One day, as part of the Christmas celebrations at our workplace, we hosted some street youths from Nanyuki to our office. I do not exaggerate when I say these are the poorest of the poor. We work with the poor every day in the office. But even the poor have homes, and families. These street youth were without both.They smelled terrible, to be frank. They lacked education. OK, you get the picture: they were poor. During this Christmas celebration, we gave each person a loaf of bread and some milk. Now, one of these street youths had a small little girl-- I presume her daughter-- with her. When nobody was watching, I saw a young man give his loaf of bread to the young mother. At this moment, I knew I had witnessed something beautiful. This man, with tattered shoes and dirty clothes, likely without a shilling to his name, gave the one thing he had to someone who needed it more. At that moment, I felt like Jesus was celebrating. I felt like he was saying: "See that guy? That guy gets it."
I keep hearing the word "resistance" these days among those of us who are not happy about the recently inaugurated US President. As I begin to write this, a historic march is beginning in Washington. Many people have the general idea that this man is someone who must be resisted. The more I think about this, the more I think the idea of resistance is not exactly what we as Christians ought to be doing. "Resistance" to me has a defensive connotation: you are resisting against something. In this case, people are resisting against the personality and policy of someone who is leading the most powerful nation in the world. But as Christians, I propose that rather than "resist," we "persist."
Galatians 6:9 says "Let us not become weary in doing good, for at the proper time we will reap a harvest if we do not give up."
Last night, as I opened Twitter on my phone and saw a barrage of tweets about the inauguration of someone who has admitted to grabbing women's genitals, I could have felt very angry. But instead of anger I felt hope. Because, you see, I follow Jesus. I thought of the ways Jesus upset the most powerful empire of his day. I thought of how he just drove the people in power crazy. And how? He taught people to love and forgive instead of hate and fear. He sat down for dinner with the very people the powerful were excluding from society. He healed the sick. Like the mad farmer in Wendell Berry's poem, every day he did something that did not compute. When tempted with power, Jesus refused. And yet he had the authority to raise people from the dead. So as I thought of this cartoon-villain-resembling man becoming president, I thought: Jesus is still King.
And that is not to say that Jesus somehow endorses the US presidency. I just mean that Jesus is still King. His Kingdom is not confined to the United States or any geographical area in the world. His Kingdom grows in people. We pray "Your Kingdom come." His Kingdom comes when that street boy gives away his only loaf of bread. His Kingdom comes when we choose to forgive a person who has deeply wounded us. His Kingdom comes when we hold a baby or child in our arms and, as Mister Rogers would say, love them into being. His Kingdom comes when we make friends with people who are from a different race or class or gender or age or sexual orientation than us. His Kingdom comes when we create a beautiful painting or poem or song. His Kingdom comes when we bake a casserole for someone who's just lost a loved one. His Kingdom comes when we welcome refugees into our homes and our communities. His Kingdom comes when we cultivate the land to help something good grow. His Kingdom comes when we dare to speak the truth about injustice.
The true resistance is within us. It is the choice we have to make. Will I be led by the Holy Spirit, who helps us love, humbly and wisely? Or will I be led by sin, which makes me selfish, to my own destruction? Instead of resisting against something, we are persisting on behalf of something much bigger: God's Kingdom coming on earth as it is in heaven.
This should be old hat for us followers of Jesus. We are always persisting, no matter who is in the White House. We are always living differently than the Kingdom of the world.
Perhaps the most radical thing we can do at this time is persist: persist in love and truth.
I really believe that real change comes from the individual and community level. Persisting in acts of love, Kingdom-building acts, every day, for years and years: that gives glory to the One who really has power. Because here's what I believe: Remember that boy, that young, dirty, poor man, who gave his only loaf of bread away? The Spirit in that boy is more powerful than the President of the United States will ever be.
Wednesday, January 25, 2017
Tuesday, January 10, 2017
Week 10: Vineyard
As I return to the office after Christmas holidays, I can see God's grace so much in the past couple of weeks.
First, we moved houses. This was a bittersweet transition. We had been living with a lovely host family and had actually become quite close with them. But our plan had never been to live with a host family- it had been to have our own place. So when the opportunity came up, rather suddenly, we took it, and within a day, we had moved. While we miss our host family, our new house is perfect for the two of us: just a little cottage made of metal sheeting with vines crawling up the side, next to a lazy river. When we entered the house it just felt like home already. We are also already becoming close with the neighbours who share the compound with us, including a little dog who is pretty much our shadow. I like this place.
So I really felt God's grace in that move. It just seemed like the right thing at the right time. And things just kept on happening like that.
The other day I took a walk down a road near our new place. Since we had lots of time off I took lots of walks exploring the town. On this day, while exploring our new neighbourhood, I found something that really excited me: a metal sheeting building with a sign in front: Nanyuki Vineyard Church.
One of the struggles I have had here in Nanyuki is finding a church. I have visited many different churches but none of them quite felt like home. As I have written before, the prosperity gospel is quite common here and it has been hard for me to find a church that does not preach that. I love living in Nanyuki and have thought on occasion of staying here for good but knew that just would not be possible if I could not find a Christian community here. After weeks of "church-hopping," I was really starting to be discouraged, and resigning myself to the fact that maybe I would not find a church home here. That was until I went for a walk and stumbled upon Nanyuki Vineyard Church.
