Pulling the Pieces Apart

Ndikupita?

2007-12-04T06:33:00.000-08:00

It's hard to believe I'm leaving already.

My flights on Friday. I head to Addis Ababa, Ethiopia via Zambia, then Washington DC via Rome. From DC I go to Boston where I spend four days with my mom and sister visiting my grandparents, aunt and uncle, and great aunt. Then I'm off to Wheaton for some time and finally back to Texas for Christmas.

There will be more coming eventually. For now I ask for your prayers amidst transitions.

Thank you for journeying with me this far.

C and Me

2007-11-20T07:32:00.000-08:00

What happens when issues

aren't just statistics or even names and faces?

When poverty, AIDS and underdevelopment are so real

and so widespread that they are just
another part of life?

Communication

2007-11-20T05:57:00.000-08:00

People say faces and names change statistics to reality. Take World Vision’s marketing strategy. It is basic math, really. One poor child in the village plus one rich family in the suburbs equals school fees and uniforms for another kid in the rural Africa. It works, too. World Vision could easily be one of the best funded Christian NGOs in the world. It is in Malawi at least. Statistics? Deemed lifeless, impersonal, and overwhelming. Plus, everybody knows people manipulate and exaggerate statistics to make cases and prove points. While numbers might show the viability of development project x, what people want are testimonials. Example: “Tamala was born into a small village. In her small hut with a thatched roof there are too many mouths and not enough food. For Tamala the chance of completing Standard 6 is low, and the probability of early marriage very high. The mere donation of 20 cents per day by someone just like you has given Fanny the opportunity at the life she always wanted. She is now close to the top of her class and her future remains bright. By sacrificing your weekly Starbucks you, too, can make a difference.” And so on and so forth. I don’t mean to poke fun. But I do.

In my many questions I have come to one conclusion. The diverse realities of life should be communicated. People’s stories deserve to be told. Enough already with our isolated bubbles. I moved from one in Penang, Malaysia to another in Wheaton, Illinois. If we are a global community and, better yet, the global church we need to hear and know the voices of other perspectives. Yet so much is lost in translation. Of particularly interest to me is how information and experiences travel from the Global South to the Global North. How can the dignity and honor of those in the South be maintained? How can true partnerships form with such blaring inequity? How should truth be communicated? Responsibly.

A telephone game of massive proportions takes place with every news article, blog entry, HNGR essay, and letter home. It’s like this. A certain reality takes place on the ground. It could be a fresh encounter with AIDS, poverty, racism, or gender inequality. This event is perceived through the lens of an outsider who, most likely, doesn’t understand the complexity of everything happening. The “experience” then finds its way on paper where the most memorable things are recorded and suddenly find validity and permanence. Desire for good writing with engaging images and captivating metaphors inevitably means that certain things come, and certain go. The final product then travels to another continent (say America) where someone reads it on a computer screen or piece of paper. Portions are read carefully, other skimmed, and some parts skipped all together. At the end of the day the reader most likely processes what she agrees with already or finds relevant to her life. She disregards the rest. With a prayer (for the religious ones among us) or by chance (for those not so much) what finally reaches the brain gives a tiny peep hole into the reality on the ground. Ideally this glimpse will lead to increased personal understanding, perhaps it will make for more knowledgeable contribution to discussion, and maybe even some constructive action will result. However the end result will be riddled with ethnocentric distortions and stereotypes, most likely forgotten the next day. In a very pessimistic light this is the nature of communication.

After this I might easily wonder why I write it all. At times when I see the glass as half-empty I want to throw in the towel, head to the locker room, and try something safer. Like snooker. However some positive conclusions do result from these observations with regards to our responsibility as receivers and senders of information. To start I have recently been reminded of the necessity of plurality in sources with the news that I read. I have grown to love browsing editorials online regarding different subjects. Easily I believe outlandish remarks from newspapers so long as they support or build arguments for perspectives I already hold. I will boycott Fox as “conservative right wing propaganda” only to take the NYTimes as God’s gospel truth. This could also be stated in the reverse. As I do my independent study research here in Malawi I am learning something very important with regards to communicating information. Properly speaking people should always refer to African theologies in the plural. Africa is a continent (in case you haven’t heard), and noticing difference with regards to culture, history, gender, and perspective shows respect for the (often significant) diversity among people here. When we write—when I write—it is important to hold my biases in the open that a reader can appropriately judge the topic at hand. Additionally I should speak about Malawi specifically, rather than Africa at large. At times rather than just saying Malawian I need to refer to the Chewa as opposed to the Tumbuka tribe. Referring to region, tribe, denomination, social class, and a number other things can prevent overgeneralization and stereotyping. This is not to say that strong statements cannot be made. The point is I must take seriously my responsibilities as a communicator particularly when speaking to people not informed about the issue or topic at hand.

Stories can bring change. Words are powerful beyond measure, but where they breathe life they can also take it. They easily distort, stereotype, and rape others of their dignity. In this sense "development pornography" isn't just pictures. We write trashy "romance" novels practically equivalent. The goal isn't fear, but caution, not silence but carefully selected words.

Faith like a Child

2007-11-12T05:42:00.000-08:00

The other day I got into a conversation with a little boy from Burundi. The rain began to sprinkle outside as we sat at the dining room table at my good friend Grace’s house. She was giving me a pedicure and I was trying to stimulate conversation with my new five year old buddy, Neil. A loud clap of thunder echoed over our heads.

“Where does thunder come from Neil?” I asked.

“Jesus,” came the simple response.

“Thunder is from Jesus?” I inquire, “How is that?”

He jumps down from his seat and stomps his feet on the floor, words obviously not necessary. We went on talk about lightning, which Jesus throws from heaven. Neil told me that Jesus is everywhere, even in his heart. “How does a grown man, live in your heart Mr. Neil?” I ask again.

“He’s see-through,” Neil responded matter-a-factly.

My conversation with little Neil, my evenings at Crisis Nursery holding babies, and my study of Matthew 19:13-15 for my Child Development work have left me thinking about what Jesus means when he says that the kingdom of God belongs to the likes of little children. I think about children who can have such an earnest faith and trust in God, untainted by things in life that really are hard to deal with. I think about all the answers that we try to give for suffering and for hurt. Then I picture a child holding on to Jesus’ hand and skipping along the beach in simple trust. I think the passage could be dealing with the reality of the kingdom of God belonging to children as another group disadvantaged in society. At the same time I am learning a lesson in faith. Children still ask questions, but they come unhindered to the arms of Jesus. I have struggled to know what this means, but want to take it to heart. Cynicism creeps in all too easily.

It drips outside like Asian rain.

2007-10-26T02:21:00.000-07:00

It drips outside like Asian rain. A breeze must have brought the clouds from the Pearl of the Orient to the warm heart of Africa. I don’t know how they found me here. I suppose it doesn’t matter. They bring a fresh feel to my skin and a shiver down my spine. I suspect soon the sun will break through clouds of grey and puddles will disappear bringing smells of lazy Sunday afternoons. Pang’ono Pang’ono I am no longer at my desk. Fifteen again the rain pours as I sit in the living room, scrawling incomprehensible words and pictures that take no sense but pass each minute likes the waves against the sand that I hear not so far away. Soon I will go to campus to sit on the damp cement bleachers and try to play basketball on the still wet courts. The ball will smack the ground, barely returning to my waiting hand. I won't care.

