Afraid of my mission to Monterey

I’m about to depart for a youth group mission trip, and I have some fears on my mind. I’m not so afraid, this time, of the stress or the travel. It’s only to Monterey, so we can’t get too lost and we don’t need to pass through any TSA checkpoints. In previous mission trips we’ve had worries (and actualities) ranging from major thunderstorms to 100+ degree weather to running out of insulin. This year those particular risks don’t threaten. Perhaps we may get sunburned, or tip over in our canoes on ElkHorn Slough, but we’ll have our life vests on. 

No, this year my fears aren’t logistics or weather or transportation; my fears are a little deeper and harder to address. 

I’m afraid, you see, that I’ll fall in love. 

I’m afraid I’ll fall in love with something fragile and vulnerable, something in mortal peril — that is, I’m afraid to fall in love with the the ocean and its creatures. We’re going on an ecological mission trip, and ecological work is a difficult undertaking in this age of climate change where species extinctions loom on every side. It’s more important than ever, but it runs the sharp risk of heartbreak as you stand there on the shore, throwing starfish after countless starfish back into a warming ocean. I’m afraid my heart might break open with compassion for the plight of some struggling sea creatures, and that it’ll be too painful to bear. 

I remember feeling this way as a college student in Europe. I was studying abroad in the Czech Republic, which is a lovely jumping-off spot from which a couple of college students might visit many other countries, but midway through the semester I started dreading our weekend adventures. The weight of nostalgia was pulling me down — I already missed the town I’d visited last weekend — and my photo album was thick with photographic adoration of cities and castles and gardens. How could I go on another trip? How could I add another place to love? 

And I remember feeling this way the night before my first date with Michael. Could I really open my heart to one more human being? I had already loved and lost - my ex-boyfriend had died in a work accident - and I didn’t trust the sentimentalists who rhymingly assured me ‘twas better to have loved and lost. Was it really? Grief hurts. Sometimes it incapacitates. It changes you. Did I really have the strength to open up again? 

My nephew - age 4 - said tearfully after a trip to see old friends in another state “sometimes I feel like there are so many people in the world that I love, and I wish we could all live together in one big house.” That’s the pain I’m talking about here. I don’t want to go to Monterey and meet some endangered herons or something. I already had my moment - with Great Blue Herons as a camp counselor in West Virginia fifteen years ago - and they still hold a heavy nostalgic weight in my heart. I can’t fit another creature in, especially not an endangered one. 

Opening up to ecological work is like deciding to fall in love with a person who might (or might not) be terminally ill. It’s like deciding to walk into a hurricane: you wouldn’t do it on purpose. Well, I’m going anyway (when you read this: I’m already there) and so I’ll have to pray my way around this block in my heart.

 Here’s what I’m working on: 

God is love 

Love is of God 

God created us fragile, perishable 

God created the world fragile and perishable too 

God loves the world

God loves fragile and perishable things 

God is vulnerable 

Vulnerability is part of love 

This pain, then, that I feel, is God’s spirit in me 

God aches for and loves the creatures in their peril 

It is our holy work to care for the fragile creatures and ecosystems that God so loves 

It is a holy thing to love what death can touch 

By the time you receive this, who knows what may have developed? The pastor hosting us may have spoken to my fears. The ocean herself may have soothed my worries. I'll share more...

PC(USA) moderator!

This has been a particularly good week to be a Presbyterian in the Bay Area. We had a visit from the co-moderator of the Presbyterian Church (USA). What’s a moderator?  In our system of governance, the office of moderator is something like adding together the roles of a President plus a Pope, minus infallibility, and divided into two people as co-moderators. Well, and besides not being infallible, moderators don’t get to wear the kind of fancy regalia that popes and bishops get – though they do wear an impressive cross, which is actually three similar crosses that were famously riveted together in a single stroke by a gifted metalworker at the General Assembly in 1983 when the three Presbyterian churches, divided since the Civil war, were united into the church we now know as the PC(USA). This year the moderatorial honors, responsibilities, and crosses are being shared by Cindy Kohlmann and Vilmarie Cintron-Olivieri, the co-moderators for 2018-2019. You can follow them, by the way, by looking up @gamoderators on social media.  Cindy spent half a week in the Presbytery of San Francisco and because of my role with the Meetings Working Group (the meetings that plan the meetings – quel Presbyterian!) I ended up getting to tag along for much of her stay.