I grew up going to a Vineyard Church, probably up till the age of 16 or so. I have a lot of memories of that time, good and bad and confusing. I think anyone growing up in the evangelical tradition has those kinds of memories. The church I grew up in was particularly tumultuous and its birth, growth, and decline more or less coincided with my childhood.
It's been a while since I have been part of a Vineyard Church, but still when I saw that church sign it spelt H-O-M-E to me. I made a plan to go there this Sunday.
So on Sunday, I headed over to the church. I did not know what time the service started or even if it would be in Kiswahili, English, or the local language. Literally all I knew was the location of the church building. I just showed up at the church at around 10am.
I am so glad I did. As I met people, sang worship songs, and listened to the sermon, it became more and more clear: this would be my church home. This was such a relief, I was almost crying. It has been such a struggle to find a church home. It's hard not to have a church. It's so sweet to have one.
And I felt like there was some sort of poetry or symmetry to the whole thing. Because the Vineyard is, to me, Mama Church. My first memories of church are all wrapped up in Vineyard songs and Vineyard quirks. I was baptized in the Vineyard church: or rather, baptized in the Northumberland Strait by a pastor in the Vineyard church. There are a hundred Vineyard songs I know by heart. I want to know you/I want to hear your voice/I want to know you more.
It has been a while since I have thought about how those early church experiences have influenced my faith. But I sure thought of it on Sunday, singing "Hallelujah, Hallelujah, your love makes me sing" with a bunch of Kenyans, in a little church on the outskirts of Nanyuki. I am thankful for those early church experiences, despite how confusing they sometimes were for a child. Because even if I did not realize it at the time, those experiences demonstrated for me what being a Christian meant. I internalized those lessons, though maybe nobody knew they were teaching. I just watched the way the church lived. I internalized the lesson that being a Christian meant believing that the Holy Spirit would show up in your life; that being a Christian meant caring for the poor and forming meaningful relationships with people on the outside of society; that being a Christian was something that you did not keep to yourself, but that it was worth telling others about; that being a Christian meant being free to worship God however you best could. And our church was far from perfect, let me tell you that. But those lessons have never left me. Perhaps the most important lesson I learned was who is part of the church. Our church was a ragtag band of misfits, people who did not feel like they fit in to the established church or who had been wounded by her and people with mental illness and people struggling with addictions and people who were just lonely, in search of somewhere to belong. The people in my church growing up did not tend to pretend they were anything else but messed-up people desperate to know Jesus. That was my first experience of church.
And so I feel a certain affection towards the Vineyard Church. It does feel so much like family. Even in Nanyuki.
So I feel God's grace so much. Because I know that if we had not found this new place to live, I never would have found this church. It then feels like he is orchestrating this all! He is so good to me.
First, we moved houses. This was a bittersweet transition. We had been living with a lovely host family and had actually become quite close with them. But our plan had never been to live with a host family- it had been to have our own place. So when the opportunity came up, rather suddenly, we took it, and within a day, we had moved. While we miss our host family, our new house is perfect for the two of us: just a little cottage made of metal sheeting with vines crawling up the side, next to a lazy river. When we entered the house it just felt like home already. We are also already becoming close with the neighbours who share the compound with us, including a little dog who is pretty much our shadow. I like this place.
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| The new place- excuse the iPhone panorama fail |
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| Our faithful companion |
The other day I took a walk down a road near our new place. Since we had lots of time off I took lots of walks exploring the town. On this day, while exploring our new neighbourhood, I found something that really excited me: a metal sheeting building with a sign in front: Nanyuki Vineyard Church.
One of the struggles I have had here in Nanyuki is finding a church. I have visited many different churches but none of them quite felt like home. As I have written before, the prosperity gospel is quite common here and it has been hard for me to find a church that does not preach that. I love living in Nanyuki and have thought on occasion of staying here for good but knew that just would not be possible if I could not find a Christian community here. After weeks of "church-hopping," I was really starting to be discouraged, and resigning myself to the fact that maybe I would not find a church home here. That was until I went for a walk and stumbled upon Nanyuki Vineyard Church.
I grew up going to a Vineyard Church, probably up till the age of 16 or so. I have a lot of memories of that time, good and bad and confusing. I think anyone growing up in the evangelical tradition has those kinds of memories. The church I grew up in was particularly tumultuous and its birth, growth, and decline more or less coincided with my childhood.
It's been a while since I have been part of a Vineyard Church, but still when I saw that church sign it spelt H-O-M-E to me. I made a plan to go there this Sunday.
So on Sunday, I headed over to the church. I did not know what time the service started or even if it would be in Kiswahili, English, or the local language. Literally all I knew was the location of the church building. I just showed up at the church at around 10am.
I am so glad I did. As I met people, sang worship songs, and listened to the sermon, it became more and more clear: this would be my church home. This was such a relief, I was almost crying. It has been such a struggle to find a church home. It's hard not to have a church. It's so sweet to have one.
And I felt like there was some sort of poetry or symmetry to the whole thing. Because the Vineyard is, to me, Mama Church. My first memories of church are all wrapped up in Vineyard songs and Vineyard quirks. I was baptized in the Vineyard church: or rather, baptized in the Northumberland Strait by a pastor in the Vineyard church. There are a hundred Vineyard songs I know by heart. I want to know you/I want to hear your voice/I want to know you more.
