694-1773)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Director for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, August 13, 2010
Image is Everything?
“It is not the image you would see. Nor the song you would hear. But rather an image you see though you close your eyes and a song you hear though you shut your ears…” ~Kahil Gibran, Lebanese born, American essayist, novelist and poet (1883-1931)
The Convent of the Missionaries of Charity, just outside Nairobi, Kenya sits atop a hill overlooking a poverty stricken valley. It is a fitting place for this sanctuary, home to the religious order started by Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Fitting, because it is adjacent to the second largest slum in the world, Kibera; home to over a million people living in grinding poverty and the most deplorable conditions imaginable. The Sisters are easily identified by their white habits with the familiar Marian blue stripes, as they go about their business serving the poor.
We arrived in time for morning Mass. There were small wooden benches (luxuries) in the back for us. The Sisters and Novices knelt on the floor, their feet bare, as their shoes remained outside. Their sole possessions in life are two habits and a bucket. The reason is eminently practical: one habit is worn while the other is washed using the bucket. Mass began. They sang like angels. Hymnals are nonessentials, so each had a small notebook in which they wrote the words to the hymns they sang. Mass ended, but we remained for prayers. Finally, we quietly filed out of the room. As we stood outside chatting, two novices rolled up the thin carpet in the room we had just exited, exposing a gray concrete floor. Even that little bit of padding had been solely for our comfort not theirs.
The Sister’s mission is to care for some of the most marginalized of society…those who are severely mentally and often physically challenged. Sometimes, children are brought to the convent gate by their families, but often as not, members of the Order retrieve them from wherever they have been discarded. Many are left by a contaminated stream which runs through the valley which Kibera occupies.
We were escorted to a large gathering room, a common area at the heart of the facility; and it beat like a heart. The residents filled wheelchairs and benches. Small beds lined the walls for those who could not sit in wheelchairs. We were greeted by the sound of a drum and singing. There were no televisions here, lulling the residents into a technological haze. The room was alive with activity, which stimulated the senses. We danced, we clapped and we sang. I found myself seated on a wooden bench, my arms around the shoulders of two people who would undoubtedly never leave the facility. We swayed to the sounds.
A group of Spanish nursing students arrived and the Macarena began. Suddenly, one of the resident revelers launched herself from her wheelchair onto the floor. Several of us leapt to our feet thinking she was in the early throes of a grand mal seizure. Quickly we realized her writhing was not a seizure, but her version of the dance. The Spanish girls smoothly formed a circle making the resident the center of the event. As the dance ended the girls hoisted her from the floor. She rose like Aphrodite from her shell, a radiant smile upon her face, and then she was carefully nestled back into her chair. Tears of joy glistened in our eyes as we watched.
My wife stood next to the Mother Superior; a small Indian woman with a remarkable aura of peace about her. A wave of tranquility seemed to envelope her and those around her. “How long do you keep them here?” Teresa asked. “Until they die,” she replied simply. And so the dance continued.
“Image is Everything,” an ad for the Canon Rebel camera, featuring Andre Agassi, was one of the most successful ad campaigns of the early 1990’s. But, if image were everything, most of us would be in big trouble (particularly in the early morning hours). And yet, many of us allow our image (what people think of us) to control a great deal of what we say, what we do, how we look and how we act. I often catch myself asking my wife, “How do I look?” Making sure I leave the house projecting the proper image.
Unfortunately, this approach can channel our energies away from the more important things in life. I’m not suggesting it’s bad to look good, but conditioning ourselves to respond based upon the outward effect versus the inner spirit can deprive us of a great deal of joy. Besides, it can be emotionally taxing and even exhausting.
When the resident exited her wheelchair, in favor of dancing on the floor like the rest of us, many of our first-world, western minds immediately thought, “How does this look?” A mentally and physically challenged patient, writhing on the floor of a care facility in Los Angeles would be met with an immediate response and probably restraints. I doubt the caregivers would join in the dance.
But, joy does not come from the exterior image: matching clothes, properly accessorized, saying and doing the right things at the right time. Joy comes from our inner spirit; that impulse to move our feet to the beat of a drum or sing along with the car radio when no one else is around. Keeping up appearances takes concentration, saps energy and when there are slips, cracks in the well prepared façade, it makes us cranky or downright irritable.
