Christ is Born

Improvised Advent Wreath, photo by Rob Vaughan

Καὶ ὁ λόγος σὰρξἐγένετο καὶ ἐσκήνωσεν ἐν ἡμῖν, καὶ ἐθεασάμεθα τὴν δόξαν αὐτοῦ, δόξαν ὡς μονογενοῦς παρὰπατρός, πλήρης χάριτος καὶ ἀληθείας. (John 1:14, NA26)

The synoptic birth narratives are fine and well.  Bethlehem, the manger, the three kings/wisemen are nice details which provide fuel for pageants and songs.  They offer concrete answers to the five Ws (who, what, when, where, why).

John goes to a higher level.  

John takes us back to the beginning, before creation.  John gives us a single point of light in a dark and chaotic universe.  A light which is not overcome, but which brings order, grace, and truth.

A light which calls and empowers us to do the same.

The Holy Land

 

Last Friday night, I spent a few hours dog-sitting for my site coordinator.  This presented me with a rare opportunity to watch TV (the TV in my apartment only gets on channel, and even that, only barely).  Being the news junkie that I am, I mostly switched back and forth between CNN and Al Jazeera English.  The Al Jazeera news ticker made one of the most interesting, and understated juxtapositions I’ve ever seen.  Two entries, listed back to back were:


-UN General Assembly overwhelmingly votes in favor of a diplomatic upgrade for Palestinian Authority to non-member observer state.       
-Israeli Government approves construction of 3,000  new settlement homes in the West Bank and East Jerusalem.
(Note that the links are similar stories which I added Monday, not necessarily exactly what the ticker was referring to on Friday).
The ticker itself made no mention of any possible link between these two actions—and in the headline recap, the anchor’s only comment was something to the effect of it being ‘unclear’ if the settlement homes were approved before or after the UN vote.  Of course, it doesn’t really matter if the homes were approved before or after the UN vote.  The outcome of the UN vote really wasn’t a surprise to anyone.  The timing of Israel’s announcement is, however, a pretty clear signal: the UN Vote may be largely symbolic (it doesn’t directly change anything, however it may open some possibility of ICC action).
Now, you might think that I’m only citing Al Jazeera, an Arab news source. Voice of America, The Telegraph, and even The Jerusalem Post are reporting essentially the same thing, even making the linkage more explicit. Additionally, The Guardian adds that Israel is withholding $120 million in Palestinian tax revenue, though it does appear that the Palestinian Authority does owe Israeli utilities a great deal of money.
This past weekend, I also came across this article from the BBC about the comment from Mark Regev, spokesman for Israeli Prime Minister Benjamin Netanyahu that the UN vote will ‘hurt peace.’ Well, of course it will.  Israel will make certain that it does.  The Israeli government can say all it wants about desiring a two-state solution, but that is simply political theatre—the continued expansion of Israeli settlements, and the Israeli government’s tacit sanction of settler attacks on Palestinians and Palestinian land (here, here, here, and here) is a clear declaration that Israel will not permit the creation of a viable Palestinian state. 
The map below (as best I can tell, originally drawn in 2009 for Le Monde) is a stylized representation of the effect of Israeli settlements in the West Bank.  In this map, the water represents Israeli controlled regions, the warships are permanent check-points. The dark green zones are areas of only partial Palestinian autonomy.  For more analysis, go here.  Also, note that this map is from 2009.  Some of the islands will have shrunk in the past few years.

