At 9:30 yesterday morning, Jamie and I snuck our travel mugs of coffee into the Newton AMC to enjoy the $6 showing of Robin Hood. Jamie has been anticipating the movie for months and I found a fun outing with my husband to be a compelling reason to drag myself out of bed at 8am on a Saturday morning.

Blame it on the day job (and by job, I mean vast amounts of work for which I do not get paid), but I found myself actively contemplating my resonance with the narrative of the film. Let’s put aside that the film was poorly received by movie critics and many move-goers, that the story did not follow the traditional Robin Hood legend, that the character development did not reach the depth of which one would hope and that the final battle scene was more than a little campy (really? Slow motion?). No, what I am speaking of in terms of resonance is the war narrative. Indeed, I find this same resonance when I watch most films that position its war narrative as some sort of dualistic battle. Pick your movie: Braveheart, The Patriot, etc. And this troubles me. Why, as a Christian who strongly leans toward nonviolent resistance – and who worships the Jesus who said “blessed are the peacemakers” – is my heart stirred by this phenomenon? Why am I not repulsed by it?

Certainly, the troubling nature of this resonance can be understood by all who look to Jesus at the Prince of Peace. I found myself amazed at the ability of the war narrative to carry my emotions (WARNING: small spoiler alert ahead. But seriously, even with the legend altered, do we really not know how the story might turn out?). At the beginning of the movie, we see the English army returning on a Crusade from Jerusalem, pillaging French estates as they make their way back to England. At one point, an English archer describes the mass killing of Muslim women and children by the invading forces into the Holy Land. Yet, by the end of the movie, I find myself cheering for the English – the same English that had just marched a destructive path from Jerusalem back to England – as they defeat the invading French army. Certainly I have no stake in this war. My ancestry is neither English nor French and, even if it was, I doubt a fictional twelfth century battle in the continuous feud between France and England would conjure any sort of historical trauma. So I return to the question: why did my heart stir? Surely there were innocent foot soldiers and machiavellian kings on both sides of this battle between the French and the English. Blood guilt lay on French and English hands.

Perhaps a clue lies in Robin Hood’s obligatory stirring speech that rouses the passions of men (sorry women, there were none to be found in this scene) to fight against the invading enemy. In this speech, he declares that the home of every Englishman is his castle (apparently Robin Hood is to be credited with crafting this iconic English notion). And there it hit me. What was stirring my soul was not the war-mongering of humankind but the larger fight against the oppression in this world that precludes individuals from leading peaceful lives. It is the same reason that Charles Dickens is one of my favorite authors and why I am moved every time Frodo saves the Shire by deciding to throw the ring into the fire.

This new rendition of Robin Hood is thus a traditional use of the apocalyptic. Though not the end of the entire world, we are led to believe that it is the end of the peaceable English world if France is allowed to win. And I want peace for the characters I have come to know. Dualistic positioning emerges. The problem with this is that our world is not Middle Earth, in which we are fighting demon-like orcs. We are people beloved by God fighting people beloved by God. Imago Dei fighting Imago Dei. And while I understand that this movie is a fictional account, it leaves me wondering whether the stirred souls of movie-goers carry this apocalyptic narrative into the real world.

So I return to my question: as a worshipper of the Prince of Peace, what do I do with this stirred soul? I think the key lies in identifying exactly why my soul was stirred. My heart breaks, as I believe my God’s heart breaks, for all who are oppressed to the point that renders impossible a peaceable life. There are no sides in this scenario, humanly speaking; the oppressed are members of all nationalities, of all religions – indeed, they are any of the human race subject to the Powers that Be, the Domination Systems – what the theologian Walter Wink terms the systems of this world that perpetuate oppression and violence.

Christians, too, have a narrative in the face of the war narrative that so permeates our culture. It is the narrative that tells us to turn the other cheek, give our undergarment as well and to walk the second mile (Matt 5:39). And by so doing, we address that soul-stirring notion of rejecting oppression for a better way. Certainly in this already/not yet state this will not be fully realized until the eschaton. But as a prophetic voice to the world, the Christian narrative, in line with the radically inverse notions we find indigenous to the Kingdom of God, boldly proclaims that oppression is conquered by the Way of Peace.

“I believe that unarmed truth and unconditional love will have the final word in reality. That is why right temporarily defeated is stronger than evil triumphant.”
-Martin Luther King, Jr.

One of my greatest joys during our time in Uganda has been the opportunity I’ve had to speak in small village churches. About once a month I share a biblical message of justice using Psalm 10 with the purpose of calling the church to action on certain social justice issues. The basic message is that we have been rescued in order to be vessels of rescue in our community and to our neighbor; that God hasn’t saved us for ourselves, but in order to use us for the good of others.

