Ryan Starr

Gloria and Petra

2005-07-16T02:58:00.000-07:00

The first time I listened to Igor Stravinsky’s Le Sacré du Printemps at the Bartlesville Symphony Orchestra I remember thinking, “I have never experienced anything like I just heard.” The screeching dissonance of the violins, the erratic rhythms of the tympanis, and the blasting cacophony of trumpets created a violence and unrest inside of me that I could not articulate. The demure Midwestern audience was more accustomed to classical ballet than to fertility scenes of pagan Russia. The unresolved chords of Stravinsky’s music better expresses my experience in South Africa than anything I could possibly write. Nevertheless, it is necessary for me to distill my thoughts into words.

The story of Gloria provides a salient example of my ongoing anxiety about this summer. Gloria arrived at our children’s camp last week full of anger and rage. Although she would laugh or smile occasionally, she would quickly return to her timid, scared corner of the room. The first couple days of the camp, Gloria remained attentive yet alone. When her frightened eyes looked up at me, I felt her hurt and pain seep into my body, yet I could not fathom what I later learned that week – a story of abuse, rape, and neglect that was shared by the majority of the children.
On Thursday morning I was preaching from Exodus 16 about God providing manna for the Israelites in the Sinai Dessert. As I continued to preach, I found myself leaving the pulpit and my notes behind and speaking to the individual brown eyes staring back at me. As I continued through my examples and message that God gives us life, God sustains us, and God provides for us, I realized that I must begin preaching a new message, “Abuse is never from God.” “If someone uses the gift of life to hurt you or love you wrongly, the gift is not being used as God intended.” And then I stopped for the translator, whom I had forgotten about, to catch up with me – composed myself, realizing the stories of my audience, and affirmed each of them that “abuse is never your fault.” You are all “fearfully and wonderfully made” by God and you are beautiful to me, to these adults, and to God who formed you in your mother’s womb.

As I was talking with kids, I noticed tears falling from Gloria’s cheek. Then Moussa translated the message into French for the Congolese girls who spoke no English. Like the two-part healings in Mark’s gospel, Petra’s eyes then glossed over with tears as well. Twice, I was so moved I could hardly continue. It was like all of the pain they had built up during the week of reflection and education was pouring out of their eyes. I experienced Christ through a girl with whom I could only speak three words: “bonjour,” “auto,” and "merci."
Later that day, we led a session called, “Telling our Stories.” At the end we asked the children to colour a picture and write a story entitled: “My Happy Story” or “My Sad Story.” Only four of the 23 children wrote about “My Happy Story”; one of those stories consisted of a black and red picture of his mom with nothing written on the inside. When we asked Benny why he wasn’t writing his story he told us quietly, “I can’t think of a happy story.”
Then I walked over to Gloria, sitting alone and asked her who woman was that made her sad. She then opened her folded paper and handed it to me. It read:

“My mom makes me sad when she hits all my body. I wish she would stop to my hed. I fel sore. I feel like hitting my mom.”

While I was reading, she crawled onto my lap and said, “I don’t want to go home tomorrow.” I asked here, “How often does it happen Gloria?” She responded in a barely audible voice, “Not every day.” Then their was a long pause, and she said, “Do I have to go home uncle Ryan?”

I didn’t answer her. I just held her. The Philomene, a wonderful counselor what was happening and attended to her so I could go chase the little boys out of the surrounding swamp lands and vineyards and stop the ongoing sword-fighting that never ends well with hyper-active six-year-old boys.

I later found out the entire story of abuse for both and Gloria and Petra and several other children that made it even harder to pry their fingers from my hands and put them in the car to go home. Last night I awoke in the middle of the night crying; the pictures of children who could not yet write have been indelibly imprinted onto my heart. Might I take this pain back home with me. Might I tell their stories. Might I pray with a transformed heart that calls out for the hurting and the “little ones.” Surely, “theirs is the kingdom”; it was a blessing to be allowed into their kingdom this summer.

The Blessing of Wadham

2005-07-06T07:54:00.000-07:00

Blessings intrigue me - it strikes me that blessings are a universal desire. To be blessed by our fathers and mothers, by our God, and siblings, by our co-workers, pastors, parishioners, teachers, children is longed after by most. Yet, it seems that being "blessed" by money and comfort and power are more coveted much more in the modern era.

It scares me that we would rather chase after the ephemeral, fleeting "blessings" of life in exchange for the fulfilling, ethereal blessings that hope and wholeness. How is it that we race after the "blessings" of emptiness and forsake the blessings of meaning -- the blessings that require work or sacrifice barely even qualify as blessings at all e.g. rich and meaningful relationships. We all want to be blessed, but do we truly yearn for meaningful blessings - the blessings that require sacrifice and gratitude and patience and self control?

The infamous hymn lyrics "Count your many blessings/ name them one by one" echo these sentiments. These warped words are a reflection of our maligned desire to be blessed from our Lazy-Boys. Our pursuit of the blessed is often nothing more "than a chasing after the wind." (Ecclesiastes' theme). Modern day Christianity seems to be spell-bound by this sickening, yet growing prosperity gospel that encourages Christians to enter into some kind of quid quo pro relationship with their Creator. When did we relegate "blessings" to something that can be counted up and hoarded by humans? It saddens me grealy that we can purchase blessings in some kind of divine market economy? What possible reason is there to stop and count your blessings? I mean, how presumptuous it is to think one could possibly count their blessings?

Instead of passively receiving and even purchasing quasi-blessings we should be blessing others. Who cares how many blessings you have? In our pursuit of the attractive we lose sight of the meaningful.

Ultimately, we devalue The blessing of life, The blessing of Christ, The blessing of (eschatological) hope for some cheap, materialistic possession masquerading as a blessing that contains substance. Furthermore, it is incredibly improbable in the race to acquire more blessings that one is truly going to be blessed. What good is a blessing that is purchased anyways? We see humans trying to purchase love and acceptance and fulfillment all over the place...yet,

those who have the least seem to be experience the blessing of life most.

Living in Africa has impressed upon me the need to question basic practices in America. Today, I have been thinking about how we spend our holidays and vacations.

(I must pause to tell a story about why these thoughts have arisen). These thoughts have been prompted by a surprise this week -- and a true blessing. This blessing came in the form of new life. The blessing breathed new life into me when I was on the verge on breaking under the pressure of simply having too much to do (preaching 5 times in 8 days) - all wonderful things - but just more than I was capable of alone. My blessing was the entrance of a curly haired British girl from Wadham College that is volunteering her time and effort (and sleep) to help us at the inner-city ministry in any and every way we ask her to. And since Greg is on holiday, she gets to help me virtually every minute of day. And what a coincidence that she is from Wadham College - the Oxford college that is practically the neighbour to Keble College (where I studied for a while). It has been great fun to talk and relive those fun times.

And Lydia has been doing it all during her 2 month holiday. While she downplays the sacrifice and cost and safety concerns - I have been touched at her generosity and graciousness.

Which leads me to the thought that vacations in America are horrible waste. We have the opportunity to be renewed and to experience new life, yet we perpetually come tired, broke, and more sinful than we left.

WHAT IF...we replaced the glamour and sin and sloth of Vegas with the grace and solace and glory of Mepkin Abbey. Instead of being served up blessings on a silver platter we would bless one another through a common meal. We would pray together seven times each day, go to bed early, rise early, work healthily, speak kindly, and love bountifully.

WHAT IF ... we replaced the cacophony of horns and swearing and screeching tires of Paris with the symphony of song and nature and silence of the Taize Community?

WHAT IF.... we used the money not squandered on hotels, casinos, and extravagant spaghetti to house the homeless, feed the poor, clothe the naked, and fund ministries and NGO's that truly fight for justice and cradle the hurting in their arms?

Surely, a vacation spent in fellowship with the saints of the faith rivals the holiday wasted on a location known world-wide as “Sin City.”

Be blessed by the saints and be the saint that blesses.

One Faith, One Baptism

2005-06-29T14:04:00.000-07:00

Tonight I had the opportunity to help preach at a truly remarkable baptismal service. People were forced to put aside their prejudices for one evening and worship God with those much different than themselves. It is safe to say that not one thoughtful Christian was entirely "happy" with the service; but it is equally fair to say, not one thoughtful Christian left without expereincing the Grace, goodness, and glory of God.

There were 4 ministers from 3 denominations and 3 coutnries that led a service of baptism for 5 children of God: 1 adult, 4 babies; 2 colored, 1 white, 1 black; 1 british, 1 congolese, 3 south africans; and a sermon full grace, challenge, and hope -- this is one of the closest moments we have to expereincing what Christ might have had in mind by us "maintaining the unity of one spirit...one faith, one Lord, one baptism." A sacrament is so much more than a "remembrance;" it's a re-enactment and a foretaste of the kingdom among the one body of Christ.

Unity is more about welcoming new life than it is about resisting than those different than ourself. Unity welcomes, unity chastens, unity forces us to be honest about our faith in God and our love of one another.

Lately, I have experienced the consequences of not being able to say no to anyone - but it is truly amazing what we can accomplish when we just go for it -- and, it seems, that which is worthy of our time often turns out better than we could have ever hoped or imagined. I think that's just what keeps tugging and yanking my heart into ministry -- it's the only way that 17 hour work days make sense - there not really work -- they're a way of living life -- i honestly have no idea how someone in corporate America does it -- when our sacrifice has value beyond ourselves there emerges reason to lose our lives (this was a postcript to my sermon during my sunday run...but a line of thought that has captured my interest this week).

Augustine becomes smarter the longer I live: "our hearts are restless until we find peace in God" -- and they will return to their pathetic, restless state if we fail in our relentless pursuit of this 'peace.' I'm slowly learning this peace is a continuum that we move along as we approach peace instead of some kind of finish line that we cross, collect our peace medal, and go back to our apathetic lives of discontent.

I hope that makes some sense. I wish what went through my head could go onto paper -- but its about like trying to articulate the joy of a child who has just discovered ice cream, or snow, for the first time.

Where have all the Prophets Gone?

2005-06-26T14:39:00.000-07:00

This morning I preached for three congregations at two separate services. I was touched today. The first service was the typical homogeneic crowd of all one race - well except for me - as I'm not coloured - to point out the audience. The second service was incredible. As I climbed into the 5 story tower they called a pulpit and peered out over the congregation assembled I had one of those moments where I knew I was in the presence of God. My heart was strangely warmed and I was strangely calmed. I had prepared, prayed, thought, and slept for 4 hours -- I felt confident that for this day I was being used as the Lord's instrument to reach people who were very different than myself. The congregation this day consisted of black, white, and coloreds; parishioners from Zambia, Congo, South Africa, Malawi, Britian, and America; young and old; all with eyes to see and ears to hear. Rarely do I feel the peace of these moments when the Lord seems to speak to each of our hearts saying, "Come, dear children, everyone of you, come and follow after me." Today, God brought the body of Christ more into his image. I am grateful to have been a part of it.

Below I will post the opening of the sermon. If anyone wants to read all of it, just let me know and I'll send it your way. Thank you all for your prayers.

Lectionary Texts: OT Reading: Gen. 22:1-14; Gospel Reading: Matt. 10:38-42
Sermon: "Where have all the prohpets Gone?"

Our text this morning invites us to give up our own lives and follow the way of the cross instead of the way of the world. We are not promised prosperity or riches or a comfortable lifestyle in exchange for our lives; in fact, we can rest assured that the closer our lives move towards the teachings of Christ the more difficult our earthly lives will be. But, it is worth it. Every struggle and every sacrifice is worth it. Every time someone stands up and says apartheid is wrong, racism is a sin, and the hoarding of resources is contrary to the gospel – it is worth it. When we fail to surrender our lives to the cross we are no longer living as faithful disciples of Jesus Christ.

If one is to truly pick up his cross and follow after Christ, there is simply no room for the excesses of materialism or racism on this journey – the weight of the cross is supreme – it is not more than we can bear – but it is the limit to what we can bear. Our Old Testament text demonstrates this quite clearly as Abraham’s complete and unqualified obedience unto God, His faithfulness even to sacrifice his son Isaac, shows us that when we are fully faithful to God, “he will provide” (Gen 22:13-14). When we pile on the possessions and prejudices of this world we cease carrying the cross and begin propagating the culture.

What makes the church different from the world? How are our lives any different than people who reject the way of the cross? If there is no obvious difference between Christ’s church and the world’s culture, we have a serious problem.

I have been richly blessed by the South African church – my childhood minister was a gracious South African who taught me to show compassion and forgive unconditionally, the South African church has blessed me with Peter Storer, who is now my lecturer at university, the South African church has blessed the world through the TRC and your ability live out the grace of the gospel like few others.

