Tuesday, February 24, 2009

Wicked


I really wanted to go see a Liverpool football match during my two days in London, but by the time I got settled on Sunday, it would have been quite hectic to catch the train up to Anfield and then spend at least a hundred pounds for seats. I also didn't have my winter coat, and so the prospect of sitting outside in the wind for several hours wasn't the most thrilling prospect. Stevie G didn't play and the Kops were lucky to salvage a point. United is too good, this season's getting boring. Some day I will make it to a premier league match. In a move that many men would question, I decided to take my football money and go watch a show. I couldn't decide if I wanted to see Lion King or Wicked. Lion King was sold out and so I didn't have to make a decision. I had never been to a big show before and so it was quite an awesome experience. I wore my lime green shirt that Heidi gave me for Christmas to participate in the spirit of Oz, quite the contrast to wearing my football jersey with my LFC scarf. I'm proud that I appreciate both scenes. The set is beautiful and they change scenery quite frequently. Elphaba, the wicked witch, carried the show. Her singing voice was far and away the best in the show. I'm sure that it's intentional that her voice overshadows Glinda's, but I would have liked it a little bit better if Glinda had a stronger voice. The characters on the whole were very dynamic, and I love how the show offers a suggestion as to the alternative understanding and interpretation of who the characters are and how they became the way they are. I'm a sucker for good character development, so I really focused on that. 

Glinda has this desire to be popular and be loved, not to rock the boat, while Elphaba has this desire to be true to herself, her values and doesn't care that it will cost her her public image and that she will face scrutiny and opposition. The two are diametrically opposed from birth and originally loathe the other, but after they are forced to be roommates by a comic twist of fate, they grow on each other and influence each other. Ironically, there are a lot of comparisons between Glinda & Elphaba, the elder & younger son from the Return of the Prodigal Son, and Vicky & Christina from Vicky Christina Barcelona which I watched on the plane today. Maybe I'll write about that later. I loved Wicked, it would have been great to see the show with someone else, but between the colors, the costumes, the set changes and the music I was quite excited to be there. I could get used to London!   

  • I walked across London Bridge, it did not fall down
  • I went running through Hyde Park and Kensington Gardens, past the palace where princess Di lived and the beautiful memorial they created in her honor
  • explored the tower of London
  • walked along the Thames at twilight
  • compared various Rembrandt portraits at the Portrait Museum
  • walked around Trafalgar square and watched a magic show
  • Read a bit of the Tempest outside the Globe Theatre
  • Finished my Henri Nouwen book with a fabulous hand filtered Guatemalan cup of coffee in a quaint fair trade cafe in East London, best coffee in a long time
  • learned a bit of Anglo Saxon history
  • saw the internation headquarter's for the Sal
  • browsed the markets in Notting Hill
  • enjoyed some falafel at midnight 



Monday, February 23, 2009

Cotonou


Wednesday we went to visit two schools to practice doing the outcomes surveys at the school. I taught on Monday and Tuesday about quantitative research and then Wednesday was the demonstration to see how well they had been paying attention. Well, I was quite proud and I love visiting schools and children all around the world. We had a little bit of extra time and so we touched on qualititative research going over how focus groups can be very useful for all types of projects. Especially for training, i think that it's so helpful to see qualitative and quantitative research working hand in hand and the participants were quite excited to see the strengths and weaknesses of each. Both schools didn't have much spare room and had hundreds and hundreds of students. We wanted to do a bit more work on the product design for the digest sized version of the Book of Hope and so Timothy and his team from Togo conducted focus groups with children in the courtyards. It was such a joy to watch him interact with the children. The kids gathered in a circle, ten in all and they started talking about something silly before talking about the books. What they liked and what they didn't like. They took the smaller version and the larger version and compared them and closed their eyes and were asked to raise whichever version they prefered to use. Other kids wanted to join in and the kids included felt quite privileged, especially when they found out that their information would contribute to changes made in a book that will be given to millions and millions of children around the world. Research is a way to give children a voice and be heard. This is one of the things I love most about research. We found out that a major research project Book of Hope hired us to do for Togo a year and a half ago was never translated into french. I felt like crying when I hear this, how can you make people do all this work, tell them how important this is, and then not give it to them in their own language? Are you just doing this to say you do research? What message of value and worth does it send to the national staff? The whole goal of research in ministry is to collect the right information so that you can make better decisions that will impact more lives. If this doesn't happen, research is a waste, and something that we will be held accountable for in front of God. The classroom training was two days and I was a bit more focused on concepts rather than logistics. The participants were able to recite the 5 concepts clis (5 Key Concepts) from memory and I felt quite proud. Pastor Gideon said that he was just going to take the engagement survey and start using it now by himself and not wait for Togo to be funded for anything. I was so proud of him when he said that. I always like when people take things into their own hands and circumvent beaurocracy and apathy. Kimberly kept me from getting too rebellious in my suggestions, but I am just so amazed at the resilience and encouragement that I received from these pastors who have been frustrated and disappointed at times by people making decisions thousands of miles away without "clis" information.

