It's Personal

“Oh, you’re Episcopalian! Well I guess we could have had wine with dinner tonight!”

I wasn’t sure whether to be offended or to just accept the comment at face value. It’s true, most Episcopalians do enjoy a glass of wine…or two. And what’s wrong with that?
To most of us, absolutely nothing.

Here in Tanzania, generally speaking, Christians don’t drink. If you drink than you’re a drunk and if you’re a drunk, well then you must not be a Christian.
Or that’s my interpretation of it anyway.
Fair enough.
I respect that.

And many Christians of other denominations (whether from Tanzania or not) don't see Episcopalians as particularly “religious.” Our services are pretty much the same every week.
Quite predictable.
And for me, that is what draws me to church each week.
It’s like coming home.

But others may see it as boring...Just as we don’t have a very dynamic language about our feelings on God from week to week. We don’t often say things like, “It is God’s will that I have met you today,” or “I felt God calling me to work with the poor” (unless you're in seminary of course—in which case God is so active in your life you almost get bored of it! haha...inside joke).
We generally don’t lay hands on the sick during a service or pray for those who have not yet been Saved.
But some do.

Some people don’t think it’s church unless there is an organ playing old, familiar hymns. Others prefer a guitar and more upbeat tunes. Some of us feel it’s absolute chaos if the congregation doesn’t stand for the Gospel, or if there is grape juice instead of wine, or if someone just sits instead of kneeling for the Confession.

What I love about the Episcopal Church is that you’re free to be yourself. We don’t say “All are welcome.”
We announce: “The Episcopal Church welcomes You.”
Just as you are.

Maybe you think the hymns are the worst part of the service, (no matter how hard David Hurd tried to convince you otherwise), maybe you hate lots of liturgy, blah blah blah, I’ve know this by heart since I was seven, or maybe you doubt God’s existence, or perhaps you just want some free coffee and cake after the service…whatever you are and wherever you are in your life there is a place for you in the Episcopal Church.
But I'm just preaching to the choir...that's what I get for spending the better part of my life living in a seminary...

And so here we are in Tanzania. It is the holy month of Ramadhan. Growing up I must admit I hardly even knew what Ramadhan was. Living here, it feels that it is somehow a part of all our lives. Students at school are tired and hungry and can't participate in P.E.
Suddenly around town there are 4 times as many women covered completely from head to toe.
Each day, but mostly Fridays, there are huge crowds of people everywhere in the street, leaving the mosque or on their way: old people, small people, medium sized people, tan, olive or black, dressed in white, brown, black, red...

From sun up to sun down all healthy Muslims are fasting. No water, no food; some might even spit out their saliva.
And it is getting hotter here every day.

“Christians don’t fast,” one of my students said the other day in class.
I replied, “Some do.”
“Yeah, but they drink water when they fast.”

Do we fast? Why?
Why not?
Sure we give up coffee or chocolate or peanut butter for Lent—but does that really draw us closer to God in the end? For some it might.

Are people who celebrate only Christmas (and perhaps Easter) really Christians?
What about Christians who pray each day and read Scripture each day, but hate homosexuals? How can that be?
For me it is a hard issue to deal with.

I have met so, so, so many here in Tanzania who are very kind, caring and God-loving people. I sing with them and pray with them. I feel close to them and can talk openly with them about God and about my personal life.
And yet when the issue of homosexuality comes up I have to leave the room. They think it is not right—what the Episcopal Church is doing—or rather, what it has done. It is very puzzling for me to feel so close to these people and yet feel so far away. The only way I know how to cope is to remember that each of us is an individual.

We each have our own personal relationship with God.

We all interpret Scripture, or a song, or a prayer in our own way.
And that’s alright. right?

In every denomination and every religion there is something that is appealing to me. Pardon me for picking out the small things here:
I like that Muslims remove their shoes and wash their hands and feet before entering the mosque.
I like that Hindus and Sikhs often have dancing as part of their worship, and that they wear outward signs of their religion each day.
I like how Buddhists just sit. silently. gently. still.
I like how Baptists, (yes, Southern Baptists!) will tell you all about how God has been working in their hearts and in their lives during the week. It can be quite encouraging.
I like how Roman Catholics recognize Saints for certain blessings and protections.
I like how Jews maintain strong traditions and abide by certain laws no matter where they are living.
And I like the Episcopal Church because you can do any and all of these things and still be accepted and loved for who you are.

