“The only thing better than singing is more singing.” ~Ella Fitzgerald, American jazz singer (1917-1996)
“Compound” would be a gracious description. The encampment was circular in shape with an enclosure wall comprised of bare branches woven together for support. Frankly, it looked more like a brush pile than a wall. The compound had seven gates; one for each family who lived there. “Does each family use only their own entrance?” I asked as we entered through one of the gates. “No, we enter through any gate,” our Maasai guide replied with a toothy smile. The Maasai people occupy parts of Kenya and northern Tanzania and are arguably the best known tribe in Africa.
“Be careful not to step in the cow dung!” someone warned. “You mean be careful not to step in the wet cow dung don’t you?” I replied. The Maasai are cattle farmers. Wealth is measured by the size of one’s herd and the number of children. A man must have both to be considered wealthy. By day their cattle graze in pastures outside the compound, but at night; they are brought inside to protect them from predators (mostly lions and hyenas). As a result, inside the compound, it is impossible to step anywhere that you are not stepping on dung. Even the exteriors of the hovels of our hosts were plastered and their roofs waterproofed with the stuff.
The remaining male members of the tribe appeared, clad in their traditional bright red blankets, in bold plaid patterns. One tall tribesman wore a blanket around his waist which bore images of the cartoon character Scooby Doo, though he had no idea who Scooby Doo was. Those who had earned their status as warriors, were easily identified by their distinctive headdresses and a sizable earlobe created by inserting a knife into the lobe and then twisting.
The men danced a “welcome dance”. Then all the men, guests included, engaged in “the jumping dance” or “adumu”; a jumping competition of sorts which is a demonstration of male prowess. In the distance we heard the sound of trilling voices. The women of the tribe, even more brightly clad than the men, processed into the compound as if their sudden appearance had been carefully orchestrated. They too danced and sang a welcome song followed by a chanted lullaby, and a song praising their sons. Their last song seemed to have a particular significance.
“What is that song?” someone asked our warrior host. “It is the song the women sing when they take the cows out in the morning.” “They also sing the same song when they bring them in at night.” “You mean you sing your cows into the field and home again…every day?” someone else asked. “Of course”, he replied with the same toothy grin. “Don’t you?”
We Americans spend billions of dollars each year on music and music producing devices so we can plug our ears, insulate our cars with sound and generally separate ourselves from the world. But the world was never intended to be masked or blotted out by music. Rather, it was intended to be experienced through the use of music. It should be our “ticket to ride” rather than a means of stopping our ears with electronic cotton.
Nor is music simply an accompaniment to our activities, like a movie sound track. It is not background noise. The Maasai women sing their livestock into the fields and home again, yet we seem to struggle with a few hymns at church. “Alleluia” might as well be “what’s it to yah?”
Why is this?
For much of the third world singing and dancing are a means of constant celebration, part of a daily ritual, whether it is welcoming guests, singing a child to sleep, a dance of courtship, or a song which carries one through the work day. Our “first world” culture has lost this ability to celebrate. When we do celebrate, we celebrate sporting events, successes, milestones. It is as if we are challenged to find reasons to celebrate. Celebrations are becoming a means of putting our success and wealth on display. We celebrate “things” rather than celebrating our daily lives.
Whether we choose to involve ourselves or not, our lives are a celebration: a celebration of our being, of our existence, of our humanity, of our journey. There is cause to celebrate failure as well. Failures often lead to personal growth and growth deserves to be celebrated. Even death is something which evokes celebration: Irish wakes, sitting Shiva or Dios de los Muertos celebrations for instance. Native American writer, Manitonquat, once described life as a “sacred mystery singing to itself, dancing to its drum, telling tales, improvising, playing.”
If we are to be truly happy we must learn to be good stewards of celebration. This means seeing life as a celebration of God’s gifts; a celebration occurring at all times; a constant renewal. We are called to celebrate this moment in time…and the next…and the next…even when we are singing the cows home at twilight.
Dear God: “Be with me and save me. Take great delight in me, quiet me with your love, and rejoice over me with your singing.” Zephaniah 3:17
“…singing induces in you a desire for experiencing the truth, to glimpse the beauty that is God, to taste the bliss that is the Self.” ~Sri Sathya Sai Baba, Indian Spiritual Leader (b. 1926)
© 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, September 17, 2010
Sunday, September 12, 2010
Spiritual Nutrition
“Sharing food with another human being is an intimate act that should not be indulged in lightly.” ~M.F.K. Fisher, American Writer (1908-1992)
Our hostess took my hand and led us through the streets of the city. Teresa, Zafar and Jeanne were close by. Though the streets were busy with people there were no cars and only a few bicycles. Strange smells embraced us…unidentifiable foods frying. We passed numerous sales stalls…household utensils, used clothes, hand made items, a makeshift barbershop and bars…strains of unfamiliar music reached our ears. Our protectress guided us carefully along; avoiding ruts and debris in our path, my hand clasped carefully in hers.