It’s great to spend some time looking at the big picture. What are our congregations doing, how are they changing, and how are we as a Church hanging together through it all? How can we as a denomination effect change in our nation and world for the better? Cindy and Vilmarie, from their position of privilege, are bringing to the center issues of race, immigration, and injustice. Cindy challenged us in her sermon at Presbytery on Tuesday night to respond gracefully when “called out,” especially if we’re called out on race issues. Racism is all around us and we internalize it without realizing it, so we need to learn to be grateful for learning opportunities when someone points it out to us, rather than reacting angrily and defensively. How do you respond when “called out”?  And on another note Cindy did call us out on our ecological issues. We, as a Presbytery have petitioned and demanded for the national church, its Foundation, and its Pension plan, to divest from fossil fuels as a statement of care for the earth and its climate. But our own money is still invested in funds that include fossil fuel companies. Is divestment only worth the effort if it’s a huge sum of money?  Or is it just easier to divest when we can remotely delegate and direct someone else to do the work for us? Shouldn’t we go ahead and divest our money now? I raised a motion to that point, and our presbytery will tackle this question at our next meeting in November.

I’m grateful for the opportunity to have our moderator preach to us, converse with us, and share table fellowship with us at the Presbytery. I’m grateful that I got to serve as her chauffeur and thus to hear on a more personal level how she felt God calling her to serve as moderator. And I felt so enormously proud, on Tuesday night, to be a member of the Presbyterian Church (USA), gathering together to try to do God’s work in the world.

Update

I realize i have a gaping hole in my blog record. Update: I was in Uganda. Now I'm in America, and I have 20 Ugandans with me for a 7-week tour of the States. Pause for immense gratitude. This is a huge dream come true. I had so many sleepless nights while we planned it, and now that it's a reality... well, i'm still up too late planning, and still having those "working dreams" rehearsing tomorrow's plans in my mind, but mainly I'm just overwhelmingly happy that it is really real. For nearly 2 years now, every time I've flown I've walked through SFO airport imagining what it would look like to the new eyes of Ugandan children who have never flown before. Not a week ago, I walked through the same airport holding 20 passports, counting 20 heads, sending 20 through customs and immigration, counting 31 pieces of luggage, calling ahead to the bus driver and my friend Susan who met us on the other side. I was so unstressed and everything went so smoothly that I had to pinch myself again and again to be sure I was awake.
I'm sure the universe has somehow aligned in our favor. Everything feels like a miracle. We haven't lost a single person, passport, or piece of luggage. Another similar Ugandan organization (Watoto) was traveling on the same plane to London, and their kids were puking left and right while our group sailed sweetly through with only a little dehydration and some sore muscles. Yesterday we made an E.R. trip for stitches on a cut (from playing basketball) and they got us in and out in half an hour. If that isn't miraculous, I don't know what is.

At the Ukiah performance (where it seemed the entire town came to see us) I asked one of the nuns what happened - did they publicize the performance widely? She said no, they had hardly announced it. She told me they believed that these people knew to come because they had a spiritual affinity with the Children of Uganda and the work we do.

One of our Ugandan songs proclaims "I'll sing to the Lord, because God is watching over me." My theological training tells me to be wary of statements like "things are going well so God must be on our side" but at the same time, my gut tells me to trust it. Even though this tour is brought to you with a lot of help from our friends, by the seat of our pants and the skin of our teeth, even though we aren't sure where we'll stay next week, I am finally fully willing to trust and just to keep putting one dancing foot in front of the other.