Both schools we visited sat on a hill in Cotonou and looked down over a delta looking expansive body of water. We had the privilege of going to visit this place afterwards. It is a fifteen minute motor boat ride from shore to reach this village on stilts. I have no idea how long it would take to actually row, as nearly all of the residents are forced to do. You'll quickly realize that the overwhelming majority of those rowing this extensive distance are woman and children. The men fish, harvest and make things and the women row to the shore to sell it. Talk about progressive feminism and gender issues. I don't think i could make the round trip and it seemed like cake to them. The village is rather remarkable as tens of thousands of people live in these ricketty houses secluded way off the beaten path. Unfortunately tourism has made that path significantly traveled, but it still exudes an originality like few places I've ever been. Many kids and people were eager to wave, lots of children begged for money from boats and some people yelled things and screamed at the sight of our cameras. The boat ride was relaxing and it was so nice to enjoy the afternoon with Pastor Severin and his wife, Timothy and Kimberly. After the training was finished, Pastor Severin gave me a typical print outfit that men wear in Africa. It's red, grey and dark green with fish and various symbols. The shirt looks great, but I'm a touch nervous about wearing the pants. When in Ghana... (or francophone africa)


Wednesday, February 18, 2009

Cape Coast




I've known rivers:
I've known rivers ancient as the world and older than the flow
of human blood in human veins.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.

I bathed in the Euphrates when dawns were young.
I built my hut near the Congo and it lulled me to sleep.

I looked upon the Nile and raised the pyramids above it.
I heard the singing of the Mississippi when Abe Lincoln went
down to New Orleans, and I've seen its muddy bosom turn
all golden in the sunset.

I've known rivers:
Ancient, dusky rivers.

My soul has grown deep like the rivers.
~Langston Hughes



My first trip time to Ghana was quite an experience, and I left with a few major desires. In traveling to the Volta region in the East, I hoped to return to witness the majestic waterfall just off the road that I travelled past to visit the Bible translation project where four languages would be dedicating their New Testament translations for the first time in just a few months. Their joy and pure passion over God coming to them and meeting them on their heart level in their own language was overwhelming to me. I fought back tears several times as I conducted their focus groups. I love hippos and my life will not be complete until I see hippos and rhinos in the wild, so I would love to visit the northern part of the Volta river to witness hippos in action in Ghana. My last desire from my first trip to Ghana was to visit Cape Coast. This I regretted most from my first trip. I know Francis or Pastor Elorm would have accommodated my request to visit this location, but I didn’t want to further inconvenience them with the day’s journey to this necessary landmark. Upon returning, I insisted that I make the pilgrimage this time.

