Another Reason Not to Be a Goat in Kenya

So, I was chatting with Gerhardt (above), one of the German pastors, today at coffee and he mentioned a conversation he had had with John (pictured below) today at lunch. Gerhardt mentioned that today was his father's 80th birthday.

"Ooooh! What will he kill?" asked John, a Kenyan student.

Gerhardt responded, "What?"

"He should get a goat and" *making a slicing motion on his neck with his finger*

The conversation then moved onto Systematic Theology.

Is it just me...

...or is this hand disproportionately bigger than the items it is paired with?

Whenever I use the public restrooms, this sticker is posted (to remind users not to throw tissue in the toilet) and I'm always caught by the gigantic hand with the tissue paper in it.

the latest

As the halfway point of my time at N.E.S.T. rapidly approaches, I can't help but marvel at how much has happened in just two months. Some of these things I've shared and some I'm still in the process of articulating. I hope to keep you updated as things begin to take better shape in my mind. However, here are some of the highlights of the past few weeks:

CHICAGO PRESBYTERY VISIT

Since I've been here, I've had the good fortune of joining the Chicago Presbytery for the Lebanon portion of their three-week trip through the Middle East. The time included a visit to Sabra and Chatila, a Palestinian refugee camp in Beirut, various churches and schools in the country that were products of missionary work years ago as well as visits to the Israel border where evidences of my country's damaging foreign policy are unavoidably evident and amazing historical sites like Tyre and Baalbek. It was a whirlwind of 4 days and I still marvel at the stamina and energy level of the older members of the group. I have a feeling they could run circles around me! The experience introduced me to new issues and gave me the opportunity to become better informed on different issues, including what is happening in Palestine/Israel, learning about the Druze community and meet ministers who are actively serving in areas that would break the spirit of anyone who did not have a faith to lean on. Truly, many of these leaders are serving and living by the grace of God.

One man, in particular, is serving a congregation in a village right on the Lebanon/Israel border and because of the military activity of the area, had not had contact outside of the village for over two years. The isolation and fear he experienced, I'm sure, is such that I've perhaps only had a taste of. In addition, he has seen his congregation shrink dramatically from about 300 to 50 or 60 as a result of the incursions.

Additionally, as a result of one of the meetings we had, I was invited to attend a course on Islamic Ideology at the American University of Beirut. This course has been valuable on a few levels. Not only does it create a nice balance with my Islamic Theology and Introduction to Islam courses, providing the political/ideological aspect of Islam, but also it gives me the opportunity to observe the students, who are from throughout the Middle East. It is interesting on a sociological level. On one hand, their base knowledge and point of perspective is very different but on the other hand, they are typical college kids trying to figure out what the heck to do with their lives.

OPPORTUNITIES
I've also had some new practical experiences, with opportunities to preach in the daily chapel and delivering my first “real” church sermon this upcoming Sunday at the International Church here in Beirut (that is, pending Presidential elections -- more on that later). I have also been asked to deliver a word at a Lebanese church in the very north of Lebanon next Sunday. These opportunities were definitely unexpected but have really helped me in feeling more confident that God can speak through me -- in spite of me! haha!

BEIRUT MARATHON
By the grace of God, I was able to complete the Beirut Marathon with a time not much worse than last year's (4:20) despite having only trained for a month and suffering from some wicked food poisoning only the week before. (BTW: Now I know what it feels like to have minus-food in your stomach.) Initially, you may remember that I had given up on the idea of running it. However, when Kurt, a German pastor here on sabbatical, decided to do it, I thought, “How can I say I can't do it when this guy who is as old as my dad is going to do one?”

And so, I found myself standing among 500 other runners at 7am on 18 November near the Chatila neighborhood, not far from the aforementioned Palestinian refugee camp, waiting to wind my way throughout Beirut. It was quite fun, despite less than ideal organization and the fact that there was only one water station in the last 10 kilometers. Yikes! I even made a few friends along the way, including last year's male Lebanese winner, a guy who is studying to be a nurse and another guy from Taiwan for whom this was his 190th marathon (he recommended running the Himalayas, although “the altitude can be a killer”) and his buddy who was celebrating his 68th birthday and 500th marathon. If you were looking for a reason to feel inadequate, I'm sure I just gave you one.

COMMUNITY
The encouragement and positive affirmation I've received here has been overwhelmingly humble. The N.E.S.T. community has been the single most outstanding part of my experience here. It's amazing how so many people from so many different cultures and backgrounds can come together with so much love. I'm always hearing some funny story or learning something new about the world. I have learned the value of having a village idiot from Bahjat, a first-year Palestinian student:

“In my village, there was a man who was a homeless man. He used to steal things from people and sell them so that he could buy the things he needed. We all knew. He wasn't totally okay up here (indicating his head). One day, he thought to himself that he really wanted some cigarettes so he looked around at what he could take and sell. He looked over and saw a pile of shoes, many many shoes, outside of a building and so he took a large bucket and filled it with the shoes. Then he ran away very fast down the street. Well, the building was a mosque and it was lunchtime so the men were in there praying. When they came to the entrance, they saw that their shoes were gone! They didn't know what had happened. But that day, you saw many many children running down the street from their homes with shoes in their hands. The men had told the children to go home and get shoes for them. It was so funny! All of the Christians were in the street laughing. After they found out that it had been the man, they went to him and told him, 'You cannot take the shoes from outside of the mosque.'”