Decorum is overrated. The take-your-shoes-off-and-dance, wedding-cake-in-the-face world is a lot more fun (and real). Image isn’t everything. Our inner joy shining through is everything. Come…join the dance!
Dear God: Teach me to dance!
“This isn’t gonna look good on a resume!” ~Robin Williams (Good Morning Vietnam, 1987)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
The Convent of the Missionaries of Charity, just outside Nairobi, Kenya sits atop a hill overlooking a poverty stricken valley. It is a fitting place for this sanctuary, home to the religious order started by Mother Teresa of Calcutta. Fitting, because it is adjacent to the second largest slum in the world, Kibera; home to over a million people living in grinding poverty and the most deplorable conditions imaginable. The Sisters are easily identified by their white habits with the familiar Marian blue stripes, as they go about their business serving the poor.
We arrived in time for morning Mass. There were small wooden benches (luxuries) in the back for us. The Sisters and Novices knelt on the floor, their feet bare, as their shoes remained outside. Their sole possessions in life are two habits and a bucket. The reason is eminently practical: one habit is worn while the other is washed using the bucket. Mass began. They sang like angels. Hymnals are nonessentials, so each had a small notebook in which they wrote the words to the hymns they sang. Mass ended, but we remained for prayers. Finally, we quietly filed out of the room. As we stood outside chatting, two novices rolled up the thin carpet in the room we had just exited, exposing a gray concrete floor. Even that little bit of padding had been solely for our comfort not theirs.
The Sister’s mission is to care for some of the most marginalized of society…those who are severely mentally and often physically challenged. Sometimes, children are brought to the convent gate by their families, but often as not, members of the Order retrieve them from wherever they have been discarded. Many are left by a contaminated stream which runs through the valley which Kibera occupies.
We were escorted to a large gathering room, a common area at the heart of the facility; and it beat like a heart. The residents filled wheelchairs and benches. Small beds lined the walls for those who could not sit in wheelchairs. We were greeted by the sound of a drum and singing. There were no televisions here, lulling the residents into a technological haze. The room was alive with activity, which stimulated the senses. We danced, we clapped and we sang. I found myself seated on a wooden bench, my arms around the shoulders of two people who would undoubtedly never leave the facility. We swayed to the sounds.
A group of Spanish nursing students arrived and the Macarena began. Suddenly, one of the resident revelers launched herself from her wheelchair onto the floor. Several of us leapt to our feet thinking she was in the early throes of a grand mal seizure. Quickly we realized her writhing was not a seizure, but her version of the dance. The Spanish girls smoothly formed a circle making the resident the center of the event. As the dance ended the girls hoisted her from the floor. She rose like Aphrodite from her shell, a radiant smile upon her face, and then she was carefully nestled back into her chair. Tears of joy glistened in our eyes as we watched.
My wife stood next to the Mother Superior; a small Indian woman with a remarkable aura of peace about her. A wave of tranquility seemed to envelope her and those around her. “How long do you keep them here?” Teresa asked. “Until they die,” she replied simply. And so the dance continued.
“Image is Everything,” an ad for the Canon Rebel camera, featuring Andre Agassi, was one of the most successful ad campaigns of the early 1990’s. But, if image were everything, most of us would be in big trouble (particularly in the early morning hours). And yet, many of us allow our image (what people think of us) to control a great deal of what we say, what we do, how we look and how we act. I often catch myself asking my wife, “How do I look?” Making sure I leave the house projecting the proper image.
Unfortunately, this approach can channel our energies away from the more important things in life. I’m not suggesting it’s bad to look good, but conditioning ourselves to respond based upon the outward effect versus the inner spirit can deprive us of a great deal of joy. Besides, it can be emotionally taxing and even exhausting.
When the resident exited her wheelchair, in favor of dancing on the floor like the rest of us, many of our first-world, western minds immediately thought, “How does this look?” A mentally and physically challenged patient, writhing on the floor of a care facility in Los Angeles would be met with an immediate response and probably restraints. I doubt the caregivers would join in the dance.