Did I live there, once upon a time? As I live here now and breathe African air and smell Malawian clouds and only remember Wheaton snow and spring time flowers? Did I eat wan than mee and drink milo ice as we huddled under the tin roofs of the stalls, waiting for a chance to dash through the down pour and scream with each crash of lightning and every roll of thunder? Do the sounds of Chinese dragon dances and the rich echoes of the call to prayer only come from a movie watched in World Religions, as I sit in my nice American desk, in my nice American suburb? Are these memories of Maggie noodles and senior class trips and long conversation overlooking the sea wall really belonging to me?

They must be well-told stories of a friend, the life of someone not myself.

How can these thoughts fly across oceans and continents to find their rightful owner? What force pulls me so strongly from my desk and my Chichewa to a home no longer mine, to a reality so different from my thoughts?

I wait for the longing to go. The memories will soon by swept with the breeze back to Malaysia where they live buried in the sands until the changing of tides—until the next season. I wait for the dripping of Asian rain to slow. Pang’ono Pang’ono. Slowly I am back in Africa. I sit at my desk in Malawi. I turn to liberation theology. I hear Chichewa next door.

Therefore by the grace of God??

2007-10-23T03:25:00.000-07:00

I was looking up the context of a quote I have heard many times and stumbled across some very good thoughts that have really challenged me.

"In the Sixteenth Century, John Bradford made a famous remark which has ever since been held up to us as a model of Christian humility and correct charity and which you saw reflected in the agency quotations I presented. Seeing a beggar in his rags creeping along a wall through a flash of lightning in a stormy night Bradford said: "But for the Grace of God, there go I." Compassion was shown; pity was shown; charity was shown; humility was shown; there was even an acknowledgement that the relative positions of the two could and might have been switched. Yet despite the compassion, despite the pity, despite the charity, despite the humility, how insufferably arrogant! There was still an unbridgeable gulf between Bradford and the beggar. They were not one but two. Whatever might have been, Bradford thought himself Bradford and the beggar a beggar—one high, the other low; one wise, the other misguided; one strong, the other weak; one virtuous, the other depraved.

We do not and cannot take the Bradford approach. It is not just that beggary is the badge of our past and is still all too often the present symbol of social attitudes towards us; although that is at least part of it. But in the broader sense, we are that beggar and he is each of us. We are made in the same image and out of the same ingredients. We have the same weaknesses and strengths, the same feelings, emotions, and drives; and we are the product of the same social, economic, and other environmental forces. How much more consonant with the facts of individual and social life, how much more a part of a true humanity, to say instead:
"There, within the Grace of God, do go I."

courtesy of http://www.nfb.org/Images/nfb/Publications/convent/tb1956.htm
"Within the Grace of God"
An Address Delivered by Professor Jacobus tenBroek
President, National Federation of the Blind
at the Banquet of the Annual Convention
Held in San Francisco, July 1, 1956

more photos...

2007-10-16T02:57:00.000-07:00

Emerging African cultures

2007-10-16T02:40:00.000-07:00

5 October

After paying the 1.5 thousand MK and receiving a stamp “wherever we want” we walk through an entrance that opens into the concert venue. Two long buildings lie parallel to one another with a large stage in the middle. This area opens up into a grass park with a hut shaped bar and scattered park benches. A gazebo lies in the back and roses separate the cement front stage and the area lying farther to the back. We arrive at nine o’clock but it is still early. The emptiness casts questions on the quality of the upcoming music—a Zambian group called The Third. Doreen, Grace, and I make our way to the bar, order some drinks and sit down at one of the park benches. The air is cool, bordering cold, and many stars of Malawian night litter the dark night. In the background a slow beat of African pop reverberates from the speakers. A man grills goat meat and chicken not far from where we sit and soon my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten.

The crowd varies little. Other than me everyone is black and while I would assume Malawian my four months experience reminds me of the hidden diversity—there is also the reality that I am with a Ghanaian. The men and women around me wear jeans and tops that could have been purchased at the Gap. Not far from me a troop of dancing girls sport short miniskirts with their stomachs open to the air. A couple to my left converses in a mix of Chichewa, English, and words that technically fit neither category. They hold their Carslbergs lightly, and in a traditionally no-touch culture, sometimes hold hands.

Without a single chitenji or head scarf in sight, I am in the midst of an emerging culture in Africa that is remarkably different from its historical roots. These men and women hold jobs with Celtel cell-phone company, African Union, the Malawian government, and have their own private businesses. They drive top of the line vehicles and talk on cell phones with blue tooth. Monday through Friday they sit behind a computer in their company office negotiating grants and proposals with stake holders in Wall Street. In conference calls they make reference to global politics and the English Premier league, easily dropping their vernacular to adopt a foreign one. While on holiday they visit their home villages and move through traditional culture paying respects to their chief and elders. They know the formalities of funerals and hierarchies of power they should and must go through.

Though at first glance one might assume they have merely adopted Western culture, such a thought soon proves ethnocentric. This culture has its own dialect and dress, and the ability to navigate through two contrasting worlds with ease and expertise. Globalizing forces come through a filter of different history and priorities. The good is taken and changed for a vastly different context and race. Increasingly aspects of traditional culture are seen as oppressive and incompatible with the global community but at the same time most within this class hold to their African and Malawian identity with fierce loyalty. Various African cultures that have formed around the world—in the UK, Carribean, and United States—provide a source of inspiration for these emerging continental Africans. The negritude movement in the 60s and 70s has impacted the music, literature, and dress.

As my mind wanders into complex questions of what it means to be African (and seeing that an nzungu is not exactly the person to give the answer) my mind snaps back to my surroundings as the opening singer brings me back to reality. Dressed in faded jeans, and white long sleeved colored shirt with faint blue pinstripes, and a tan hat a Malawian in 30s jumps onto the stage with the three dancing girls previously mentioned. The music is in Chichewa and English and he does most of the singing stopping only to dance or elevator glance the girls as they shake pretty much everything.

By this point more people have joined the crowd. Some move towards the stage and start dancing. A friend of Doreen who is about four feet tall and named William keeps asking me to join him, but I keep telling him I will the next song. After what seems a long intro The Third are introduced. With some combination of hip hop and pop they burst on to the stage. “Tien! Tien! Tien!” A new Malawian culture is here, and ready to go.

Humility, Feminism, and Some More Ramblings

2007-09-17T03:23:00.000-07:00

My thoughts came as I sat on the cement steps of my home, flicking ants from my dirty brown feet, and drinking tea that had four heaping spoons of brown sugar. The orange sun slowly sank into the horizon of houses, women walked by with long branches of wood on their head, a dog marked his territory on a nearby tree, and I read the following thoughts from Denise Ackerman on theological integrity.

“[Rowan] Williams suggests that religious and theological integrity is possible as and when our speech and our writing about God ‘declines the attempt to take God’s point of view.’ If this is so, can theology make claims about the moral universe and about living a moral life? William’s answer is that theology should show what is involved ‘in bringing the complexity of the human world to judgment before God; not by seeking to articulate or complete that judgment.’ I wonder about theological integrity. Have I desisted from pressures to use the power of the academy to control and am I really willing to be open, self-critical, and vulnerable in my writing? As I write the word ‘vulnerable’ I know that it is one that some feminist theologians fight shy of. They argue that women cannot afford vulnerability. It has been our lot for too long. While I understand their fear, I have found that I cannot do theology that lets go of vulnerability. Vulnerability is just too deeply part of my faith.”

I am deeply attracted to this line of thinking such that little else resonates so strongly and deeply within me. It echoes conversations with friends about faith and truth. It reverberates anxious questions that I dare not ask even myself. It makes me think about humility which I would say comes part-in-parcel with vulnerability. Culture, both “Christian” and secular, encourages us to express ourselves with confidence. We witness confidence in others and long for it in ourselves. I doubt, then, if we truly believe Ackerman’s words that vulnerability is part of the Christian faith and actually central to the gospel. When the Cross confronts our understanding of power and when compassion looks like “voluntary displacement” (as described by Henry Nouwen) I truly wonder if Christianity might be so counter to our natural intuition that our theological claims demand more humility—perhaps for no other reason than that our actions often trail at such a distance.