Yet, I have two fears for the South African church that continue to haunt me: My first fear is that it will become like the church in Europe and represent nothing more than a hollow, storied museum. Your great battle is over. Apartheid has ended. But racial reconciliation has only begun.

Desmund Tutu recently wrote, “Reconciliation (in South Africa) is liable to be a long drawn-out process with ups and downs, not something accomplished overnight. The TRC has only been able to make a small contribution. To work for reconciliation is to want to realise God’s dream for humanity – when we will know that we are indeed members of one family, bound together in a delicate network of interdependence.” Tutu reminds us that, “no one is ultimately self sufficient.” I would like to suggest that no single church is or should ever try to be self-sufficient – no one part of the body of Christ constitutes the church – the church can only be the church when it welcomes all into its doors.
These are not words during apartheid. No. These are words from today for today, words for right now. The end of Apartheid drew a starting line in the sand – the marathon race for reconciliation has only begun.”

The fight to defeat apartheid represents a powerful moment in the history of the modern church to end systemic injustice – But, it also marked an end to the prophetic voice. The South African church contains a great history of leaders: Desmund Tutu, Denis Hurley, Allan Boesak, and Peter Storey – these prophets spoke the truth about sin and demanded that people sacrifice everything of this world for the sake of the gospel, for the sake of what’s right. But, where are these prophets now?

Either the leaders have softened their voices or we have muted their trumpets of truth.....

My second fear worries me much more than the first. I think it is far more likely that the South African church will become like the church in America instead of the church of Europe....

My fear is this: that 141 years from now, the South African church is going to be so segregated and so racially divided that people will not even think to talk about race. This has happened in America and it can happen here. Since the American Civil War, there has been little genuine effort to desegregate the Sabbath and now we have a church so racially divided that black and white Christians rarely even talk to one another. This is not the body of Christ God had in mind when he created the church. Do everything you can to talk to each other, to eat with one another, to sacrifice for each other…to be a beacon of hope to the rest of the world instead of just another example of division in the church.

Tour de Force

2005-06-23T13:36:00.000-07:00

My foray into Saturday morning runs with the local Craig running group was a tour de force in two ways – it was a feat of strength and a tour of Cape Town from the peaks high above city life. We battled against the forces of weather, storms, rain, heat, slippery boulders, and our will at times -- but it was all worth it. All said and done, it was a lot like ministry in inner city Cape Town -- a battle against the forces of apathy, bad government, and lack of resources that requires me to look inside myself, stop asking questions and complaining about the uncontrollable circumstances and fight through it with all the strength I have inside of me -- becuase at the end of the day -- it is indeed all worth it. For one child to smile or one family to gain hope about the future is worht every bit of it.

When I enquired about the loop we would take, I received an email description that follows: (with the assumption that this would make perfect sense to an America!):

"Around the Mountain Route: from Constantia Nek up thePUFfeR route to the old Wynberg overseer's cottage, now refurbished andserving as an overnight stop on the new Hoerikwaggo Trail; via theconcrete road (or Ash Valley, or even Nursery) to the Woodhead andHely-Hutchinson dams, across the Woodhead dam wall and along the oldrailway bed towards the Apostle's Path, where we turn south again andhead for Corridor Ravine; down Corridor, around the buttress intoSlangolie Ravine, where we encounter the very beginning (or end) of thePipe Track, which we follow all the way to Kloof Nek; now we make ourway along Tafelberg Road a short distance, then up the steep zig-zagsand steps to the Upper Contour Path, across the face of Table Mountain,through Platteklip Gorge, around Devil's Peak, and arrive at the King'sBlockhouse on Mowbray Ridge; the last leg of the route now follows theContour Path through Groote Schuur Estate above Rhodes Memorial and UCT, into Newlands Forest, Kirstenbosch and Cecilia Forest, then finally home to Constantia Nek."

So, I got slight off-course a few times -- but never lost -- somehow.

I just can't describe the beauty of creation. The granite faces of mountains are carpeted in lush emerald greens of algae and shrubbery. The cascading waterfalls crescendo through the smallest of crevices and the rock formations create a runner's wonderland -- I felt like a mountain goat on steroids for nearly 5 hours this morning. We watched the fluorescent sun break over the horizon just as we ran out of the clouds about half way up the first long climb. Below us we saw a city of 3 million covered by fog as we were basking in the beaming sunlight. On the sides of the mountains we drank water coming from the rocks. And on the way down we completed the cycle of mother nature with a torrential down pour and tempestuous rains off the oceans.

Afterwards, we ate oranges, huge sausages and drank hot tea (an undesirable mélange of foods for anyone interested!) as the entire nation paused to watch South Africa defeat France in a brilliantly played game of rugby.

In the evening I finished my sermon preparation and bulletins for three different congregations I would preach to on Sunday morning. A long and fulfilling tour of Cape Town came to an end with a very sound night of rest.

Joy is Deeper than Suffering

2005-06-22T15:48:00.000-07:00

A prodigious Polynesian friend recently wrote about her experiences as a newly wed: “Growing my mind is growing our marriage.” Elissa, thank you.

While personal time in prayer and exercise are crucial to healthy living, growing our minds is sometimes overlooked. Between semesters I have momentary lapses in the exercise of growing my mind. But a minister is no different than a wife – if we want the garden to grow we must continually water the plants. More and more I am convinced of an adage I read during middle school quiet times, “We are what we think about all day long.” This is true.

Today, I grew. First, cinematographically then, sermonically. After the frustrations of the previous days, Olga suggested that in the afternoon I pick her up at work and we walk the 2 miles along the ocean to the cinema. We watched Hotel Rwanda. I’m not going to retell the movie – but watch it please – be moved. I cried during it and after it. I just can’t get the carnage out my mind. As we were leaving the theatre, Olga, who grew up on the Rwandan/Congolese border was barely moved at all – she couldn’t believe how “clean” they made the movie. Then she said something unprompted that I won’t soon forget: “There’s nothing more horrible than going to sleep at night not knowing what will happen to you.” A tear then navigated her cheek as she attempted to tell me a story – the words never came out. (The Tutsis who were slaughtered by Hutus were pushed across the border into Congo – where similar crimes of gang rape and machete killings are still happening on a daily basis).

That night I was reading some sermons of Paul Tillich when I was moved by two quotations. About the paradoxical nature of Christianity, Tillich writes, “the command to sacrifice one’s intellect is more daemonic than divine… this is stupidity, superstition, and fanaticism;” this is not the call of Christ (cf: Elissa’s remark). For a million unarmed people to be slaughtered by pitch forks and machetes takes the sacrifice of one’s mind – the sacrifice of an entire mind, body, and spirit. Evil is real but transitory – this is our greatest Christian hope.

Tillich seems to agree: “The end of the way is joy. And joy is deeper than suffering. It is ultimate. Let me express this in the words of a man who, in passionate striving for the depth, was caught by destructive forces and did not know the word to conquer them. Nietzsche writes: ‘The world is deep, and deeper than day could read. Deep is its woe. Joy deeper still than grief can be. Woe says: Hence, go! But joy wants all eternity, wants deep, profound eternity.’” (From “The Depth of Existence”)

Suffering produces tears - but I am learning these tears are quite shallow. Instead, it is the deep tears of joy that water our souls and make God present in the midst of suffering. Our hearts catch the tears that drop from our cheeks and grow us more into the image of God.

We don’t truly know what it means to pray until our prayers produce these tears.

Do you care so deeply for God’s children that your tears become your prayers and your prayers become your tears? Our lives should make this chiasm a reality.

A Battle with an Elephant

2005-06-21T15:01:00.000-07:00

Following my Betties Bay anecdotes, my mother responded, “Be Careful Ryan.” I assure you mom, I was exceedingly careful while battling this elephant. No, I wasn’t poaching or chasing the elephant; instead, I talked very calmly to her. My exterior tranquility was really just a big fat lie – I was frustrated beyond words during the entire battle.

In Swahili, Tembo means “elephant,” which seems to be a self-fulfilling prophesy, as my supervisor Tembo is one of the largest women I have ever met - which, to an African woman is almost a compliment - they have much different ideas of feminity and body image than Americans do. Most days here feel like a battle, I get beat up but I get back up again because I know these battles are the best fights of my life – they challenge all of me – my patience, my perceptionos, my premonitions, sometimes every pore on my body aches – when I listen to stories or look at scars on peoples faces or backs. So, here is a recap of the battle.

[Background info: a huge part of my workhere is for SHADE – a ministry ran by the Woodstock church that seeks to educate and encourage African women about sexual and social health issues. African women are routinely beaten, raped, and dehumanized by men – and few people, if any, in these villages see any problems with this. The Jamboree and Mini-Jamboree bring together an assembly of women from 18 different African countries and trains them to go back and educate other women about AIDS, nutrition, rape, and women’s health issues. While I am here, I am trying to edit and re-write parts of the literature in English – which is an incredibly difficult task. The second part of my job is to organize, direct, and run a one week mini-jamboree for 7-10 year olds about AIDS and sexual education. The main focus is the education, but with God’s help, I can incorporate large elements of spirituality and hope into the programme. The first two days are completely focused on self-esteem and believing we are all “fearfully and wonderfully made.” The following should make more sense now.]

Sunday night about 7:30 pm Tembo calls me as I’m about to the leave the church and says, “Ryan, I need the programme outline for the Mini-Jamboree with a cover letter and in brochure form by tomorrow morning.” I respond, “Umm… okay is there anything else?” “Yeah, it needs to look very nice because we’re presenting it to the mayor tomorrow to get the funding for this year around 400,000 rand (80,000 USD – big time money in church work here).” And she hangs up.

I had read several educational books on the topics and such and taken notes, but I had nothing really planned out – thankfully Olga was around to help keep me encouraged and fight with the printer during the night.

Somehow, I managed to get the 22 sessions planned, with presenters, activities, and topic titles. Then I worked up the cover page, fought incessantly with the printer, and got the thing finished – only to realize July 10 – July 16 is not 5 days – so I got to do it all again!

Monday morning, Tembo gets here at 10. And I can’t figure out why she’s 2 hours late. So I ask timidly, “Did you need this brochure this morning?” With a chuckle, she replies, “Oh, the meeting isn’t until tomorrow afternoon.” Ughhh…

Tuesday morning, Tembo decides she wants the thing reformatted. So, I do it.

Tuesday afternoon Tembo returns to the office, sits down with a placid demeanor, and just starts working. She seems about like normal although quieter. Meanwhile, three of us staff members are all looking at her like, “So, did we get the funding.” We continue staring at the back of her head. Eventually Greg ask her. She then tells us she was so late for the meeting that the mayor had left. Wow. All that work for nothing. I was so mad -- I got my shoes and shorts and ran up the mountain to the fourth waterfall – 7 minutes faster than I had done it all summer (an hour and 20 minutes I was calmer on account of pure lactic acid taking over most body functions.)

Turns out, my erratic and disgusted emotions inside were for nothing as well. Because, she managed to get a new meeting for Thursday. In my mind, the second meeting was nothing more than a phyrric victory unless the mayor was extremely gracious.

As a happy addendum to the story: on Thursday afternoon we found at that the mayor is sponsoring the Jamborees with 389,000 rand. God is gracious – I must learn to be more so.

A dificult Father's Day

2005-06-19T15:35:00.000-07:00

Not only was Father’s Day difficult because I couldn’t be with the dad that I love so dearly, but because I was with few other dad’s on Father’s Day. More clearly put: there were only 2 fathers in church in the entire congregation this Sunday – and about 15 different families represented – one was the pastor. It was heart-wrenching to think about why these dads were absent. A few had been killed while trying to protect their families while escaping their countries, but the majority of absent fathers represent a growing trend, in Africa, America, and sadly everywhere: fathers are absent from their families because they shirk their responsibilities of bringing life into this world – fatherhood requires sacrifice – the completely counter-cultural (African and American culture) quality lacking in our times – in all times to be fair.

During the prayer concerns we learned of more ignoble, unnamed father’s who have set up a fake refugee camp in Burundi and taken the Congolese fathers out one by one to kill them then rape the mothers and children. When you’re sitting next to people who escaped this very area and whose friends and families are suffering these atrocities – these crimes become real. These crimes are happening to real people by real people – they affect life – they take away life – not only from the beheaded fathers but they take life from entire communities – generations of children and generations of future fathers who will only avenge this violence with greater violence.

Christ’s words about non-violence take on a whole new meaning in central Africa – possibly, by “Love your neighbor, he just might of meant…don’t kill them with a machete.” Now comes the really difficult part of this Christian way of life … “Pray for and love your enemies.” Try that on for size and the gospel has a whole new meaning – a whole other purpose than some cheap, individualistic message of comfort or insurance – it becomes a call to break the cycle of violence, to end the killings, to bring new life not only to yourself but to an entire village. Prayer time takes on a whole new meaning on Fathers Day – we thank God for the “good fathers” and pray tearfully for the “bad fathers” – those words were understood and echoed by each child, woman, and man in the church today.