For a less stylized, but more official look at the fragmentation of the West Bank, the UN Office for the Coordination of Humanitarian Affairs (UNOCHA) has a PowerPoint that covers the same information.  Slide 21 is especially relevant.
Coming back to the issue of violence: both sides are guilty, and both sides need to put down their weapons.  However, Israel is by far the stronger party, and Israel is the party which benefits most from the status quo.  The Jewish Virtual Library lists the casualty numbers in the Israeli-Palestinian Conflict from 1920 to the present (as of this posting, not yet updated for October/November 2012), including Palestinian terrorism, Israeli government operations, and the several Arab/Israeli wars, but excluding Israeli settler violence.  Since 1920, total Israeli/Jewish deaths: 24,526.  Total Palestinian/Arab deaths: 90,785.  According to The Guardian, the recent violence added 5 Israeli deaths and 161 Palestinians. Clearly, Israel is holding the bigger stick, and ultimately, this situation can only be resolved by both sides, but in the short term, it’s absurd to demand the weaker party give up more.  This column, from Slate focuses on ways Israel is ‘insulting our intelligence’ and says a lot of things I agree with.  I’m not trying to say that Israel is more culpable than Hamas, Fatah, the Palestinian Authority, or any other group of Palestinians, however, I do think that Israel is in the better position to accomplish change.
For a model of this, look at the Northern Irish Conflict.  Hamas has more in common with the IRA/Sinn Fein than might be initially apparent, at least in the US. Most people in Northern Ireland see it sufficiently clearly that the Israel/Palestinian Conflict had been adopted as a sort of proxy conflict—with Irish Nationalists generally supporting the Palestinians, and pro-British Unionists largely supporting Israel.  The crucial difference is that in Northern Ireland, U.S. support largely fell on the the side of the IRA/Sinn Fein.  This US support served to level the playing field—it put pressure on the UK to come to the table, and, the threat of withdrawing that support gave the US leverage over the IRA.  In contrast, it seems that the only question in the US is over just how much support the US should offer Israel, and just how blind the US can be about the results of that support.  For more on parallels between the Northern Irish conflict and the Israeli/Palestinian conflict, see here, here, here and here.  Or just Google it—there is much, much more out there.
Right, so I’m done.  Tell me why I’m wrong in the comments below.

Africa for Norway

This video, and the website behind it have prompted a lot of thought.  Go ahead, take some time to check it out.  I’ll wait.
First, what this site gets right:
1.  Africa is so much more than what it is portrayed as.  Kenya is a major hub for culture and commerce, and is almost defined by diversity.  There are more than 40 distinct ethnic groups, not including substantial Asian, European, and North American immigrant and expatriate populations.  Nairobi is one of the fastest growing cities in the world, and generally has a high standard of living.
Yes, there are places like Mathare, and yes, in writing that post I may be guilty of the same thing this site is trying to prevent.  All I can say is that I spent a lot of time thinking about that, and tried hard to balance several different concerns in writing it, and admit that in all likelihood, I missed that balance.  Nairobi also has landmarks of capitalism like Westgate and Junction.  Every city has both, and we need to do a better job of acknowledging that.  When we think of New York City, we need to think about the South Bronx as well as Times Square and Central Park.  When we think of Nairobi, we should think about Upper Hill and Karen as well as Kibera and Eastleigh.
2. “Aid must be based on real needs, not ‘good’ intentions.”  Yes.  The problem is not corruption, as many would claim…or at least, not only corruption.  One problem is that things are sent which are not needed.  Do a Google search for SWEDOW (Stuff We Don’t Want) for more examples.  This type of aid is wonderful for the companies that do it.  They buy themselves good will, allow their customers to feel good about themselves, and get a tax deduction for doing it.  I have no problem for companies finding ways to do any of those things if they actually helped the people they claim they are trying to.  But they don’t.  The problem is not that people lack shoes or shirts, the problem is that they can’t afford to buy them.  Giving them away for free doesn’t help alleviate that problem, it actually compounds it.  The people who make, repair and/or sell shoes and clothing are put out of business and more people are put into poverty.   
Other problems can stem from the restrictions put on aid, especially when aid is used as a foreign policy tool. I met with people at one NGO, which receives funding from USAID.  I asked about how they defined their target area, their metrics of success, their criteria for including people in their programs received the same answer: USAID determines those.  By accepting support from USAID, this NGO had lost all ability to adapt and respond to what they actually saw on the ground.  I know of several other NGOs who refuse to accept funding from USAID because of that.
Food aid, in particular, can be a disaster.  There are many times where food aid is essential, and where food aid saves lives.  But Haiti is not the only place where it is disruptive.  The problem isn’t that people don’t have food.  The problem is that people aren’t able to buy or grow food. Dumping rice grown in the US may help US farmers, and may help to fill in critical gaps, but when not carefully managed, it creates enduring cycles of dependency by eliminating the local market. 
Many NGOs are getting better at this.  CWS Africa is one—a common theme across all of our programs is a goal for community self sufficiency, and substantial energy is dedicated to training community members so that there will come a time where the community will graduate and no longer need any aid.
Now for my doubts.
I am very uncomfortable with the pan-Africanism inherent to both this site and those it satirizes.  Africa is an enormous continent with vast diversity in culture, religion, geography, climate, language, topography, economy and political system.  Even subtracting North Africa, because I suspect that for many this pan-Africanism is focused on Sub-Saharan Africa, this diversity holds. 
Yes, these countries in Africa face many common problems, but those problems are not unique to Africa—they are global problems that exist, in greater or lessor degrees in every country on this planet, including Norway and the US.  By ignoring the distinctions and differences between countries, regions, and ethnic groups within Africa, the differences in their experience is dismissed. By emphasizing distinctions between Africa and the rest of the world, this video sustains the fiction that these are uniquely African problems.  It might have minimized this by choosing something other than ‘cold’ to focus on, but that might have sacrificed some of the message’s power.
And a finally, some caveats—on the whole, I support the idea behind the video and website, but it raises some things with which I am uncomfortable with and still working through.  I also recognize that there are a great many people who are far smarter than me who support Pan-Africanism.  I’m not seeking to attack either, merely to state my concerns, and, hopefully, begin some discussion.  This post is more about my trying to articulate some thoughts that likely represent the current stage of a process.  I don’t know where that process will go, but I invite anyone to help guide me through that process in the comments below.
Further, I want to emphasize that this post, and, in fact, pretty much everything on this blog, is reflective only of my personal thoughts, and does not represent the position of Church World Service, CWS Africa, Union Presbyterian Seminary, PC(USA), the YAV Program, or any other group or organization with which I may be affiliated.