Christmas in the Country

Shirah, my "sister" (the sponsored child of my parents) took me to her grandmother's village for Christmas this year. The journey started at 7 AM and took us through exorbitantly overcharged taxi routes to a dirt road where we both clambered onto a boda-boda (motorcycle taxi) and rode 10 km to arrive at their family home. I've been in the country before but this is "really really" in the country. Very few cars travel along that road, only the bodas and bicycles. There is no electricity, and I didn't even see any solar panels. Needless to say, no Christmas lights or lawn ornaments.

We celebrated Christmas morning with 3 hours in church. Comprehending only a tiny portion of the content of the service, I contented myself with singing English lyrics to the carols I knew, and contemplating the people around me. I've known that statistically, half the population of Uganda is under the age of 15, but here it was plain to see. Adults sat on benches, mostly well-dressed, but scores of messy children rustled noisily at our feet, unheeded and unminded. Tiny babies nursed from impossibly skinny mothers, or were passed from lap to lap. The pastor had to step over and around the children to get from pulpit to lectern and back. Even when a child (or two or more) was crying, the pastor simply preached louder. He had no microphone or amplification, but then again there were a lot of things the church didn't have yet -- a roof being one. This was the first Sunday in the new building, and the portion of the roof that hadn't been funded yet was covered by a tarp. We had an auction at the end of the service to try to complete the project.
Shirah's uncle introduced me to the congregation, near the end of the service. The deacon said "Clap for her! When else will we have a muzungu in this church?" I stood up and said Merry Christmas in Luganda and the place shrieked with happiness. Afterward everyone wanted their picture taken with me. I must have posed about a dozen times.


Back at the family home we had a traditional Ugandan meal featuring matooke and chicken. Their home is nice but sparsely furnished. I and two uncles were given stools to sit on and forks to use, while the other few adults and a dozen children sat on mats on the floor eating with their hands as is traditional. After eating we took all the mats outside and sat or sprawled in the shade of a tree while the teenagers did the washing up. We sat there much of the afternoon as neighbors came by to visit, eat cake, and catch up with the family members they hadn't seen in a long time.

Shirah's sister took me on a walk around the village. We greeted many an astonished child and some elderly women as well. "Thank you for coming to our village" was a refrain I heard often, and some of the villagers backed up their thanks with gifts. I came home with three large bags of just-picked peanuts, which we've been shelling for a few days now and plan to roast soon.

Back at Kiwanga that night, we had a teen-oriented Christmas party. Sodas and cake were the main refreshments, and camera flashes the main entertainment as people posed with their sodas, new clothes, and friends. I had brought a suitcase full of donated clothing which served as my Christmas presents, and these were the only presents I saw exchanged this year. I was happy to see some people wearing them at the Christmas party.

My sister Cassie & I used to blog together, back in the day (at http://tandcinuganda.livejournal.com), and she always had some profound closing remarks. In her absence, I invite you to insert profound remarks here by leaving a comment.
Merry Christmas!

A quiet beginning

In a week there will be 20 children and youth drumming up a storm in training sessions night and day. But at Kiwanga home this week, there are only about 2 dozen people besides staff, and holy cow is it quiet! I wish I'd brought my guitar with me, it would help liven things up a bit.

At Children of Uganda we prefer that the children under our care not spend their whole lives in an institution, so during school holidays we encourage all children to visit family. Despite the strong nets of extended family in Uganda, there are some who simply have no one, and they spend holidays here at Kiwanga. The other residents are members of Philip's House, who live with severe disabilities and are cared for here. And a few recent graduates of our program are here while they look for what to do next. Our resident sculptor, Ben, is one of these. He whiles away the time making amazing art. I walked out the first morning I was here, and wondered who the other muzungu (white person) was. For some reason it didn't occur to me ask why she was reading a book to an ostrich and a llama...

Five years ago, here with Cassie and Tim, we put a few trees in the ground. To be honest, Tim did easily 90% of the work. So Tim, here are your success stories! Towering and fruitful.

Agriculture is booming here, with a very successful poultry project to boot. Here Henry (a Philip's House resident) carefully waters his dodo (amaranth) and tomato plants.

I was overjoyed to see my old friend Joseph here.