Appropriately, I heard my first Father’s Day sermon on the character of Sarah. In South Africa, like many war-torn countries, it is truly the caring mothers who sustain the country – they feed, educate, nurse, and minister to the country while the fathers are out killing each other. The lectionary text focused on Abraham.- a father not unlike father’s today – he lacked trust, questioned God, and disobeyed God. This revered father of the faith – for Jews, Muslims, and Christians alike set an example that followed way to often – when he decided against God’s will that his wife Sarai was too old to have a son he decided the best idea was to sleep with his servant Hagar. And gee wiz – things didn’t work out so well in the household afterwards. Abraham’s solution was quite modern – kick the servant out of her house without any support or money into a desert with a new born baby. This father of the faith failed to support his own son – a son that the world has been killing people over for millennia. YET, we serve a God whose has grace enough to forgive a man who fathered a war that has never ended. Although Abraham couldn’t give up his prejudices and his view of women – God still chose to use him as his servant. And Abraham’s not alone – the images of David and Uriah conjure up other biblical icons who God used despite their horrible lapses in character and integrity.

We are all broken. We have all fallen short of the glory of God. We are all desperately in need of forgiveness. We all need our fathers and fathers need us. We must learn to tell the truth to one another, to sacrifice our desires for other’s necessities, and we must be willing to forgive those who have horribly wronged us, especially our Fathers -- who gave us life.

I am forever grateful for a dad who taught me to be pray:

“Our Father, who art in heaven, Hallowed be thy Name. Thy kingdom come. Thy will be done, On earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread. And forgive us our trespasses, As we forgive those who trespass against us. And lead us not into temptation, But deliver us from evil. For thine is the kingdom, and the power, and the glory, for ever and ever. Amen.”

Life Makes Me Laugh

2005-06-17T10:17:00.000-07:00

Life makes me laugh sometimes, mainly at myself. During my holiday at Betties Bay many things brought laughter my way. I must record of few of them. These stories will confirm that there must be a God – for someone as uncoordinated and unassertive as myself to still be alive while living in an African inner-city and daily running on mountains is certinaly a divine miracle!
Story 1: After running in the house from a ferocious ‘cape storm,’ I was freezing from the winds and rain and decided to make myself some Cadbury’s hot chocolate. So, I guessed at the metric conversions, stirred together the milk, chocolate, and sugar and set the microwave for 1111 (thank goodness Grete, I didn’t use 9999 as your family does!). Then, I decided it would be best for me to shower very quickly and warm up while the hot chocolate was warming up. Turns out, I’m not as good at the 2 minute shower as I was during my competitive swimming days – because when I rushed dripping wet out of the shower I realized it had been six whole minutes! I slipped on the tile, released the door into my arm and discover a third of my hot chocolate in the impeccably clean microwave (the two girls I live with are incredibly tidy!) Then, I grabbed the mug, only to discover that it was too hot to pick up and spilt the remaining hot chocolate down the cabinets, under the microwave, and onto my freshly washed towel. Then I had a large mess to clean up. At least I was healthier for drinking plain milk instead!

Story 2: Today I was working furiously in the kitchen, trying to eat half a papaya, take out the trash, and kill a cockroach in just under 5 minutes. I managed to get the trash out successfully. Then, as I was holding the papaya in one hand I spotted a huge cockroach. So, I lunged forward to kill it – not only did I miss the cockroach, but I spilt all the slimy, black papaya seeds on the floor and crushed the back of head on the cupboard on my way up. Let me tell you, papaya seeds spread faster than refugee children at bath time. Turns out, my ride never showed up and I ended up eating the entire papaya.

Story 3: While at Betties Bay, Greg and I went on two mountain runs. The panoramic views, wildlife, and waterfalls were breath-taking. The first day we ran around 8 kilometers (5 miles) and ended up in the forest that inspired much of Tolkien’s writings. While running through this forest that is reported to have the densest plant life per square meter of anywhere in Africa, I was suddenly met by a solid tree branch growing like a horseshoe. If I hadn’t been distracted by the small furry animal on the ground I would have noticed Greg ducking to prevent SADS (sudden adult death syndrome) – yes, I’m coining this in advance of my death. But all was well after a few seconds and proceeded to the end of the trail.

Story 4: The second day we decided to do a run very few people attempt – as was evident in the final 15 kilometers. We were constantly batting bamboo-like pants and 6-8 foot shrubbery (that has very technical names that Greg tells me each of then I promptly forget). In total the trail was around 26 kilometers (around 15 miles) that went through a gorge, up a mountain, then connected in the same forest as yesterday. I managed to duck this time. Don’t worry, this gets interesting. To avoid carry excess weight, runners and hikers rarely carry water of long runs in the Cape because there are copious streams and waterfalls. As we were trying to run/climb the suggested 8 hour trail in 3 hours we took very quick water breaks. Since I’m not flexible or proficient at the art of drinking from waterfalls, I generally choose the scoop out of a puddle with my hand maneuver. It seems that I managed to swallow 2 greenish-black pebbles somewhere in the gorge.

Postscript to stories 3 and 4: two days later when I coughed, these two slightly jagged pebbles were lodged gracefully from my throat. And all other minor scrapes and cuts have healed nicely.

Story 5: While talking to Yvette at Betties Bay I found out my absentmindedness is in good company. While she was nursing Desmund Tutu back to health after his prostrate cancer she had to chase him down the hallway because he forgot button the back of his robe before going to talk to an old friend (the old friend being Mbeki’s father). When she caught up to Tutu, he turned with his normal huge smile and responded, “These gowns are kind of like insurance companies, they never cover your back!” After a boisterious time of laughter, he proceeded on his merry way. You would have never known this amazing man just had prostrate cancer or should have been embarrassed – instead, he told a joke … and phoned for a huge bouquet of flowers to mailed to Yvette.

Life is fun. But life with laughter is worth living. If you need some laughter in your life, come join me in Africa!

Not Forgetting the Forgotten

2005-06-16T05:44:00.000-07:00

In South Africa, one goes on holiday instead of vacation – I think I like the festive sound of holiday better. For the last three days Greg, his wife, Yvette, and his two children Kmotsoe and Katie and I went on the most beautiful holiday to Betties Bay. Betties bay is tucked behind a range of mountains and overlooks the Indian and Atlantic Oceans – no one really seems to know where they divide. Like most things in Africa I had no idea what I was getting into on this holiday.

What first struck me was how the house was built. I do not mean the brick and mortar but how it was paid for. 27 years ago the mother bought the beautiful property but has never had enough money as a social worker to think about building it. So, the three children decided to come together and evenly pay for the house to be built. It is built with great thought. The upstairs is designed for an elderly woman who’s not getting younger, while the downstairs is built for children and young adults. It is not a massively large house – just well though out – and there are provisions to expand the house as money is available.

What I most like about the home is the since of community it assumes. The children and grandchildren visit their mother and grandmother about once each month. It’s just wonderful – she has space to be dependent and time to be loved. What a wonderful alternative to locking the elderly up in a nursing home prematurely and what a beautiful example of caring for those who have cared for us. Surely a home that overlooks whales in the morning, crashing waves at the noon tide, and feeding birds at sunset is a better way to care for our elderly than a sterile, out-of-the-way old people's home. Of course this idea is not an option for everyone -- but many people -- there is an alternative - a much better solution. A family's creativity, thought, and compassion can turn the lonely years of old age into the lovely years of longevity.

Scripture repeatedly teaches us, especially in James and the pastoral epistles to care for widows, orphans, and the poor among us – we should take this charge more seriously. In each of our families we can better live out the gospel of not forgetting the forgotten.

A Very Wise Rabbit

2005-06-14T14:40:00.000-07:00

Reading through a book of sermons on apartheid I encountered the words of a very wise rabbit. The fabled Velveteen Rabbit is talking to the Skin Horse who “was so old that his brown coat was bald in patches and showed the seams underneath, and most of the hairs in his tail had been pulled out.” We pick up the fable in the middle of a conversation between these two characters.

Velveteen Rabbit asks Skin Horse:

“What is REAL?”…
“Real isn’t how you are made,” said Skin Horse. “it’s a thing that happens to you. When a child loves you for a long, long time, not just to play with , but really loves you, then you become Real.”
“Does it hurt?” asked the Rabbit.
“Sometimes,” said the Skin Horse, for he was always truthful.
“When you are Real you don’t mind being hurt.”

In South Africa I have been hurt.

My second day in Cape Town, is sat on the ground beside a Malawian man who turned to me and said, “You’re American, Right?” I said, “Yes, I'm from Oklahoma.” He then responded with his second comment, “You’re all so arrogant.” I later discovered his story of encountering two rude Americans at his workplace. Regardless, I was hurt. I immediately defended myself, my state, my country – internally of course – but was I hurt because I am arrogant? Possibly.

I was hurt when my supervisor told me her story. While living in the midst of war-torn Congo, her husband was kidnapped and brutally beaten. She was gang raped. Her 14 month old daughter was thrown repeatedly against a tree. And her 4 other daughters were forced watch each of the atrocities. The next day they began walking through the bush of three African countries to reach South Africa in the hope of no longer being tortured, raped, and further dehumanized. I was hurt, but she was alive. I was in the presence of someone real.

Today, I was hurt again. Today, Dan and Marc’s dad came to the church to take his sons back. (Although they’ll likely be back to church in the near future when he decides its too expensive to feed them or to big a hassle to take them to play with them.) Regardless, I was crushed. Everyday in Cape Town these two boys ran to me, grabbed my legs, played with me, and to a certain point depended on me. For the last month with Marc and Dan I realized that I was real. But when you are real you don’t mind getting hurt sometimes. It’s true. Although I think I hurt worse knowing that they may not be going somewhere better – it hurts to think about what frequently happens to children in poverty-stricken, third world areas – it hurts a lot. Will they be fed, will they be cared for when they are sick, will they be loved, more realistically I must ask the question that brings me to tears - how will they be abused? But with the momentary hurt I am reminded that because of Dan and Marc and the other children that I have had the opportunity to experience the truth of Emmerson’s words:

“To laugh often and much; to win the respect of intelligent people and affection of children; to earn the appreciation of honest critics and endure the betrayal of false friends; to appreciate beauty, to find the best in others; to leave the world a bit better, whether by a healthy child or a redeemed social condition; to know even one life has breathed easier because you have lived. This is to have success.”

The children are real. They have allowed me to not only breathe easier but to breathe in the freshness and fullness of life. To appreciate beauty, admire simplicity, play without hindrance, love unceasingly, and forgive easily. Because of the children I am real. “When you are real you don’t mind being hurt.” It seems to me that it is much better to be hurt and Real than to be comfortable and live a life of artificial substance.

Later the Skin Horse tells the Velveteen Rabbit, “Once you are real, you cannot become unreal again.” Africa is teaching me that being hurt and being real are intrinsically related. The question is not will you be hurt, but will you be real? And when you are real, for whom will you hurt?

Seek out those people whose stories break your heart and love them until you hurt, until you are real.

Devil’s Peak and Clifton’s Shores

2005-06-12T15:12:00.000-07:00

“It is a truism that society crucifies not only those who fall blow its standards but those who rise above them” (Peter Storey, an influential South African preacher and my teacher!).

We live in a highly stratified world. Everything is about levels. Levels of income, levels of education, levels of healthcare, levels upon levels. Today, these levels were accentuated as we ran, hiked, and climbed for over three hours to reach the peak of Devil’s Peak (a 1300 meter ascent) and on a walk from Sea Point to the shores of Clifton, South Africa’s most exclusive and expensive housing.

I saw and experienced the extremes of society today – that is the rarely seen or experienced extremes. Devil’s peak is rarely experienced because it takes a ridiculous fitness level to even think about trying to get up there; Clifton is even rarer. No taxis or buses even go to these 4 fashionable beaches. There is virtually no crime, no litter, no graffiti, no conspicuous problems…and very little life. The houses are almost indescribable – they look like a photo of Malibu beach or the homes near the University of St. Andrews. The only way Olga and I could access the beach was to walk from the last taxi drop off to Clifton (taxis here are not like America – they cost about 50 cents and you cram about 16 people into a normal sized van and pray!)…which was about 10-12 kilometers round trip. As we walked down the road of impeccably manacured lawns and exquisitely-build castles we noticed a complete silence…it was peaceful…but it was strange. I was quite uncomfortable knowing that the other 6 people on the beach with us could probably small Caribbean nations.