Elmina castle was the largest of three slave castles in Ghana and was the epicenter of the African leg of the transatlantic slave trade. This is one of the most important places I’ve ever visited and as I walked the haunted walls of this former palace of wickedness, I carried the souls of many friends and heroes of mine who will never be so fortunate to make this journey. It sits on the white beach overlooking the tranquil Atlantic scattered with wispy sail boats framed by palm and coconut trees. Kids played football in the gentle surf amongst the verdant crags. Fishermen repaired their nets as they kept an eye out for potential customers. What a peaceful and majestic place it was, it’s so hard to imagine that one of the most evil places in the history of humanity kept watch over this beautiful place. Walking through the halls down into the keep of the castle you could small the rawness and savagery of wickedness. There is a monument at the bottom of the men’s dungeon and as we approached it, the echoes of the wailing overwhelmed us and demanded a realignment of emotion for those out to sight see. Our Ghanaian tour guide appeared practically numb to this woman’s release of pain, emotion, anger, validation and triumph over evil, dehumanization and invalidation. You know that it was the culmination of many journeys that never took place and that she walked in the shoes of others unable to make this journey from across the Atlantic. The altar sits at the heart of the sealed tunnel entrance that led down to “Door of No Return.” As soon as slavery was outlawed by the British, the tunnel was sealed by order of the queen. Far from a noble effort, it was an important step to ensure that this decision was irreversible.  Men, women and children were herded down this walkway and either stepped into the ocean to drown or entered the hulls of the death ships bound for the Caribbean and Americas. I was surprised by how casual and lacking in knowledge the Ghanaian nationals were in the presence of such historic maladies against their ancestors. There are blessings in being shielded from that, but I think that it would also give them tremendous perspective and insight into their identity.  We walked through the door of no return and I wept at the injustice and sin that humanity is capable of. They closed the door as we huddled into the prison cell for those who fought back and rebelled, there was no light and absolutely no ventilation. It was essentially a mass living grave. The tour continued upstairs in the castle to the quarters of royalty, armies and slave traders. Francis told me that I had seen all that I needed to see, and I agreed with him and touched that he understood my necessity to visit this place. I left the group and wandered the underground chambers for a bit alone, allowing some of the gravity to fall on me and to spend time in prayer for peace, for love and for justice.

The past six or seven years have largely revolved around my own African diasporatic journey. I’m not sure why God has called me to this particular perspective, but it has been quite overwhelming. Oftentimes I feel as though I was born with the soul of a weathered African American male. I am aware of the blasphemous precipice that I approach in such claims, but I only claim that my spirit echoes Langston Hughes notion that, “my soul has grown deep like rivers.” My journey culminated with my peregrination to Kenya in November where I experienced the historic African affirmation in the Western world with the election of Barack Hussein Obama as the president of the U.S. The son of a Kenyan prince became the most powerful man in the world. The pride and joy was palpable. It was overwhelming to experience the impromptu celebrations and dancing in the streets, the homemade signs and t-shirts, paintings and graffiti adorning the matatu buses, buttons, stickers, he dominated the papers and the news broadcasts. They conducted mock votes, dramatic plays complete with African John McCain counterparts and lively Obama songs that we listened to driving through the expansive savannahs on our way to the coast. I don’t know that I will have the opportunity to be part of something so historic ever again.   

This spirit was shared in the excitement I sensed repeatedly throughout various regions of Ghana when they expressed that God was no longer a foreigner to them. now that they have their language written down and subsequently the Bible translated in their heart language. I feel that same longing for identity and affirmation in French Africa who feel neglected by the gap created by the English language. God has drawn me to the African experience for some reason, but it is my hearts cry to see those who are marginalized, have been oppressed and whom this world has pushed to believe that they are inferior, be empowered and restored. The gospel is restorative and God is a god of justice. Love is an extension of justice, and I desire love in its fullest. That is why I am a peacemaker, I don’t believe in war as a means to love or justice. God called us to love our enemy and do good to those who persecute us. How do we expect evil, hatred and sin to attain justice and peace? Love, God’s love is the only thing capable of shaming evil and hatred of humanity because it can never truly be defeated . 