A professor of mine begins his theology classes with something that I have always found admirable. I think always, until now. He points out how when girls in his lectures answer question they begin with the preface, “This probably isn’t right but…” He tells us not to say this. In mentioning this my professor recognizes an often subtle, unmentioned insecurity that exists among many women in academics. I see this as a truly admirable characteristic of his teaching— that he not only recognizes social realities that make for an unbalanced playing field in the academic world, but that he seeks to confront and shape his students otherwise. In a white, male dominated field he demonstrates this in a concern to give women the opportunity to think well theologically, and also for minorities to do so as well. Perhaps he only does what all professors ought to do. However while I think what he does is important, I question this correction based upon a deeper assumption that confidence is a good thing.

Many women lack self-confidence when entering more male dominated fields. This can be seen in the common preface to statements as mentioned in the paragraph above. After time in the arena the woman will adjust and change her approach. In coming to the material with the same confidence and assertiveness as her male counterparts she is easily pegged as unfeminine (and maybe even a bit of a bitch). Needless to say that is material for another essay. The point is: she can thrive. The question is: is this confidence a good thing? Instead should adjustments be made in the other direction?

Throughout history this aspect of the female character (her sense of humility and vulnerability) has been abused by cultures and religions to place women in subordinate roles that oppress their dignity and value before God. I am not saying that these are admirable traits for women. I am saying that they are biblical traits present in Christ himself. Feminist theologian Chung Hyun Kyung goes so far as to say that Christ chooses to clothe himself with explicitly female traits in his suffering and humility, thus acting as a symbol for females. Vulnerability, humility, and submission come with the gospel and are rooted in the Christian faith. We ought to celebrate questions and a recognition that “we might not be right.” We ought to shout a hearty “Amen!” and in our brokenness and confusion come to the open and pierced hands of Jesus Christ. He has promised to lift up the humble. I wonder what it means for vulnerability to be part of my faith such that it finds its way into my statements about truth and life and how this world turns 'round.

An open letter in interaction with my blog

2007-09-10T06:33:00.000-07:00

Dear Aunty Jean,

Thank you so much for your letter. It found me on a warmer than normal afternoon along with a tasty package of chocolates from Grandma and a letter from a man I don’t know who lives in RI named Ron Dabelle. Do you know him?

Winter is ending here in Malawi and the temperature continues to climb as summer begins. I gladly post this on my blog, curious as to what you will think about our correspondence taking place in such a public forum. Your provocative questions that stem from my writing is encouraging, and reminds me to think and write more precisely. Even now I think of admonitions from my professor, Dr. Husbands, to choose words that say exactly what I mean. Nothing more, nothing less. This letter/blog will seek to do that.

I almost laughed out loud when I read these following words in your letter. “In your next blog will you please print that indeed you Aunty Jean does not have a computer. The reason is because she does not want to have one. As far as the word blog goes, one has to be living under a rock not to know what it is (emphasis mine).” So, as you have requested, your words have been printed and the world (the very small one that is either actually or practically related to me and thus obligated to take interest in my life, or has no idea who I am and is very bored on a quiet Sunday afternoon) knows that you do not live under a rock and are in fact very intentional about your choices. They also have had a glimpse into your quick wit and dry humor. (I smile).

I wanted to address the rest of questions on my blog for a number of reasons. You will excuse me Aunty Jean as I address the rest of the audience so as to explain my posting. The questions posed below have really made me think. In writing this perhaps I will clarify for some who are interested what I actually mean, even though I might say something otherwise. Needless to say it brings clarity to my own often jumbled thoughts. For all who are looking for something remarkably African, you may have to look elsewhere. So, without further ado…Here’s a dialogue for all to see between me and my Aunt.

With regards to the article entitled “Pulling the Pieces Apart”
Do you feel it necessary at the end of your journey (could be a lifelong journey) to have the puzzle put back together?
Short answer: No.
Long answer: I do not think it is necessary because I cannot place my security in my own ability to understand. The metaphor may fall apart quickly, but let me try. Say the pieces reflect different ideological understandings of how I think God works, the world operates, and maybe the role that humans play in this complex matrix. The puzzle all completed would represent me figuring it all out. But maybe at one time I think this piece belong here, in this spot. I start thinking, “Oh the final picture is a beautiful waterfall.” Then I realize that really the piece only looked like it fit. The piece I hold doesn’t actually even have any water on it. This is where you can notice my post-modern tendencies. I think it’s important for me to say that just because I, Jessica Friesen, cannot put the puzzle together, it doesn’t mean that there isn’t one master puzzle that in the end God will complete.

Do you think you have been too rigid in your thinking?
Yes. I often judge others and their thoughts and conclusions…if this is what you mean by being too rigid.

Are you concerned that you will not be successful in moving people to your way of thinking?
On good days, no. This isn’t my job and to be honest I would be worried if people all thought like me. If you are referring to aspects of Christianity and the person of Jesus Christ, it will never be me that moves anyone, anywhere. While it isn’t always, my main concern should be, am I moving towards God’s way of thinking? But on bad days I get awfully convinced that it is my duty and that I do have it figured out. When it comes to this point I have lost all humility and have stopped, as my friend Sarah Tupper says, letting the gospel speak to me.

Do you think maybe looking to Jesus for all the questions you want answered might be putting words into his mouth, so to speak, that he never uttered?
This question make me think. I find it very difficult to be honest. I think I will look at the latter half of the question first. I do fear that I might put words into Jesus’ mouth that he never uttered, I really do. The words Christ did speak were difficult ones that challenge my thinking and my lifestyle. Because of this I would easily seek to adjust what I read or perhaps look for easier parts of Scripture. But I think this missed your question. Do you mean does Jesus really have all the answers? Has the Church really filled in holes with answers that you don’t find in the Old or New Testaments?
This is perhaps where I think that we must tred carefully with our questions that we look for Christ to speak to. There are places where I think there are not answers. Jesus does not give the why’s to a lot of questions. He simply beckons that we come follow him. Rather than put words into Jesus’ mouth I want to learn to live in the ambiguity—hence the pulling the pieces apart.

With regards to my interests and your very interesting quote
What is the game Ultimate all about?
Perhaps I should say Ultimate Frisbee. This might give you a better picture. You have a Frisbee and two teams and a field smaller than a soccer field. You can’t run with the Frisbee (which Ultimate players call a disc) but throw it to people on your team. A dropped disc or an interception is a turn over. The game has evolved such that there are various positions and even different types of strategic offenses and defenses that can be used to get the disc to your end zone and prevent the opponent from doing the same. Does that make sense? Since freshmen year I’ve played on a team from Wheaton and have really loved it.

As to liking to read ‘good dogmatic theology.’ Do you really mean dogmatic? I looked it up in the ‘America Heritage College Dictionary’ 1993. It said: (1) Relating to, characteristic of, or resulting from dogma (2) Characterized by an authoritative, arrogant assertion of unproved or unprovable principles.
That definition is most certainly not something you come across in Wheaton College undergraduate theology classes. I find it quite interesting. I have looked the word up in a couple other dictionaries to find a range of meanings. However the definition that I want is not what I find. Most difficult are the use of the words authoritative and arrogant. I do not a problem with the unproved aspect nearly as much.
I have understood dogmatic theology to be that which pertains to the life of the Church largely to correct Church practice and belief. I say dogmatic theology in contrast to theology done in defense of Christianity with the foundation being human rationality. However your question and the understood definitions that I have found do make me want to question my usage of the term.