This experience reminded me of another extreme in South Africa – noise. White people are quite. Black and colored people are LOUD. And as white and blacks are beginning to live together and even worship together this is a serious issue. For Black people, noise is Life. Announcing ones presence, playing loud music, shouting at one’s neighbor are all considered forms of community. If one is quiet in a black community (called a township), there tends to be great suspicion. For white people, I will simply quote a parishioner who was talking to Branca about the percussious worship at Woodstock (a black Congolese girl) and I. He said with a big smile, “White people know God isn’t deaf.” We all laughed, but the truths were inherent in the comment.

I’m not quite sure how all this ties together. What struck me today was the tragedy that occurs when people choose to cut themselves off from anyone who is different than themselves or that might challenge them or make them uncomfortable – it is difficult, if not impossible, for the rich and poor, black and white, educated and uneducated to learn from people they never encounter – or to enjoy those with whom they never share a meal or conversation.

Desmund Tutu has thought more carefully than myself about this – I’ll let him speak my heart for me: “There is a movement, not easily discernible, at the heart of things to reverse the awful centrifugal force of alienation, brokenness, division, hostility and disharmony. God has set in motion a centripetal process, a moving towards the Centre, towards unity, harmony, goodness, peace and justice; one that removes barriers. Jesus said, “And when I am lifted up from the earth I shall draw everyone to myself,” as he hangs on His cross with out-flung arms, thrown out to clasp all, everyone, belongs. None is an outsider, all are insiders, all belong. There are no aliens, all belong in the one family, God’s family, the human family. We are different so that we can know our need of one another, for no one is ultimately self-sufficient.”

“Our hearts are restless”

2005-06-10T14:49:00.000-07:00

Restless hearts are in good company.

The ministry is all about restless hearts. When I talk to people about their faith, this one truth seems to transcend all racial, socio-economic, gender, and geographic boundaries – “Our hearts are restless until they find rest in You, oh God.” Today, I had the opportunity to think about restlessness in two different context: one while gardening and one while eating.

This Friday afternoon, about 20 area kids joined the youth already staying at the church for an afternoon together. After a quick game of Duck, Duck. Lion (when trying to explain the American game to the children most of them had no conception of ‘goose’ and it made even less since that a goose would chase a duck. So, Nissia (a 6 yr old) decided that a Lion would not only chase the duck, but would catch and eat it too… so, we now have the exciting origins of the game Duck, Duck, Lion)… then, we all participated in planting and transplanting carrots, cabbage, and a few other vegetables in the church’s rich soil.

Every church should have a garden.

The steeples that once soared above the Cape Town horizon have now been engulfed in a concrete maze of high-rise hotels and skyscrapers. Greg has taught me that inner-city ministry requires us to think in a post-Christendom mindset (that being when the church no longer dominates and dictates mainstream culture, business, ethics, morals, et cetera – we are there!). The life-giving greenness of a garden is capable of replacing the steeple in the urban setting. When one think of the original purpose of a steeple this makes even more sense steeples originally served the pragmatic purpose of making the church easy to find. Why not mark the church with a symbol of new life, growth, and eventual harvest?

I noticed when the kids began to grow tired of the game after several times of going they grew quite restless. They are no different than myself – they wanted newness, excitement, fun…meaning. Duck, Duck, Lion just doesn’t have a lot of meaning to a nine-year-old. Of course, gardening was exciting and captured their attention as well until the arduous tasks of actually digging up the ground and transplanting each plant individually arose…and it too became dull and rather boring. So, the older teenagers and adults were left to finish the garden as the restless children found new fun in climbing the trees, fences, and sliding through the wet mud on their stomachs!

We are constantly searching for that which has meaning…we begin this journey as children and never completely finish it…but the question really is…where do our hearts find peace? My heart continues to find peace when I finally reach that point of surrender – where I give up those fleeting, shinny, exciting things of life in exchange for that which has meaning. When something tugs and yanks at your heart with the vigor of a lying catching its prey – its time to answer as Samuel did: “Speak Lord for your servant is listening.” (I Sam 3).

During my internship one of my primary tasks is to have a significant one-of-one conversation with all 33 members of the Woodstock Church. This evening was quite meaningful – and not just because it was my first meeting with a female member about my age (as was duly pointed out upon my return back to the church !) – but because I actually got to feel as though I participated in something meaningful. Alexius moved back to Cape Town a few years ago from possibly the best church in South Africa (Alan Storey is the minister – for those of you who know him). She is disappointed with the changes, with church, and finds no meaning or purpose in her job at the plant where she works. I am absolutely astounded at what people will tell you if you do two things: 1. Ask a thoughtful yet succinct question 2. shut up and listen without trying to think about what you’re going to say next.

It’s not appropriate to reiterate her personal concerns here – but she did give me permission to repeat on question and answer. Towards the end of the dinner, I asked, “Alexius, what brought you to the church in the first place, why are you here?” She looked at me without hesitation and said, “Ryan, it was an amazing pastor (Alan) who said to me in crisis – ‘Alexius, your heart will be always be restless until find peace in God.’” This is meaningful. This is a garden with the potential to produce new life, a garden capable of nourishing an entire village, and enlivening each person she encounters. When people ask me why I want to be a minister – this day is why.

“Men go abroad to wonder at the height of the mountains, at the huge waves of the sea, at the long courses of the rivers, at the vast compass of the ocean, at the circular motion of the stars; and they pass by themselves without wondering.” - Saint Augustine

The Candy Store – A Big Mistake

2005-06-09T10:15:00.000-07:00

It was a bright sunny day this afternoon so I thought, “Wouldn’t it be fun to go to the park and post office with a few of the children.” All was wonderful until….Marc found a 2 liter Coca-Cola bottle in a trash can. Then there was a mad dash to the bottle and, of course, the fastest boy won (don’t worry – there were only boys!) I have never seen a single coke bottle disrupt the irenic spirit of an afternoon like it did today.

It turns out that two-liter bottles can be exchanged for 2 rand at most convenient stores – this is the kind of money worth fighting for (you know 30 cents!). So, I ended up making sure everyone had at least one rand and after our run up the mountain I decided the boys had been so much fun I’d let them stop and choose their own pieces of candy as a reward – that was the big mistake – never take prepubescent children to a candy store – what was I thinking.

After perusing the shop and discovering 1-2 rand would only buy a few pieces of candy, one of the children screamed, “Games!! Over here. Games!” Instantly, there was chaos. They were fighting over who could play the first game machine – when of course there were ample machines for everyone to play. Then the youngest boy lost early on and started crying and sobbing to the clerk who refused to give him a refund because “the game cheated.” Then I refused to give him more money as well. Then, he figured out that he had no more money left for candy – and we went through the whole routine again – the clerk said no, I said no, his brother said no – you think he’d get the hint. When we arrived back at the church (home), Dan continued screaming and crying followed by a 2 hour long pouting episode.

Soon after, Olga got home from work and Dan snapped at her – for absolutely no reason. Then, I almost snapped at him – but thank goodness I didn’t. I had to discipline him then simply leave him crying and screaming as Olga and I went out to fetch some groceries for supper. When we returned all the kids were running and playing and the earth was rotating correctly again.

Being strict with Dan and disciplining him (again) later that night was one of the hardest things I’ve had to do since I’ve been here. But it really needed to be done. Quite frankly Dan acts like a very spoiled child – but how in the world can I describe a refugee boy who has lost his mom (and his dad only spends 3 hours a week with) without a home as spoiled? Dan’s older brother may be the answer to this frustration – that I share with Olga. Marc just might be the most mature 9 year old boy I have ever met. When we’re not around Marc cooks for his brother, cleans up for his brother, and time after time covers for Dan so he doesn’t get in trouble. The problem is that Marc never ever complains about anything. If we ask Dan to put his dishes away or take the trash out – Dan simply disappears – but it always gets done because Marc always does it. So, the pattern is clear…yet, Olga and I are making very slow progress in breaking this pattern.

The beautiful thing is that the next 2 days Dan has voluntarily swept the floor twice, made his bed, and picked up the cushions after the nightly pillow fight. I was scared for a few hours that Dan would never talk to me again and now he seems to love me more than before. And Olga is a great influence on me as she is teaching me not ever to feel sorry for them – and she certainly has earned the right to speak as a child/young woman who has experienced a village worth of pain and loss all by herself.

Sometimes big mistakes really need to be made. I wish I made more.

Walking Auntie Bettie

2005-06-08T13:14:00.000-07:00

So, I wasn’t exactly driving Miss Daisy but I have to admit I thought of the time I watched the movie with mom when I was young. Although I found it profoundly boring I was probably memorized by her cross-stitch or crocheting project enough to endure the showing. Yesterday I saw Auntie Bettie through her fence while I was running with the kids. She recognized one of the children and we stopped to chat with her.

Our world, in the West and also it seems in much of African cosmopolitan cultures, have lost the beauty of inter-generational relationships. As Auntie Bettie opened the outside gate that stood between the youth and maturity it was like the warmth of the morning sun as it breaks through the mountains for the first time. The giddiness, excitement, and innocence was mixed with the reserved and composed, yet compassionate British woman of 83 years. She was overjoyed by the children and we were overjoyed by her. How sad it is that this interaction is the exception instead of the rule. This seems a negative reflection on our entire world and an atrocity of modernity. The elderly should be cherished; their wisdom and stories should never be locked up in some stagnant, lonely nursing home – forgotten by their family and their church. If we do have to get extra help for the elderly - and are not going to welcome them into our homes – the least we could would be to visit them as though they were a newly born child. What if we visited the sick and elderly with compassion, concern, and frequency that a mother visits an infant in an incubator? The elderly need to be warmed, not by the fluorescent lights of a hospital but with the firmness of a child’s hands and the warmness of their of their hugs.

I agreed to walk with Bettie to her Wednesday morning service at the very traditional All Saints’ church just around the corner. Although I was a good 45-50 years younger than the average grandparent at the service I was touched by their discipline and commitment to each other. The bitter coldness of the church was everywhere. The pews, the temperature, and general temperament were just plain cold (although the hot tea and homemade scones afterwards seemed to warm my body from the inside out!)

I was incredibly disappointed by the whole experience. As their was absolutely no desire to change or to welcome new life – be it in the form of youth or an outsider that might look, act, or worship in any way different from themselves. How many of us can make the same statement about our church, our group of friends, and our dinner tables? It seems that Christ's church, Christ's friends, and Christ's dinner table looked and acted much different than Christ.

Infect Joy

2005-06-07T01:16:00.000-07:00

Last night's post and the beginnings of my research about AIDS, rape, and abuse of African women and children is tearing at my heart today. I have a feeling of helplessness when I think about the immensity of the problem -- yet its also peppered with the hope of the gospel. Often words fall far short of conveying our hearts -- so, 2 poems seem most appropriate for today's reflection. The first is from Gluck, the second is quite personal.

“This is how you live when you have a cold heart.
As I do: in shadows, trailing over cool rock,
Under the great maple trees.” - Louise Gluck

Infect Joy

From
the giver of Life
Flows
the blue blood, now

Contaminated
not by them, but by
Sin
of others, of whom they know

Nothing
of, regardless the children
Rejoice
abundantly the women – Tamar and Dinah –
Caress

Away the fears of the
night
The darkness, the triple
blackness
The skin, the fear, the night

Always
defeated – the taker of
Life.

Fulfilled, ascended, seated – new
Life
Given to the takers and the givers
Alike
Offering of grace; surpassing all
Sin.

For now, we wait, we hope, we
Wish
For now we sing with shining
Light.

To dance
On my heart. With the flow of a
Fuete.
Tallchief and Terpsichord – never
Trample
But – Glide with grace.

In time – be healed – beloved.
To hold, to keep
Still, too cold to sleep—
Let go, beloved
Dream.

Of New mercies – with the
Morning.
Of New joys – with the noonday
Sun.
Wake Up.
Live.
Let go.

Wipe the goop from your lashes and
See
This day with retrained eyes.
Its here –

The lilies,
The lightness,
The likeness to Thee.