But, joy does not come from the exterior image: matching clothes, properly accessorized, saying and doing the right things at the right time. Joy comes from our inner spirit; that impulse to move our feet to the beat of a drum or sing along with the car radio when no one else is around. Keeping up appearances takes concentration, saps energy and when there are slips, cracks in the well prepared façade, it makes us cranky or downright irritable.
Decorum is overrated. The take-your-shoes-off-and-dance, wedding-cake-in-the-face world is a lot more fun (and real). Image isn’t everything. Our inner joy shining through is everything. Come…join the dance!
Dear God: Teach me to dance!
“This isn’t gonna look good on a resume!” ~Robin Williams (Good Morning Vietnam, 1987)
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” This reflection is written by James E. Carper, Stewardship Coordinator for Saint Monica Catholic Community in Santa Monica, California. All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
Friday, August 6, 2010
The Glass Floor
“The real voyage of discovery consists not in seeing new landscapes, but in having new eyes.” ~ Marcel Proust, French novelist (1871-1922)
The short, man-bridge spanned a small river which bordered the southern edge of the dump. We were told fish, extricated from the fetid waters, was consumed by the locals. Entertaining the thought anyone would eat anything which came from the poisoned runoff was too disturbing to contemplate. At the end of the bridge, to our right, an old man was fighting a losing battle. Air-borne trash filled his yard even as he raked it into small heaps; as if trying to exercise some control over his life. His attempts were doomed to failure, but he pressed on as did we.
We completed our crossing and started up the steep hill; the massive dump, seemingly unending, lay to our left. Hedge rows and fences prevented us from going to our right. The only way was up. Two plain-clothes policemen, replete with ancient military weapons, kept watch over us; preceding us up the steep hillside.
We passed “St. Prisca’s Childhood Rehabilitation Centre.” St. Prisca, a first century martyr, was a thirteen year old girl imprisoned and tortured to death for her beliefs. The irony of naming this children’s center after her was lost on most of us. Little black hands reached out through the bars of the gated entrance, just to touch our hands, to connect with us some how. The moment passed and we moved on.
On our right, a solid gate appeared. A sign announced the entrance led to the “Boma Rescue Centre”. The inscription at the bottom of the sign read: “mtoto auye na mzazi hali uchafu”. I could only make out the words “children” (mtoto) and “no parents” (na mzazi).
The Boma Rescue Centre is appropriately named as workers literally “rescue” children from the dump of Dandora, Kenya. Dedicated volunteers regularly venture into the vast garbage dump in search of the lost. Some are abandoned. Some run away from home because of abuse. One small girl, who cuddled up with one of our fellow female travelers was only four years old. Without the rescue center all of them would be left to survive on what they could forage from the 400 tons of garbage dumped each day or die by whatever misadventure befell them.
We headed for the main building. The children were waiting for us inside. We passed piles of shoes at the doorway. The dimly lit shelter was constructed of corrugated metal and 4x4’s. A gap of one to two feet was left between the top of the wall and the roof line. A gap protected by chicken wire; poor man’s air conditioning I thought. Child-like frescoes covered the walls.
Seated on backless wooden benches we celebrated Mass together: a group of comfortable urbanites from Los Angeles and a pack of kids from Kenya whose prior address read simply, “the city dump.” The great social reformer, Dorothy Day, once professed what attracted her to the Catholic faith was “the rich knelt down with the poor” and so we worshiped together.
Mass ended and it was the children’s turn to entertain. Not surprisingly they sang songs and performed dances. The singing and dancing ended. A table and two chairs were placed in the middle of the floor. A series of skits followed. One would have expected funny and/or familiar tales would be acted out; the products of the simple and innocent minds of children. These skits however, were horrifyingly adult. They depicted drunkenness, drug use, physical and mental abuse and marital infidelity. In short, the skits depicted their reality; the realities which had molded their lives; the path by which many of them had come to the rescue center.