Midway through his education he took a very unexpected re-route, and by now he is almost done with his training to be a hairdresser and fashion designer. Here he is plaiting some new braids for a friend - a two-day task.

Immaculate has stolen everyone's hearts, so I'll just chime in with the choir: this girl is amazing. She is the youngest of our children with no known relatives... she was raised by her older brother until last year when she came to our program. She arrived sullen and shy but you wouldn't believe it by now. She is absolutely blossoming under the care of the organization. Some times I feel bad for her - the youngest of this group, hanging around all day with no one silly or patient enough to play "monkey" for hours at a time with her - but I take a moment to remember where she came from. I realize that this environment (which would be seen as horribly boring to most American kids) is far more nurturing and loving than any place she's been in before. I realize that she is flourishing and growing in it, simple as it may be.

Gratitude for the day: singing praise songs (by popular demand) with all the Philips House members, plus Immaculate and one of the staff's children in my lap. Some of the Philip's House members have disabilities that affect their voices, and others just seem to mimic their peers' speech patterns, resulting in a whole group of people communicating primarily in vowels without consonants. Immaculate's sweet and clear voice combined with my voice and the heartfelt howls of the Philip's House members for an unforgettable sound. Between songs everyone would clamor for attention, pulling on my hands and sleeves and skirt, with needs and wants of utmost urgency (though they were to be forgotten as soon as I came up with another song). I could stay there forever, endlessly trying to meet everyone's attention needs, but I am trying to give without running dry. The Luganda words for "stop" and "please wait" came back to my brain in a flash of brilliance. Plus the words for "this has been wonderful, but I am going to bed now." Which, now, I shall do.

published

...in Chimes, SFTS' magazine.

6 days until I depart.

donate here.

The text of the article:

I first heard my call to seminary in Uganda. I had just graduated from college, and had been living for several months in a small guest room next to the boys’ domitory in an orphanage run by Children of Uganda. I was sick one week, and lay in bed reading Henri Nouwen during the quiet hours when children were at school and the afternoon hours when their playful noise ricocheted off the cement walls. Nouwen spoke of service and simplicity - these things I was trying to do - and I just knew I had no idea how to put my ideals into practice.

My sister and I went to Uganda hoping for some personal, spiritual benefits. We’d abandoned the numbing American culture of consumption, and we hoped for a pure experience of important and passionate service. Instead we found a bewildering maze of questions. Why do poor people spend so much money on clothing and hairstyle? A lesson about priorities. Why do we feel like we’re in England every day at tea-time? A lesson about postcolonial culture. Why are there no jobs for talented young graduates? A lesson about global economics.

SFTS helped me sort through many of the big questions. Later I ran a summer program for volunteers in Uganda, guided by Dr. Phil Wickeri’s mission class. I also participated in the Muilenberg-Koenig History of Religion Seminar run by Dr. Chris Ocker on the topic of poverty. I was able to learn more about historical approaches to poverty relief, some of which we will try to use in Children of Uganda (I now serve on the Board of Directors).

Children of Uganda (COU) has cared for thousands of children since 1995. All have been affected in some way by the dual scourges of AIDS and poverty that have nearly destroyed Uganda. The adult generation has virtually disappeared; today, half of Uganda’s population is under the age of fifteen. There are 8 million children identified as “orphans and vulnerable children,” and only 11% of them are receiving any outside aid. About 500 are currently in the care of COU. It’s a fragment of the total need, but every tiny bit counts.

COU’s public face is our dancers. From kindergarten on, all COU children receive training in the Ugandan traditions of music and dance. With the adult generation decimated, many of these traditions were nearly lost. But we know and value the power of music to transform suffering, to encourage and uplift, and to maintain a sense of cultural pride. Every few years COU brings the most talented dancers to the US as ambassadors for Uganda’s orphan population. I saw the Tour of Light as a teenager, and the children’s infectious joy was life-changing. I look forward to assisting with the next tour in January 2012. I lie awake at night dreaming of this tour and the lives it may change.