In going to these churches, I never know what to expect. There is no PA system (not even electricity actually), no band, no newsletters or written programs to hand out (as many would not be able to read them). There is usually a drum, possibly a metal can that is used as a shaker, and always several people who are leading the songs and dancing. Many times, the church walls are made up of reeds bundled together or planks of rough wood and the floor is a mixture of hardened dung and dirt.

When I arrive, people greet me with wide smiles, handshakes and hugs. Usually they are a little surprised when I greet them in their native tongue of Luganda. A colleague, who is my interpreter, and myself are escorted to the front to sit on a small wooden bench. I don’t bother protesting anymore, but at first it was uncomfortable to sit facing the congregation during the whole service.

As things get started, the congregation spends a full two hours singing praise and worship songs, dancing to the beat of a drum, and praying with fervency together as a group. After this, I am invited to share the morning message. It is usually expected that this would last about an hour. Originally I had to add some extra stories into the message, as I am not accustomed to speaking for such a long period of time.

The picture above is some of the members of a congregation in front of their church after the Sunday morning service. While speaking, I was facing the door to the church and the dirt path in front of the building. The most interesting things passed by during that hour while I was sharing. Things such as a motorcycle taxi with several men loaded on together, a man so laden down with crops that all I could see were two feet protruding from a stack of vegetation that went ambling by, and even a herd of cattle. Chickens wander in and out of the building and one time a sheep even slipped into the back row unnoticed and appeared to be listening intently. During all of these experiences I often find myself smiling and am surprised to remember that I am in Uganda.

On Friday, September 11, 2009, as my compatriots in the United States awoke to a day of remembrance, my colleagues and I, half a world away, were dismissed from work early. News of intensifying riots downtown and gunshots echoing in the distance began to threaten our safe passage through the Ugandan capital of Kampala. We journeyed home and hunkered down while, by the weekend’s conclusion, at least 25 people died down the street.

The riots were sparked by the Government of Uganda’s attempt to stop the King of Buganda, the ceremonial leader of the major tribal ethnic group in Central Uganda, from visiting a disputed portion of his tribal kingdom. Hundreds of young Baganda rioters took to the streets in support of their king. However, like most conflicts, the root goes deeper than the trigger would suggest: years of frustration and anger against the government had been unleashed and, for two days, was to be acted out in a fiery battle before the anger was pushed under the surface once more.

On Sunday evening, after the riots had calmed, I gazed out over the hills of Kampala in amazement that the apparent serenity could follow such bloodshed in the valley below. However, conflict is not limited to Africa: suddenly I felt reminded of deep divisions in my own country, most recently manifested as a health care debate fueled more by fear and partisanship than workable solutions for victims of a broken health care system. Sure, there has been no violent rioting, no death tolls – just the sounds of piercing accusations that polarize a nation and, perhaps worse, the Church.

Certainly, it seems to be our natural inclination to think in terms of “us” or “them,” “this” or “that,” “black” or “white”. In Uganda, division tends to be along tribal lines, marginalizing the “other” with accusatory remarks about government favoritism and rights to the land. In the US, we have a different form of tribalism termed “Democrat” and “Republican” and “Liberal” and “Conservative”. In both countries these divisions have crept into the Church, forming cracks down the aisle that in some cases have become chasms. Despite the fact that the God we worship was slain for people from every tribe and nation, effectively bridging these chasms, it seems many of us choose to remain on our side of the divide, preferring to regard the other as inherently different and bad.

Yet as followers of the Prince of Peace we are called not to avoid conflict but to engage it well. Such engagement requires an attitude of dialogue rather than monologue – talking “with” those whom we regard as different rather than “at” them; listening to learn rather than to respond. Perhaps if we as the Church are intentional in developing this model of relationship we may grow in the type of love we are to have for our “ideological enemies” and, in the process, find that they really are not enemies at all. Once we cross the bridge over the chasm we may see that there exists more common ground in which we can work together than the divide would suggest.

Christ’s final recorded prayer revealed His priority for His Bride – unity. The Church has struggled with that notion ever since those words were uttered; yet I have to believe that 2,000 years later His prayer is still being answered.

NOTE: I am nowhere near perfect at the dialogue model and often catch myself in monologue mode. However, in the spirit of dialogue, my hope is that this blog will provoke discussion rather than disparagement in any of the comments it generates.

If you are interested in learning more about a dialogue model of engagement, I recommend a book called Mutual Treasure, a compilation of essays edited by Harold Heie and Michael King. You can read about it here.

Photo taken and published by the Independent

I know many of you, by this point, have read about the riots that hit Kampala on Thursday, September 10th. Even with the historical instability of the country, the violence took many locals by surprise last week. We were never in any immediate danger and the city has returned to normal. The underlying tension and anger that many Ugandans feel toward the government has once again been pushed under the surface in the priority of getting on with daily life, to resurface again at a later date.