A Modest Proosal: No More Purple Pills

2005-06-06T14:50:00.000-07:00

Today was full of meetings. In the morning I met with Tembo for 2 hours to discuss my role in the upcoming Jamborees – the week long workshops to help educate and encourage African women and children (and men) to fight against, prevent, and teach about AIDS. The Woodstock church has started a program entitled "shade." Shade is an acronym for Sojourner, Help, Advocacy, Development and Education. A large part of my role is redesigning the logo, cover pages, and rewriting and editing the literature for the conferences. The logo and wording is actually quite significant as we try to receive grants for the continuation of this annual event. We are attempting to seek financial support from the Ford Foundation, Rockefeller Foundation, and the City Council of Cape Town – but these are quite competitive grants to get. This year looks like it should all be covered from within African sources – but in order for shade to expand its influence outside the 16 Southern African countries, they must receive larger funding. The organization and education is needed beyond words. And while soup kitchens, hospitals, and refugee camps are desperately needed – no one seems to be actively educating women and children in an effective way (that gets real results) in Southern Africa. Shade provides a place for African women (childern) to learn in a safe atmosphere – free from men who completely silence any female ro child voice of concern. The leaders of Shade invite doctors and other professionals (along with 4 interpreters) to teach the basics about health issues and also just plain human rights. The misconceptions about AIDS are mind-boggling. Even worse, many women (and children) have no idea that being raped, molested, and horribly abused is wrong. In South Africa, several sources report that at least 1 in 4 girls is raped by the time she is 14 – and most have no idea this shouldn’t be the way a girl should grow up. We are assured that most other parts of Africa are considerably worse in their statistics.

The women from these countries take back the information and form culture appropriate ways to teach, empower, and educate women and children (and hopefully men) in their specific areas. Tembo has been instilling in me just how taboo it is for most African women to ever talk about sex or AIDS or STDs out loud – it is just NEVER allowed. And for the church to be the church (yes, that would be a Hauerwasian influence) it must do something to change these changeable atrocities. I can think of no one of any faith (or no faith at all for that matter) who not agree that the US and the church globally can and must act now. Thomas Coats, director for the Center for AIDS Prevention Studies reports that over 9000 people each day die from AIDS in Africa; yes that would be three times the amount that died on the infamous and tragic day on 9/11. Although I hate making political comments – sometimes we must consider how a supposedly and self-proclaimed “Christian” nation can exceed 100 billion dollars to fight a war in Iraq and 70 million during the same amount of time on Aids research and prevention (outside the US). Furthermore, the New York Times recently compared the 50 million dollars spent by the Pentagon to distribute Viagra to American troops and military retirees while spending 70 million on the entire continent on Africa. My point is not to lambaste the American government (heaven knows the world does that enough – rightly and wrongly) but to say, “Look, how can we do virtually nothing for 40 million people each year who die from a disease that is becoming manageable for those with the access and means for the medicine.” America – you’re not at all alone….the South African Minister of Health has recently and very publicly announced that the we must stop spending so much on AIDS and move on because all we need is for South Africans “to eat more garlic and vegetables.” I’m speechless.

The UN secretary-general’s special envoy for HIV/AIDS in Africa recently characterized the world’s apathy towards this pandemic as “Mass murder by complacency…there may yet come a time when we have peacetime tribunals to deal with this version of crimes against humanity.” Sebastian Mallaby of the Washington Post aptly wrote: “a century from now, when historians write about our era, one question will dwarf all others, and it won’t be about finance or politics or even terrorism. This question will be, simply, how could a rich and civilized society allow a known and beatable enemy to kill millions of people?” Now, Lewis and Mallaby may or may not be hyperbolic in their writings – but their goal to inspire the world to act, to give, to care. And so many do…but so many don’t. And the tide seems to be turning (e.g. the 2003 unexpected giving of 15 billion dollars from the Bush office – although how the money is being used needs serious consideration).

This summer I hope more than anything to learn. It does seem, however, that I have been put in a position also to influence and to contribute. My prayer is that the literature I prepare and the week long camp for 7-11 year olds that I run will make a difference – that children will gain the knowledge that they are “fearfully and wonderfully made,” that they are loved, and that they are worth infinitely more than the sins that are perpetrated against them. AIDS is not the sin and disease is not a reflection of one’s worth. Please pray that I will be affective in my time with these beautiful children. (The women’s conference, Sister to Sister, takes place in October – so my work will be mainly to help in preparation). Few of us can give 15 billion dollars to research or drop everything and care for Zambian infected children – but together -- we can all care, we can all influence those we elect, and we can all pray that God would be present and comfort our brothers and sisters suffering so greatly.

I leave all of us with the words of Donald Messer, an Iliff professor of theology, “The disease is not simply by semen or other bodily fluid – it also is spread when people fail to provide information, prophylactics, or clean needles to protect a person in need. Infections happen when medicine is not provided to stop transmission from mother to child (which is currently available!!). Disease is spread when women are not empowered to say no and when men are not encouraged to practice (integrity and restraint). Church leaders are silent in the face of prejudice and stigmatization might as well be actively distributing the virus themselves – for discrimination kills both the body and the spirit.” The gospel demands that we not be silent.

Dr. Messer is certainly more liberal in his theology than I am – but his message is one that must be heard. If we are to call ourselves the one body of Christ it seems to me that as long as one single brother or sister in this world has AIDS, the entire church is HIV positive. Just think, if I or your son or daughter or spouse contracted HIV – would you spend your money on erectile dysfunction medication or medicine to save my life? I have a modest proposal that we not buy one more purple pill until every child, woman, and man is cured of AIDS.

(All stats came from Messer's Breaking the Conspiracy of Silence: Christian Churches and the Global AIDS Crisis, Augsburg Press, 2004.)

Buried Alive

2005-06-05T01:46:00.000-07:00

The diversity of Cape Town is perpetually praised. Honetly, the diversity seems more like disparity than anything else. I can run straight up the mountain from Main Road and within one kilometre I pass from the abject poverty of homelessness, drugs, alcoholism, and gang-ridden streets to posh, white, 20 room homes that blend in well possibly in Grenwich or Palo Alto. Every day I am forced to deal with this -- and wonder how it is possible that the people on top of the mountain food chain proudly call themselves Christians -- then i think -- oh yeah, I come from an entire country where its not only acceptable but encouraged. I frequently encounter Christ -- on the Main Road and amongst the animals and ecology of the sparsely-populated mountain trails -- but seldom do we encounter Christ amongst the self-proclaimed Christians on the top. I thought Africa would be different -- I'm beginning to see America everywhere -- and not what I like about America. Not surprisingly, I have been reassured through several Congolese children that "theirs is indeed the kingdom."

What I cherish about the Woodstock church with whom I most frequently work is the genuine diversity. People appear in about every shade of black to white possible. And furthermore, the members really don’t seem to care that much what pigment you may have—this is evident with the members’ ability to joke about race without the fear of offending someone anyone. If you want to speak about a black, colored, or white person, it’s fine to say black, colored, or white. I am continually asked how in the world black (or some people say brown) Americans can insist on being called African-Americans. On one occasion the gentlemen was incensed about the matter. I think I reassured him that no intentional harm was meant towards the entire continent of Africa – which seemed to be a legitimate concern to him!

One of my favourite parts of Sunday morning worship at Woodstock is the time of greeting. Right in the middle of the service we all pause to greet one another – and I do mean all. Not until every member has properly kissed, hugged, and embraced every other person does anyone sit down. Rev. Greg does not attempt to hush or prematurely seat everyone; instead, he smiles and joins the community in embracing one another. There are few ways to break down barriers of race faster than hugging a stranger and kissing their child.

After greeting one another we shared joys and prayer requests. The prayer requests were not what solipsistic prayers I sadly encounter in American Christianity; no, the prayers were for the well-being of OTHERS. Christianity in this congregation seems much more centrifugal (seeking outward) than centripetal (centre seeking). The prayer requests were for Chiwoza, a church member whose bank in Malawi closed and he has the possibility of losing everything. In thankfulness for Tembo on her birthday. For the Government to truly reach out and fund research and health education particularly for HIV/AIDS. For several members who were not even in the service because of sickness. For a Congolese cousin who was driving a recently purchased family car and struck a cow (we even considered if the cow was okay – to lighten the mood).

And most intriguing to me – we praised God for Caroline – who is now alive. Last week Tembo and several Congolese members spent a few days grieving the death of a 20-year-old Zambian girl who was not actually dead. When she was in the morgue freezer, someone heard her moving and got her out 2 days after she was pronounced dead. Yes, African health care is a huge problem. With relief and a sense of expectation we entered into prayer for one another’s concerns. The prayers seemed to be taken seriously and prayed for faithfully.

To end the service we joined our hands and said the benediction. By the end of the service my attention had been transformed from the diversity of races, classes, and nationalities to the needs, prayers, and unwavering faithfulness of the community who has embraced me without hesitation. Acceptance, hospitality, and real forgiveness characterize the best of Africa – this is the center we must all seek – especially those who call ourselves Christians. To be a Christian and refuse to accept, touch, care for, or forgive another created human being is not only blasephemous, its inhumane. We must seek to remember that talking about community is pointless without the gathering of community.

During the afternoon and evening we gathered at Tembo’s house for a large birthday celebration with more meet and Sombee (green stuff I just can’t get used to) than any family could dream of eating.

Congolese Wedding

2005-06-04T00:46:00.000-07:00

Today we celebrated. Congolese weddings are an all day affair. We arrived around 1 and left around midnight. What most struck me about the wedding was the sense of community that has been maintained. Even though these displaced people are forced to change and adapt to their newly found culture and age, they have found ways to maintain parts of their culture and a focus on family – which includes sometimes 60-70 people. Adult Congolese are generally greeted with “auntie, mama, papa” no matter what their relation. To pull of the wedding it seemed that everyone instinctively knew their role throughout the day. From cooking to setting up to arranging flowers to singing to eating to clean-up to driving 20 people home in each vehicle. No one was paid or expected to paid, it was simply part of the party – nearly every one contributed.

More specifically, I ended up in the kitchen washing dishes and arranging flowers. I was the only male in the more domesticated roles – but it seemed not to bother anyone. My favorite part of the day was definitely playing and dancing with the multitude of children. Tembo’s two youngest daughters, Nissia and Lynn are just old enough carry on conversations and play thoughtfully but not quite old enough to be aware of every social expectation—this allowed for unrestrained laughing, crying, and very energized attempts at dancing. I am continually blown away by the South African children who despite hardships, abuse, neglect, and language barriers can live a life of joy. Perhaps those who see the world through eyes not yet tarnished and blinded by the intolerance of sexism, racism, and xenophobia possess the ability to live life as it is intended – with unabated joy.

After cleaning up from the festivities, I was exhausted and collapsed for a long night of rest.

Predikante Retreat and a Brief History of Apartheid

2005-06-03T15:28:00.000-07:00

“Die rol en funksionering avn die predikant in ‘n outluikende gestuurde gemeente.” These were first twelve words I heard at a pastoral retreat the last two days. Although most of the colloquium was in Afrakaans, I learned much from the conversations during breaks and just being in a large Dutch Reformed Church. The predikante (pastors) retreat was entitled “The role and function of the pastor in an emerging missional church.” Leave it to any Germanic language group to give something the longest possible, pleonastic title when something more succinct would be just fine – but who am I to talk. Although concision was not part of the two day event, a great deal of learning was in store. Greg wanted me to attend this service mainly to meet and interact with the Dutch Reformed Church of South Africa. While this may not seem that interesting to people in the States, it is simply remarkable that I, a pastoral intern, in a mixed, but primarily black and colored church would even be invited to a Dutch Reform function. Put simply, the Dutch Reform church provided the theological reasoning and ecclesial support for Apartheid in South Africa. Apartheid rivals some of the worst atrocities recorded in human history – and the so-called (white) church was at the center of the holocaust. (There are certainly parallels to Nazi Germany, Antebellum slavery in America, the 1994 Rwandan genocide, et cetera).

Since several people have asked what exactly is Apartheid and why is it so horrible, I have decided to give a brief history of Apartheid. I, by no means am an expert, but understanding the basics of apartheid has proven essential to (beginning to) understand South Africa and national struggle towards truth and reconciliation. We must be careful not to compare South African apartheid too closely with American slavery, but Americans and the church in America can certainly learn one thing: we must tell the truth about the sin of slavery if we have any chance at racial reconciliation whatsoever.

I am drawing this historical information from a Desmund Tutu preface; Tutu was a leader who fought tirelessly to end apartheid; he later the recipient of a Nobel Peace Prize and represents the best of humanity and Christianity to a horribly broken world. “Whites have ruled South Africa since 1652; but in 1948, when it should have joined the world movement to end colonialism, South Africa’s white minority elected a regime determined to stop the march of history. They promised perpetual white dominance with something they called apartheid, the crudest possible form of race discrimination.” Whites carried plastic ID cards, Asians and “coloreds” were “painstakingly classified,” and blacks carried many-paged “Pass Books” that restricted their movements only within demarcated and designated “townships” or black areas. The black and colored areas were furthest from town and subsequent jobs. Plus, the medical care, schools, streets, and about everything else was exponentially worse than for whites. The races were not allowed to date, marry, or share significant contact – outside of many black women working domestically in white homes and raising/nannying many privileged white children (These children later became a huge problem as they reached university age and they realized just how wrong apartheid was – after all, black women raised and even breast fed many white children who would refuse to carry on in their fathers’ footsteps of forced segregation.) Bantu (blacks) were not allowed to meet in groups larger four for more than 10 minutes (although I have heard variations of these details).