It has been a while since I have thought about how those early church experiences have influenced my faith. But I sure thought of it on Sunday, singing "Hallelujah, Hallelujah, your love makes me sing" with a bunch of Kenyans, in a little church on the outskirts of Nanyuki. I am thankful for those early church experiences, despite how confusing they sometimes were for a child. Because even if I did not realize it at the time, those experiences demonstrated for me what being a Christian meant. I internalized those lessons, though maybe nobody knew they were teaching. I just watched the way the church lived. I internalized the lesson that being a Christian meant believing that the Holy Spirit would show up in your life; that being a Christian meant caring for the poor and forming meaningful relationships with people on the outside of society; that being a Christian was something that you did not keep to yourself, but that it was worth telling others about; that being a Christian meant being free to worship God however you best could. And our church was far from perfect, let me tell you that. But those lessons have never left me. Perhaps the most important lesson I learned was who is part of the church. Our church was a ragtag band of misfits, people who did not feel like they fit in to the established church or who had been wounded by her and people with mental illness and people struggling with addictions and people who were just lonely, in search of somewhere to belong. The people in my church growing up did not tend to pretend they were anything else but messed-up people desperate to know Jesus. That was my first experience of church.
And so I feel a certain affection towards the Vineyard Church. It does feel so much like family. Even in Nanyuki.
So I feel God's grace so much. Because I know that if we had not found this new place to live, I never would have found this church. It then feels like he is orchestrating this all! He is so good to me.
Thursday, January 5, 2017
Week 9: Tourism
We have had some time away from the office in the past few weeks, which has given me the opportunity to do a little traveling around Kenya. I spent five days on the coast at Diani Beach, and a couple days in Nairobi, before returning to Nanyuki.
I spent the first half of 2016 thinking about tourism. I was studying agritourism in Nova Scotia for my graduate project, and I was optimistic about the ways agritourism could positively influence sustainable development in rural areas. I am still optimistic about that. But of course tourism, even 'soft' forms of tourism like agritourism, has negative effects as well.
I love traveling. I recently read Pico Iyer's essay on Why We Travel and it really resonated with me. I love these lines: "For if every true love affair can feel like a journey to a foreign country, where you can’t quite speak the language, and you don’t know where you’re going, and you’re pulled ever deeper into the inviting darkness, every trip to a foreign country can be a love affair, where you’re left puzzling over who you are and whom you’ve fallen in love with."
There is certainly value in travel, as Iyer so eloquently expresses. There is value in exchange of culture, of discovering a new part of yourself that you did not previously know existed, and of the exchange of cultures that inevitably takes place when you interact with those from a different culture.
But in Diani I became absolutely fed up with travel and tourism. In some ways, I loved it there. It was a beautiful tropical beach. The hostel I stayed at was a dream. I kept my bathing suit on all day and got a tan and my hair was constantly matted and salty from the sea. I met interesting people from all over the world and consumed my weight in seafood. But after a couple days of this, it got real old.
I find it hard to express these ideas, but I will try my best. Many of the people I met at the hostel were young people, travelling solo or with a friend, with no other goal but to travel. Many of them were spending months of their lives doing just that. But I did not like the way their traveling looked. It looked like hanging out with other travelers and drinking and smoking pot and I felt like somehow, they were experiencing a version of Kenya that was not the truth.
And then I realized: I am experiencing a version of the Kenyan Coast that was not the truth. I was experiencing the Coast for only what it could offer me, rather than what it truly was. That is one of the difficulties of tourism, one I explored a little bit in my research: when traveling, you never quite experience the place authentically: you always experience it when a visitor (you) is there.
Much of Diani Beach exists only to cater for people like me, people who stay there for a short time, spend some money, and then leave. And of course this is a big problem. And at times it is quite evident, that this is created somehow to serve me: there are a ton of people in traditional Maasai dress there, even though it is nowhere near to where the Maasai generally live. But I guess white people like me find the Maasai to be interesting, and so people perform that for us.
Also every day as I walked along the shore I would be harassed by so-called "beach boys." Sometimes they would be selling something, but other times they would just talk to me. This was actually super annoying as I preferred a quiet walk on the beach. I later learned that the coast of Kenya is a very popular destination for sex tourism. These beach boys were actually male prostitutes.
As I think of the beach boys, I think that even if I was not trying, I am somehow contributing to the prostitution of Diani. I mean prostitution as a kind of metaphor for what happens in this place, the kind of place where land is so expensive that local people cannot afford to live there, the kind of place where the economy is based around people who do not care about the place nor the residents; we only care about having a good time. It is the kind of place where a group of tourists were a victim of an armed robbery directly outside of our hostel, but who can blame the thieves, really, when their home has been turned into essentially one enormous all-inclusive resort. I doubt these resorts are owned by Kenyans, and yet they are where tourists spend the most money. Like someone being pimped out, these people work hard only to have their money go into someone else's hands.
Diani Beach is one of the most naturally beautiful places I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. Yet I have a sick feeling when I think about the impact that tourists, people like me, have on that place.
The other thing that I got fed up about was the transience of the hostel. I liked meeting new people and hanging out with people in the pool or at the bar at the hostel. But somehow it seemed like a cheap relationship (the prostitution metaphor continues...). The short-term nature of these relationships, with people always coming and going, ensured that we were able to satisfy the human desire for social contact without actually going through the responsibility of loving others. I had to struggle with the question: How can I love this person while only knowing them for a day or two?