Laundry

Laundry has involved many things during my life.  When I was little, dirty laundry went into the hamper at the bottom of the hall closet, and periodically, Mom-omagically, the hamper would move out of the closet with clean, dry, ironed, folded clothes which I would (grudgingly) put away. As I grew older, various steps of the process became de-mystified.  I came to be asked to carry the laundry down-stairs, and then, a while later, I would be asked to carry the Mom-omagically clean, ironed and folded laundry back upstairs, where I would (sometimes) put it away (grudgingly).At some point, I began “do” my laundry myself.  Of course, doing laundry really just meant adjusting settings on the washing machine (Cold-Cold, Normal Agitation), waiting a while, then moving things over to the dryer, setting the timer, and again, waiting. Then I would (sometimes) fold it, carry it upstairs, and (maybe), put it away (grudgingly).

After I moved across town for college, the steps were basically the same, except there were more or fewer stairs (generally more), and the machines often cost money—either from my Cavalier Advantage Card (kept topped up by my parents), or, later, stacks upon stacks of quarters (one of the advantages of working as a waiter was constant access to change).  Sometimes (often) I wouldn’t feel like paying the fee for the machine, so I would drive across town (a MAJOR advantage of going to college in the same town one grew up in is access to free laundry…another is access to free food, often in the same trip) and go back to the same machine, where, mindful of the Mom-omagic presence, I might actually sort the laundry into whites, lights and darks, and put them into the machine with appropriate temperature settings. Then I’d help myself to food/diet coke/TV while waiting.  I think I might have used the time to study once.

Living in Northern Ireland was the first time when I was at all confronted with the privilege I’d enjoyed.  While my flat in Northern Ireland had no steps (convenient), and I didn’t have to pay for the machine (wonderful), there was no dryer, which I considered a major inconvenience.  As much as we complain about energy costs in the US, they are fantastically low compared with many other places—in Northern Ireland, this makes a dryer a luxury that most chose to forego.  Fortunately, we were able to string up a drying line inside—strung across our living room (it rained so often there was just no point to putting things outside), and left to dry.  Sometimes, in order to speed the drying process, my flat-mate and I would make creative use of space-heaters, seal off the living room, and turn it into a sauna in order to dry things faster.  We were also exceedingly fortunate in that my flat-mate knew a very accommodating person who WAS in possession of a dryer, and, being a mother, was kind enough to periodically collect our sheets, wash them, dry them, and, Mom-omagically return them to us the same day.

In Kenya, I do laundry myself, by hand.  In buckets.  In the bathtub.  It’s a time and labor intensive process which begins with a one hour soak recommended by the directions on the packet of Sunshine (yes, really).  Then I begin the process of actually washing the clothes—a combination of just reaching in there and working everything around, and then pulling things out and going over them with a scrub brush to get some of the more persistent stains out.  Once this is done, I dump the buckets, try to squeeze out as much of the soapy water as I can, and fill the buckets again to rinse.  I usually have to repeat this at least twice, and even then I’m pretty sure there is still a lot of soap left.