In January, amidst the chaos in Kingston, I hurried to finish my second focus group of the morning so that I could tune in with the rest of Jamaica to proudly watch their African brother being sworn in as president. I missed the first part of the inauguration, but I caught enough to draw tears to my eyes as I sat there with my brothers and sisters at the West Indies Bible Society. It was overwhelming to me and as they panned across the men, women and children, particularly African American’s. It was beautiful to see the full spectrum of people across all ages who felt hope. People are looking for hope; that is the God shaped vacuum that exists in all of us. (which cannot be filled by anyone but Christ) My heart leapt for joy. All of Jamaica stopped, as I’m sure most of the world did. I sat eating my curried goat grinning from ear to ear as I joined Jamaican brothers and sisters watching CNN bring story after story from the National Mall drawing the attention of all those who passed by or wandered in. Jamaicans claimed him in the same way that the children of Ghana were so proud of him. The Ghanaian presidential elections were drawing close in Ghana when I visited in November and the kids said they wanted to be president of Ghana some day, just like Obama. Having a black president does not eliminate racism and mean that everyone’s equal and there is no struggle. This man has Harvard degree’s and is hardly your average citizen, but there is no denying the remarkable bridge that was crossed that so few people could have imagined coming true at this point in history. It still brings a smile to me and I hope that Barack is blessed to be able to be president apart from this economic crisis which has consumed our nation, and the world.

Ironically it was this issue that largely brought him into the office and it could be the very thing to starve him and drive him out in four years. I don’t think I truly realized the extent of the economic crisis until a man in Ghana pleaded with me that their project for the Old Testament be funded. The Volta region in Eastern Ghana fears the economic crisis will cut off their financial support from abroad, “We need the Old testament in our mother tongue. I know that the hand that feeds us is hurting and I just pray that we can receive the rest of the Bible in our language, we want the full Bible.” I sat there thinking about how often my bible sits around gathering dust, how many different versions I have, and I take it for granted that God speaks to me on my level, my language, into my heart. Hearing so many people talk about the first time they heard the Word in their heart language, and I keep feeling like I want to experience that experience, but I’ve had that available to me for years. 