A by-product of some of the conversations I've had has been realizing just how abrasive and damaging to this region of the world U.S.'s foreign policy truly has been. I used to be a good sport about bashing our current administration's activity but I have to say that being here, my sense of humor has dissolved into shame. I am ashamed of my country. I hate saying this and I hate typing it. I don't want to feel this way but, to be honest, I have so much sorrow in my heart. I know our country can do better than it has and I know that it has chosen not to. One thing has stuck in my head. When a professor was talking about U.S. policy in the Middle East he said, “For all of the money that the U.S. government has spent on military activity in the Middle East, it could have bought the hearts and minds of Arabs. Instead of investing in bombs and radical regimes, the U.S. could have built hospitals, schools and helped to jump start the economies of these countries.” To top it off, reading about the self-censorship of the American public, its xenophobia and hesitancy to even provide refuge for those who have risked their lives to help the U.S. leaves me feeling that there is very little to be proud of. Sure, there are a lot of good things about our country, but the weight of damage done to the outside brings a level of hollowness to this empire that is crumbling rapidly.

All in all, my time here has been even richer and more fruitful than I ever anticipated. I have grown to love and cherish this community and know already that I will miss it dearly when I return home.

living in fear is being a goat in kenya

In a school full of students from many places, a few things that may seem normal to one may come across as...interesting to another. Such was the case when 'ndugu (brother) John M'birithi started talking about how he asked for his wife's hand.

"In my village, when a man wants to take a woman for his wife, he has to kill a goat (to prove that he has courage) and cook it. Then, he must serve the liver to her grandfather. If he likes it, you can marry her. Then you eat the goat with the family."

Not for the commitment-phobic, to be sure.

"Also, when there is a drought, you must kill a goat to please God. Then it will rain." Perhaps Sonny Perdue should consider getting some goats too.

Yes, life in Kenya as a goat has few upshots. However, things don't look too bad for this guy. All things considered: when you're thinking of buying something for the Kenyans from Heifer, consider a water buffalo.

An Adventure to Remember

Last weekend, the Germans I went on a hiking trip through the Wadi Qadija (Holy Valley). It was so great! We packed our things and headed out Friday morning. We caught a bus headed toward Tripoli on our way to the station and we were off.

About 2 hours later, we disembarked on the side of the highway and caught a taxi. The driver, concerned for our travels, kept insisting that we take a bus around the valley to Al Araz (the Cedars), not understanding the concept of hiking. Assuring him that we understood his suggestions, we relieved ourselves of his advice and began to get our bearings in the very small village of Tourza. We stopped by a shop, where a man was just opening up and inquired about where we might be able to purchase some olives. He was a little surprised because, “Buy olives?!...as you can see, we don't buy olives, we grow them in our backyards.” One only had to take a look around to see that the landscape was full olive trees! He offered to give us some, but we declined and instead inquired as to the closest shop where we might purchase our next couple of meals.

After following the direction indicated, we wandered into an unlit shop and made some quick decisions about what would suffice for our lunch, dinner and breakfast for the next morning. Sure enough, there were no olives to be found. We made our way back down the hill and decided that we'd take the man up on his offer of olives. He shouted up to his wife to get us 2 kilos of olives (!). We assured him that half a kilo would suffice but he insisted on at least 1 saying, “They're good, I promise.” How could we refuse such hospitality? We conferred, knowing that they wouldn't take money for kindness and the Germans decided to sing one of (what I would come to realize) many “table songs” of thanksgiving. My role, not knowing a lick of German, would be to explain, “Since you will not take money from us, we would like to give you something in return.” And so, it came to be that there, in the village of Tourza, was a scene not likely to repeat itself (although, who knows how often such things happen): 4 Germans and one smiling American, all decked out in hodge-podgy hiking gear, singing in harmonic German for a Lebanese mountain couple listening while looking mildly bewildered and amused. Such was the beginning of our journey.


We walked a ways, passing many olive and persimmon trees. I tried my first olive fresh off the tree...blech! We walked on and on, unsure of whether or not we were on the “right” path, but it seemed good enough. After awhile, the paved road turned into a dirt road which eventually turned into a donkey trail and we wound our way into the mountains, passing small villages and looking across the valley to see the testimony of human survival made evident by dozens of impossibly constructed terraces where olive trees were being cultivated.







The Qadija Valley is a World Heritage site and was a place of refuge for Maronites Christians during persecution. Eventually, hermits who had escaped there founded monasteries that made the most of natural caves in the mountainsides. As the day was came to a close, we came across ancient ruins of what was likely a small home or monastery way back in the 300's. The low walls were enough to block any wind, and the straw-covered ground ensured a somewhat cushioned piece of earth for rest. We had our dinner, prefaced with thanksgiving by a German table song, and concluding with what bitterly turned out to be banana-flavored chocolate biscuits. The package only said chocolate! We brushed our teeth, had some conversation and drifted off to sleep...only to wake up intermittently throughout the night – not so much from what turned out to be rocky ground, but a full moon! It was like having the sun right in your face while trying to sleep. It was light enough to have hiked through the night!