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Writing this also makes me feel a bit like CS Lewis or Lamin Sanneh (author of Whose Religion is Christianity?) for some very strange reason. Even stranger yet, I like it...probably more than anyone will like reading it. I look forward to hearing what you think about these responses. Do you feel that you have gained answers throughout your journey? What do you think the puzzle looks like in the end? Would you like to play Ultimate with me sometime?

I send my greetings from Malawi, and hope that somehow this blog finds you well in Maine.

Peace,
Jessica

more unconnected pieces

2007-09-03T02:10:00.000-07:00

Question: How can poverty and affluence coexist?

“…it is not the sheer face of massive world poverty that is a scandal to the church and all humanity; the scandal lies in the fact that this abject poverty is today not an unavoidable feature of our human situation, and even more so in the fact that the impoverished coexist in our world-system with an equal number who live in unprecedented affluence. Poverty amidst plenty with the gap becoming greater: this is the scandal.” -Nicholas Wolterstorff Until Justice and Peace Collide

I sit at a restaurant eating my chambo and rice. A woman comes with a baby strapped to her back, and I see her gather the leftovers from people's plates.

Poverty scrapes dinner from the sewers of the affluent. I watch.

Art and the Formation of Community: A Protestant/Catholic Debate

2007-08-16T02:55:00.000-07:00

[For the more dedicated (read bored) among you]

I spent the weekend at a Catholic Mission with a parish father who has given the majority of his life to learning about and understanding Malawian traditional religions. Through his work I caught a glimpse into the depth and complexity within the traditional cultures of the Chewa, Ngoni, and Yao tribes. Much of his anthropological work has been on the meaning of colors and symbols found in the sophisticated mosaic of Malawian song, dance, costume, and ceremony. The time Father Claude Boucher (painter of the picture behind my title) has dedicated to the inculturation of the gospel message into traditional culture is unparalled and has led to truly unique expressions of African Christianity. I was privileged to see what I could call a truly Malawian catechism, very Malawian iconography of Jesus Christ, and a church that used traditional Chewa, Ngoni, and Nyao symbols and colors to express the gospel message. A large wooden Chewa mask hangs at the front of the sanctuary, and by using this mask Father Boucher takes what traditionally represents the spiritual realm to be an artistic interpretation of the God of not only the Old and New Testament, but of traditional religions as well.

Father Boucher’s work recognizes the intrinsic dignity of a culture that since the colonial missionary enterprise has continually been told what correct Christian practice and worship is. The missionary movement in Africa often failed to allow for African discovery of the outworking of the gospel message within their context, failing to separate their own cultural expression from the gospel. The Christian Church has existed within the continent for centuries with remarkably little of its own liturgy, creed, and religious art. The work at Mua Mission is unique in a sense that it shouldn’t be.

While writing provides an outlet for the few artistic bones found in my body, my heart does not beat the rhythm of a melody, and my eyes do not see the lines and colors of a photograph. I do not (usually) feel the anguish of the tortured artist soul. This comes as a disclaimer for my brothers and sisters who are artists. I am only making observations, and this is not based on the pain that I know some feel in being unable to find a place to use and develop the skills God has given. First let me say that by art I mean not only painting, drawing, and carving (I apologize for my lack of vocabulary in the discipline), but ritual and ceremony as well. Anyways, let me begin:
Art is not only profoundly necessary for the individual artist, but for the function of community and the development of culture. For illiterate cultures, oral tradition and ceremonial ritual serve to hold community and to preserve a clan or tribe through time. Art then functions to not only express but define cultural norms and pass on values that create a cohesive unit. In Malawian cultures this is evidenced in ceremonial rites that mark the death of a certain period in one’s life (i.e. birth, puberty, marriage) and rebirth into another. These rituals contain song, dance, and symbolic use of various colors and symbols which are central to the communitarian existence of the village. Outside of the community, the individual cannot survive and without engaging in the artistic life of the village, ostracism remains inevitable. On the flip side, without protecting the unit as a whole, no one will manage to live through famine, tribal conflict, or other forces that threaten a community. Enter Christianity. Missionaries came to Africa proclaiming the message of the Bible and rejecting the majority of traditional ceremony and ritual due to its intrinsically pagan nature. The outcome? People were left without that which had ensured the stability and longevity of their community. As these rituals die out in various villages, community disintegrates. To a people whose individuality matters little, this meant devastation.

We will compound the problem with Western Protestantism. The evangelical church in North America is void of sophisticated ritual, liturgy, or religious art just as it is largely void of true community. Today both the Bible Church in the suburbs of the United State and the CCIP village prayer house in Malawi will be without of any paintings, carvings, or costume. With the exception of a couple of mainstream denominations like Anglicanism and Presbyterianism, the Protestant Church functions without the very fabric of what is necessary in maintaining community—shared ritualistic activity. In Luke 14:25-27, Jesus Christ calls his disciples to leave father, mother, brother, and sister for the purpose of following him. Essentially he is calling for a willingness to lay down clan and tribe. This death to the old self is only the beginning as Peter articulates that this turning from the old includes entry into a new people, a royal priesthood—the body of Christ (1 Peter 2:9-10). Yet how can a people leave a pagan culture, rich with rituals, ceremony, song, and dance, to enter into a Church void of that which allows community to exist?

In many ways what Father Boucher has done could have only happened within the Roman Catholic tradition. Roman Catholicism comes with a rich understanding of ritual and liturgy. Symbolic action exists throughout the mass and the religious calendar. Along with this is a theological understanding of the authority of the church that is absent in Protestantism. Community stems from this. There is a place with the Roman Catholic tradition for seeking to incorporate the rich artistic nature of Malawian culture into religious expression. In contrast Protestant conversion strips Malawian culture of that which is at the core of its identity, leaving a highly illiterate population with the Bible and hymn book.

To the person living immersed in Enlightenment individualism and the personal piety of the evangelical church in the United States, this cannot make sense. Ritual echoes many negative connotations and ideas of Roman Catholic liturgy are restrictive and oppressive. However I want to hold that in rejecting iconography, religious art, and liturgical worship, the Protestant church has not only suppressed the individual artist, but a fundamental aspect to community. I am trying to do a lot in a short amount of space. More research (or more personal reading) needs to be done related to the anthropological relationship between community and art. I also need to read more into the rejection of art in the Protestant tradition. I recognize that I am not mentioning any of the problems that do arise out of ritualistic worship or Roman Catholic liberalism. The challenges are not insignificant. All that said, these are the beginning of some musings of mine.

Many thanks to Dr. Husbands for a great time romping through Malawi. I think your presence amidst conversations with our new liberal Roman Catholic friend saved me from conversion and initiation into the nyao cult. I will not soon forget our time together. I promise to write something soon that protects evangelicalism, but will save it for the “big one.”

2007-07-27T04:17:00.000-07:00

25 July 2007

It is hard to describe the sway of the dance, the rhythm of the clapping, the shrill of the agoga, and the strong voice of the caller. The beat takes hold of your heart, forcing your feet to step, and making your body move. Yes, even my body. I soaked it in as we prepared to leave Chikumba today. How do I feel at home when I don’t know the words that surround me and that even come from my mouth? I sit with people I have known so briefly yet I’ve prayed with them and eaten nsema with them and opened the Word of God with them. Why do I so love being with the women, our plates on the ground as we sit in the shade of the hut? Why does it feel so normal? What makes me feel connected to Ines when language puts up barriers seemingly insurmountable? Why does a lump rise in my throat as we sit in our chitenji’s and I know I will leave her as abruptly as I have arrived? I take the Chichewa Bible from her hands and open it to Zephaniah 3:17. She reads it and looks at me whispering, “Zikomo kwanbiri.” Thank you very much. Desperately I want to communicate with this Malawian sister of mine. Later we simply stood next to one another while in my head there are so many questions. I want to ask her what she is thinking. Where was the father of little, silent Matthews? How at 21 was she the mother of this 3-year-old. Did they have enough food to eat? My eyes brim with tears as I wonder about the differences in our lives. I don’t understand why now I cry. As I drove away it was another goodbye ripping at my insides—a piece of me left in Chikumba.