Monday, February 16, 2009

West African Bus Adventures

I’m tired in the morning no matter what and so four hours of sleep is an awful preface to a day of language ineptitude, indefinite travel plans/accommodations and multiple foreign borders. Francis drove at a tranquil frenetic pace that only he could manage into downtown Accra. The speedometer didn’t work, but the blinking red 120 km/h warning flashed most of the time as we hurried to the bus station at 6 a.m. Kimberly and I were traveling to Benin through Togo from Ghana and neither of us speaks any functional French and we had failed several times to confirm where we were meeting Timothy and Severin. We didn’t have time to say a quick prayer when we boarded the bus as we were preempted by a Ghanaian preacher who greeted the bus with a quick sermon and zealous prayer before collecting an offering. It was one of the many firsts we would experience today. We made several attempts to confirm our plans, with little success and with two border crossings between us and Cotonou, I was a bit apprehensive in addition to my sleep deficiency. The bus attendant spoke in a monotone drawn out English and her French was much the same. I can’t understand African English half the time and so I only half caught the odd request that people don’t defecate in the bathroom because it would asphyxiate the rest of the bus, still in perfect monotone. As we disembarked, they played music and it was a gospel mix, which the bus attendant seemed to know by heart. I closed my eyes and joined the muffled choir in singing worship. I really wanted to go to church this morning and so this was a pleasant surprise. There was a fairly intimidating Nigerian man sitting adjacent to me emulating the pitch and sounds of the songs without fully grasping the words. He didn’t know most of the words, but recognized that they were worship and so the exact words were not as necessary for true worship as the proper heart. God just wants us to sing out to him and he will put the proper words in our lips, he just wants our hearts of obedience and commitment. I want to be like that man, my life singing along to God’s music, not concerned about the specific words and exact pitch, but simply recognizing that it is the song I am called and desire to sing and so I will allow God to take care of those details. We reached the Ghana/Togo frontiere where the bus lady led Kimberly and I practically by hand first to the Ghanaian passport and customs control and then to the Togolese side as well. I think that the primary criteria for border patrolmen is that they be surly and emotionally detached. I felt like I was in the Last King of Scotland with intense African men of stature in fatigues, guns and funny sideways hats. I think that people speaking rapid French is more intimidating to me, could be a push though. Well, we made it through without much difficulty only to realize that our bus documentation expired at noon and we were five minutes too late to pass through. I’m not really sure what went on, whether it was legally or underhandedly solved, but after the initial bus wide panic, it was remedied fairly quickly. I caught a bit of a nap and listened to my ipod as I caught pieces of the scenery along the coast.  The Togolese/Beninouis border was a bit more scenic and so Kimberly decided to take a picture of the border sign. I fought the urge to dissociate with her when several angry French African men began scolding her for the now apparent impropriety. Thankfully someone from our bus told her that she needed to delete the picture and so Kimberly held up the camera with trembling hands to delete the image in front of them. We quickly realized that we needed to learn how to say “I’m sorry” in French, and probably also, “dumb American.” The walk across the Beninouis border is a bit of a hike and as we cleared the passport control tunnel into Benin, we failed to see the customs office scattered among the many buildings, shops, vendors and government buildings. We apparently ignored their shouts and crossed the border only to wander up and down the market strip waiting for the bus. When it finally made it to us we grabbed our seats only to be informed about ignoring the shouting customs officials and our patient bus steward dragged us the near quarter mile walk back to the customs, where they hastily wrote down our information. According to the Benin government, Kimberly and I live together and are staying at the Cotonou Biblay Guest House (Bible) We just smiled nodded said Merci and were on our ways as quick as possible. Timothy, our translator and research coordinator was not going to meet us until later, but I think Francis was able to convince him that he had better get to Benin before us or we would disintegrate. We were probably 20 minutes from the bus station when we finally got in touch with Timothy and eagerly gave the phone to our bus steward so that she could talk in French and English to him about our location and she gave the phone back to us and said that everything was set up and they’d be there. I went back and fell with relief into my seat. We got off the bus and I pointed at Timothy and gave him a Journey-esque rock fist pump receiving a big grin in return and I felt so relieved. Kimberly was wearing a dress so we took a taxi instead of a moto, like the majority of people traveling the red dirt roads of Cotonou. I was surprised by the sheer volume of motorbikes congesting the roads. We got to the catholic center where we are training for the week and worked for a few hours to prepare for the morning. The electricity flickered in and out all night long as we laughed at the random interruptions into our planning. It is so very dark outside and I don’t have a television, phone, or internet in my room. I’m listening to my playlist that I created from my trip to the slave castle yesterday and I am alone and it is still. Two songs stood out to me and I smiled at the contrasts and how much they represent the quirky curiosity that is my life. Israel Houghton declares, “Away from the noise, alone with you, away away to hear your voice and meet with you, nothing else matters, my one desire here is to worship you, I live, to worship you I live, I live to worship you…it’s been a while, but hear my heart cry again, to worship you I live, to worship you I live, I live to worship, nothing else matters” Yes that is what I need, I need to remove myself from the noise, from the distractions, from the desires of my heart that are my own, and keep me from truly. I love Israel’s connection to the spirit of the Psalms and that sense of instructing your soul to act as it ought to, repeating that we were created to worship building into the prophetic declaration that, yes I live to worship, that is where I’m going, that is what defines me.  Contrast that with mewithoutyou’s “January 1979”, my one foray into screamo music, “I was floating in a peaceful sea, rescued by a sinking ship… after years with a crown on my head, I’ve grown overfed, unconcerned and comfortably numb too busy indulging in the pleasures of the wealthy, o someone make me afraid of what I’ve become, at the first sign of possible sorrow, I turned my head and ran, oh I’ll never learn, my life’s a cup of sugar I borrowed before time began and forgot to return.” To me those are about the most profound lyrics I’ve ever heard and that song is a good wake up song for me. Yes, I have hopes and dreams and I’m a bit sad about some aspects of my life, but man, I don’t want to sacrifice knowing God and being known by him for some less passionate lover that marginally resembles God’s intentions, but have been disfigured by my own selfishness and manipulation. Both of those songs point towards the costly grace and high level of obedience and discipleship that accompanies an appropriate response to God’s amazing grace freely given to his children. Jeremiah’s reminder that we will find God when we seek him with ALL our hearts, he will be found by us, he will reveal himself to us when we search for Him with all. We can’t hold onto anything. That’s radical and crazy and I know I honestly haven’t ever truly done that and through pain, external and internal to my own choosing, God is laying down that gauntlet to me across the coast of francophone Africa, Philadelphia, South Florida and the globe over. May I be worthy of the call and the suffering that is truly required to follow Jesus with our hearts. Our lives are found only when we lose them what a great and scary paradox.