My heart is overflowing with the events of the last two days.
On Sunday I preached at Ruth's church, the Evangelical Reformed Church. Sam had preached in January. For awhile it looked like I was not going to have my chance because of the multi-week celebration of the ordination of the young pastor who has been an intern here for several years. But then this last Sunday opened up. Providentially, the Gospel lesson according to the lectionary was the Samaritan Woman at the Well. When it was thought that I might preach in February I had thought I would use this lesson and here it was the appointed reading for the day worldwide!
The women's group of which Ruth is a part -- and which I have enjoyed so much here -- was thrilled. They prepared two very special songs. One, "Toi le femme" (You the woman), is the song of the synod-wide women's group. It affirms the place of women before God and offers praise of God. In one verse it says that once we were slaves but then . . . and now we are in the pulpit. They sang this as I climbed the steps into the high pulpit that towers over everybody. In the chorus when "Toi the femme" is sung three times, they all point at another woman, so I pointed at women in the congregation, here, there, and far in the back. It was great fun.
I'll post my sermon shortly. It was translated by a lovely woman who had been educated in England. I started out by summarizing my experiences here including the celebration of International Women's Day. I said I hoped for the day when we didn't need a special day to affirm women because they would be free to become all God meant them to be, and thus would be affirmed every day. But alas, that day has not come. I summarized the exploitation of women here and around the world which led me into the discussion of the Woman at the Well, a woman who probably had few options open to her and had had to get by somehow. Most to the point, I talked about how open she was to Jesus and to facing her sin -- a suitable theme for Lent, I might add. And then this woman became the first evangelist.
The sermon was very well received. I received positive feedback as I greeted people at the back of the church and at the luncheon following. But the most amazing feedback came last night, Monday night, at women's group. Ruth hosted the group here at her house and the attendance was grand. First they had their usual Bible study. Two of the women prepare the study each week. These women's preparation was impressive and the discussion was lively.
Then one of the women arose to speak to me on behalf of the group. Of course it was in French, but I got the sense of it. I wish I had it on my video camera so I could listen again! Basically she said it was no small thing for me to have stayed with my friend for three months and to do all I have done. She said I should remember that when I return I should remember that I'm not visiting just one friend, but many friends. Most touching of all, she said that I had not mounted the stairs of the pulpit all alone but that in doing so I had elevated all women.
I was very touched. Praise God. What a day! Perhaps even some of the women will visit us in Arizona.
The day after tomorrow I will get on the plane to fly home. Needless to say I am very excited about re-joining Sam there, about seeing all the pets and the home remodeling that has been going on there, and the parish. But I will shed tears. Ruth and I treasure our friendship even more than we ever have -- if that is possible -- and praise God for the magnificent gift that it is to each of us and, we pray, to others.
Tuesday, March 29, 2011
Wednesday, March 9, 2011
It's Ash Wednesday
A blessed Lent to all.
At dinner a few days ago Ruth asked, “Where are you from?” This was information that I thought she well knew. I said, “Well, mostly Idaho. Most of my growing up years were there, and ten years of Sam and the boys and my life.” Raphael said, “That’s what all Americans say. You ask them where they are FROM and they tell you where they have LIVED.” Ruth said, “My kids have never lived in Mangamba (Raphael’s home village) but if you ask them where they are from, they will say, ‘Mangamba.’ If you ask where I am from, I will say, 'Vanga.'" It’s the Congolese village that Ruth’s parents – who were both orphaned – were from.
I said, “Well, what am I to say? Three of my four grandparents were from England, with at least two ancestors on the Mayflower in 1620. The fourth grandparent’s parents came from Germany, but I don’t know where.”
I added that having been raised in the West of the U.S, I’m even more removed from somewhere to really be FROM. My father’s parents came from Vermont to Montana in 1903. My mother’s parents came to Oregon from Ohio before that, and to there from Connecticut before that.
In my experience we Caucasian Westerners are also far removed from our ethnicities. When Sam and I lived in Scranton, PA it was far more important whether you were Irish, Welsh, Italian, Polish, or Russian. As a “Smith” I always felt pretty vanilla.