To enforce these policies, the government legislated residential separation into “group areas,” and the process of forcefully evicting people from their homes began. The blacks and coloreds were “dumped” into inhospitable waste lands and rural areas. Laws were also made for “job reservation” that gave all decent and high paying to whites. And the “immorality act” strictly forbid any sexual relations whatsoever across boundary lines – this law turned police officers into “invasive bedroom voyeurs.” White children were indoctrinated with the “Christian National Education,” propagating their manifest destiny principles that were quite despicable and attempted to instill hatred towards non-whites in the children. E.g. White children were told if they saw the teeth of a black child they would die a painful death, and the same for black children. These stories are everywhere, as the people who lived through them account for anyone over 12 years of age living in South Africa.

Massive repression and a huge police force was needed to enforce these laws. Peter Storey writes that the secret police developed in South Africa “would have made the Soviets proud.” Black political leaders and any non-conformists were exiled and/or imprisoned. These imprisonments led to brutal interrogations and unfathomable acts torture and murder. Tutu’s book No Future without Forgiveness should be required reading for all human beings. I will recount a few stories of interrogation and torture to try and paint the picture of the horror of apartheid. These stories are quite graphic – but they are important to tell – as we humans seem to keep repeating our mistakes:

Ex. 1: “We interrogated Harold Sefolo in the same way…We used a portable generator to send electrical shocks through his body and force him to speak…one on his hand and one on his foot…Sefolo was a very strong man and believed completely in what he was doing and would not talk …so, shoved a sharp knife up his nose and finally he spoke…afterwards we covered his body in the ANC flag and shocked him to death.”

Ex. 2: “Forty-five lacerations and stab wounds pierce his body, lungs liver, and heart. His throat is slashed. His ears are cut off. And his stomach ripped wide open.”

Ex. 3: “Mr. Kndile was lying on his back, we shot him on top of the head. There was a short jerk and that was it…the four officers each grabbed a hand and a foot, put it onto the pyre of tyres and wood, poured on petrol and set it alight…whilst that happened, we were drinking and even having a braai (barbeque) next to the fire.

Ex. 4: Other accounts of torture include hanging men upside down from their feet and spinning them for hours, then putting wet bags over there heads for up to 3 minutes. Raping women endlessly. Solitary confinement so small you could not lay down fully or stand up fully for 23 hours each day. Pouring acid on people’s faces. The necklace (black torturing black ‘spies’) – tying a tyre filled with petrol around someone’s neck and lighting it – then watching them burn. I think that is about all I can type for now – some of the worst and most dehumanizing examples I just can’t seem to type out…and I’m not sure there is any need.

I end with the words one secret service officer gave at an amnesty hearing: “They can give me amnesty a thousand times. Even if God and everyone else forgives me a thousand times—I have to live with this hell. The problem is in my head, my conscious. There’s only one way to be free of it. Blow my brains out. Because that’s where my hell is.” And we ask what purpose the church serves in South Africa, America, Rwanda, Germany, Russia, Kosovo, Somalia, Sudan – the church gives hope to all the victims of human atrocity – the hope that no matter who we are or how sinful we may be – there is a hope and reason to go on living – to live in the grace, peace, forgiveness, and reconciliation that makes sense only in the story of cross and resurrection. We must tell this story – the best of it. And we must, as the church, live out the grace, mercy, and compassion demonstrated by our Lord who comforted not only the sick but forgave the sinners as well. Are we not sinners as well?

These memories were painfully relived through the Truth and Reconciliation Commission, headed by Desmund Tutu. The council granted amnesty for all apartheid related crimes if absolute and full disclosure was given. This normally involved the digging up of bodies and proper burial. A famous amnesty trial offers us words of hope:

“I say we are sorry. I say the burden of the Bisho Massacre (ANC killed 30 people) will be on our shoulders for the rest of our lives. We cannot wish it away. It happened. But please, I ask specifically the victims not to forget – I cannot ask this – but to forgive us, to get the soldiers back into the community, to accept them fully, to try to understand also the pressure they were under then. This is all I can do. I’m sorry, this I can say, I’m very sorry.” (This is why the call of Christ to forgive and show mercy (e.g. Luke 10) requires lives of sacrifice that look much different than the culture of vengeance and retribution).

Tutu responded as follows:
“Can we just keep a moments’s silence please because we are dealing with things that are very, very deep. It isn’t easy as we all know to ask for forgiveness and its also not easy to forgive, but we are people who know that when someone cannot be forgiven there is no future.”

ALL South Africans live with this history…I’m not sure what is worse…the family’s and victims of these crimes or the perpetrators of them. Twice I ended up tears reading this book. How are human beings capable of such evil? I really do not understand; yet, let us all admit that no one is without sin – if so let him cast the first stone. I was also reminded of George Elliot’s brilliant line in Middlemarch: “as humans, we must err on the side of mercy.” Without forgiveness there is no future.

As I was having tea amidst the cacophony of Afrikaners, the paintings around the elaborate sanctuary caught my eye. I was stunned. On the large, beautiful pulpit was an unmistakable painting of forgiveness and reconciliation. A white person was bent over washing the feet of a reddish-brown brown person. The colored person was standing tall but with his headed focused on the white man washing his feet. Both men assumed postures of unqualified humility and said, “Be forgiven, go and sin no more.” For the Dutch Reformed church to invite outsiders (Woodstock Methodist – almost exclusively black and colored church) to their retreat was remarkable in itself…but to paint a portrait of washing the feet of those they victimized is to truly start towards a long journey of reconciliation. Later, I realized…how much courage, humility, and character it takes for the blacks and coloreds to allow their feet to be washed. We must not only forgive, but be willing to accept forgiveness. For this example we thank the best of South Africans who discovered the peace that comes with truth and reconciliation. May we all strive to forgive and accept forgiveness.

Running with Lions and Torches, Oh My!

2005-06-01T11:44:00.000-07:00

Today I ran with lions and torches, oh my! Don't worry mom, it was but only figuratively. This morning at 7 am Greg surprised me and took me on a run up Lion's Head, the far side of Table Rock Mountain. The first couple of miles are on gorgeous dirt and rock road that overlook the city below. The final ascent requires quite a bit of climbing and even two sections that require you to climb up a chain -- which was quite challenging in the rain. At the top we had a beautiful view of the Atlantic Ocean and Robbin Island - where Nelson Mandela was imprisoned for almost 30 years during apartheid – and where Peter Storey (our professor and a SA pastor) ministered to Mandela for 18 months – until the apartheid government realized this was a very bad idea and ended the budding relationship.

In the evening, we met up with the Craig Runners - a trail running club. I couldn’t really figure out how we were going to run for an hour and a half starting at 5:30 - then Greg told that they used torches. I have to admit I had cave man images running through my head - actually they were just lights you strap to your head to illuminate the path. The only problem was that neither Greg nor I had a torch – and the other torches actually made it harder to see. So, we decided to run quite quickly ahead of the group and allow the moon and city lights to illumine our way. It was a blast but a bit scare. But I have never at such peace – the sound of numerous waterfalls and meandering streams complimented the gusting wind. At the top of the path we briefly looked at the original British fort from the mid 1800’s.

During the day Greg and I met with the other Methodist pastors in the area for a Circuit Staff Meeting. I was struck not by the meeting itself, but by the structure of the meeting. When we arrived at a pastor’s home, we were greeted with warm tea, coffee, biscuits, and hugs and kisses all around. Next , we simply shared about one another’s families, the birth of Greg’s new daughter, Katie, et cetera. We then shared concerns and hardships of the different churches and prayed for one another. And only after hospitality had been offered, joys had been shared, and struggles had been prayed for did we conduct the business of the meeting.

The format of the meeting seemed to put a perspective of importance about what we are doing. We are first children of God and equally accept one another into our own homes. Then we celebrated in the birth of new life and the joys of ministries, and only then did any talk of hardships come. And for a group of ministers who know first hand what suffering is about – we can learn so much from them. Namely, that our presence and our joy precondition our needs and desires. When others are more important than ourselves joy is capable of triumphing over sorrow; no crime, no sin, no wrong is so evil that goodness cannot overcome malevolence. I am learning this summer that faith is tested and affirmed in the crucible of pain, not in the cradle of comfort.

Tautologies and Belly Buttons

2005-05-31T12:55:00.000-07:00

This morning I awoke to a torrential downpour pounding against the tin roof. Because of the rigid peaks and mountains that seem to rise out of the sea in Cape Town, the weather varies greatly throughout the Western Cape at any given time. When you’re on the mountains themselves you can distinguish where the rain has ceased and the sun begins to bake the earth. To talk about the weather seems to be universal – either to complain about or compliment it – but we all realize there is nothing at all anyone can do to change it -- so why can't we find something else to talk about - or just enjoy the silence most of inwardly crave?

Several times now I have heard African wisdom at its best when they speak about the weather – in the form of a tautology! “Either it will rain today or it will not rain today,” is the common meteorological insight of some locals – and so far they are perfectly correct in their predictions!

What I said yesterday, about presence displacing work was challenged today as I served in a very domesticated manner. I spent almost the entire day with Marc and Dan. This morning we went running, playing in the park, and attempting to learn how to use a computer – which they have caught onto almost too well! Later, I made soup for us for lunch from leftovers, did our laundry -- which is a rather complex process that required 3 trips up and down the mountain. Then, we made dinner, ate, played trucks, and painted in theory with brushes.

During dinner my heart was strangely warmed, again. As Olga, Dan, Marc and I sat around the table eating butternut plant, rice, and spinach (which tastes amazing), Olga and I found ourselves listening to a profound conversation. The boys were discussing what happened to Olga’s dad when died. Believing that Olga’s mom was every bit as good as Olga they determined she must have gone to heaven – Olga and I affirmed this fact. Then, six-year-old Dan asked, “How do they get there?” Marc replied, “Maybe on an airplane.” Then Dan looked deeply concerned as he told us he was really worried about "the airplane driver because he might fall out when they open the door for Olga’s mom to go heaven."

The children’s faith allowed them to be more concerned about the living than the dead – for Olga’s mom is in heaven, but the pilot must fly home – safely. For people to treat children as the “least of these” is to misunderstand the gospel and to woefully miss the point of life. Children must become the "Best of these," for that is exactly what they are. They exude joy, awe, wonder, constant energy, and an ability to forgive unknown in this broken, hate-filled world. We must live as selfless, forgiving, and caring human beings -- as children. For children who rarely see dad (and never see their mom), Marc and Dan have an almost unexplainable sense of joy that expresses itself through their compassion and concern for those who are truly the “least of these/us.”

Before either Olga or I could speak to the subject of life after death, the topic had changed to why babies belly buttons are so big. (In central African, Olga explained that often times babies’ belly buttons can grow to the size of balloons. We then spent several minutes examining everyone’s belly-buttons. Marc concluded with his own tautology, explaining the mystery to his younger brother, "Marc, belly buttons are either very big or they are very small - like yours!"

Coach Starr

2005-05-30T13:25:00.000-07:00

The last couple of days, I have began inviting various people associated with the ministry on runs with me. This has quickly turned into a nearly twice-a-day activity that normally goes something like: everyone begins the first 2 kilometer loop, the young children break off to go shower, then the pace quickens for the next loop, then I’m left to finish up the mountain alone – which is actually quite a blessing as it gives me time to think, and the time to be – just to be. A few of the younger boys decided I have became their “coach,” which is endearing, but soon I fear I will not have the same amount of hours to devote to them each day – but we shall try! Although the kids seem to tire quite quickly on the runs, by the time they’ve made it to the couches – the cushion fights instantaneously rejuvenate their energy.

On the work side of things, I became researching endowments and grants to fund the ministry’s “Jamboree” workshop in October. The Ford and Rockefeller Foundations seem very promising – but they are going to be a ton of work to pursue. The “Jamboree” brings together women from 46 African nations to Cape Town for a week of education about women’s health, rights, responsibilities and most of all gives them permission to live whole, reconciled, and redeemed lives – ultimately through the hope of the gospel; penultimately through their ability to reclaim their lives and their bodies as their own, as valued and mutual members of the larger community. The rape and abuse of African women is greater than I could ever have imagined. The stories make it very difficult to sleep at night. But, in the darkness of every night, is the promise of Emmanuel, “God with us.”

