Passover and Passion

Enacting the last supper gives us context for remembering the pivotal weekend of the history of our planet, perhaps of our universe. Under the full moon we gathered by candlelight, to break the matzah and fill the four cups of sanctification, remembering the plagues of Egypt, redemption and praise. We had two dozen in our community, a little band of people who find themselves in the middle of what God is doing in an African outpost just like the small band of disciples in the Roman backwater of Jerusalem. I could empathize with Jesus' followers, coming to the evening sensing the tension of danger in the air, expectation, confusion. Like them, we so not see clearly God's plan and power in the apparent setbacks of life. Like them, we wonder what Jesus is up to. A moment of peace and sharing food comes as a welcome respite, but like the disciples we carry grief in our hearts from the day's failures and disappointments, from the brokenness of relationship, from impending separation, from divergence of vision.

Yet that is just the point. Jesus celebrated this meal with ordinary people, who did not fully comprehend the plan, who had their own agendas, whose concern for their reputation crept into their community and tainted their love. The beauty of Passover lies in the remembering of what God has done, not in discovering that we are strong. The same God who did not refrain from engaging the enslaving and cruel no-gods of Egypt is present here, in Bundibugyo, today, engaging the principalities and powers of witchcraft and greed and corruption and abuse. The same God who provided a sacrificial lamb at ultimate cost to Himself comes into our community with His love, to transform our paltry affections into lay-down-your-life courage.

And so we remember, with a meal and music and readings. With fellowship and prayer we testify that it is not by the might or the wonder of our community, but by the reality of a living God that we go forward into the world.

Preparing for Passover

God knows we are visual and tactile humans, spirits encased. We need to touch and eat the flat unleavened bread to understand the haste of the Israelites fleeing for their lives. To understand the nourishment of Jesus' body for us. To understand the purity of clearing sin from our lives. To understand the simplicity and wholeness of redemption. And so Scott and I spent the afternoon rolling out matzah and baking it in our brick oven, preparing for tonight's messianic passover seder with our team, a time to remember in community what God has done, for us.

Friendly Football

Yesterday the boys' match was reasonably friendly . . . they scheduled it for 10 am to avoid the drunken crowd that disturbed the first semifinal. Unfortunately, they kept the plan a secret until yesterday morning, and it took until early afternoon for Bubandi to round up their team, since they are not a boarding school and probably have pretty irregular class attendance. So it was another limbo day, with CSB suspending class schedule and the team in uniform warming up and everyone standing around waiting through a four hour delay. Nevertheless, CSB managed to win 5-nil.

But the big news in friendly football was the girls' match. It seems that we missed a cultural clue last week. When Simbya agreed to play a "friendly" match with our girls, we interpreted that word as "non- tournament, unofficial". But they did not show up, and sent word that CSB had not demonstrated friendship by sending them "something". Classic. Friendship is defined by the exchange of material goods. If you are someone's friend, you loan/give to them when they are in need. As any American reader might imagine, since we pretty much define true friendship as a relationship untainted by the contamination of financial exchange, living in a culture where true friendship is defined by transaction takes some getting used to. The CSB team sent a crate of soda, and the girls showed up yesterday afternoon.

Christ School won, 3-0. It felt like a very historic event, two secondary school girls' football teams playing each other, in football season, in uniforms, with spectators. There was passing, dribbling, plays, scores. There was a lot of pushing and shoving, it was amazingly physical. Another historic event for our family: Julia got to play for about a quarter of the game. She's 12 (years younger than the other girls) but tough, and she hung in there. But a mujungu wore a CSB uniform and played in a game, and that was beautiful to see. Afterwards she was hugging her team mates, laughing, jumping up and down, even running the post-game lap they like to take. She feels amazingly connected to the team, and we are so thankful for that, and for Ashley's role in it. Another fun aspect of the game: boys stood and drummed and cheered for the girls just like the girls always do for the boys' matches. And afterwards I saw some of the top players of the boys' team organizing to get soda for the girls! Nathan also did a phenomenal job of officiating a very chaotic and physical game

So in spite of confusion, delay, threatening weather, an airplane landing with the Sudan team, motherless baby nutrition day and normal hospital rounds, school, etc. . . . it was a good day of friendly football, and a taste of how the game should be building community for kids in Bundibugyo.

Crowd Chaos

In the filter of Easter week, yesterday's football (soccer) match gave us a taste of the scene in front of Pilate's court, as the crowds were whipped into a crucifixion-demanding frenzy.