Now, I have to get the clothes to dry.  I squeeze as much of the water out as I can, and take most things out to the lines behind the building (I can fit a few things on a line on my porch, and a few things in the closet with the water heater).  My experience in drying clothes washed by hand so far is pretty much the same as line-drying anything, but I have been AMAZED at how much water the spin cycle on a washing machine gets out.  As it is, even after squeezing out as much as I can, I still usually have to leave clothes out overnight, and often into the afternoon of the next day.  That is, of course, assuming that it doesn’t rain—we are currently in the middle of the ‘short rains’ where it rains somewhat unpredictably for short bursts (a few minutes to a few hours).  I try not to be too upset about the rain—after all, it’s probably getting more of the soap out (I am convinced I will NEVER get it all).  Once the clothes are dry, or at least mostly so, I bring them in, and proceed to iron everything to kill of anything that may have taken residence in the clothes while they were drying.  I think Nairobi is not a particularly high risk area for the insect I’m concerned about, but I’m not taking chances.

In all honesty though, doing laundry is still not that difficult for me. I am vastly more involved in the process than I’ve ever been before, true, but it’s much less involved for me than for many others.  I am not going to pretend that this means I understand poverty, or have even experienced hardship.  I’m not competing for space by a river. I’m not walking miles for water. I don’t have to go to the bottom of a deep well.  I’m not worrying that using this water for laundry means I won’t have enough to drink or cook with.  I have clear, running water in my flat—water that, with a very little bit of extra effort I can even drink.  Doing laundry takes time, yes, but I’m able to use that time for prayer and reflection, to listen to music or an NPR podcast (Wait Wait Don’t Tell Me, With Good Reason or Backstory). And, in the end, I know, that even as miniscule a hardship this is, it’s temporary.  Next fall I’ll be back in the U.S., back to using a washing machine and yes, almost certainly even dryer.  And, in all likelihood, when I remember my time here, laundry won’t be something I’ll often think about. 

Hopefully though, I will remember that no matter how difficult something seems to me, I have it easy.

A Saturday in Mathare

 “The guillotine is the concretion of the law; it is called vindicte; it is not neutral and does not permit you to remain neutral.”

     -Victor Hugo, Les Miserables

Pulling into the parking lot, my eyes are irresistibly drawn to the bright light of the blow torch.  My sunglasses do little to protect my eyes, but despite the pain and my best efforts, each new burst brings fresh temptation to look right into the flame that forms the burning heart of this outdoor metal shop where craftsmen make decorative bars for windows and other pieces of useful, industrial art.

Past the metal shop is a concrete block of a building, some three stories tall, with several shops lining the ground level advertising mobile telephone airtime, produce, and Coca-Cola.  To my left is a butcher shop, a leg of beef hanging in the window.  We park and proceed into an unlit hallway between two of the shops, stepping over puddles created by water flow.  Later, when we leave, I see people washing dishes with this water, using one of the larger pools as a basin, filling the others with soapy foam as the dirty water flows away.

We turn left and emerge into a dim room, where goat is being cooked over one of the small charcoal grills so common here.  To my right is a large door open to the outside.  Exchanging greetings and handshakes with the many people in the room, we make our way through the room toward the door.

Now on the other side of the concrete building, we hop down to the packed dirt street—the building is apparently built into a slight hill.  In front of me are two double lines of children, holding plates and spoons.  At the head of each line, adults serve them a creamy looking soup with beans and some of the already cooked goat meat.  At the back, the line bends to avoid a large pile of rocks.  I climb up it just enough to peer over.  The other side runs steeply downhill into the Mathare Valley, filled with a sea of corrugated metal roofs.

For a while, I stand, nearly frozen, trying to take it all in. Eventually, I am interrupted by a small child in a yellow shirt, perhaps about four years old.  He comes up and takes hold of my leg, looking up and smiling.  I smile back and ask him his name, but get no response—it seems he speaks about as much English as I do Kiswahili.  After a while, he points at my sunglasses, now hanging from my shirt.  I kneel down and put them on him.  He smiles wider; my host father notices and snaps a quick picture. 

Within moments, the other children also notice.  They come over, each wanting a turn with the glasses.  Each child who puts them on is greeted by smiles and a chorus of “Mizungu!” (white-person).  Soon, however, they press a bit too tightly and begin to fight over the glasses.  Reluctantly I stand and extract them from the crowd.  Music has started, and the children quickly disperse and begin to dance.  My yellow-shirted friend looks at me, betrayed.

I look away, toward the source of the music and see that speakers and an amp have emerged from the room.  Painted around the door is a brightly colored mural showcasing the vibrancy of the community.  At the top, framed by two arms holding hands, is the name of the organization we are visiting: “Inspiration Ministry.”