Ministry may be more about presence than about work. Americans seem more caught up in the Protestant work ethic than in the ministry of being, becoming, listening, confessing, and forgiving. Through the time spent with the children and the time listening to the stories (every South African has a story different from my own, especially in Woodstock where I may just be the only American!) I have discovered the presence of an attentive person who is there simply to listen and maybe to hold, to pray, and to comfort is much better than trying to solve problems whose complexities far exceed our (my) ability to comprehend. When the tears (and smiles) come, we need only to embrace what Kathleen Norris has called the moments of "blessed silence." To smile back, to reaffirm, and to assure one another of God's goodness needs no words at all.

Running with Zebras!

2005-05-29T14:13:00.000-07:00

After church, lunch, and resting, Greg took me to run up the Table Rock Mountain trails; it was one of the most memorable runs I have ever been on. After a 3 kilometre climb winding our way through the misting rain and dense fog we got a glimpse through the clouds of the breath-taking city and bay below – it looks just like the post cards. As steam was rolling off our bodies we decided to turn back down the mountain so we could leave time for “a different way.” All Greg asked me was “are you okay around large animals?” I thought, “Sure, I’ve ran around cattle and some buffalo at home.” I was not at all prepared for what was to come.

With no notice Greg told me to follow him. We detoured off the main path through knee high plants and grasses, climbed over a 12 foot fence, grabbed a large log and clapped our hands. Then, out of a herd of 8 or so zebras, one came running straight towards us. I barely had time to think before Greg held the stick up to slow the zebra and he introduced me to “Friendly Zebra.” I was just speechless as we sat there petting and holding the mountain zebra as though is were our pet. The reason we picked up the sticks I then found out is that it can be close to impossible to get away from Friendly Zebra after you start petting him; his neck and head possess a Herculean strength. You have to brace yourself against him, give Friendly Zebra a few firm pats then convincingly sprint away.

As we were sprinting I saw hundreds of animals in the bright green grass below. As we got closer to more zebras, deer, and wildebeests it was amazing to watch how they interact on the mountain side. But something quite special was occurring – two male deer were fighting in a creek with huge antlers – presumably to establish the pecking order for the area. Greg told me when he brought his dog one time to play with friendly zebra and the dog began to a deer, the deer immediately ran and hid inside the herd of zebra who then began chasing the dog away.

After the hour long interactive run, we came home to Branca and Philomene cooking an authentic African (mainly congonese) meal. They had redecorated the home with pillows around a long, short table. For dinner, we ate with people from Malawi, France, Congo, and South America. Unfortunately, I sat beside one gentlemen who wanted to only complain about American foreign policy, American music television, American movies, American English, currency, war, health care – you get the point. Despite Philomene’s brash comments to talk about something else, he insisted with his unwelcomed soliloquy for two solid hours. What saddens me is that I learned almost nothing about Malawi – as he would not allow his fiancée to speak more two words per hour about herself or her interests. Later, I found out that I should not have been surprised by this – although it is much less acceptable in South Africa than other African countries. Women are little more than property and have very little room to speak when other males are present. Regardless, I was blessed by the laughter and hospitality of the guests who seemed to just ignore (let me entertain i.e. listen to the one male guest!). And I certainly never realized how many dishes can be made from a single tomato or that you are expected to eat the entire chicken, bones included – they are a great source of calcium apparently!

Last night also gave me another picture of the reality inner-city ministry. Olga was attacked by two 18 yr. olds while walking on a bad part of the mountain. Although one boy ran off with her cell phone, she decided for some reason to wrestle the other boy to the wet pavement and hold him down until the police arrived. After a small cut (from a stab wound) was bandaged several people lectured her about she should just run away for heaven’s sake. I continued to be amazed that the people who have the least, complain the least and seem enjoy the greatest happiest. (Olga wakes up at 4:15 to catch two separate taxi’s to work, then comes home and cooks for four refugee children, plays with them, bathes them, and puts them to bed. She grew up without her parents, but says simply to me, “Ryan, someone once loved me and helped me so I must do the same for others.” She is always so grateful for another person her age to talk to – even with a heart of gold, she too gets quite tired. The individual stories of sacrifice create a melange of memories salted with with courage and peppered with humility and gratitude.

To end the night, the two young boys (Dan and Marc) living with us seemed to have forgotten all about the night’s drama and insisted on Olga and I playing with stuffed animals and having a prolonged pillow fight. When they played enough to fall asleep, we put them to bed, and I walked home for a very good night’s rest. With an uncanny sense of humour, Olga asked me to take a large cutting knife home to her sister!

Ecclesiastical Pornography

2005-05-28T05:45:00.000-07:00

This morning Branca and I went shopping, which is quite the undertaking! We headed up and down the mountain three separate times. On the first trip we fetched shoes, socks, jerseys (sweaters), and candy for Dan and Mark. The next two trips was a whole new education in African vegetables and meats – many I had never seen before – and cabbage larger than my head.

More interesting than the food were peoples’ reactions to Branca and I shopping together. Mostly, people just stared at us; but some had the audacity to ask quite personal questions without a second thought. Like, “are you dating?” “what do your children look like?” (since we were buying small boys clothing), or the repair man who would not believe that we were not sleeping together! I must admit, at first it was quite fun confusing people – as I typically don’t speak at first – but just smile as Branca politely says “No” to almost every question which is really a false assumption. Interestingly, only colored and blacks actually say what their thinking – whereas the white just stare like statues!

In the afternoon, we brought Mark and Dan their clothing. They tore into he layers of newspaper wrapping with huge smiles! Their faces were glowing the entire day. They immediately put on the clothes as though the Hope Diamond had been handed their way.

In the evening I went running on Table Rock Mountain that overlooks the entire city. At night, you can only go up the mountain because the gangs never travel up from Main Road that sits at the bottom of the mountain. Gangs are only in Cape Town and are recent and direct consequences of American television, typically blamed on MTV. The television is fairly new to the culture but incredibly pervasive. The influence of materialism and shallow relationships and individualism can be seen everywhere. This is a common complaint from teachers, preachers, and politicians. The prosperity gospel been propagated by money-hungry American preachers is almost sickening. Rev. Andrews has correctly called it “nothing more ecclesiastical pornography.” He completely correct.

This evening I made potato soup and salad and we re-decorated the home for tomorrow’s African dinner party. I am quite excited to eat traditional Congonese and Zambian dishes.

Lessons Learned from Planting Cabbage

2005-05-27T08:40:00.000-07:00

Today, I made my pastoral visit with Greg. We visited a mother whose daughter had just died of MS. In theory, all South Africans have access to health care – but this is somewhat of a joke – and everyone knows it. If you are wealthy enough to afford private clinics and medicine, the medical care is certainly marvellous; but for the poor, clinics often have people waiting 10-12 hours to simply tell them, “Come back tomorrow” or “We’re closing early” or “sorry, we just ran out of medicine.” The health stories go on and on – but like most places, it is an injustice beyond words.

This afternoon I transplanted Chinese cabbage in the garden with Olga. Olga is quite possibly the only Olga from the country of Congo (her Dad thought Russian names were nice is the reasoning given). When we were planting Mark Muteba and Daniel Mukazi came out to join us. They are 6 and 9 year old congonese refugees who live at the church. For immigrants, education costs more than for local or non South African students. Although, I must say that the tutoring they receive from the church community is far superior to inner city schools in Durham; they can both read and write at least 3 if not 5 languages – this was astounding to me. Mark and Dan are fast becoming very dear friends of mine. They never complain about anything at all – even if they probably should. I still do not know there entire story but no matter what – they giant balls of joy. We play often as they live just around the corner from me. This evening it broke my heart when I come to say goodnight to them just before ten and found them shivering beneath their blanket – somehow sleeping. We discovered they do not have any shoes or socks and their feet were very cold. So, while they were sleeping, Branca and I measured their feet with a ribbon and planned out a shopping trip for the next day. The materialism of America is becoming increasingly difficult to understand. How could a people with so much do so little? I also am starting to realize just how complex the issues of abject poverty and refugees are. Although the problem certainly has been worsened by the Bush administration, I am getting sick of Americans (and some South Africans alike) just blaming an American government instead of actually doing anything to affect to social change or social justice of any kind. Individuals can make a huge difference – and many of these issues exist in America – the only difference is that the Church (and society) can more easily ignore the marginalized – in South Africa it is simply not possible to ignore the poor entirely. If (only) every person in the church would actually do something of significance and sacrifice something of significance, poverty and the lives of millions could be changed. This significant contribution would probably look more like having the homeless live in your home (helping them to find work, creating jobs for them, transporting, feeding, clothing them)…than simply throwing a spare 10 dollars bill in the offering plate to relieve the conscious of some artificial burden to be hospital. I am reminded of something Phil Kenneson once wrote: “Tithing one-tenth of the super sized box of cereal, then going out to enjoy one hell of a big breakfast is surely not what God had in mind by stewardship.” We, in the church and in all of society, must make sacrifices that challenge not only a puny piggy bank but also make dents into our sense of comfort and security.

Disembarkment on Cape Twon

2005-05-26T08:39:00.000-07:00

Today I arrived in Cape Town. It was quite the hectic day. At the airport I was met by Rev. Greg Andrews and Philomene Luyindula, one of my house mates. From the airport we went for some lunch that Philomene had prepared at the house. Afterwards, I met with Tembo who will be a secondary supervisor to me this summer. She has an extraordinary and heart-wrenching story about escaping with her 5 daughters from the Congo by foot to South Africa. At the church she directs a program called Sister to Sister which seeks to educate and support African women. She gave me a lengthy lecture about the complexities facing African women, especially when they become displaced or immigrants. It was reported in 2005 that close to 76% of African women are infected by HIV – and this number can be worse among married women. A large part of work at the church will be assisting Tembo in developing educational literature and brochures about women’s sexual health – which means I have a ton of reading and learning to do – but I am quite excited about this experience.

The church also seeks to help the many refugees in the area – mainly from the Congo (the Congonese are escaping a long, brutal war in their own country – but are not always welcome by the South African people who just finished winning their battle against apartheid and do not want their newly formed jobs and market taken by ‘foreigners’). Greg has opened the church as a place to offer hospitality to several congonese refugees. The church seeks to find and create jobs, while also offering food, shelter, et cetera. It is truly amazing to watch (and hopefully be a part) of this community completely unhindered by race or nationality – there are much more important things to worry about. Which is also fun because talking and joking about race is never taken the “wrong” way within the community – and it quite the time to tease one another about things that would be forbidden in America – probably due to fear more than anything – when you share a table, bed, and living room barriers fall down almost immediately.

In the evening time, we had a worship service in which we sang songs in Xhosa, I think, but possibly Afrikaans – either way it was boisterous, harmonious, and full of joy. The singing is led by Branca Kalenga, my other house mate – she has a rich voice that fills the sanctuary without any need of a microphone whatsoever. After the service ended we all had tea and cookies and walked home for more tea and coffee!

Pretoria Academic Hospital

2005-05-25T10:59:00.000-07:00

This morning we went with students of Pretoria Academic Hospital to pray and talk with sick patients. I was paired with Skawu to visit two wards of the hospital. We chatted and prayed with a few pre-operative patients who seemed mostly gracious to our presence. The students have been teaching and showing us that to many South Africans there is a symbiotic relationship between faith and being; the ethereal and spiritual world is not divorced from the ephemeral and biological as it is so often in white America. This synthesis seems to occur across racial, socio-economic, and religious lines. Moreover, the reality of the devil and the evil one is everywhere – there is no questioning of the reality of Satan or the capability of God to destroy the spirits of evil. God and the devil are a reality of the culture – but understood in vastly differing ways. The focus seems to be less on the justification of sin or wrongs and more on defeating the obvious, striking evil facing you in the face each day. There also seems to be a real belief (and experience) of miracles and the supernatural. Not a naïve snese of miracles but a faithfulness in God as the only source of true health and healing (especially in the black and colored churches). Medicine is simply an instrument of divine healing – but it is in no way separate from the divine source who makes medicine possible; this seemed to be true in nearly all the pre-operative patience regardless of faith. You have three choices it seems: ignore the evil and be completely apathetic to the pain of others, exploit and ignore the marginalized thereby worsening the problem, or do your best to notice, listen, give, sacrifice, and treat “others” as human beings in need of love, kindness, and mutual respect.

Before I offend any of the American readers I should clarify a bit of local classification. “Black” refers to black Africans, “white” to white Africans, and “colored” to mixed peoples – the colored have further subgroups – but this should suffice as to not offend anyone. These terms were solidified during Apartheid reign as the government sought to separate every person on a basis of race. Of course, this presented unique problems since many do not fit neatly into these three categories. Therefore, tests that remind me of the Salem Witch Trials of 1692 were preformed by the whites on the “others.” For example, if a comb wouldn’t go through your hair you were black, or if objects would stuck under a woman’s breast would fall out you were white, et cetera. The rules were quite degrading of everyone except white males. In South Africa, race is discussed quite openly and these words, in themselves, are not connotatively pejorative.