OK. Enough complaining. I spent Christmas on a tropical paradise. I should be grateful. I am grateful. I went snorkelling for the first time on a coral reef and even saw dolphins. I mean, I really enjoyed myself, the whole time I was there. But I guess that's the problem: it's not really a paradise; that is simply what was presented for me, the visitor.
In case you could not tell, I really look forward to going back to work!
I spent the first half of 2016 thinking about tourism. I was studying agritourism in Nova Scotia for my graduate project, and I was optimistic about the ways agritourism could positively influence sustainable development in rural areas. I am still optimistic about that. But of course tourism, even 'soft' forms of tourism like agritourism, has negative effects as well.
I love traveling. I recently read Pico Iyer's essay on Why We Travel and it really resonated with me. I love these lines: "For if every true love affair can feel like a journey to a foreign country, where you can’t quite speak the language, and you don’t know where you’re going, and you’re pulled ever deeper into the inviting darkness, every trip to a foreign country can be a love affair, where you’re left puzzling over who you are and whom you’ve fallen in love with."
There is certainly value in travel, as Iyer so eloquently expresses. There is value in exchange of culture, of discovering a new part of yourself that you did not previously know existed, and of the exchange of cultures that inevitably takes place when you interact with those from a different culture.
But in Diani I became absolutely fed up with travel and tourism. In some ways, I loved it there. It was a beautiful tropical beach. The hostel I stayed at was a dream. I kept my bathing suit on all day and got a tan and my hair was constantly matted and salty from the sea. I met interesting people from all over the world and consumed my weight in seafood. But after a couple days of this, it got real old.
I find it hard to express these ideas, but I will try my best. Many of the people I met at the hostel were young people, travelling solo or with a friend, with no other goal but to travel. Many of them were spending months of their lives doing just that. But I did not like the way their traveling looked. It looked like hanging out with other travelers and drinking and smoking pot and I felt like somehow, they were experiencing a version of Kenya that was not the truth.
And then I realized: I am experiencing a version of the Kenyan Coast that was not the truth. I was experiencing the Coast for only what it could offer me, rather than what it truly was. That is one of the difficulties of tourism, one I explored a little bit in my research: when traveling, you never quite experience the place authentically: you always experience it when a visitor (you) is there.
Much of Diani Beach exists only to cater for people like me, people who stay there for a short time, spend some money, and then leave. And of course this is a big problem. And at times it is quite evident, that this is created somehow to serve me: there are a ton of people in traditional Maasai dress there, even though it is nowhere near to where the Maasai generally live. But I guess white people like me find the Maasai to be interesting, and so people perform that for us.
Also every day as I walked along the shore I would be harassed by so-called "beach boys." Sometimes they would be selling something, but other times they would just talk to me. This was actually super annoying as I preferred a quiet walk on the beach. I later learned that the coast of Kenya is a very popular destination for sex tourism. These beach boys were actually male prostitutes.
As I think of the beach boys, I think that even if I was not trying, I am somehow contributing to the prostitution of Diani. I mean prostitution as a kind of metaphor for what happens in this place, the kind of place where land is so expensive that local people cannot afford to live there, the kind of place where the economy is based around people who do not care about the place nor the residents; we only care about having a good time. It is the kind of place where a group of tourists were a victim of an armed robbery directly outside of our hostel, but who can blame the thieves, really, when their home has been turned into essentially one enormous all-inclusive resort. I doubt these resorts are owned by Kenyans, and yet they are where tourists spend the most money. Like someone being pimped out, these people work hard only to have their money go into someone else's hands.
Diani Beach is one of the most naturally beautiful places I have ever had the pleasure of encountering. Yet I have a sick feeling when I think about the impact that tourists, people like me, have on that place.
The other thing that I got fed up about was the transience of the hostel. I liked meeting new people and hanging out with people in the pool or at the bar at the hostel. But somehow it seemed like a cheap relationship (the prostitution metaphor continues...). The short-term nature of these relationships, with people always coming and going, ensured that we were able to satisfy the human desire for social contact without actually going through the responsibility of loving others. I had to struggle with the question: How can I love this person while only knowing them for a day or two?
OK. Enough complaining. I spent Christmas on a tropical paradise. I should be grateful. I am grateful. I went snorkelling for the first time on a coral reef and even saw dolphins. I mean, I really enjoyed myself, the whole time I was there. But I guess that's the problem: it's not really a paradise; that is simply what was presented for me, the visitor.
In case you could not tell, I really look forward to going back to work!
Saturday, December 24, 2016
Weeks 7/8: 2016 in Review
But when I look back on my year, I am optimistic about the world. I have hope. I see God working in my life and in the lives of others. I see God's kingdom coming. I see people working faithfully for the kind of world they want to live in.
This year I finished my Master's degree. I spent the first part of the year completing my final project, which was on agritourism as a rural development strategy in Nova Scotia. My studies gave me hope that there are still some who care about rural areas, who care about the land, and who are working for its benefit. Amidst school closures, poor infrastructure and other barriers, there are those working for the good of the small and remote places in my beloved provinces. And this gives me great hope.