Both Ruth and Raphael reflected how different Americans’ way of looking at their origins is – how different the meaning of the word FROM really is. Again, I was reminded of the Navajo. They are much more deeply rooted to a piece of land which is the place they come from – and the place they return to for major family events and ceremonies.
ORDINATION
I went to an ordination on Sunday. Since our arrival in January the church has been preparing for the ordination of its young pastoral interne. Raphael, as a church elder, helped plan the events. There was even a special theme fabric for the event, so I had a kaba (a traditional dress) made. There were eleven people (10 men and one woman) being ordained at the close of the annual synod meeting of the church. It was held at the larger Evangelical church where I went for New Year’s Eve two years ago. When Ruth, Raphael and I arrived in the crowded church yard, we were singled out and escorted past all the outdoor tents and chairs into the side door of the church and seated at the very front, in the row right behind the ordinands’ wives – and the one husband. (Though retired, Raphael is still a recognized important person.) As usual, the service started a good 45 minutes to an hour late. There were lots of choirs in the balcony behind us, including drumming and traditional “hooting.” Some high officials arrived late, including the vice prime minister of the country. Everyone cheered as a group of small children escorted the ordinands to the front. The sermon was preached by a German official of the church in English and then translated into French. Ruth and Raphael were again disappointed in the translation. The translator’s refusal to translate the part about corruption in Cameroon stood out like a sore thumb! It was nice, for once, to be able to understand the sermon. He spoke of the importance of clergy as servants of Christ and of the people.
When it came time for the ordination we couldn’t actually see it because 400 black robed pastors gathered around the ordinands. (Among the 400 there were only about a dozen women pastors.) The most touching part came after they knelt and had hands laid upon them. Our church’s young ordinand, very tall and slender, openly wept. He has been working towards this since he was three. All of them had completed at least three years of seminary following college.
Following the ordination, the service dragged on and on. They were actually closing the synod meeting so there were lots of closing speeches and thanks. It had become very hot. Churches are not air-conditioned and electric fans can only do so much. We came home and cooled off and then left for the second phase of the celebration – an event at our young ordinand’s sponsoring church. The Titis thought it was a feast but it turned out being another long church service, mostly spoken in Douala. I loved when the small children danced into the church in traditional Douala style. One high point for the ordinand was when he climbed the long steps up into the pulpit. As you see in U.S. colonial Protestant churches, the pulpits are “high and lifted up.” Raphael says that only ordained people are allowed to preach from up there, so it was a big moment and everyone cheered. When the service was over we just came home. Though there would have been some food served then, none of us were in the mood for another mad food line.
Festivities will continue for the duration of the month. Next week I think the ordinand will be preaching at our church and the week after that there will be a big party. We do not yet know to what church he will be assigned.
At dinner a few days ago Ruth asked, “Where are you from?” This was information that I thought she well knew. I said, “Well, mostly Idaho. Most of my growing up years were there, and ten years of Sam and the boys and my life.” Raphael said, “That’s what all Americans say. You ask them where they are FROM and they tell you where they have LIVED.” Ruth said, “My kids have never lived in Mangamba (Raphael’s home village) but if you ask them where they are from, they will say, ‘Mangamba.’ If you ask where I am from, I will say, 'Vanga.'" It’s the Congolese village that Ruth’s parents – who were both orphaned – were from.
I said, “Well, what am I to say? Three of my four grandparents were from England, with at least two ancestors on the Mayflower in 1620. The fourth grandparent’s parents came from Germany, but I don’t know where.”
I added that having been raised in the West of the U.S, I’m even more removed from somewhere to really be FROM. My father’s parents came from Vermont to Montana in 1903. My mother’s parents came to Oregon from Ohio before that, and to there from Connecticut before that.
In my experience we Caucasian Westerners are also far removed from our ethnicities. When Sam and I lived in Scranton, PA it was far more important whether you were Irish, Welsh, Italian, Polish, or Russian. As a “Smith” I always felt pretty vanilla.