The Baganda are the central tribe of Uganda (out of around 50 tribes) and the Kabaka is the king of this tribe. The term king is loose because he was ousted in 1966 and reinstated as a cultural leader in 1993 without political power, but still wielding much influence. Last week he was planning to visit part of his kingdom, but the president of Uganda forbade him to go saying it was unsafe. This was an opportunity for the Baganda (and many others in Uganda) to express their feelings of oppression under the government by taking to the streets burning tires, cars and even a police post while arming themselves with rocks. The police responded with tear gas and bullets and seven people were killed the first day. The situation is much more complex than I described, but at least that gives a little background.

On that Thursday, I had finally obtained my international driver’s permit and was busy driving through several villages in our project area, which is about 45 minutes away from the office (actually along the same road the Kabaka was supposed to be traveling on in two days). I was organizing several training events and was driving a couple pastors around on dirt roads past goats and small huts. In several villages, young guys were building wooden structures over the road for the Kabaka to drive under as a way of greeting and honoring him. At one point some of the guys stopped my vehicle, held out their hat, and told me they were taking up a collection for the Kabaka and that I should contribute. Luckily I had the other pastors in the car and in so many words they told them to get lost. I wondered why the king would need my contribution, knowing the guys were disappointed not to get any money from us.

After we had finished our work, my colleague and I were driving back to the office in the late afternoon. Passing through one of the towns closer to Kampala there was a tire burning in the road and traffic was diverted a different way. Honestly, I didn’t think too much of it. I found out later that the road was completely shut off about two hours after I passed through. Tension was high with the growing controversy of whether the Kabaka would or wouldn’t be able to visit part of his territory. By the time I reached the office, we were told to go home immediately because riots were beginning to spill out of the city into the surrounding areas.

The next day we went into work, and were hearing early morning reports that the violence had already started back up and gunshots could faintly be heard. Our office cut the workday in half and sent us home at noon so that all of us could be off the streets early. Friday, Saturday and Sunday we spent our time at friends’ houses relaxing and checking the news online and I ended up having to cancel a speaking engagement for Sunday morning. Finally on Saturday (two days after the conflict had started) the international news picked up the story and we were able to read a very government biased article on CNN.

On Monday everyone went back to work, shops reopened and life seems almost normal again. Thanks so much for everyone’s prayers. We never felt threatened and the reports of such events usually sound much worse than they actually are. I’m sure we’ll write more about them, but until then feel free to post any questions you have.

-Jamie

One of my favorite quotes is “The ultimate question for a responsible man to ask is not how he is to extricate himself heroically from the affair, but how the coming generation is to live” spoken by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. A couple weeks ago we had a great adventure showing our families around Uganda, Kenya and Tanzania. One of the best parts was visiting three kids that live in and around Kampala whose lives are being cared for by our parents.

Prior to this visit, both of our families had already committed to sponsoring a child here because education is far beyond so many people’s means. We hear many stories; both great stories that are inspiring and terrible ones that make us feel hopeless. These are three that are inspiring. Robert is a seven-year-old who is really shy and seemed a little surprised by all the attention that was given to him a couple of weeks ago. He loved the racecar backpack with school supplies that my mom had bought him and the card that played “Life is a Highway” every time he opened it (which was often).

The other child that my parents sponsor is a brilliant, 18 year old girl who is an IJM client. She had her land stolen by a relative and IJM is still in the process of restoring to her what is rightfully hers. Sara’s parents also got to meet their child on their visit to Uganda. He is six years old and lives in a rural area outside of Kampala. His mother is an IJM client with a similar story of suffering under injustice. I can’t write about either of their stories yet without permission from IJM because their cases are still ongoing, but I look forward to sharing them.

Last Saturday, I traveled down past the markets and restaurants of Kampala to a part of the city I had never been before. It was a world where youth were waiting expectantly on a dusty street next to a stream of raw sewage with a soccer ball in hand. Many of the teens (and younger) still had dilated eyes from the petroleum sniffing that allowed them to escape momentarily from the difficulties they were experiencing. Even if they were high or hung over, it didn’t matter; they were excited to play futbol and hang out with people who were interested in getting to know them.

Godwin is a Ugandan who has gone down into this slum every Saturday morning for the past 2 years to play futbol, share his faith with these kids, and remind them that there is someone who cares about them. When I met Godwin and he told me about this ministry, I knew I would have a blast with these kids. As we walked through the slum I met the eyes of those who were surprised to see a Mzungu walking through their home. In one corner there were children making oil lamps out of old cans. Opposite from them was a man blowing air into an underground fire where he was making a frying pan out of raw metal. I was introduced to one man with long dreadlocks who was said to be a great musician. The street kids were very excited to have a guest in their neighborhood.