“What is the name of this street?” asked Zafar casually. “Name?” She looked at Zafar somewhat puzzled. “The street doesn’t have a name.” “Why name a street?” she continued. “How do people know where you live?” Zafar persisted. She stopped for a moment and looked up at him. “Everyone knows where we live.” We paused a moment then continued on, turning left down a side street.
“Mzungu, Mzungu,” the children called out behind us, trying to get our attention. Laughing and waving when we turned to look. Stepping up onto a large concrete pad which resembled a loading dock, we headed down a narrow passageway between two tiny residences. Turning left we came to a dead end…two doorways to our left and one to our right…we had arrived. Removing our shoes we stepped inside the first door on our left. It was the home of our hostess.
The room was the size of my office. It was one of two such rooms the family of six occupied. There were two small settees and a tiny easy chair surrounding a coffee table leaving just enough room for our legs. Two heavily used wooden chairs were placed near the door we had entered for two women from the same parish as our hostess. Holy Cross Parish is divided into nine small faith sharing communities or districts. The three women (our hostess and the two who sat by the door) were district leaders.
We were in the heart of Dandora, Kenya…
The next one and one half hours were spent pleasantly. After meeting our hostess’ children we stepped outside for a photo opportunity. Then we returned to the house. Food appeared on the coffee table: pineapple, melon, red skinned peanuts, catsup flavored potato chips and soda in glass bottles (Coke, orange and ginger flavored). As we snacked we chatted about our lives, our church, our faith, our worlds. I had forgotten what it was like to share food with others, flavored with rich conversation, and without the rush of having to be somewhere or feeling pressured to do something.
Before we knew it, it was time to go. Outside the door we pulled on our shoes. With our three newest friends we walked back the way we had come, along unnamed streets to the church building from which we had started. We said goodbye and stepped onto our bus. Our friends waved a farewell then turned and headed home.
There is something sacred about food. Breaking bread; sharing food with one another, is not simply about nourishing the body. It is also about nourishing ourselves spiritually and emotionally. The visit we made to a small home in Dandora was not just about making friends, being missionaries or learning how our Kenyan brothers and sisters live and survive. In many ways it was about renewing our connection to the spiritual universe thereby renewing ourselves. The sharing of food and taking time for others means sharing something of ourselves and receiving something in return. It means sharing our spirits and experiencing the spirits of others.
We need this spiritual nutrition. Sustenance is not simply food and drink it is about sharing our being, our life force with one another. This spiritual nutrition can only come through interaction: sharing, presence and participation…communion with others. We can’t get spiritual renewal at the drive up window of our local fast food restaurant or by eating in our car on the way to our next appointment. There is no "spiritual fast food". Spiritual nutrition comes from eating and drinking together and experiencing one another anew each time.
What I am suggesting isn’t easy. We live in a fast paced world. I often arrive home late from work. Even though Teresa has already eaten, she sits down at the dinner table with me while I eat so we can share our day’s experiences. Being good stewards of our time means taking the time to sit down to meals with one another…to be present to them…to interact with them…to share our lives with them.
Just as we should set aside time each week to pray and to worship; we must set aside time to renew ourselves spiritually by sharing food with our families and friends. I know life is busy and there is much to do. As a working couple we have struggled with this for a long time. Several years ago Teresa and I made a pact: Thursdays and Sundays are sacred. Those two evenings each week, we sit down to dinner together: sharing food and sharing our life experiences. Sharing is loving and being loved nourishes our spirits.
Dear God: Help me to take the time to nourish my body, mind and spirit.
“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” ~J.R.R. Tolkien, English writer, poet, philologist and university professor; author of "The Lord of the Rings" Trilogy (1892-1973)
© 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.
Our hostess took my hand and led us through the streets of the city. Teresa, Zafar and Jeanne were close by. Though the streets were busy with people there were no cars and only a few bicycles. Strange smells embraced us…unidentifiable foods frying. We passed numerous sales stalls…household utensils, used clothes, hand made items, a makeshift barbershop and bars…strains of unfamiliar music reached our ears. Our protectress guided us carefully along; avoiding ruts and debris in our path, my hand clasped carefully in hers.
“What is the name of this street?” asked Zafar casually. “Name?” She looked at Zafar somewhat puzzled. “The street doesn’t have a name.” “Why name a street?” she continued. “How do people know where you live?” Zafar persisted. She stopped for a moment and looked up at him. “Everyone knows where we live.” We paused a moment then continued on, turning left down a side street.