Both Ruth and Raphael reflected how different Americans’ way of looking at their origins is – how different the meaning of the word FROM really is. Again, I was reminded of the Navajo. They are much more deeply rooted to a piece of land which is the place they come from – and the place they return to for major family events and ceremonies.
ORDINATION
I went to an ordination on Sunday. Since our arrival in January the church has been preparing for the ordination of its young pastoral interne. Raphael, as a church elder, helped plan the events. There was even a special theme fabric for the event, so I had a kaba (a traditional dress) made. There were eleven people (10 men and one woman) being ordained at the close of the annual synod meeting of the church. It was held at the larger Evangelical church where I went for New Year’s Eve two years ago. When Ruth, Raphael and I arrived in the crowded church yard, we were singled out and escorted past all the outdoor tents and chairs into the side door of the church and seated at the very front, in the row right behind the ordinands’ wives – and the one husband. (Though retired, Raphael is still a recognized important person.) As usual, the service started a good 45 minutes to an hour late. There were lots of choirs in the balcony behind us, including drumming and traditional “hooting.” Some high officials arrived late, including the vice prime minister of the country. Everyone cheered as a group of small children escorted the ordinands to the front. The sermon was preached by a German official of the church in English and then translated into French. Ruth and Raphael were again disappointed in the translation. The translator’s refusal to translate the part about corruption in Cameroon stood out like a sore thumb! It was nice, for once, to be able to understand the sermon. He spoke of the importance of clergy as servants of Christ and of the people.
When it came time for the ordination we couldn’t actually see it because 400 black robed pastors gathered around the ordinands. (Among the 400 there were only about a dozen women pastors.) The most touching part came after they knelt and had hands laid upon them. Our church’s young ordinand, very tall and slender, openly wept. He has been working towards this since he was three. All of them had completed at least three years of seminary following college.
Following the ordination, the service dragged on and on. They were actually closing the synod meeting so there were lots of closing speeches and thanks. It had become very hot. Churches are not air-conditioned and electric fans can only do so much. We came home and cooled off and then left for the second phase of the celebration – an event at our young ordinand’s sponsoring church. The Titis thought it was a feast but it turned out being another long church service, mostly spoken in Douala. I loved when the small children danced into the church in traditional Douala style. One high point for the ordinand was when he climbed the long steps up into the pulpit. As you see in U.S. colonial Protestant churches, the pulpits are “high and lifted up.” Raphael says that only ordained people are allowed to preach from up there, so it was a big moment and everyone cheered. When the service was over we just came home. Though there would have been some food served then, none of us were in the mood for another mad food line.
Festivities will continue for the duration of the month. Next week I think the ordinand will be preaching at our church and the week after that there will be a big party. We do not yet know to what church he will be assigned.
Tuesday, March 8, 2011
International Women's Day
Wow! The International Women's Day parade here in Douala, Cameroon, was amazing. Fortunately, we got to sit in a covered place. For two and a half hours, groups of women paraded by, all dressed in dresses made of the pink or green theme fabric. Waves and waves of literally thousands of women. All the women employees of various companies, women scientific researchers, all the women police, the women in the garbage service, mosquito control women, women attorneys, members of various associations and political parties, and more and more and more. It was fascinating to see the thousands of different ways women rendered (or paid to have rendered) their fabirc. When I close my eyes I can still see the pink and green passing by. It was an amazing show of the number of women who work everyday here to make a living and to improve the society. (And I'm very proud of the pink dress I made for me, and the green one for Doris, Ruth's sister. I'll remember this day for a long time!) Humorously, one beautiful young woman who was carrying her group's banner wore a mini-mini skirt of the theme fabric with matching leggings that didn't quite reach as high as the skirt hem. Skimpy top. Spike heals. Blond wig. The crowd cheered, presumably at her unorthodox approach to the garb. Another interesting side event, as it were, was a gathering of albinos in the audience near us. Albinoism is quite common here. I don't know if this was a formal organization, informal, or even extended family. It was a great place for people watching and I had a great time. Ruth says that many women are now out in the bars and other parties, leaving their husbands to fend for themselves for the entire day (and most of the night). We're home safe and sound and comfy with Ruth's husband in their comfortabe, AIR-CONDITIONED home!