The skits ended abruptly and we headed outside. The actors became children again. We distributed stickers, posed for pictures and, with a glance over our shoulders, started back down the hill toward the safety of our bus; armed guards trailing behind. As we got to the bridge I glanced to my left. The little old man was still waging his battle against the trash; his bent body swinging the ancient wooden rake as best he could; papers still swirling around him. A last look and I headed for the sanctuary of the bus and the sanitary wipes in my bag.
Dr. Timothy Leary, the infamous advocate of psychedelic drug use, is sometimes credited with asking the question: “What is reality anyway?” While there is no simple answer to the question, I would profess a great deal of our realities are conditioned by our life experiences. Dr. Phil would say, “There is no reality, only perception.”
As upper middle class Americans, who could afford to travel to Kenya, our reality was clearly different than those of the children we met at Boma Rescue Centre. For us a hardship might be defined as a flat tire, a difficult boss, a bad relationship, or losing a job. For these children hardship is no food, no clean water, no decent clothes or shoes, no family or emotional comfort and possible injury, illness or death.
These differing realities create a “glass floor” of sorts. Hardships beyond our own experience are difficult to comprehend. Even when confronted with the realistic images provided by modern media it is difficult for us to conceive “hardship” or “need” which is much beyond our comfort zone of existence. Case in point, the TV Series, “The Simple Life” humorously depicted life in rural America as a “hardship” for Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. Ironically, to the people we met in Kenya, that same rural life would have been luxurious.
Gratitude is fueled by need, not by satisfaction. Therefore, experiencing need first hand through ministry, even vicariously, helps drive us to greater levels of gratitude. This is why ministry is so important! Ministry (sharing our gifts of time, talent and treasure) nourishes the minister as well as those being served. It shatters the glass floor and brings us in contact with the realities of those for whom we are called to care. It provides us with the realization of how much we really have; how gifted we are, in comparison with the rest of the world’s inhabitants, vividly demonstrating the many reasons we should be grateful.
In turn, deep, heart-felt gratitude, conscious acknowledgement of how much we have been given by God, should naturally lead to increased generosity. There is an important dynamic created by being fully participative in the gifting of time, talent and treasure (not time, talent or treasure). Each enhances the experience of the other. Service in ministry enhances gratitude which, hopefully, increases our desire to be generous.
Timothy Leary spent his life trying to enhance his psychedelic experience. On the other hand, fully participative stewardship enhances our spiritual experience and our lives.
Dear God: Put me to work! I need to be more grateful!
“We do not see things as they are. We see them as we are.” ~The Talmud
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
The short, man-bridge spanned a small river which bordered the southern edge of the dump. We were told fish, extricated from the fetid waters, was consumed by the locals. Entertaining the thought anyone would eat anything which came from the poisoned runoff was too disturbing to contemplate. At the end of the bridge, to our right, an old man was fighting a losing battle. Air-borne trash filled his yard even as he raked it into small heaps; as if trying to exercise some control over his life. His attempts were doomed to failure, but he pressed on as did we.
We completed our crossing and started up the steep hill; the massive dump, seemingly unending, lay to our left. Hedge rows and fences prevented us from going to our right. The only way was up. Two plain-clothes policemen, replete with ancient military weapons, kept watch over us; preceding us up the steep hillside.
We passed “St. Prisca’s Childhood Rehabilitation Centre.” St. Prisca, a first century martyr, was a thirteen year old girl imprisoned and tortured to death for her beliefs. The irony of naming this children’s center after her was lost on most of us. Little black hands reached out through the bars of the gated entrance, just to touch our hands, to connect with us some how. The moment passed and we moved on.
On our right, a solid gate appeared. A sign announced the entrance led to the “Boma Rescue Centre”. The inscription at the bottom of the sign read: “mtoto auye na mzazi hali uchafu”. I could only make out the words “children” (mtoto) and “no parents” (na mzazi).
The Boma Rescue Centre is appropriately named as workers literally “rescue” children from the dump of Dandora, Kenya. Dedicated volunteers regularly venture into the vast garbage dump in search of the lost. Some are abandoned. Some run away from home because of abuse. One small girl, who cuddled up with one of our fellow female travelers was only four years old. Without the rescue center all of them would be left to survive on what they could forage from the 400 tons of garbage dumped each day or die by whatever misadventure befell them.