The emotions inside come from so many different places I cannot pull it all together. Poverty now has a name and face and a smile. Young motherhood is a friend who will grab my hands as I put my arms around her shoulder. Hand-to-mouth subsistence farming wears corn rolls and a green chitenji. She mouths the words of Chichewa songs to me so that I can join in. Desperation is my peer and friend wanting me to give her empty water bottles and scraping others unfinished lunch into a plastic bag. It is Ines asking me for money after I’ve been with her for a week and half. Did my saying sorry and no leave her ashamed? I pray no. Was she upset, her time with this strange mazungu wasted? I pray no.

I am very confused. Very sad. I wish I could go back now and find her. I wish I could tell her that I am impressed by her leadership and perseverance. I wish I could tell her how much I have enjoyed being with her. She is my friend, my peer, my sister. She doesn’t need to ask for money. She’s better than that. I want her not to be ashamed that she did. I don’t blame her. I don’t think her stupid. I am very frustrated that I cannot communicate these things. I don’t know what to do. Why does praying not seem to be enough?

A favorite.

2007-07-27T04:03:00.000-07:00

She's asks me to take her picture. I show her. "Mai, you are very beautiful," I say. She laughs. She knows its true.

Chikumba Village

2007-07-27T03:48:00.000-07:00

Chikumba Village

2007-07-27T03:32:00.000-07:00

Pulling the Pieces Apart

2007-07-14T05:58:00.000-07:00

My Aunty Jean asked my mom why I call my blog “Pulling the Pieces Apart.” My Aunty Jean doesn’t have a computer so I wonder how she knows the title of my blog. I wonder if she knows what a blog is. Because she asked I thought it a topic worthy of an entry. In writing this I have thought about these four words far more then when I initially typed them to hush the taunting cursor blinking on the black page. Naming a blog is the type of thing that intimidates me. Here goes an explanation.

As humans we strive for completion. We long for order amidst chaos, answers amidst questions, and solutions amidst the countless problems that plague our countries, our neighborhoods, our relationships, and, need I say it, ourselves. With things in shambles around and within us we grapple for control looking for pieces to fill holes that that keep our minds racing late into the night. We want black and white, when reality throws us reds, yellows, blues, and a lot of greys. We construct rules and systems that give us answers that satisfy and then breathe a sigh of relief because once again human rationality has prevailed. There is a solution and we have found it. In many ways I think we do this with the gospel and with this man, this Messiah, this God we call Jesus. We look at Jesus, and we tame him to answer our questions and quiet our hearts.
These past couple of days I have been reading an undergraduate thesis my friend Holly sent me written by her friend Chris Hoke. The title is “Order and Its Undoing: A Reintroduction to the Offense and Opportunity of the Gospel.” The words offense and opportunity have stuck with me. Chris begins by quoting John 6:60-67. It reads,

“Upon hearing Jesus’ words, many of his disciples said, ‘This is a hard teaching. Who can accept it?’Aware that his disciples were grumbling about this, Jesus said to them,
‘Does this offend you?...’
From this time many of his disciples turned back and no longer followed him.
‘You do not want to leave, too, do?’ Jesus asked of those remaining.”

Now I don’t think that it’s bad that we look for answers, I think that it’s pretty natural, and I think that if there is any place we should look, it is most definitely in Jesus. However sometimes we get so comfortable in routine and in our own little worlds, we think that our perspective has provided infallible answers. We fail to see that our fallen culture affects our values, priorities, and even the way that we understand Christ. We theologize, we systematize, and we rationalize to show exactly how God can be good, and there can be this confusion that we see and feel. There is something very positive to be said about ambiguity. Periods exist in our life when things do not fit neatly together and the questions cause us to toss and turn late into the night. World views, cultures, and people different than us challenge and pull apart pieces in puzzles that we thought we had put so well together. When the answers come as an offense to what culture and human desire tell us is true, our world does not fit nicely together with all the curves sliding nicely into place.

HNGR is not an experience separate from the rest of my life. It is just another leg of this journey that will be over as quickly as it started. During this six months though, I want to be ok with new thoughts and people and experiences pulling apart pieces of ideological puzzles I have previously protected so well. I see it happening daily. I suspect that my field journal will not be full of ground breaking insights into Malawian culture, sustainable development, and African theology. It’s tempting to pretend that I know things I don’t or to jump to solutions when I’ve actually convinced myself that I do. I’ve already done it countless times. My little contributions are found independently inadequate but there is a narrative far bigger that I can enter into—an epic tale of God establishing His Kingdom here on earth. In many ways as God reveals the depth of my need for Him, certain things crumble, but as various places that I thought had been so clear, are held up to the light and found murky, I am realizing that God is pulling apart the pieces for the purpose of revealing something better.

So yes. A long question to a short answer. Congratulations if you actually read all that. It’s for you mom…you and Aunty Jean.

some more for my mom :)

2007-07-14T04:48:00.000-07:00

this is Joyce's house. my room is in the right corner of the house.

An Update of Sorts

2007-07-14T04:44:00.000-07:00

11 July 2007

I can see Mozambique from here. The sky is clear as the sun begins to set and the mountains clearly jut out from the lake. A couple women scrub their clothes in the water not far from me. Kids play by the fishing boats. The wind carries their chatter in my direction. A couple men try to catch something with these poles of sorts. I hope it is chambo (a local species of fish) and they sell it to the lodge. If I felt adventurous I would go say, “Muli bwanji?” and try to chat. The anthropologist inside me is off duty, and I’m tired of my limited Chichewa.
I sat on this bench a little over four weeks ago. I had just arrived in Malawi and was feeling very carried by the prayers of others. I struggled with not having a role to play and not knowing everything that happened all around me. Little things change in four weeks. Transition comes so slowly that I think you don’t even realize it. I am feeling much more at home here.
I am in Salima, a rural district outside of Lilongwe with the Church Mobilization department. The conference going on is an Envisioning workshop—training of church leaders (pastors, committee members, village headmen) as part of the initial stage of the implementation of the development projects that WR helps churches implement in their communities. It has made me appreciate the role and need for the church like never before. The challenges before the communities here are great and multifaceted. I am continually convinced that if development will come it will be because of grassroots efforts that take place in and through the local body of Christ. I am still part of Child Development, but have been given this opportunity (and hopefully more) to see what CM does.
Four boys walk by me on the beach as I write this. They do cartwheels and somersaults as they show off continually glancing at me to see if I notice that they’re there. One of them yells at me to give him money. I laugh as I ask him why. They keep laughing and shoving one another, never really give up on the money question. Four weeks later and I’m still trying to think of some witty response to the boy with outstretched arm saying, “Give me money!” Never once has a girl asked me for money, and at least a couple times a week I will hear it from a boy. I wonder why that is. As the little gang continues along they punch the air and kick each other. I smile. I have loved seeing how similar kids are here compared to Malaysia or the States. Boys will be boys.
I have a lot of short interactions with strangers (like those boys) that make me laugh and appreciate a world larger than Wheaton. In a world where friendships are far different than those I know from back home small acts of kindness have grown to mean a lot: a woman holding my hand as she tells me I should come visit her and her husband in the village, a baby laughing as he grabs my necklace and lets me hold him, someone from the office inviting me camping for the weekend.