Another experience of culture!
I've had some very interesting experiences in the last few days. The tasks of patient watching and waiting had to go into high gear.
Most interesting was a funeral in Aboland, where Raphael is from. It was a village farther into the bush than Mangamba. Ruth didn't actually know the person, but "The Wives and Daughters of Aboland" needed to be there because the deceased was a relative of one of them. It's important to the family to have lots of people at the funeral to say, "This was an important life." The funeral was in the yard of the home, which is the dominant place to have a funeral. It was a large home, though I didn't get to see inside. Ruth said one of the sons, who is a customs officer, built the compound for the whole family to come back to. There are several buildings. The most interesting was a separate, special room to receive the coffin. We didn't see that part of the service, but I understand the casket then went down, under this crypt sort of room for burial on site.
Anyway, we got there a bit late, of course. There were tents all around the house and hundreds and hundreds of people including many “notables,” traditional tribal chiefs and related persons. The service was conducted off of an elevated porch. It was very high and I couldn't actually see into it. Someone hustled around and found us some chairs in the shade of a carport sort of thing, a pass-through to the backyard. There were the speeches by family members that you expect at funerals most anywhere, tears, etc.. Mostly I fell into my stupor of not understanding anything since it was all in French or Abo. Then there was an offering. I guess it goes to the family to help pay the expenses of the shindig. Much to everyone's surprise and audible grumbling, the pastor said a second offering was being taken for the church's building plans. It was a sparse collection! Much to my dismay, in a prayer following the offering, the pastor asked God to make the people more generous next time an offering was taken!
I got a bit of video of the family processing to the backyard for the dinner. There was then a strange sort of solitary dancer passing by us, looking very traditional. I couldn't understand his role or purpose and neither could Ruth. By the way others received him, Ruth decided he was a deranged, uninvited visitor.
After the service we were contemplating leaving promptly (Ruth had said we would not stay long.) but then were asked to "come up higher" as it were. Ruth, always addressedas “Madame Titi,” her friend that had accompanied us and I were escorted to one of the covered banquet tables right next to the table of the notables. I was able to greet the Mayor of Souza to whom I had presented the microscope from Kearny two years ago. Beer was distributed and then, eventually, we were invited to the food line. Well, this is where my experience really gets dicey. As we moved forward in the line several people crowded in between Ruth and me. By this time it was getting more crowded, then chaotic. Come to find out, we had been led to the tail end of the serving tables, not the beginning. Other people were coming from the other end. So when the two groups came, there was chaos. Event coordinators tried to get my line to reorganize itself by going to the beginning of the serving tables. By this time Ruth and Elvire, six or seven people ahead of me, had gotten entirely through the line. People wouldn't cooperate with the organizers. The press of the crowd got tighter, and louder. So I stepped out of the line myself and went to the other end. But by this time, people at that end were crowding and cutting in, and reaching over each other, etc. Louder and louder. At first I said to myself, "OK, this is a cultural experience. I'll just join in this game, however it is played, and get some food." But with the press of the bodies, the heat, the loud voices, and my becoming increasingly self-conscious about being the only white person in the crowd, I said to myself, "I can't do this! I will not be a part of this food fight!" I took my plate with four tiny bits of food to the table. Ruth shared her meal with me. There was wine at the table and that helped!
A little later I saw another rude incident. A man who had been sitting at our table had left -- maybe to get in the food line, I don't know. Another gentleman came along and sat there. The first man left me with the impression that he was young and wanted to be treated importantly. The second man was much more interesting looking in some kind of a gentle way. Well, when the first man returned to the table he demanded for his place back. The second man very graciously left. Some time later, when other people at our table had cleared out, this second man came and joined us. Ruth introduced him -- a musician by avocation; educated in the U.S. I poured him a glass of wine and told him I had observed the incident -- and about my experience in the food line. He said, "Oh yes, part of our culture you have to experience." Raphael said that later, too. "Yes, the people do push and scramble for food."