Hundreds (?a thousand or more) of people came to the semi-finals yesterday afternoon. The first game pitted Semliki, the winner of one zone, against Simbia, the number two team and our neighbors. Though the teams were fairly equal, Semliki pulled ahead 2 to 1 on a penalty kick. The fans were, by game time, loosened with alcohol and passionately protective of their teams' rights. Since the nationals are in Fort Portal, for the first time any team would have a realistic chance of raising the travel costs to actually attend, so competition is the fiercest it has ever been. Several times groups spilled onto the field. At one point police had to beat people away from the goal, using sticks. I saw another group fighting back with police who tried to remove a disorderly man. By the second half, the rain was pounding down, which cooled tempers somewhat as people huddled under trees and play went on. The boys were slipping all over the field. I stood for a long time in the CSB girls' kitubbi where a drum reverberated through the posts and the girls danced in a shuffling circle, psyching up for game 2 in which we were to play Bubandi. Eventually the missionaries watching withdrew to the Pierce's porch, except Jack who watched soaked on the sideline . .

It was near the end of the game, Simbia had a good drive towards the goal, and a Semliki player touched the ball with his hands only a few feet from the goal, deflecting it out over the end line. His team mates started to yell at him for his error, and the Simbia players all signaled for a penalty kick. But neither the line ref nor the main referee saw it. They called for the ball to be put back in play as a goal kick (Semliki kicking it away from their own goal). At that point all hell broke loose. Men supporting Simbia mobbed the field. I called Jack back to the porch. The ref was engulfed, and he's a big guy. The players withdrew. For almost an hour, it went on, arguing, gesticulating, grabbing the ball, refusing to let play go on. When it would seem to calm down, the core of trouble makers would rile the crowd up again, running around waving their arms. Knots of organizers tried to meet and find a solution, David came out too, and Nathan tried at one point to get control of the ball . . . Eventually the referees called the game over, and refused to hold the second match out of fear for their own safety.

It was a graphic picture of how a restless mob can be agitated by a couple of dozen men into a dangerous beast, capable of destruction. I try to imagine Jesus standing quietly in the midst of the chaos, not answering, aware of His own impending death and of the superficial passions that will storm him to the cross.

Remembering

From a NYT article yesterday about Kabila, but applicable to being a missionary too . . . "Being president of Congo is like being an emergency room doctor without enough gauze. The country of 68 million people has been the African wound that just keeps on bleeding."  

Today is the 15 year anniversary of the beginning of the Rwandan genocide.  We remember listening with growing concern and horror to the radio reports of bodies coming down the river into Tanzania, and Lake Victoria, as we along with the rest of the world tried to grasp what was happening only a few hundred miles away from us.  Those days were the fuse which later ignited our whole region, in a conflict which smolders and flares even now.  The story is as old as Cain and Abel, vying for love, for supremacy, for resources, for survival.  

Happy Birthday Grammy!!!!

My mom was born on Palm Sunday in Ripley, West Virginia, a few decades ago. Today we celebrate her birthday, from many thousands of miles away. This post is in her honor, and in honor of family sacrifice. As Scott commented today, the cost of missions is not generally extracted in eating grasshoppers or missing the air-conditioned mall. The cost rings highest in the loss of normal family relationships, the way that year after year we miss milestones and celebrations as well as the day to day passage of normal life. And that cost is born in extra measure by our parents, particularly those who live far from other family, or live alone. So here's to Grammy on her birthday, and to the rest of our family too, and to the parents of our team mates who also spend their birthdays without the very people they most treasure.

Palm Sunday

Feeling sympathy for those who wanted Jesus to FIX things instead of riding a donkey in peace. As we read the Palm Sunday passages this morning, I pondered that it was right after this that Judas gave up on the plan. He, and others, no doubt expected Jesus to go public with power, to turn his righteous wrath upon the Romans. Instead He took his anger right to the temple, and turned it on his own people. The whip and money come first into the picture as Jesus overturns the religious racket. They return to the story a few days later, 30 clanging pieces of silver thrown on the same temple floor, and cruel whips brought down on Jesus himself. The transition seems to have been the final realization that Jesus was NOT going to overthrow the oppressive government . . that He was calling for repentance rather than war.

Someone told me this week that someone else in a position of power in our very own district tried to extract a BRIBE from the doctor who has been sent by WHO to help post-Jonah. Instead of begging him to work here, they were trying to make a profit from his paperwork. This kind of thing makes me feel like Judas: why can't God just strike down in justice? Why the path of the cross?

Praying this week that we find ourselves ready to follow this King who rides the donkey instead of the war-horse, who speaks truth and love even for His enemies.

same sport, different gender

The Christ School Girls' Football Team was to play their first-ever match yesterday, against St. Mary's Simbya. Only sadly, St. Mary's never showed up to play. It seems they probably don't even have a team, in spite of teachers agreeing to the match in that classic African don't-want-to-disappoint concession. Meanwhile Ashley's team at CSB had such hopes of playing competitively, in their donated uniforms and new-used cleats. Since they had the full field (a rare gift in the season when the boys' team is in full practice), they instead scrimmaged against each other, and came out 2 to 2. It was still empowering for the girls to play full-field, have a few spectators, dress the part, run and run and kick. Promoting girls' sports is more than an uphill battle, it is an up-mountain one. There is no other school nearby willing to invest their meager space and resources in girls when they scrape to even support boys. In spite of good evidence that girls in sports delay pregnancy, have a stronger self-image, achieve greater physical health, and perform strongly in their academics . . . the barriers of cultural expectation (even the dress code), domination by boys, lack of equipment, lack of role models, all conspire to make this a pioneering effort. Still, other schools in Uganda have girls' football, and Bundibugyo will some day follow suit. JD started the team, interns like Lydia have boosted the process (even i used to play with them when they were desperate . . ). Ashley has taken it one giant step forward. We look forward to the day when girls can play.