We awoke late in the morning, packed up our things and headed up to our first site, Deir Qannoubine.







The blending of wood and stone of the caves was rather elegant, and the views from the shelf upon which the monastery extended over the valley were absolutely stunning. After departing, we walked on through the valley and, along the trail, had the delightful fortune of discovering that we were making this trip during the harvest season and, throughout the afternoon, we partook of the fruits offered by wild fig, persimmon and pomegranate trees, as well as a few grapevines along the way. We hardly had any room for lunch! Later in the afternoon, we came across the monastery of Deir Mar Elisha (St. Eliseus), which is a much larger monastery and founding site of the Lebanese Maronite Order.




From there, we made our way up the steep steep mountain, to arrive in the town of Bcharre in the late afternoon. The shock of traffic and modern buildings was quite noticeable and I immediately became aware of my obvious lack of hygiene over the last sweaty 36 hours.



We made a stop at the large St. Saba Church, got some advice concerning which way to head for the Cedars, stocked up on food and headed off in continuation of our adventure. As we followed the road up, the sun began to sink precariously low and we were still on a main road. Finding a place to sleep was looking dire and with each painful step I recalled Jesus' statement about the birds having nests and the foxes having holes, but the Son of Man not having a place to rest his head and, just as I was feeling full of self-pity and borderline mutinous, my companions spied an apple orchard that looked like it could fill the order. The key was to run into it when no one was around to see. So, we waited for a break in the intermittent traffic and darted into the orchard.

With the sweet smell of fallen apples and protection of the canopy, we couldn't have asked for a better place for our second night's rest. Dinner in the dark, lest someone see the light of our flashlights or headlamps, begun of course with yet another table song and ending with some of the tastiest apples I've every had the pleasure of crunching into. We finished up and snuggled in for much-needed sleep. I had the fortune of being right in the middle of the group and Hannah reflected that queen bees are often at the center of the hive in the wintertime, with all of the worker bees around her, flapping their wings to keep her warm. Alas, no amount of snuggl-age could keep out the cold at this altitude and much of the moonlit night was witnessed firsthand by me. Being above the cloudline does little for warm temperatures. I declared the next morning that “The queen bee was not warm!” to which was replied, “But she's alive!” Touche.





The next morning, some of the crazier Germans decided that it was a good idea to go from cold to freezing and bathe in the mountain water in 40-degree weather. I figured I could handle one more day of ickiness and, by God, earn my shower the hard way! We packed up our things and began the final leg of our journey up up up to see those famed Cedars of Lebanon, with which Solomon's temple, endless places of worship, palaces and grand halls were built. Known locally as Arz arRab (Cedars of the Lord), the trees are quite spectacular, the oldest nearly 1,500 years old, and are so revered by the local population that they are under the protection of the Patriarch of Lebanon. It wasn't long before we reached Al Araz and the mountains were emptied of vegetation. Where were the cedars? Ah yes, over there in that small grove, clustered together, protected by a low wall and an entrance. The 20 or 30 trees are one of a handful of protected groves around the country. Here, against the backdrop of barren mountains are nearly all that are left of what was once a seemingly endless forest of trees that covered great swathes of the Mt Lebanon range; plundered by humanity's desire for building projects by Assyrians, Egyptians, Phoenicians and further exploited by Romans. What kind of empire would rob another country's natural resources for their own economic interests? The parallels are distressing, to be sure.

Wanting to get back in the afternoon, rather than the evening, I hitched a ride down to Bcharre with a small family headed in that direction. They asked if there was anything wrong, that I had to leave. I just told them that I wanted to get back earlier. I think the husband, in particular, was a little put off that there wasn't actually anything wrong or emergency about my need to get down, rightly so. However, their generosity saved me about $10 in taxi fare! Ha ha.

From Bcharre, I caught a minibus, with the help of a local who, I think, actually stopped the bus down the road for me! I got on and had the pleasure of sitting next to two nice women, Marion and...can't remember the other's name. Marion's English was good enough for a small conversation, so she got to know a bit about me and, as the minibus traveled around the rim of the valley packing in an impossible number of people onto the vehicle, I enjoyed the strange and calming comfort that came from Marion and her companion crossing theirselves as they passed various churches or monuments of saints.



I got off at the bottom, just outside of Tripoli proper and promptly caught a bus heading for Beirut. The system here is so much handier. All you have to do is stand on the side of the highway and a bus picks you up! Only a security guard on his way to work and myself were left on the bus at the last stop and as we disembarked, we walked on for a bit together...unfortunately the conversation we had ended up with a very minuscule amount of information exchanged, seeing as how his English was about as good as my Arabic. We parted with good will when our paths diverged and I made it back to NEST weary and glowing. It was an exhausting weekend, and worth every minute!