“Mzungu, Mzungu,” the children called out behind us, trying to get our attention. Laughing and waving when we turned to look. Stepping up onto a large concrete pad which resembled a loading dock, we headed down a narrow passageway between two tiny residences. Turning left we came to a dead end…two doorways to our left and one to our right…we had arrived. Removing our shoes we stepped inside the first door on our left. It was the home of our hostess.
The room was the size of my office. It was one of two such rooms the family of six occupied. There were two small settees and a tiny easy chair surrounding a coffee table leaving just enough room for our legs. Two heavily used wooden chairs were placed near the door we had entered for two women from the same parish as our hostess. Holy Cross Parish is divided into nine small faith sharing communities or districts. The three women (our hostess and the two who sat by the door) were district leaders.
We were in the heart of Dandora, Kenya…
The next one and one half hours were spent pleasantly. After meeting our hostess’ children we stepped outside for a photo opportunity. Then we returned to the house. Food appeared on the coffee table: pineapple, melon, red skinned peanuts, catsup flavored potato chips and soda in glass bottles (Coke, orange and ginger flavored). As we snacked we chatted about our lives, our church, our faith, our worlds. I had forgotten what it was like to share food with others, flavored with rich conversation, and without the rush of having to be somewhere or feeling pressured to do something.
Before we knew it, it was time to go. Outside the door we pulled on our shoes. With our three newest friends we walked back the way we had come, along unnamed streets to the church building from which we had started. We said goodbye and stepped onto our bus. Our friends waved a farewell then turned and headed home.
There is something sacred about food. Breaking bread; sharing food with one another, is not simply about nourishing the body. It is also about nourishing ourselves spiritually and emotionally. The visit we made to a small home in Dandora was not just about making friends, being missionaries or learning how our Kenyan brothers and sisters live and survive. In many ways it was about renewing our connection to the spiritual universe thereby renewing ourselves. The sharing of food and taking time for others means sharing something of ourselves and receiving something in return. It means sharing our spirits and experiencing the spirits of others.
We need this spiritual nutrition. Sustenance is not simply food and drink it is about sharing our being, our life force with one another. This spiritual nutrition can only come through interaction: sharing, presence and participation…communion with others. We can’t get spiritual renewal at the drive up window of our local fast food restaurant or by eating in our car on the way to our next appointment. There is no "spiritual fast food". Spiritual nutrition comes from eating and drinking together and experiencing one another anew each time.
What I am suggesting isn’t easy. We live in a fast paced world. I often arrive home late from work. Even though Teresa has already eaten, she sits down at the dinner table with me while I eat so we can share our day’s experiences. Being good stewards of our time means taking the time to sit down to meals with one another…to be present to them…to interact with them…to share our lives with them.
Just as we should set aside time each week to pray and to worship; we must set aside time to renew ourselves spiritually by sharing food with our families and friends. I know life is busy and there is much to do. As a working couple we have struggled with this for a long time. Several years ago Teresa and I made a pact: Thursdays and Sundays are sacred. Those two evenings each week, we sit down to dinner together: sharing food and sharing our life experiences. Sharing is loving and being loved nourishes our spirits.
Dear God: Help me to take the time to nourish my body, mind and spirit.
“If more of us valued food and cheer and song above hoarded gold, it would be a merrier world.” ~J.R.R. Tolkien, English writer, poet, philologist and university professor; author of "The Lord of the Rings" Trilogy (1892-1973)
© 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, September 3, 2010
Never Forget
“…good planets are hard to find.” ~ Time Magazine
Their friend had died. He had lived a long time, over seventy years, but the weight of those years and a hard life in the fields, had finally brought him to a quiet end. His friends surrounded his body, and honored him with heartfelt mourning. They carefully touched the body. A tear trickled from the eye of the smallest of the group. Finally, after remaining still and quiet for a long time, they carefully covered his body; slowly, respectfully, almost religiously.
When they had finished they paused one last time, reverenced his place of rest, then quietly departed. Every few months they would return to the place, and each time they paused and reverenced the spot where their friend lay.
Elephants are the only species, other than humans, who have a recognizable death ritual. They show a unique respect for their dead, carefully burying their bodies (covering them with leaves or branches) and mourning their loss. Like us, elephants revisit the graves of their dead. They exhibit this same respect for the bodies of humans. Following the 2004 earthquake and tsunami elephants were used to locate bodies. Rescue workers were surprised by the elephants’ response when a corpse was discovered. They reverenced the body by allowing their trunk to droop, standing very still, sometimes making a wailing sound; mourning the human dead just as they mourned their own.
Faith is about being "in relationship", whether that relationship is with God or with our fellow man (or woman). Often our relationships suffer from brokenness, due to sin, insecurity, or self-centeredness and must be restored. This cycle of broken relationships and their restoration, is what some of us call practicing our faith. Reconciliation, attending Mass, making amends are all directed toward this important task of healing our broken relationships.