This entry is a random selection from something I just had to write for the HNGR office. I apologize that it lacks continuity. It’s an attempt to give a little window into some of how I am doing. I head back to Salima on Sunday for two weeks. A group from Switzerland is coming and many of us from the office will be headed out to a village that is building a multi-purpose hall funded by this Swiss group. Mornings will consist of construction work with about 50 workers from the village and then in home visits with AIDS patients as well as children’s clubs and things like that. I am very excited to be back in Salima, and am really looking forward to what new experiences this might hold.

Some prayer requests:
Continue to pray for my research as I seek to narrow my topic and develop more contacts. Dr. Husbands comes 9 Aug so there is also preparation that I need to do for that.

I really am working on language. I could use prayers for continued motivations as well as encouragement amidst all the inevitable mix ups.

As I see the lifestyle of the women in the villages—their limited chances for education, their lack of choices, the frequent abuse that takes place, their many responsibilities—I have been overwhelmed by what is “normal.” Pray for freedom for women in these situations. Pray for progress that allows for more opportunities for women to receive education. Pray for protection against the frequent abuses that take place.

Pray that for people with whom to process all that I am seeing and learning. I am very much a verbal processor and would like to be talking about all that I am seeing more. Sometimes it can be a bit overwhelming.

Well I need to go help pack a vehicle. So I must rush.

Mulungu akudalitseni.
God Bless

Evidence that I am still alive and I don't only take pictures of cute Malawian kids.

2007-07-09T04:34:00.000-07:00

I'm pretty good with a panga knife. Emmanuel assured me if I did it every day I would get very strong. I assured him that I already was.

(OK, I couldn't even cut the little stick.)

Tuma Forest Preserve-- 8 July 2007

2007-07-09T02:56:00.000-07:00

No words or pictures could lay hold of that which lies before me. My 35mm cannot capture the mist that blankets the mountains. The mere scratches that I make on this paper do not articulate the vastness of the expanse, or the morning chatter of monkeys, or the sight of a wild buffalo running through the bush. In trying to solidify I spoil and diminish--vain attempts to capture whispering wind. My words reveal untouched secrets and tell unspoken of sights.

I want to stretch my arms and leap from these rocks that my body might soar over the massive boa bab trees. I want to grab the branch that is just out of my reach and swing through the jungle. I want to stop sounding existential and tell you that you cannot understand God’s promise to Abraham until you see these stars. Millions dot the sky. I want you to know that Africa is not just poverty and AIDS and conflict. How can I communicate that these hills breathe life? They breathe hope. The squealing of a wild hog breaks my train of thought asking me to stop trying. The sun coming over the horizon beckons me to be here, now. My pen slowly realizes that it is better to live now than merely observe. It is better to interact than to document. I look up from my lap, put my lid on my pen, and close my journal. This is all I have. There are no more words.

Mailing Address:

2007-07-04T07:27:00.001-07:00

For those who might be interested:

Jessica Friesen
c/o World Relief
PO Box 30717
Lilongwe 3, Malawi

:)

Thy Kingdom Come

2007-07-04T02:06:00.000-07:00

They ask that they will never take for granted that which has been given.
They thank God for the gift of life.

As ARVs fail, as behavior fails to change, as the infection rate increases, as cousins and uncles and sisters die, there are those who close their eyes.
They bow their heads.
They pray.

Who Am I? by Dietrich Bonhoeffer

2007-07-04T01:57:00.000-07:00

Who am I? They often tell me
I stepped from my cell's confinement
calmly, cheerfully, firmly,
like a Squire from his country house.

Who am I? They often tell me
I used to speak to my warders
freely and friendly and clearly
as though it were mine to command.

Who am I? They also tell me
I bore the days of misfortune
equably, smilingly, proudly,
like one accustomed to win.

Am I then really that which other men tell of?
Or am I only what I myself know of myself?
Restless and longing and sick, like a bird in a cage,
struggling for breath, as though hands were compressing my throat,
yearning for colours, for flowers, for the voices of birds,
thirsting for words of kindness, for neighbourliness,
tossing in expectation of great events,
powerlessly trembling for friends at an infinite distance,
weary and empty at praying, at thinking, at making,
faint, and ready to say farewell to it all.

Who am I? This or the Other?
Am I one person today and tomorrow another?
Am I both at once?
A hypocrite before others,
and before myself a contemptible woebegone weakling?
Or is something within me still like a beaten army
fleeing in disorder from victory already achieved?
Who am I?
They mock me, these lonely questions of mine.
Whoever I am, Thou knowest, O God, I am thine!

boys will be boys

2007-07-02T03:12:00.000-07:00

These boys were in a village in Salima. They were crazy...loved looking at there reflection in the windows of the truck. They had a bird tied by its legs to a string. they kept whipping it around like a yoyo. i held it, but unfortunatly don't know how to say, "could you let it go?" in Chichewa. chances are it was there snack later on that day.

Education in Malawi [A Glimpse into my Field Journal]

2007-06-29T05:05:00.000-07:00

Driving from village to village we see children playing outside their homes—a young boy pushes the rim of a bicycle tire with a stick, a girl carries a basket of maize on her head. It isn’t a small minority but a large percentage, such that it seems normal that there would be primary aged kids in the community around mid-morning. We ask a girl and her friends why they aren’t in school. “It’s already knocked off,” they say as they grin, pressed up against the galimoto. It’s only 9 in the morning, and the lie isn’t even a good one. “No school this morning?” I comment to three boys as they come show me their boats made out of sugar cane sticks, juice cartons, and tattered plastic bags. He’s speaking English but I can’t understand him very well, all I catch is that textbooks cost 50MK. Later he asks me for a pen. Another boy comes up to us at the BP as we fill up with Petrol. He is a beggar who has asked Deborah for money on multiple occasions. He clothes are dirty and his shirt hardly even covers his chest, a large rip runs from top to bottom. His eyes look desperate. He could very likely be an orphan, many of the beggars are. His answer to the same question differs little—no notebook.

In Nhkotakota at a lodge called the Pottery I talked to three guys probably in their 20s or 30s. They all gave me their English names. The first, James, was my waiter. I asked him what his plans for the future and he said he hoped to get his driver’s license. He hadn’t completed secondary school, but had to drop out after Form 2. His grandmother who was his primary caregiver had died. Junior and George made crafts at a little stands. They painted a lot of African sunsets and made earrings and necklaces out of wire. They also had wood carvings. Junior kept wanting me to tell him about Chicago. He also dropped out after Form 2 and said that both of his parents had died by then. He talked about school as important in making good choices. George did finish secondary school. He was 21 and right now some of his earnings go to his sister’s school fees.

In Malawi free, public education often is not what any of those words imply. It’s not free. Notebooks and uniforms cost little, but to the family from the village with six kids and no means of cash income, seldom can all attend school. Sometimes in the public school, it isn’t really even education. Even when in the school system, classrooms are large and have few resources. A teacher might easily have 100 kids in a class with no textbook to speak of. I was in the library of a secondary school that consisted of three shelves of books lining a tiny room. All of the books were very worn and many were copies of dated textbooks. Talking to the headmaster, this school was doing well with 5 teachers (meaning teachers and administrators) and 150 students. When Deborah taught literature the expectation was that she would read novels aloud, because they did not have enough to go around. The female literacy rate in Malawi is 49.8% (2003 est.).

[why do] i grumble...

i don't want to go to class.

my backpack is heavy.

these textbooks hurt my back.

my laptop weights a ton.

and oh does God carry me...