Just another day at the office

Today began just like every other day. I got up just as the sun was rising, (around 6:15) and went for a run. I think. I had some breakfast and was on my way to CAMS in time for class at 7:55am. Today I was teaching from the unit called “Urban Environments.” So boring. I mean really boring. Talking about the layout of cities, and the new monster-size shopping centers being built outside Manchester, UK. Speaking of monstrosities, I tried to describe WAL-MART to my students. I got really worked up and described it in such a negative manner I think I scared them! Haha…oh well, they’re use to the crazy American teacher giving the most random and rambling examples…

Then I was off to work. A nice 15 minute walk from school to town. As I pass older people I give the proper greeting, (for those superior to myself) and they give me their response. To some I decide to try out one of the Chigogo greetings I know. (Gogo is the native tribe to the Dodoma region). There are many kids wandering around as well—selling boiled eggs with salt (200 shillings--about 17.5 cents), or mandazi or peanuts.

I cut through the area behind the Cathedral. Under the tree over there a man has set up two benches and his supplies for repairing shoes. He’ll fix your shoe for about 50 cents.
Over there off to the side a bit is the bike repair shop—or rather a bunch of bikes and some rubber strips and a bicycle pump all parked under a tree. To the left is an older lady with her bananas and oranges on a colorful kanga on the ground. Then comes the car wash. There are usually 2-3 taxis being washed with dirty water from a relatively small bucket and a tan-colored cloth. More banana/orange/papaya carts. Then comes China town. 3-4 carts filled with random stuff. Small, large, plastic, useless items imported from China. Things imported to Tanzania from China are of much worse quality than the Chinese products we import into the US. maybe I’m just bitter about the toothpaste and the toys. Hmmm…there are strainers, flip flops, ugly shoes, tupperware, cell phone covers, knock-off phone chargers, panties, water heaters, blenders, cups, buckets, candy, toilet paper, water, toothpaste, toothbrushes and plastic bags. And actually most of the water is bottled by Coke. When possible I buy the Tanzanian water. Oh! and the purple or green toilet paper is definitely made in Tanzania. Along with cookies called "Glucose." Yum! Imagine trying to market those in the USA...

Crossing the street to Mckay House, (the Diocesan Headquarters) I have to make sure to look both ways, (right first!) so as not to get run over by a bike, a cart full of mattresses, or a motorcycle. Somehow these smaller vehicles always blend into the background.

I climb the steep, rickety steps along the outside wall of the building to the 3rd floor. According to the British it’s just the 2nd floor though. Either way, I walk into our torquise green office where my three male, Wonderful Tanzanian colleagues greet me warmly. Good morning! How are you! How did you sleep? Welcome! Good Morning!

So here we are. Just another day at the office.
Yay! The internet is working! Great!
Oops oops oops, There goes the power.
Oh! Yes! It’s back on!
The electricity has been pretty reliable…for the dry season anyway. What luck!

“Oh, Kelly, don’t forget to write the parish in New York and let them know that one of their Carpenter’s Kids died last week.”

Oh. yeah. Don’t forget to write that email. And let them know the parish committee will soon chose the next most vulnerable kid to get a uniform, etc...

And so work continued. Typing this and emailing about that. Researching distributors for mosquito nets. Trying to calculate how much it will cost for each child to get all the medical care they need—should we include the testing of HIV for the guardians? How much will it cost for ARV’s? Isn’t it more complicated to treat kids? Will the local government health centers in the villages have enough malaria treatments and antibiotics for all who need it?

Awww…that girl is so cute. My other colleague, Willy, the man in charge of organizing the shoes for distributions, gives her a new jumper and a shirt and shoes. The bishop’s wife just gave us a few boxes of clothes and shoes that came in on a container.

There are always people in the office. Priests coming to chat, mama lishes coming in to collect their money to make breakfasts for the kids, others coming in from the villages to write their bi-monthy email to their link parish in New York. There are always people coming and going. I smile and greet them, stand up to shake their hand, but I never really know what’s happening. They talk too fast for me most of the time.