I've reflected a lot on that experience. Where did this behavior come from? Were all these people deprived at some time, and therefore anxious about food? Is it just a quirk of culture? I don't know.
Most interesting was a funeral in Aboland, where Raphael is from. It was a village farther into the bush than Mangamba. Ruth didn't actually know the person, but "The Wives and Daughters of Aboland" needed to be there because the deceased was a relative of one of them. It's important to the family to have lots of people at the funeral to say, "This was an important life." The funeral was in the yard of the home, which is the dominant place to have a funeral. It was a large home, though I didn't get to see inside. Ruth said one of the sons, who is a customs officer, built the compound for the whole family to come back to. There are several buildings. The most interesting was a separate, special room to receive the coffin. We didn't see that part of the service, but I understand the casket then went down, under this crypt sort of room for burial on site.
Anyway, we got there a bit late, of course. There were tents all around the house and hundreds and hundreds of people including many “notables,” traditional tribal chiefs and related persons. The service was conducted off of an elevated porch. It was very high and I couldn't actually see into it. Someone hustled around and found us some chairs in the shade of a carport sort of thing, a pass-through to the backyard. There were the speeches by family members that you expect at funerals most anywhere, tears, etc.. Mostly I fell into my stupor of not understanding anything since it was all in French or Abo. Then there was an offering. I guess it goes to the family to help pay the expenses of the shindig. Much to everyone's surprise and audible grumbling, the pastor said a second offering was being taken for the church's building plans. It was a sparse collection! Much to my dismay, in a prayer following the offering, the pastor asked God to make the people more generous next time an offering was taken!
I got a bit of video of the family processing to the backyard for the dinner. There was then a strange sort of solitary dancer passing by us, looking very traditional. I couldn't understand his role or purpose and neither could Ruth. By the way others received him, Ruth decided he was a deranged, uninvited visitor.
After the service we were contemplating leaving promptly (Ruth had said we would not stay long.) but then were asked to "come up higher" as it were. Ruth, always addressedas “Madame Titi,” her friend that had accompanied us and I were escorted to one of the covered banquet tables right next to the table of the notables. I was able to greet the Mayor of Souza to whom I had presented the microscope from Kearny two years ago. Beer was distributed and then, eventually, we were invited to the food line. Well, this is where my experience really gets dicey. As we moved forward in the line several people crowded in between Ruth and me. By this time it was getting more crowded, then chaotic. Come to find out, we had been led to the tail end of the serving tables, not the beginning. Other people were coming from the other end. So when the two groups came, there was chaos. Event coordinators tried to get my line to reorganize itself by going to the beginning of the serving tables. By this time Ruth and Elvire, six or seven people ahead of me, had gotten entirely through the line. People wouldn't cooperate with the organizers. The press of the crowd got tighter, and louder. So I stepped out of the line myself and went to the other end. But by this time, people at that end were crowding and cutting in, and reaching over each other, etc. Louder and louder. At first I said to myself, "OK, this is a cultural experience. I'll just join in this game, however it is played, and get some food." But with the press of the bodies, the heat, the loud voices, and my becoming increasingly self-conscious about being the only white person in the crowd, I said to myself, "I can't do this! I will not be a part of this food fight!" I took my plate with four tiny bits of food to the table. Ruth shared her meal with me. There was wine at the table and that helped!
A little later I saw another rude incident. A man who had been sitting at our table had left -- maybe to get in the food line, I don't know. Another gentleman came along and sat there. The first man left me with the impression that he was young and wanted to be treated importantly. The second man was much more interesting looking in some kind of a gentle way. Well, when the first man returned to the table he demanded for his place back. The second man very graciously left. Some time later, when other people at our table had cleared out, this second man came and joined us. Ruth introduced him -- a musician by avocation; educated in the U.S. I poured him a glass of wine and told him I had observed the incident -- and about my experience in the food line. He said, "Oh yes, part of our culture you have to experience." Raphael said that later, too. "Yes, the people do push and scramble for food."
I've reflected a lot on that experience. Where did this behavior come from? Were all these people deprived at some time, and therefore anxious about food? Is it just a quirk of culture? I don't know.
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