2007-06-28T02:25:00.000-07:00

a young boy in Salima

2007-06-18T07:31:00.000-07:00

My favorite are the middle-aged men, particularly the ones that are kind of overweight.

2007-06-18T07:24:00.001-07:00

I have seen this kind of person before, walking down Michigan Ave. with their pressed slacks and blue tooth, or maybe on a Sunday morning opening their hymn book and singing, perhaps even clapping. But I’ve never seen this kind of person dance. And, oh, they dance. They shout and whoop and holler and these dignified men in their dignified pin stripe suits stomp their feet and shake their booty and worship their God.

sometimes...

2007-06-18T07:22:00.000-07:00

The end of my first full week in Malawi finds me in the town of Salima, located in a rural area along Lake Malawi northeast of Lilongwe. I’ve been here since Monday doing “field work” (or should I say tagging along for field work) with Deborah and Stenson. With seeing so many different things, and feeling so many different things, and thinking about so many different things I already wish that I could have a meal with each of you reading this and talk about everything. I wish I could find words to communicate the tastes and emotions and the lessons that I am only beginning to learn. There are challenges with how to be honest and portray both the big picture and the little stories, and all the while be succinct (and yet I give an introductory paragraph of my ramblings). I’ve actually been thinking about it for the past couple days. Unfortunately, as I write under the blue mosquito net in the room of my lodge, this will have to do.

What does me life look like in Malawi so far?

Sometimes it looks like sitting outside under the shade of big tree in the cool late afternoon air for hours in a conversation with Malawian social workers, women from rural villages, and World Relief staff. Sometimes this discussion is all in Chichewa, and I am there, but I’m not all at the same time. I don’t know what’s being talked about, and I’m tired of asking.

Sometimes it looks like pulling into a village hidden within fields of maize and cashew nuts and being flocked by kids and laughing as they recite the alphabet and crowd me to get their photo taken. Sometimes it looks liking trying to actually engage with some of these kids and sending the two young sons of caregivers screaming because they are so scared of this same mazungu.

Sometimes it is greeting an old lady in her own language and seeing a huge grin spread across her face. Sometimes it’s being asked the most basic Chichewa question and not being able to make my mouth form the words that they should. I stand there sheepishly, awkwardly.

Sometimes it’s wondering how I will ever be able to live in the suburbs again, but sometimes it’s counting the days till I can check my email or wishing I could make a phone call.

Sometimes it’s going through the day as a rather useless tag along—not having the skills to fill needed roles or knowing the expectations.

Sometimes it’s eating rice and fried chicken, sometimes nsema, sometimes burgers, sometimes ice cream.

Sometimes it is being in awe that I would have the opportunity to sit in a tiny brick church with much pews and no pulpit with a Malawian ministry team comprised of subsistence farmer who in terms of resources and money are dirt poor. It is being with them as they express the challenges of getting those who are HIV+ or are AIDs patients to come to the support group, because of the stigma attached to their illness.

Sometimes it is walking along the shores of Lake Malawi and sometimes it’s hearing Joyce thank God for the gift of life.

Sometimes it’s reading in my room and sometimes it’s playing Go Fish with Esha.

My First Sunday

2007-06-18T07:21:00.000-07:00

Church began kind of abruptly. I didn’t really think that Joyce was just going to dump me at the door, but she did and, to-be-honest, it wasn’t like I was being left in front of a bar (God forbid, a bar!) or anything. It was a church, and since I’m being honest, she even gave me instructions. I walked up to the entrance and told the man standing there that I was a visitor, as if it wasn’t obvious. He smiled warmly and had me sign the guestbook. He told me that I would be recognized during the service, and warnings from Field Research Methods of being asked to preach returned to haunt me. I nodded, smiled, and made my way into the sanctuary. People were already seated in the three sections of upright wooden pews. In the front on the stage two men were speaking, one was more dynamic than the other, but they worked in tandem speaking English and then Chichewa. They had it down to an art form. Standing in the aisle, I didn’t know where to sit and my mind reeled as I tried not to do anything stupid like sit on the men’s side. All my attempts of discretion prove futile, and I see quickly that I’m the only white person in the building. Finally in a seat, I sigh, hurdle one is complete.

The message that I walked in on was about punctuality and timeliness as a Godly trait (yeah, go me). The teacher (it turned out that this was Sunday school and he wasn’t the preacher) railed on the declining youth and made some jokes about women primping for too long and men sleeping too late. The laughter was loud and accompanied by whistles or hollers. These guys were good. The first guy would just kind of say something funny, but the next guy translating would act everything out with big hand gestures—his voice rising and falling. A closing sentence somewhere along the lines of, “Let’s have a discussion,” opened the floor up to a number of the congregants giving their own mini sermons about why punctuality was a problem in the church and how if we will be on time for work and school why can we not be on time for God. Somehow Sunday School melted into the beginning of the church service and by this point all the nonpunctual youth and families filtered in.

Two other couples sat beside me in the pew, but there really hadn’t even been eye contact and I internally began to question the stories of African warmth. I was soon distracted by the offering, which Joyce had warned me about so I made my way up to the stage and put my 500kwacha (less than $4, not exactly too impressive) into the basket. A lady I had met the day before from World Relief came over and said hi and I sat back down. Two girls were sitting in front of me and one leaned over and asked me if I wanted to sit with them. I was a bit confused and said yes and made my way to sit next to them. Togo translated for me throughout the service where there wasn’t English translation and managed to single handedly restore my faith in Malawian hospitality.

And we sang and sang and sand, songs in both Chewa and English. I never would have guessed that “Open the Eyes of My Heart” was a favorite in Malawi. They took offering again and I went up and put my remaining 300kwacha into the basket. The sermon was similar to the back and forth English/Chewa Sunday School lesson though funnier and longer as the preacher talked about the faithfulness of a God who fulfills his promises.

“Down by the Old markets sits men with signs that say ‘Get rich quick,’” a huge grin spreads over his face, big white teeth and big white eyes.

“You know the men I’m talking about, without shoes and not even an umbrella.” The translator is jumping with glee, laughing, because he knows the punch line is coming and they’re talking over each other and the preacher’s practically yelling, “How can you trust a man to make you rich, when he has no umbrella? BUT WE have a FAITHful GOD!” There is more singing and dancing and unfortunately another offering. I had no more cash. After praying and singing the service was done at 12:30. It had started at 9:30. My first Malawian, Assemblies of God, church service. The service was over, but the greetings just beginning.

“Muli bwanji” is the Chichewa phrase that is their common greeting, it translates “How are you?” Many conversations for me end up like this.

“Hello!”
“Hello.”
“How are you?”
“I am good. How are you?”
“Good.”
…..
….
….
I’m still working on my Malawian small talk. I should have practiced some questions before going to church.

some background...

2007-06-18T07:18:00.000-07:00

I have my own room which is small with a chair, broken down dresser/bureau thing, bed, and a closet. I sleep under a blue mosquito net. When Joyce told me she was going to get it I asked her if she slept with one—I didn’t want to be the mazungu that lived so unlike the Malawians. She assured me yes and I’m glad I didn’t protest because I love it. It’s my cozy canopy. When I get into my bed, even though I’m by myself, I safe and happy.