This year I spent a lot of time with the students of YWAM Truro's Discipleship Training School. This gave me hope, to see young people faithfully serving Jesus and following him to, as the DTS was aptly named, the ends of the Earth. I loved joining these ones for their weekly community night and volunteering with the refugee sponsorship initiative.
This year I continued working with a group of people in the Truro area to bring a Syrian refugee family there. I learned a lot that I would have never known without being part of this project. I got to meet a lot of people who are also welcoming newcomers, and I got to attend my first Eid celebration. I have hope for my country of Canada, as I feel like I am learning what is essentially Canadian: the joyful welcoming of the newcomer
I took a trip with my sister to Scotland and England this year. This is a trip we had been saving up for since I had my first job in high school! And there are moments from that trip, like bicycling on the moors in the Peak District, going to a Pentecost service at Christchurch Cathedral in Oxford, or watching Les Miserables in the West End of London, that I will treasure forever. Not to mention all the memories I made with Mary, who is the best traveling companion. This trip gave me hope, especially the visit to Christchurch Cathedral. You know we really experienced the Holy Spirit there that day. It made me think of the different churches I have been to all over the world: from the little white chapel at Malagash to a country church in Mozambique. God is global, and not restricted by service styles or buildings or languages.
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| This picture is an accurate depiction of my general feeling on that trip to the UK! |
I saw some good friends get married this year. Weddings are always an occasion for hope. Because what faith these ones have, to plunge into lifelong commitment to another, all because of this faith they have that love can withstand all that life may throw their way.
I got really into The Bachelor and The Bachelorette for the first time ever. This was probably one of the things this year that robbed me of hope actually.
I got to hang out with some awesome teenagers as part of the youth group at my church. This gives me hope for the future. I am thankful for young people who do not just go to church because they have to, but go because they want to. These kids are not afraid of thinking of deep questions, and addressing tensions of their faith. They are not afraid of welcoming many people into their community. The youth are not only the church of the future, but they are really the church of today.
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| I am officially THE WORST at selfies |
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| My favourite photo of the year |
I got to preach at my church this year. This gives me hope for the church. The power of the patriarchy is no match for the power of the Gospel :)
I read a bunch of good books this year, many of which gave me hope. I think the best book I read this year was Alistair MacLeod's No Great Mischief. "All of us are better when we're loved." Also I read all of the Harry Potter books for the first time.
I played a lot of Monopoly, frisbee and tennis with a now-nine-year old boy. Of course this gave me a lot of hope, as spending time with children tends to do.
I was a part of organizing Colchester Local Food Week, the first event of its kind in good old Truro. That was so good! I have a hope for a community where people have access to nutritious food, and where people at all stages of the food system make a decent living.
More life highlights:
Camping at Fundy National Park.
The new library in Truro opened.
Lots of hikes, bike rides, rock climbing, and even snowshoeing.
Trivia nights at the Nook and Cranny.
I made my own kombucha
Finally, I am now in Kenya, where I get to do meaningful work as part of a great team. I am writing this on my phone now actually, in a cafe in Diani Beach, where I am spending the Christmas holiday. When I began the year I could have never predicted that I would finish it lounging on the shores of the Indian Ocean. But I have hope, because God does have a plan. I am certain that I am meant to be in Kenya at this time. I am certain that he has a plan for the people with whom I work here, people who live and die in the shadow of Mount Kenya. God is good, and his mercies endure forever.
Tuesday, December 13, 2016
Hakuna mungu kama wewe
A few years ago, I think in 2011 or 2012, I was at an InterVarsity retreat. It was a while ago, so I do not remember which retreat or where it was but I remember hearing the song "Hakuna mungu kama wewe." We sang this in worship sessions. It is a Swahili song, and the title translates to "There's no God like you."I remember being in that worship time and having this deep desire to one day sing that song in Africa. Of course, at the time I had never been to Africa and had no plans to go.
But of course in 2013 I spent three months in Mozambique. In fact at that time I did hear that song when visiting a little country church one Sunday: but it was in the Makua language so sadly I could not sing along. But it brought me great joy at that time.
Now, I learned a lot when I was in Mozambique, but one of the things I learned, or thought I learned, was that working overseas, at least in the linguistics context, was not for me. This was neither a disappointing nor relieving conclusion for me. I just thought maybe I was meant to stay in the Maritimes. And that was alright with me.
But not even a year from when I arrived back from Mozambique, I went to Cameroon. I still can't believe how that happened. But without trying particularly hard, I landed back in sub-Saharan Africa. There in Cameroon, I saw national Bible translators and literacy workers do amazing things, and in my mind it was cemented: they don't need me here. It is most effective to stay at home.
So I threw myself into helping my home province of Nova Scotia. I studied Local Economic Development with the goal of somehow contributing towards the sustainable development of rural areas in Nova Scotia.