After the pastoral visits I received a history lesson from Skawu that varies from our history books on South Africa. As a black from the Eastern Cape, Skawu told of his experiences of Apartheid. It was common for white police to raid their temporary homes (shanties) well past midnight, destroy their few possessions and leave. Often, blacks and coloreds were detained, imprisoned, and severely beaten (even killed) without trial. What I did not know were some evils perpetrated within the black and colored communities, euphemistically called “townships.” Skawu that on two occasions as a boy he witnessed the killing of two “spies.” A tire filled with petroleum was tied to their necks and lit on fire in the night at the centre of the communities. Other atrocities inappropriate to write on this forum were done to the women. Needless to say, evil knew no boundaries during apartheid.

Visiting patients as a black (skawu) and white (me) minister om the hospital was a wonderful experience. Some patients were a bit confused by this – but most (black, white and colored) were quite happy to share their stories and fears with us. The remarkable thing is the joy and goodness that exudes from Skawu’s spirit during these visits – he just infects joy into those he encounters (and certainly into me!). his and good humoured nature are a blessing to the sick, well, black, white, and colored alike – I can’t but help think of Tutu’s nature when I am with Skawu – and I suspect this would be close to the highest compliment any South African (or person anywhere) could receive. This summer will certainly be a lesson in the art of telling stories!
This morning we went with students of Pretoria Academic Hospital to pray and talk with sick patients. I was paired with Skawu to visit two wards of the hospital. We chatted and prayed with a few pre-operative patients who seemed mostly gracious to our presence. The students have been teaching and showing us that to many South Africans there is a symbiotic relationship between faith and being; the ethereal and spiritual world is not divorced from the ephemeral and biological as it is so often in white America. This synthesis seems to occur across racial, socio-economic, and religious lines. Moreover, the reality of the devil and the evil one is everywhere – there is no questioning of the reality of Satan or the capability of God to destroy the spirits of evil. God and the devil are a reality of the culture – but understood in vastly differing ways. The focus seems to be less on the justification of sin or wrongs and more on defeating the obvious, striking evil facing you in the face each day. There also seems to be a real belief (and experience) of miracles and the supernatural. Not a naïve snese of miracles but a faithfulness in God as the only source of true health and healing (especially in the black and colored churches). Medicine is simply an instrument of divine healing – but it is in no way separate from the divine source who makes medicine possible; this seemed to be true in nearly all the pre-operative patience regardless of faith. You have three choices it seems: ignore the evil and be completely apathetic to the pain of others, exploit and ignore the marginalized thereby worsening the problem, or do your best to notice, listen, give, sacrifice, and treat “others” as human beings in need of love, kindness, and mutual respect.

Before I offend any of the American readers I should clarify a bit of local classification. “Black” refers to black Africans, “white” to white Africans, and “colored” to mixed peoples – the colored have further subgroups – but this should suffice as to not offend anyone. These terms were solidified during Apartheid reign as the government sought to separate every person on a basis of race. Of course, this presented unique problems since many do not fit neatly into these three categories. Therefore, tests that remind me of the Salem Witch Trials of 1692 were preformed by the whites on the “others.” For example, if a comb wouldn’t go through your hair you were black, or if objects would stuck under a woman’s breast would fall out you were white, et cetera. The rules were quite degrading of everyone except white males. In South Africa, race is discussed quite openly and these words, in themselves, are not connotatively pejorative.

After the pastoral visits I received a history lesson from Skawu that varies from our history books on South Africa. As a black from the Eastern Cape, Skawu told of his experiences of Apartheid. It was common for white police to raid their temporary homes (shanties) well past midnight, destroy their few possessions and leave. Often, blacks and coloreds were detained, imprisoned, and severely beaten (even killed) without trial. What I did not know were some evils perpetrated within the black and colored communities, euphemistically called “townships.” Skawu that on two occasions as a boy he witnessed the killing of two “spies.” A tire filled with petroleum was tied to their necks and lit on fire in the night at the centre of the communities. Other atrocities inappropriate to write on this forum were done to the women. Needless to say, evil knew no boundaries during apartheid.

Visiting patients as a black (skawu) and white (me) minister om the hospital was a wonderful experience. Some patients were a bit confused by this – but most (black, white and colored) were quite happy to share their stories and fears with us. The remarkable thing is the joy and goodness that exudes from Skawu’s spirit during these visits – he just infects joy into those he encounters (and certainly into me!). his and good humoured nature are a blessing to the sick, well, black, white, and colored alike – I can’t but help think of Tutu’s nature when I am with Skawu – and I suspect this would be close to the highest compliment any South African (or person anywhere) could receive. This summer will certainly be a lesson in the art of telling stories!

Honesty and Disparity

2005-05-24T08:41:00.000-07:00

This morning we awoke to our first full day in Africa! Because I went to bed so early I was up at 5:30 with nothing better to do than go on my first run in the southern hemisphere. The brisk air, panoramic sunset, and sleepy Pretorians walking to work made for a pleasant run on the dirt sidewalks. By 7:30 we were at our first worship service with seminarians. The songs, prayers, and liturgy were conducted in at least 4 languages (there are 11 official languages in the country and most people speak enough English to communicate with one another - and Americans). The rich African voices created a hearty, multi-layered harmony that made my spirit tingle inside. Although I had no clue what was being sung, I could sense there love for life, for one another, and for their God. The variegated student body represent most of the South African areas and bring with them their own unique gifts that all blend together through music. ( a few of the prominent languages include Xhosa, Zulu, Swazi, Sotho, Tswana and Afrikaans -- of which none sound anything like English or Spanish - so Im at their mercy for translation).

This was also a day of discovery. The themes of honesty and disparity continue to pervade my experience here. At breakfast, Jolla and Skawu shared their thoughts on the South African people. They began by agreeing that "we have a horrible, just horrible history," yet ended with the comment "change takes time -- but we all now have joy during this change!"

During the day we spent much time with the dean, Dion -- learning about the history of the Methodist Church of South Africa and the ordination track that requires a minimum of 5 years. The sacrifice of leaving their families, some moving up to 3000 kilometers from home and classes and papers done in English is such an inspiration to my fellow Christians commitment to the faith.

In the afternoon we saw the disparity of the first and third world (terms they use without angst) -- they stare each other in the face and cannot be ignored. From the mutely-Rand mansions to the abject poverty of "informal settlements" (shanties without electricity or plumbing of any kind). The disparity made the Biltmore Estate and Southern Appalachian farmers look like equals.

Each of our hearts were touched as we learned and experienced the devotion and faithfulness of each student and teacher to their calling. The facilities in which they study (though they have a beautiful chapel) were heart-wrenching for all of us. On the eve of Duke completing a 46 million dollar divinity school addition -- and sister school here in Pretoria has an incredible need for modern books, computers, and adequate classrooms. For several hours the four of us discussed our disgust that Duke can sit back in the ivory tower without even raising a concern among the student body of the great need here -- a need which we could do a tremendous amount to help -- without even sacrificing - heaven forbid. I hope the divinity school doesn't expect for the four of us to do nothing and be silent next semester -- its simply not going to happen. They can't expect to train us for ministry emphasizing social justice, et cetera then wonder why we stir things up when we return. Dine does remind us often not to romanticism South Africa or compare it to America -- but it is nearly impossible not to.

But the truly remakable thing is the perspective and joy with which these students learn -- the conditions - which they realize are dilapidated at best - become a steady reminder of the sacrifice required by ministry. The call of God knows no barriers -- be it apartheid, poverty, racism, or sexism -- what a testament to Christians around the world. Sure, South Africa is not perfect, but we would do well to stop back and observe the joy with which they find in their studies and ministries. At dinner this evening Thapelo confirmed, "we know our history and we are making the most of it."

First Day in South Africa !!

2005-05-23T11:51:00.000-07:00

What a beautiful country! The landscape, weather, and people are just wonderful - quite the juxtaposition to the 18 hour plane ride. However, the plane trip served as a precursor to the delightful yet gregarious nature of South Africa. Upon arrival we were met by Dion Forrester, the director of the seminary picked us up from the airport and was most helpful -- he even made us feel super special with our name neatly on a printed sign! Then we exchanged money (because ATL Hartsfield ran out of money somehow this morning) and headed onto the quaint yet inviting grounds of the John Wesley Methodist Seminary located in Pretoria. We were comforted by the fact that the seminary is set a neighborhood with virtually no crime rate -- due to the South Africans Scorpions being just down the road (the Scorpions are the CIA/FBI South African equivalent - with amazing cameras, et cetera). After a 3 hour nap, scolding hot bath, and tea, we enjoyed an unending dinner of beet roots and something resembling shepherd's pie. After the meal, we (the 4 americans) were amazed to see the similarities between aparthied south africa and the slavery past of America. The segregation, ostracision, and humiliation of the blacks or 'coloreds' was quite analagous. I was also reaffirmed at just how amazing the process/struggle/and journey towards reconciliation has been. The south africans have done more in 11 years since aparthied than the 150 years of parabellum America -- without a doubt. What struck the four of us is the honesty, sometimes painful honesty, that the south afrcians have chose to participate in -- possibly the greatest lesson of the day can be summed up as: tell the truth. It seems as though "the can set you free" only if the truth, the wrongs, and the rights are confessed. Tomorrow we embark on our first south african worship service at 7:30 am which promises to be unlike any American worship service. When communioin is planted in a spirit of humility, honesty, and true koinonia, the Eucharist takes on a sense of newness and growth often absent from American church.

Preparing for South Africa

2005-05-20T22:11:00.000-07:00

I am so excited!!! In just two days, I leave for South Africa. I will be traveling with three other seminarians from Duke to South Afirca. The first four days we will spend learning about the culture, the church, and the South African people from students at the John Wesley Seminary in Jo'burg! Then, I will depart for Cape Town and become a part of the Woodstock Methodist Church for the summer (well, winter in South Africa!).

I have no idea what to expect or even what to fear, I only anticipate seeing the world through re-trained eyes. It seems impossible to leave this amazing country unmoved or unchanged by its beauty, its people, and its history. The South Africans' ability to forgive one another and their effort to be reconciled after aparthted is truly remarkable. Thier fight against injustice, their ongoing journey towards peace, and their unrelenting will to never give up makes me excited to listen to every South African I can encounter.

South Africa has so much to teach America (and even more to teach the American church) - I can't wait to discover the myriad lessons of this internship. Habakkuk's words seem to capture my heart this evening better than I could ever articulate: "Watch and be utterly amazed, for I am going to do something in your life you would not imagine even if you were told!" This is the goal: to focus less on the burden of the protestant work ethic and more on the active observation of a people richly blessed and differently focused than myself.

It is my prayer that through living in the inner-city of Cape Town I will be inspired and learn ways in which the church in America can move towards desegragating the sabboth and seeking untiy (and vibrant diversity) within the Body of Christ; furthermore, I long for the church and the country to cease the continued hatred, apathy, and division that perpetuates a segregated sabboth. (And surely what the church and these extraordinary people teach me can be applied to the broader American culture as well.) Our culture and the church alike can begin to make actual progress towards racial reconciliation - but it will take effort, unqualified humility, and even sacrifice -- but it is worth it -- not only for ourselves but for our children and our children's children. We are responsible for our apathy -- but we are not without hope!

This evening I am staying with Julie and Andrew Bentley who are serving as my gracious hosts. We made my mom's potato-cheese soup recipe tonight along with banana nut bread for dessert - it was delicious. Tomorrow I will be staying with Jesse and David Schumann who have so eargerly volunteered to take me at the airport well before the sun comes up. Several of you have asked for a brief itinerary, which I have posted below - it may even serve as a fun exercise in identifying airport acronyms!

May 22 RDU to ATL 615A-736A
May 22 ATL to CPT 1030A-1020A (May 23)
May 26 CPT to JBG 900A-1110A
Jul 22 JBG to CPT 310P-510P
Jul 22 CPT to ATL 750P-820P
Jul 23 ATL to RDU 1132A-1247A (Claire Larson picks me up)
Jul 24 RDU to ORD 1020A-12:25A
Jul 24 ORD to TUL 115P-215P (Mom/Dad picks me up)
Aug 17 TUL to ORD 1036A-1244P (grete/aaron picks me up)
Aug 22 ORD to RDU 1211P-310P
Aug 23 RDU to ESR
Aug 24-26 ESR orientation
Sept 2 USA v. Mexico – Columbus

My thoughts and prayers are with each of you on this night of excitement and expectation.