It is fairly easy to see ourselves as being in a relationship with another person. Yet, very few of us see ourselves as being in a relationship with the rest of God’s creation. That is to say the world we live in and the other creatures which inhabit it. It is humbling to consider that elephants, arguably the second most intelligent creatures on earth, grasp this concept, when most of us don’t. They seem to intuitively understand that the death of another creature is a loss to them as well.
On the other hand, we tend to look at God’s world and its creatures more legalistically. Our viewpoint is one of ownership. We argue over “water rights,” “mineral rights,” “easements;” “we take possession” of property. We even go so far as to sell “air rights”, the empty space above buildings in large cities. In point of fact we really don’t own anything.
As stewards we acknowledge everything is a gift from God, gratefully received to be returned to Him with increase. We cannot view these gifts as something to be owned; rather we must see them as a means by which we build a relationship with our God through their care and proper use. This means working to constantly improve our relationship with God’s creation: To be “the caregivers of creation” God called us to be.
We, as Americans, love causes. We like to get behind things and do good works in support of them. Whether it is making others aware of global warming, recycling at home or spending a Saturday morning picking up trash at the local beach or park, putting things right gives us a sense of accomplishment, but our relationship to the world goes deeper than that. We are part of something larger and greater than ourselves: an ever-evolving creation in which we participate and to which we have a personal connection…a relationship. Even our elephant brothers and sisters recognize this fact, even though we often don’t.
Dear God: Help me to build a better relationship with your creation.
“We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.” ~ A Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold
© 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.
Their friend had died. He had lived a long time, over seventy years, but the weight of those years and a hard life in the fields, had finally brought him to a quiet end. His friends surrounded his body, and honored him with heartfelt mourning. They carefully touched the body. A tear trickled from the eye of the smallest of the group. Finally, after remaining still and quiet for a long time, they carefully covered his body; slowly, respectfully, almost religiously.
When they had finished they paused one last time, reverenced his place of rest, then quietly departed. Every few months they would return to the place, and each time they paused and reverenced the spot where their friend lay.
Elephants are the only species, other than humans, who have a recognizable death ritual. They show a unique respect for their dead, carefully burying their bodies (covering them with leaves or branches) and mourning their loss. Like us, elephants revisit the graves of their dead. They exhibit this same respect for the bodies of humans. Following the 2004 earthquake and tsunami elephants were used to locate bodies. Rescue workers were surprised by the elephants’ response when a corpse was discovered. They reverenced the body by allowing their trunk to droop, standing very still, sometimes making a wailing sound; mourning the human dead just as they mourned their own.
Faith is about being "in relationship", whether that relationship is with God or with our fellow man (or woman). Often our relationships suffer from brokenness, due to sin, insecurity, or self-centeredness and must be restored. This cycle of broken relationships and their restoration, is what some of us call practicing our faith. Reconciliation, attending Mass, making amends are all directed toward this important task of healing our broken relationships.
It is fairly easy to see ourselves as being in a relationship with another person. Yet, very few of us see ourselves as being in a relationship with the rest of God’s creation. That is to say the world we live in and the other creatures which inhabit it. It is humbling to consider that elephants, arguably the second most intelligent creatures on earth, grasp this concept, when most of us don’t. They seem to intuitively understand that the death of another creature is a loss to them as well.
On the other hand, we tend to look at God’s world and its creatures more legalistically. Our viewpoint is one of ownership. We argue over “water rights,” “mineral rights,” “easements;” “we take possession” of property. We even go so far as to sell “air rights”, the empty space above buildings in large cities. In point of fact we really don’t own anything.
As stewards we acknowledge everything is a gift from God, gratefully received to be returned to Him with increase. We cannot view these gifts as something to be owned; rather we must see them as a means by which we build a relationship with our God through their care and proper use. This means working to constantly improve our relationship with God’s creation: To be “the caregivers of creation” God called us to be.
We, as Americans, love causes. We like to get behind things and do good works in support of them. Whether it is making others aware of global warming, recycling at home or spending a Saturday morning picking up trash at the local beach or park, putting things right gives us a sense of accomplishment, but our relationship to the world goes deeper than that. We are part of something larger and greater than ourselves: an ever-evolving creation in which we participate and to which we have a personal connection…a relationship. Even our elephant brothers and sisters recognize this fact, even though we often don’t.
Dear God: Help me to build a better relationship with your creation.
“We abuse land because we regard it as a commodity belonging to us. When we see land as a community to which we belong, we may begin to use it with love and respect.” ~ A Sand County Almanac by Aldo Leopold
© 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
Children of Light
“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.
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 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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