OK all this to say, I somehow ended up in Kenya today. I somehow ended up in the yard outside of our office, with my amazing Kenyan, Canadian, and Indian coworkers, singing "Hakuna mungu kama wewe" with 20 street youths from Nanyuki. And somehow I feel like this is it. Like years ago when I had that desire to be singing that song in Africa, like that was prophetic insight to this moment. Because there truly is no God like our God. Before we sang that song, a pastor was speaking to these youths. He was telling them they are fearfully and wonderfully made. He was telling them that God loves them. And you must know, these ones, they are among the most vulnerable and the most marginalized. They are some of the poorest people I have ever known. But to worship with them: that is heaven. That is what Jesus is talking about when he says "The Kingdom of God is at hand." This is the desire that God placed in my heart, some years ago. I cannot really express how beautiful and meaningful that moment was for me. Because though I cannot understand it, God somehow knew I would be here. He somehow wanted to give me this gift to see His Kingdom coming in this little corner of the world. And there are still so many problems. Hearing the stories from some of these youths, I again feel helpless. But at the same time I feel hopeful, because of our God. There is no-one like our God.
But of course in 2013 I spent three months in Mozambique. In fact at that time I did hear that song when visiting a little country church one Sunday: but it was in the Makua language so sadly I could not sing along. But it brought me great joy at that time.
Now, I learned a lot when I was in Mozambique, but one of the things I learned, or thought I learned, was that working overseas, at least in the linguistics context, was not for me. This was neither a disappointing nor relieving conclusion for me. I just thought maybe I was meant to stay in the Maritimes. And that was alright with me.
But not even a year from when I arrived back from Mozambique, I went to Cameroon. I still can't believe how that happened. But without trying particularly hard, I landed back in sub-Saharan Africa. There in Cameroon, I saw national Bible translators and literacy workers do amazing things, and in my mind it was cemented: they don't need me here. It is most effective to stay at home.
So I threw myself into helping my home province of Nova Scotia. I studied Local Economic Development with the goal of somehow contributing towards the sustainable development of rural areas in Nova Scotia.
OK all this to say, I somehow ended up in Kenya today. I somehow ended up in the yard outside of our office, with my amazing Kenyan, Canadian, and Indian coworkers, singing "Hakuna mungu kama wewe" with 20 street youths from Nanyuki. And somehow I feel like this is it. Like years ago when I had that desire to be singing that song in Africa, like that was prophetic insight to this moment. Because there truly is no God like our God. Before we sang that song, a pastor was speaking to these youths. He was telling them they are fearfully and wonderfully made. He was telling them that God loves them. And you must know, these ones, they are among the most vulnerable and the most marginalized. They are some of the poorest people I have ever known. But to worship with them: that is heaven. That is what Jesus is talking about when he says "The Kingdom of God is at hand." This is the desire that God placed in my heart, some years ago. I cannot really express how beautiful and meaningful that moment was for me. Because though I cannot understand it, God somehow knew I would be here. He somehow wanted to give me this gift to see His Kingdom coming in this little corner of the world. And there are still so many problems. Hearing the stories from some of these youths, I again feel helpless. But at the same time I feel hopeful, because of our God. There is no-one like our God.
Week 6: Advent
It's beginning to look a lot like... Jamhuri Day.
As I scroll through social media feeds, I see photos of Nova Scotia, Ottawa, and other places in Canada experiencing a lot of snow. I see photos of Christmas parties and Christmas trees and other things that seem very far removed from where I am now. All the trappings of Christmas are missing from life here in Nanyuki, and at the moment I am not missing it at all. The commercialism of Christmas in North America makes me really uncomfortable. Here, in the absence of festive distractions, I feel like I can better reflect on what Christmas means.
It means that God cares.
God cares for you.
God cares for the world he made. He did not forget it. He did not forget the precious ones he made. He cares about everyone. We see the people Jesus cared for as he walked this earth: He cared for the ones who were outside of society, like the poor and the lepers and the prostitutes. He cared for women. He cared for partygoers and rich and powerful folk, too. He cared for children. He cared for those easily confused disciples.
This is what Christmas means: it means that God did not forget us.
As I reflect on this past year, I am astonished at a theme running through the year for me. The theme of my life this year has been: I am learning how much God loves me. Which seems obvious. That's the first thing they teach you in church: Jesus loves you. But to really truly deeply know that is another thing. I still think I don't really know much God loves me. I think the theme of my life will also be learning how much God loves me. Because he loves me so much, and I am always discovering in new ways how true that is.
As I am learning more about God's love, I feel really desperate for everyone else to know, too, how much God loves them. And that's Christmas. God cares for you. God wants you. God has not forgotten you. God knows you. I have developed an obsession with Mister Rogers this year, and there is this song he sings called "It's You I Like." You should look it up. I think that song could just be God singing to us. So friend, I want you to know. God loves you. That's not just a platitude. That's truth.
Looking back on my year, and thinking about Christmas coming up, I think we have such a cool opportunity at Christmas to show others how much God cares. In fact I have a few ideas of how you can use your money to show God's love to others.
This Christmas, you could show someone how much God cares by donating to help a refugee family come to Canada. More and more, I am realizing that hospitality is such a huge way to show love. Showing hospitality to strangers is really at the center of our Gospel. For we were still sinners, and Christ died for us. I am learning that hospitality is more than just welcoming someone into our home. It is welcoming someone into our life.
This Christmas, you could show a child God cares by donating to a summer camp. This summer, I got to spend some time at both Kingswood Camp and Malagash Bible Camp. Anyone who has worked at camp can tell you that the campers who come are often really desperate for love and acceptance. Camp is a place where they experience God's love.