Torpedoed by Brokeness

The tyranny of clutter, and the relentlessness of needing to feed and clothe and maintain six lives (directly, not to mention the team's indirectly) challenges my Sermon-on-the-Mount No-Worry-about-Tomorrow faith. For Scott, though, it is the torpedoing effect of one broken item after another that spins the day into crisis. Yesterday he was driving through Bundibugyo Town with our new family the Clarks as well as Nathan, where they had gone with him to his weekly clinic there at the hospital as well as essential visits to the bank, post - office, market, fuel station, etc. A simple bolt which held a shock absorber in place evidently reached its last shred of tensile strength against the relentless jolting harshness of the Bundibugyo roads. When the bolt gave way, the shock absorber did too, and before they knew it the entire massive spring coil that holds up the car frame was dislodged. The truck was immobilized, leaving a nap-deprived two year old and several thirsty missionaries on the side of the road. Three hours, two jacks, lots of advice and entertained onlookers, sweat and grit, and one trip to the used-bolt duka later . . . the spring was seated back in its home bracket, but it pretty much killed half the day for half the team. This on top of two broken weed wackers, a toilet with a stuck valve that ended up draining our entire water tank before we knew it, multiple broken spokes on my bike still waiting for a repair, all four fuses blowing out in the inverter when I turned on a blender (which I use all the time), the fear that this event had zapped Scott's back-up hard drive with all our photos (that was recovered, thank God, but again with time and work), our dairy cow suffering from her third episode of mastitis since calving and needing roping for injections twice a day, a broken light cord, a continuing war against roaches in our kitchen, the hospital fridge out of propane meaning we have to rescue all the vaccines in our own so that thousands of kids don't get the same whooping cough I have . . . all that in the last day and a half, not to mention walking through an appendicitis scare with one of our teammates (it wasn't, but the burden of deciding NOT to evacuate someone is still heavy). And this morning he's been gone for the last hour at the air strip trying to repair the mower that will prepare the landing area for the Sudan team's visit next week. So we feel buffeted by the onslaught of inconvenience, the demands of broken things needing attention. Luke suggested we should just live without our car, bikes, fridge, toilet, solar power, and mowers. Tempting (briefly). Clearly they are technologies out of place in Bundibugyo, and it is no small personal effort on Scott's part to single-handedly push them on.

Here are some words from Jesus Calling. by Sarah Young, a gift to me from Kim Stampalia (a great gift, I might add):

I am calling you to a life of constant communion with Me. Basic training includes learning to live above your circumstances, even while interacting on the cluttered plane of your life. You yearn for a simplified lifestyle, so that your communication with Me can be uninterrupted. But I challenge you to relinquish the fantasy of an uncluttered world. Accept each day just as it comes, and find Me in the midst of it all. . . Remember that your ultimate goal is not to control or fix everything around you; it is to keep communing with Me.

We could use prayer for living above the broken circumstances, for listening carefully so that we follow the path that includes the hard work of straightening whatever we are called to straighten and leaving behind the things we are called to merely accept.

Mid Week Victory

CSB defeated St. Mary's Simbia today--they had both been undefeated previously, so this final match of the "regular" (though rather short) season was anticipated to be close. We won 3 to 1. It was a lovely evening and a huge crowd, lots of cheering and good play. The team has matured over the weeks of play, and the strenuous and wise coaching efforts of Alex and Nathan are showing, with some excellent passing and control. Our "son" Mutegheki Joshua scored again on a fantastic header off a corner kick. Two of our other boys also played--John came in briefly for CSB and had at least one nice play down the sideline, and Kwik was the key defender for Simbia. As the boys jogged off the field with huge smiles and cheers of the crowd, I relished this moment of victory, this island of competence in which there is the brief experience of success in their lives.

Meanwhile we could use some mid-week victories in other realms. My bronchitis has matured into full blown whooping cough I think. I'll survive, and with about 4 weeks down and entering the 5th I must be at least turning the corner towards recovery, though the night-time spasms of gasping coughing can be difficult and draining. Good to remember why we immunize! And how much worse it would be for a baby. And what it is like to face life each day from a point of weakness and dependence. Others on the team are also sick with viralish syndromes, so we would appreciate prayers for healing, for awareness of God's merciful presence in the midst of illness, and for protection of the rest of our families.