Right now I hear dogs barking from down the streets. Sometimes it’s dogs, sometimes roosters or crows. Lilongwe is split into Areas all of which have a number. The numbers are neither chronological nor arranged in any particular order. I’ve been trying to figure out how they’re assigned, but have been unsuccessful. The house I’m staying in is sparsely furnished and very basic, but comfortable and nice with a yard that goes around the house and a garden in the back. Comparatively I’m sure that by the fact that Joyce can afford this home and due to the fact that she has a job in the city, she’s part of the small percentage that can call themselves middle class. There’s a maid name Eesha who doesn’t speak very much English but we spent last night reading together. She taught me a little Chewa. Having maids here isn’t uncommon. Eesha comes from a village down in the south. Working for Joyce gives her the opportunity for some income as well as an education. She will begin taking night classes in the fall.

I just got done taking a “bath”. There is hot water. It’s a bathtub and two faucets, no shower. I don’t want to fill up the whole tub and there’s no dibber, but there is a small tub which I’ve filled partially full and splashed over myself and dunked my head in. It’s quite the sight that I’m glad no one can see…for a number of reasons. Before bath time was dinner. It was really really good. Malawi grows a lot of really tasty rice which I have had for most of my meals so far. She made these meatballs—beef and onion. And cooked spinach. It was one of the best meals I’ve had in a long time. She assures me that she’s going to teach me how to cook. I’m excited.

So far we’ve driven to and from work in the World Relief car. None of the employees (that I know of) own cars, but they seem to be able to use the World Relief vehicles is they need to. After I get more settled in Joyce and I will take the bus, but for now we drive because of me. I don’t think Joyce minds. Driving is different. There are potholes everywhere, although so far most everything has been paved. The ground is dusty and along the side of the road there are always people walking. There are often people selling things—bananas, newspapers…today I saw two men selling a kitten and bird. There are also often these little booths with telephones and people sitting next to them selling minutes. Signs by the side of the road talk about the evils of corruption and the realities of HIV/AIDS. Lilongwe as a city is very spread out. I asked Deborah (in Chichewa the emphasis is on the second syllable so everyone calls her De(BORE)ah. I keep forgetting) if there was a downtown, but she got kind of confused and then told me that there was the city center. Down by the old market apparently are the poorer neighborhoods.
The day at the office begins with devotions in the morning. Joyce and I missed them today because our ride was late, but we’ll go tomorrow. I work in Deborah’s office which is in a strange building off to the side of the main structure. We eat lunch all together. So far it’s been rice and beans or meat and a vegetable. I don’t think I’ll be losing much weight. The office staff laughs and joke a lot. I look forward to getting to know them better.

Wed, June 6, 2007

2007-06-07T02:08:00.000-07:00

Sitting here now, typing on my bed it’s so hard to imagine that I’m actually here. I think what might be the weirdest is how not strange it is and how at home I feel. For the first time since the end of April my clothes hang in a closet. The cement walls and tile floors and even the doorknobs comfort me as they bring me back to Penang. I hadn’t realized how foreign carpet and all the extra furnishings of homes in the U.S. actually were. The sparseness of Joyce’s home is nice.
God answers prayers in truly amazing ways and the nervousness, fear, and anxiety that I anticipated on the airplane, changing flights in Ethiopia, and waiting for my bags in the tiny Lilongwe airport never came—seemingly washed away by the prayers that I know followed me to this distant country. I could write forever about the flights over here. A 6’4, Ugandan man returning home for the first time in six years, gave me good conversation and laughter for over 15 hours in the air. Nelson translated Baba Yet for me as we shared headphones somewhere over the Atlantic Ocean. After I commented that, given his long legs, he might want to think about an exit row seat, he said that God had thought it good we sit together. I couldn’t have agreed more. My next conversation partner was far different. A middle-aged, cowboy hat wearing, Southern Baptist from North Carolina. He was part of a missions group going to Lilongwe. His earnest desire to follow God’s call and honest love for the Africans was juxtaposed by a conservative and even racist world view that I often forget still exists. It was all I could do to keep from yelling and it was amazing how long our conversation lasted given that I’m sure my words came off as liberal and challenging to the uniqueness of the gospel.

I can’t write much more and am falling asleep. I haven’t even talked about Malawi yet. I will. Later. For now a couple observations.

Malawians say “O.K.” all the time. They also say “You’re welcome” without it being a response of “Thank you.” This had made me feel quite rude more than once. Let's hope it’s just a cultural difference.

Street signs here don’t exist, though I did see one traffic light.

Much to my chagrin it would appear that “long skirts” means a little bit below the knee.

On the menu my first night in Africa: pizza.

Thank you for your prayers. God is so good.

HNGR Covenant

2007-06-03T19:23:00.000-07:00

Together we embrace our roles as part of the body of Christ
taken from one clay and formed by one Potter.

Aware of our inadequacy, we remain confident
in the faithfulness of the Potter
to accomplish a good work
in and through our emptiness.

We accept as artistic process the pressure that inevitably shatters our pride;
in this, may we never forget to laugh at ourselves.

May we be joyful in hope,
patient in affliction,
and faithful in prayer.

Together, abiding in the Potter’s hands,
we praise God and know that is it good.

The Poor Among Us

2007-06-03T15:45:00.000-07:00

"You and I, we are the Church, no? We have to share with our people. Suffering today is because people are hoarding, not giving, not sharing. Jesus made it very clear. Whatever you do to the least of my brethren, you do it to me. Give a glass of water, you give it to me. Receive a little child, you receive me."
Mother Theresa

I don't know what to do with poverty so I find a quote that inspires from a person who inspires and put it up on facebook. Right now Mother Theresa's words hit me with a force that I feel could propel me to the streets of Calcutta. Right now I sit on a couch in front of a massive HD television and wonder what all this means. What does it mean to serve others in their poverty out of my poverty when we all appear to have so much? What does it mean to love the least of these in a context such as ours? What does it mean that poverty is not really an issue of quantity of food or possessions but really an issue of love? Mother Theresa said, "It is easy to love the people far away. It is not always easy to love those close to us. It is easier to give a cup of rice to relieve hunger than to relieve the loneliness and pain of someone unloved in our own home." I think about how I'm heading to Malawi where the needs may be more apparent, the brokenness more physical, and the hunger more based on an actual lack of food. In a certain sense this is easier. It's hard to know what it means to take the Sermon on the Mount and issues of justice seriously in the suburbs. Oh it's easy to think about the AIDS pandemic every so often or to be concerned about the war in Iraq, but it's hard to know how to act both related to global concerns, but related to local ones as well. I think about Rae and her being exposed to real poverty in a Latino community in Houston and about the mothers just wanting a pack lunch for their kids. My grandma likes to remind me that I don't have to go to Africa to care about issues of justice. She's right, and, yet, I do. I have Chicago in my back door, and people who are lonely and without love in my classes and I feel that I need to go to Malawi to understand poverty and community and development. Perhaps there I will learn that poverty is not really about possessions.

Who knows what these next six months hold? Will I encounter poverty in my search to learn about development, theology, and the Church in Malawi? Undoubtedly so. But the truth is I encounter poverty here every day and somehow miss it. Everyday I walk by the poor--the materially poor, the physically poor, the poor in spirit--and everyday I fail to reach out and act.

Oh that I might learn to see the poor, and that I might learn that I am the most broken one of the bunch.

Join me on the journey...

2007-05-27T13:38:00.001-07:00

Dear Friends,

These thoughts and words are part of a 6 month journey through Wheaton College's Human Needs and Global Resources Program (HNGR) to the "warm heart of Africa." There are links to the side if you want to check either out. For me HNGR includes an internship with World Relief in Malawi as well as research on African Theology. My writing might be sporadic, as might my internet access, and free time, but I invite you to come with me, that we might learn together, and see what it means to do life with our Malawian brothers and sisters. If you don't mind reading, I need your support and thoughts and comments--most of all I could use your prayers...for me and for World Relief Malawi.

God Bless,

Jess