This Christmas, you could show a family God has not forgotten about them by donating through the Chalice gift catalogue (or even sponsoring a child!). Here in Kenya, I have seen firsthand the impact of the work of Chalice in the lives of people experiencing poverty. While the financial help families receive is important, I think the most important thing for these families is knowing that someone, somewhere, cares about them. The other day we visited one of my absolute favourite people here in Kenya, a woman named Susan who runs a home for orphans and street children just outside of town. She gushed with praise for our office: "Whenever I go to that office, I come away smiling and feeling good. They listen. Other people don't listen." That is the real value of Chalice's programs. Yes, the economic development and the nutrition programs and child sponsorship and so on are vital. But I think what really counts is that people know they are cared for. They know they have someone to come to with their problems. They do not feel alone. They feel hope.
So anyway, enough preaching. Here are some photos of my past week here.
As I scroll through social media feeds, I see photos of Nova Scotia, Ottawa, and other places in Canada experiencing a lot of snow. I see photos of Christmas parties and Christmas trees and other things that seem very far removed from where I am now. All the trappings of Christmas are missing from life here in Nanyuki, and at the moment I am not missing it at all. The commercialism of Christmas in North America makes me really uncomfortable. Here, in the absence of festive distractions, I feel like I can better reflect on what Christmas means.
It means that God cares.
God cares for you.
God cares for the world he made. He did not forget it. He did not forget the precious ones he made. He cares about everyone. We see the people Jesus cared for as he walked this earth: He cared for the ones who were outside of society, like the poor and the lepers and the prostitutes. He cared for women. He cared for partygoers and rich and powerful folk, too. He cared for children. He cared for those easily confused disciples.
This is what Christmas means: it means that God did not forget us.
As I reflect on this past year, I am astonished at a theme running through the year for me. The theme of my life this year has been: I am learning how much God loves me. Which seems obvious. That's the first thing they teach you in church: Jesus loves you. But to really truly deeply know that is another thing. I still think I don't really know much God loves me. I think the theme of my life will also be learning how much God loves me. Because he loves me so much, and I am always discovering in new ways how true that is.
As I am learning more about God's love, I feel really desperate for everyone else to know, too, how much God loves them. And that's Christmas. God cares for you. God wants you. God has not forgotten you. God knows you. I have developed an obsession with Mister Rogers this year, and there is this song he sings called "It's You I Like." You should look it up. I think that song could just be God singing to us. So friend, I want you to know. God loves you. That's not just a platitude. That's truth.
Looking back on my year, and thinking about Christmas coming up, I think we have such a cool opportunity at Christmas to show others how much God cares. In fact I have a few ideas of how you can use your money to show God's love to others.
This Christmas, you could show someone how much God cares by donating to help a refugee family come to Canada. More and more, I am realizing that hospitality is such a huge way to show love. Showing hospitality to strangers is really at the center of our Gospel. For we were still sinners, and Christ died for us. I am learning that hospitality is more than just welcoming someone into our home. It is welcoming someone into our life.
This Christmas, you could show a child God cares by donating to a summer camp. This summer, I got to spend some time at both Kingswood Camp and Malagash Bible Camp. Anyone who has worked at camp can tell you that the campers who come are often really desperate for love and acceptance. Camp is a place where they experience God's love.
This Christmas, you could show a family God has not forgotten about them by donating through the Chalice gift catalogue (or even sponsoring a child!). Here in Kenya, I have seen firsthand the impact of the work of Chalice in the lives of people experiencing poverty. While the financial help families receive is important, I think the most important thing for these families is knowing that someone, somewhere, cares about them. The other day we visited one of my absolute favourite people here in Kenya, a woman named Susan who runs a home for orphans and street children just outside of town. She gushed with praise for our office: "Whenever I go to that office, I come away smiling and feeling good. They listen. Other people don't listen." That is the real value of Chalice's programs. Yes, the economic development and the nutrition programs and child sponsorship and so on are vital. But I think what really counts is that people know they are cared for. They know they have someone to come to with their problems. They do not feel alone. They feel hope.
So anyway, enough preaching. Here are some photos of my past week here.
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| Microfinance group meeting |
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| Nutrition training-- people were so engaged! They were answering questions from the facilitators, asking questions, and taking notes. I think they learned a lot. |
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| On the weekend I attended a wedding of a couple I had never met (a friend had invited me to come the day of-- I was sort of obviously out of place!) |
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| Some wedding traditions were different than at home, but some, like the throwing of the bouquet, were just the same |
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| On Sunday a few of us went for a long walk. It was so great to be in nature, a little farther away from town. I am officially in love with Kenya. |
Monday, December 5, 2016
Week 5: Exhausted
I know the tone of most of my posts has been pretty joyful so far, and as they should be: this has been a really joyful experience so far. I love the work I do and the people at the office. I love that we get to be part of lifting people out of poverty. I love meeting people whose lives have been changed through child sponsorship, microfinance, and agricultural programs. I feel like I can see God working daily. And that's beautiful. I also love the town I live in. It is small enough that I often run into people I know on the streets, but big enough that most people are used to foreigners being around, and brewed coffee and western food is available for when I really need it. I love that I can see Mount Kenya from just outside my house. I love waking up on Sunday morning and hearing singing from the nearest church. I love the warm climate and the fresh mangoes. I love the adventures I have daily in my life and work.