I often am told “you’re so passionate.” I am quick to repeat the lesson I learned: Passion is not something you can choose - not a value add-on to your otherwise lovely life. Passion is something that gets inflicted on you. An orphan child asks “can I call you mum?” and suddenly you no longer have the privilege of ignoring global injustice. The price of food in East Africa is suddenly a live and pressing issue. And so you find yourself setting up a table somewhere, holding out your hands, saying “can I tell you about Uganda?” and asking otherwise comfortable people to sponsor children in need. No matter what else I may do in my life, I can never leave this work behind.

White Meat

As we approach the festive weekend during which Americans throw out the most leftover food per capita, a couple of thoughts on the meat industry... not something I usually engage (being vegetarian).

My sister was in Haiti recently and wrote a beautiful blog here. Among her observations was the immense problem of NGOs in Haiti. Yes, that is, the problem of too many people trying to help. She asks simple questions: "If 80% of Haiti is unemployed, what is a team of Americans doing building houses for them?" and... "why isn't there any chicken breast available for dinner?"


You may have heard about the way the US/World Bank/IMF requirements ended up flooding Haiti with rice from Arkansas in 1991, or the situation with Montsanto's "gift" of genetically modified corn (Haitian farmers overwhelmingly rejected it because it would contaminate local seed supplies and reduce farmers' ability to support themselves for the next year by saving seeds from their crop). You would think we would learn not to mess with other folks' agriculture. But we like sending food to starving children, so we donate to the organizations that continue to flood foreign economies with American food. And, we like our crop subsidies, so we like to keep farmers overproducing here.

Cassie writes: "Last night I learned that the US sends left-over dark meat to Haiti, since we eat a disproportionate amount of white meat. The cheap prices take away any incentive to raise chickens for sale in Haiti. I've eaten drumsticks for dinner the past two nights."

Think on that when you eat your white meat. Check the supermarket: with the exception of whole birds for sale, there are many more chicken breasts than drumsticks for sale, are there not? By purchasing only the best meat, we choose a system that dumps inferior meat on countries that will take it, destroying their ability to feed, employ, and empower themselves.

I am preparing for a trip to Uganda, and let this be foremost in my mind: to do no harm in your helping.

Eco-nut

I'm feeling hedged in, a bit. Partly I think it's a case of Nature Deficit Disorder. Normally during this time of year I cope with the shortened hours of the day by spending plenty of time well-bundled up and working up a sweat on the hiking trails... but my ankle is still healing and it's hard to keep warm when you only go about 1.5 mph. I have a longer leash, now that I can walk nearly 1/2 mile per day, but that doesn't quite do the trick.

Partly, though, it's the seminarian's conundrum: so much thinking, so little action! Our ethics class (on food systems) read Animal Vegetable Miracle together and I am practically hopping up and down with the pent-up desire to DO the local-eating, mad-farmer-for-fun thing, but hopping is hard on one foot, and gardening is hard work too, and I'm barely finding the time to keep my basil plants trimmed.

On Sunday I preached yet another incarnation of my manna sermon, going off script to tell stories from last summer's Presbyterian Hunger Program Roadtrip. I compared the US' food system to Egypt and the food movement (an amalgam of the locavore-gleaner-community-gardening set) to the Hebrew people setting out into the wilderness. I want it too. I want OUT of the enslavement of Egypt, the cheap bad food that's poisoning us. I want to no longer have any complicity in the enslavement of my immigrant brothers and sisters in unspeakable field labor conditions, or in the dumping of cheap corn on the international market, destroying traditional agriculture worldwide.
But it's nice in Egypt, because my food is delivered to me by the industrial food complex. It's convenient. I don't have to get my hands dirty. So i'm still here, idly wondering when I'll get around to getting the heck out.

What's interesting is how much my ethics professor's prodding DOESN'T affect my desire to get out of Egypt. She writes long lists of things we should feel guilty about on the board, and I get stubborn and reactive and dig my heels in. Don't you dare try to guilt-trip me out of my time-honored ways. When I leave, I'm running not away from guilt but toward a better life. When I leave, I'm leaving for love and joy.