We headed for the main building. The children were waiting for us inside. We passed piles of shoes at the doorway. The dimly lit shelter was constructed of corrugated metal and 4x4’s. A gap of one to two feet was left between the top of the wall and the roof line. A gap protected by chicken wire; poor man’s air conditioning I thought. Child-like frescoes covered the walls.
Seated on backless wooden benches we celebrated Mass together: a group of comfortable urbanites from Los Angeles and a pack of kids from Kenya whose prior address read simply, “the city dump.” The great social reformer, Dorothy Day, once professed what attracted her to the Catholic faith was “the rich knelt down with the poor” and so we worshiped together.
Mass ended and it was the children’s turn to entertain. Not surprisingly they sang songs and performed dances. The singing and dancing ended. A table and two chairs were placed in the middle of the floor. A series of skits followed. One would have expected funny and/or familiar tales would be acted out; the products of the simple and innocent minds of children. These skits however, were horrifyingly adult. They depicted drunkenness, drug use, physical and mental abuse and marital infidelity. In short, the skits depicted their reality; the realities which had molded their lives; the path by which many of them had come to the rescue center.
The skits ended abruptly and we headed outside. The actors became children again. We distributed stickers, posed for pictures and, with a glance over our shoulders, started back down the hill toward the safety of our bus; armed guards trailing behind. As we got to the bridge I glanced to my left. The little old man was still waging his battle against the trash; his bent body swinging the ancient wooden rake as best he could; papers still swirling around him. A last look and I headed for the sanctuary of the bus and the sanitary wipes in my bag.
Dr. Timothy Leary, the infamous advocate of psychedelic drug use, is sometimes credited with asking the question: “What is reality anyway?” While there is no simple answer to the question, I would profess a great deal of our realities are conditioned by our life experiences. Dr. Phil would say, “There is no reality, only perception.”
As upper middle class Americans, who could afford to travel to Kenya, our reality was clearly different than those of the children we met at Boma Rescue Centre. For us a hardship might be defined as a flat tire, a difficult boss, a bad relationship, or losing a job. For these children hardship is no food, no clean water, no decent clothes or shoes, no family or emotional comfort and possible injury, illness or death.
These differing realities create a “glass floor” of sorts. Hardships beyond our own experience are difficult to comprehend. Even when confronted with the realistic images provided by modern media it is difficult for us to conceive “hardship” or “need” which is much beyond our comfort zone of existence. Case in point, the TV Series, “The Simple Life” humorously depicted life in rural America as a “hardship” for Paris Hilton and Nicole Richie. Ironically, to the people we met in Kenya, that same rural life would have been luxurious.
Gratitude is fueled by need, not by satisfaction. Therefore, experiencing need first hand through ministry, even vicariously, helps drive us to greater levels of gratitude. This is why ministry is so important! Ministry (sharing our gifts of time, talent and treasure) nourishes the minister as well as those being served. It shatters the glass floor and brings us in contact with the realities of those for whom we are called to care. It provides us with the realization of how much we really have; how gifted we are, in comparison with the rest of the world’s inhabitants, vividly demonstrating the many reasons we should be grateful.
In turn, deep, heart-felt gratitude, conscious acknowledgement of how much we have been given by God, should naturally lead to increased generosity. There is an important dynamic created by being fully participative in the gifting of time, talent and treasure (not time, talent or treasure). Each enhances the experience of the other. Service in ministry enhances gratitude which, hopefully, increases our desire to be generous.
Timothy Leary spent his life trying to enhance his psychedelic experience. On the other hand, fully participative stewardship enhances our spiritual experience and our lives.
Dear God: Put me to work! I need to be more grateful!
“We do not see things as they are. We see them as we are.” ~The Talmud
© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.
“90 Second Stewardship” All rights are reserved. You are welcome and encouraged to forward this e-mail to family and friends provided the”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” is included along with this message. Organizations, whether for or non profit, are required to receive written approval before reproducing these reflections. If written approval is given the ”© 2010 James E. Carper. All rights reserved.” must be included along with this message.
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