That was a long introduction to say what I really want to say, which is: sometimes I don't love it. Obviously my social media posts and so on are generally positive in tone. But for every amazing experience I have, I have a hundred mundane or embarrassing or lonely or disappointing or difficult or uncomfortable or scary or overwhelming experiences. Living in new cultural context, away from one's support system and frames of reference, is not easy. It seems obvious to say that, but sometimes I need to remind myself of that. It is not supposed to be easy.
It is supposed to be like this. It is supposed to be incredibly difficult and yet incredibly rewarding. There are supposed to be tears, but not without a lot of laughter. It is OK to miss home. It is OK to not understand a lot of things. It's OK to feel lost. It is supposed to be exhausting.
And this week has been exhausting. On Sunday I was exhausted from the long church service with dubious theology. On Monday I was exhausted from getting caught up in a presidential rally, birthday celebrations, and necessarily late-night Skype sessions. On Tuesday, I was not so exhausted, but I did do a lot of walking, so physically I was tired. On Wednesday, I was especially exhausted from waking up at 2:30am to catch a matatu to Nairobi, navigating the city, getting vaccinated, meeting people, experiencing the legendary traffic jams, and finally making it back home at 11:30pm. On Thursday I was exhausted from Wednesday, and I also became exhausted after hearing the life stories of a few people here.
Since I was already exhausted, it was pretty emotionally taxing to hear those stories about orphaned children with nowhere to go, sick children with no money for treatment, or children who had been sexually assaulted. And I don't mean to complain. My emotional stress from hearing this is nowhere close to the trauma that these children are experiencing. But there is a feeling or powerlessness and helplessness that comes when hearing these stories. I try to think of solutions to problems, but solutions don't come so easily. And I know I am not big enough to solve all of them. I am exhausted knowing that I cannot solve the injustice of this world. All I can do is pray. For though I am powerless, God has power. I need to trust that. I need to trust that he will intervene to somehow make these people's lives better. I believe God is a compassionate God, and he is not causing suffering. I believe he will stop suffering.
Even though life here is exhausting, I would not give it up for anything. Of course there are days when I wish I could just watch Netflix or drive my car or go to church without worrying about blowing out my eardrums. But I think of those lines of Brave New World and they are how I feel: "But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin." I would rather be exhausted from encountering injustice in the world than be insulated from that injustice. I would rather face the challenges of cross-cultural communication than only have relationships with those from my same culture. It's worth it. It's worth it because I can continue to learn how to see the world for what it really is. It's worth it because I am with the people who Jesus loves. It's worth it because through this, Jesus is showing me how much he loves me.
That was a long introduction to say what I really want to say, which is: sometimes I don't love it. Obviously my social media posts and so on are generally positive in tone. But for every amazing experience I have, I have a hundred mundane or embarrassing or lonely or disappointing or difficult or uncomfortable or scary or overwhelming experiences. Living in new cultural context, away from one's support system and frames of reference, is not easy. It seems obvious to say that, but sometimes I need to remind myself of that. It is not supposed to be easy.
It is supposed to be like this. It is supposed to be incredibly difficult and yet incredibly rewarding. There are supposed to be tears, but not without a lot of laughter. It is OK to miss home. It is OK to not understand a lot of things. It's OK to feel lost. It is supposed to be exhausting.
And this week has been exhausting. On Sunday I was exhausted from the long church service with dubious theology. On Monday I was exhausted from getting caught up in a presidential rally, birthday celebrations, and necessarily late-night Skype sessions. On Tuesday, I was not so exhausted, but I did do a lot of walking, so physically I was tired. On Wednesday, I was especially exhausted from waking up at 2:30am to catch a matatu to Nairobi, navigating the city, getting vaccinated, meeting people, experiencing the legendary traffic jams, and finally making it back home at 11:30pm. On Thursday I was exhausted from Wednesday, and I also became exhausted after hearing the life stories of a few people here.
Since I was already exhausted, it was pretty emotionally taxing to hear those stories about orphaned children with nowhere to go, sick children with no money for treatment, or children who had been sexually assaulted. And I don't mean to complain. My emotional stress from hearing this is nowhere close to the trauma that these children are experiencing. But there is a feeling or powerlessness and helplessness that comes when hearing these stories. I try to think of solutions to problems, but solutions don't come so easily. And I know I am not big enough to solve all of them. I am exhausted knowing that I cannot solve the injustice of this world. All I can do is pray. For though I am powerless, God has power. I need to trust that. I need to trust that he will intervene to somehow make these people's lives better. I believe God is a compassionate God, and he is not causing suffering. I believe he will stop suffering.
Even though life here is exhausting, I would not give it up for anything. Of course there are days when I wish I could just watch Netflix or drive my car or go to church without worrying about blowing out my eardrums. But I think of those lines of Brave New World and they are how I feel: "But I don't want comfort. I want God, I want poetry, I want real danger, I want freedom, I want goodness, I want sin." I would rather be exhausted from encountering injustice in the world than be insulated from that injustice. I would rather face the challenges of cross-cultural communication than only have relationships with those from my same culture. It's worth it. It's worth it because I can continue to learn how to see the world for what it really is. It's worth it because I am with the people who Jesus loves. It's worth it because through this, Jesus is showing me how much he loves me.
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| Thankful for birthday celebrations! |
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| I am learning to embrace the life of the chameleon: adapting to whatever circumstances I may be in |
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| A little glimpse of that infamous Nairobi traffic |
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