One of the leaders of Inspiration Ministry has recently been married, and today is celebrating his wedding with the children he serves.  I get the chance to speak to him a bit and discover that he grew up in this neighborhood, and was one of few to have the opportunity to attend school and university.  Now he leads this organization, ministering specifically to the children who are ignored by many of the other churches in the settlement, seeking to give them hope for a future unrestricted by the hard conditions of their upbringing. He tells me that many of the children there are being raised by single mothers, so he provides child care and a free lunch so their mothers can go to work. He tells me that many of the families survive on less than a dollar a day. 

I wonder if they know the glasses I briefly let them play with could feed them for a month.

Orientation

Yesterday I said many goodbyes.

Today I was blessed by my home church.

In about 12 hours I will board the first of the six flights which will eventually deposit me in Nairobi, and will head to Stony Point for a week of orientation prior to my arrival in Nairobi on the 28th.

Slowly this is becoming real.  This summer has presented incredible opportunities for me to avoid thinking about going.  I spent three weeks travelling the Mid-East in May. In June I watched my youngest nephew graduate from pre-school, and visited friends in three states.  July sent me to Texas for a wedding, and this month I spent a week at the beach with my family, visited both my grandmothers, and went to an amazing concert.

I have also had meetings with various people at Union and the Presbytery in preparation for my departure, but those were small events in comparison to all the things I have had to distract me.

This is something I have felt called to do for longer than I can remember, and something that I have been concretely working toward and planning for since 2008. My first attempt was redirected to Northern Ireland, and that was a powerful training ground and opportunity to grow a bit more.  Northern Ireland is where I finally acceded to God's call for me to attend seminary, and my experiences there opened many doors to me.

I fully expect that working in Nairobi will challenge and change me, and that I will ultimately be stronger for it.  Stronger because I will be rebuilt of stronger substance.

I am simultaneously desperately seeking one last distraction, and giddy about the upcoming journey.  Frightened of losing what I leave behind and giddy about what I may gain.

Time to finish packing.

Photo taken at John Calvin Presbyterian Church
in San Antonio Texas

Today, May 5th 2012, is my grandfather's 93rd birthday.  Or would have been.  I'm honestly not sure which tense to use.  He died a few weeks ago, on April 23rd.  It was sudden, but peaceful and merciful.  The Petersburg paper ran a lovely news article. The funeral was last Friday, the 27th, and there was a memorial at his retirement community Saturday the 28th for those who could not come Friday.  My cousin Jay spoke on behalf of my cousins at the funeral, and I spoke Saturday.  Below is the draft text of what I said.  

It has been said that good writers borrow from other writers, while great writers steal outright. My oldest cousin, Jay, spoke yesterday, and while I will not steal everything he said, I do wish to share one piece from his remarks.   

A few days ago, Jay asked each of the grandchildren to send him one word to describe our grandfather.   Those words were: love, sweet, wise, faith, distinguished, teacher and model.  While all of these words are apt descriptions of the man, they are, of course, incomplete descriptions of our feelings.  While I understand and agree with each of the words used, I want to take this time to violate Jay’s directive to limit ourselves to one word and speak some to my choice.

          A few years ago, I realized that like my grandfather, I was called to enter the ministry.  I began by spending a year working in Northern Ireland, and while there, applied to several seminaries, including his own Union, just up the road in Richmond.  Because I was abroad at the time, I did not do any traditional campus visits, but ultimately decided to come here, to what is now Union Presbyterian Seminary.  In August of 2010, my father and I came here to pick granddad up to go walk around campus.  The seminary had been informed of our visit, and was kind enough to arrange a current student to meet us and show us around.  Much of the campus had changed in the 62 year interval since he had graduated, but many elements remained the same, and he and my father remembered many places from when granddad was a student and my father a young child, including even the pew where they often sat during chapel services.  I am incredibly grateful that my first introduction to campus occurred that day, with him.  Dad, I’m glad you were there too.  

          One question sometimes asked of prospective ministers is who or what their model for ministry is.  My grandfather, who I grew up calling Bubba (which I think may have caused some irritation to others, but never to him. Also, it gave great joy to some of my friends that my grandfather could be accurately referred to as The Reverent Doctor Bubba Vaughan Junior) is both the most exceptional and daunting model I could have.  I always knew that he set a high bar.  The stories I have heard over the past few days, featuring his abundance of courage, kindness, humility, and patience have only served to raise that bar further.  I was never under the illusion that I could fully measure to the standard he set, I only hope that his memory will serve to ensure that I always strive emulate his courage, kindness and patience, while also reminding me of the need to remain ever humble.