Mmoti, our brilliant, gorgeous finance guy, (who also does a million other things for the program), asked me for 20, 000 Tsh. Sure, no problem. I think nothing of it—the line at the bank is always so long; and we try not to keep much cash around the office. I’ll just have to get my housemate Audrey to buy my lunch today.

I come back from lunch and see the little girl and her mother, (actually her aunt) in the hall again. I greet them and tell the girl in my broken Swahili that she looks nice in her new dress. She hides behind her mother’s leg.

I get to the office. Mmoti pulls me into the other room.
She is HIV positive.
What?
Who?

The little six year old girl in the new grey jumper.

He showed me the small white paper with light blue ink. For just under 3 dollars she received her HIV test. It came back:

REACTIVE.

Monday we will go together to the hospital for additional screening.

Please keep Mina* (name changed for privacy) in your prayers. She has already lost both her parents.

This weekend, be mindful of all those who have lost their parents...and all those who have lost a child...to circumstances that can be prevented or at least improved, with some help, education, and energy.

host

It’s Tuesday. Same day of the week it was this time 6 years ago. It is hard—being here and having few feel any connection to what happened that day in Manhattan. Just 5 blocks from where I spent my seven years of elementary school. Just four blocks from where my best friend lived with his parents. Flashbacks of the first bombing, in the basement of the World Trade Center come to mind as well. The school bus didn’t get us home that day till after dark. None of us understood what was happening. And of course, we still don’t. Others are able to laugh about it, not fully aware of what happened on that date: 9/11.
“What happened on November 9th anyway?”
Funny, no? haha. Anyways. Most of my readers are in the US—and I’m sure today there will be enough reflections, reminders and prayers. Just know that halfway across the world, there are some who are remembering with you.

But it seems the world has changed a lot since then.
2001 was just one year after the MGDs were written. Now, thank God, there is talk of them everywhere. Just two decades late. Or should I say over a century late.

It has been both a challenge and a blessing to teach about Colonialism, (and other reasons for underdevelopment in Africa)—in Africa. It’s hard to stand before a class and compare “More Economically Developed Countries” like the US and the UK to, well, the entirety of Sub-Saharan Africa. Tanzania is a “Less Economically Developed Country.” Yes. Quite true.

But Tanzanians have a lot to be proud of: not only peace, but also unity. Tanzania has been surrounded by warring and unstable countries for years. Only once, in 1981, in an attempt to overthrow Uganda’s racist dictator, Idi Amin, did Tanzania ever get involved in the warfare. Burundi, Rwanda, Mozambique, The Democratic Republic of Congo. All of these countries have had civil war, and are somewhat still in unrest.

And did Tanzania get involved? Well, Not exactly. In 2003 the country of just 37 million was hosting an estimated 650,000 people from nearly every nation that borders Tanzania. According to the UNHCR one out of 66 people in Tanzania are refugees. Considering the complete lack of wealth and resources in this nation, Tanzania is quite gracious to its guests.

And of course there are other things to be proud of. The gorgeous and vast national parks, the highest peak on the continent, a gem that can only be found in Northern Tanzania, a diverse, yet unified population, a country with gorgeous beaches and peace between Muslims, Christians, Hindus, Sikhs, Maasai and others.

And I am grateful to be a part of it. It is truly a blessing to be living in another country where most days, (ahem, uh, notice the most) I feel like I am just like everyone else. It is quite easy to allow myself to feel that I can fit in with the crowd. Yeah, my Swahili isn’t great, and yeah I wear sunglasses on occasion, and definitely walk too fast, and I guess the blonde hair is a bit out of place—but it isn’t till someone yells out, “Mzungu! Mambo!” that I am slammed back into reality—this is not my home. I am from somewhere else. My family, the bulk of my friends, they are somewhere else. But I am okay with it. It is worth it. Those moments of my feeling included, of feeling quite welcome and at home in this place—they are the memories I will keep. I was never good at storing those other less lovely memories for too long.
But there is a difference between not remembering, and never, never forgetting.