During the time when the leaders shared a message, the kids were antsy and goofing off, obviously ready to play futbol together. As much as they picked at each other, they also talked about how they would do anything for their friends. When we were playing futbol, my friend Ray was schooled by a ten year old and hit the ground pretty hard. Immediately the kids surrounded him to help him up and to make sure he wasn’t too hurt. Oddly the same thing happened to me a couple of minutes later. I was actually a little surprised at how much concern they showed for me because they had such a tough exterior from living on the streets. Unlike my friend Ray, when they stopped to make sure I wasn’t hurt, I promptly took advantage of the opportunity, got possession of the soccer ball and started to make my way down the field. Of course it didn’t take long for them to regain possession amidst laughter. It was a great morning and I look forward to seeing them again.

-jamie

If someone were to ask me that classic evangelical question, “What has God been teaching you lately?” my answer without a doubt would be “the meaning of the Kingdom of God on Earth.” I realize that comes across sounding a tad lofty and pretentious, but I assure you that I mean to be neither of those. Rather, I have simply taken to dwelling on what the Kingdom is practically intended to look like – perhaps because in this place, as never before, I am reminded of it daily. In his Gospel account, Luke records Jesus’ words, “Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the Kingdom of God.” I had always understood this to mean that those in poverty are weak and powerless in this world, but God’s Kingdom inverses this – the last shall be first. I still believe this to be true; however, a fuller picture has been emerging.

A few weeks ago I was in an extremely rural area with a Ugandan colleague whom I regard as particularly sage. We were visiting a very poor woman who lived in a house made of mud, sticks, and straw. She ate only what she was able to grow herself, which was not much because she had just a tiny plot of land to farm. Further, this land was not even hers – it belonged to a neighbor, who had agreed that she could live there for a time. However, the neighbor had apparently changed her mind and was attempting to force this woman off of her land by casting curses upon her through witchcraft. The woman was frightened for herself and her children. She wanted to move, but had nowhere to go. Upon hearing her story, my colleague and I embarked upon a joint effort to help this woman buy her own plot of land. When we witnessed the immense excitement, joy, and thanksgiving on her face in response to our help, my colleague remarked, “They live lives of miracles.”

Perhaps inheriting the Kingdom of God has less to do with economic poverty itself than with the frame of mind and state of heart that economic poverty engenders. This woman lived fully expecting a miracle and was consequently attuned to God’s Kingdom on Earth because it was her only hope. I am thankful that God allowed me to be an instrument of His miracle that day. Even more so, however, I am grateful He reminded me, a comparatively rich mzungu, that I need His Kingdom just as fully as that woman does. In his Gospel account Matthew records Jesus’ words as “blessed are the poor in spirit.” Perhaps by adding the words “in spirit” Matthew sought to emphasize that it is less an economic than a spiritual poverty that is the key to inheriting the Kingdom – though for the economically rich maintaining spiritual poverty is just about as difficult as a camel entering through the eye of a needle.

I have barely scratched the surface in my understanding of Kingdom of God. However, I hope to continue to share my thoughts as I catch more glimpses of it in here in Uganda.

- sara

Out of the heart the mouth speaks, justified or condemned by the words we share. Depending on the tree, we produce either good or bad fruit. We are shown to be what we really are based on what we do and say. Would you grow within me the fuit that comes only from you, that which is for the healing of the nations?

We are desperate for that which will bring peace and joy and love. I am sick with the troubles of this world. Let me not be overwhelmed by the catastrophes of our struggles. Let me not be paralyzed in fear by what we have done to one another. Where do we go from here? What can we do when so much has gone wrong?

Yesterday I sat in an old holding cell for slaves as they awaited buyers in Zanzibar. I sat in the claustrophobic room where many had died and many more had not seen the sky or felt the wind or sun for months or years. I was in the same space but a different time. I couldn’t imagine such events taking place if it wasn’t for the headlines I read today. Dictators holding power, oppressing for their own benifit as they multiply the blood on their hands. Governments beating their citizens to death in Cambodia today. Young Somalian boys born into violence and poverty, their only hope for economic gain being piracy.

This is the world you stepped into and nothing was ever the same again. You stepped into oppression, totalitarian dictatorship, and a twisted religious system that only served the leadership and was sucked dry of mercy. This is your world. You healed a man’s hand and they sought to destoy you for it. I believe that your kingdom is growing Father, but I’m afraid that not much is different from then. What should I do? You know I am yours, let me never forget it. How should I confront it? How do I prepare myself? You want me to know you.

We thought we’d let you in on a little adventure we partook in recently. We had a Friday off from work, so decidedly left early Friday morning for Murchison Falls in the more northern part of Uganda. Neither of us had ever been on a safari before and didn’t know exactly what to expect. Truthfully, I was a little worried my expectations were far beyond what the actual experience would be. As we pulled into the campsite where we would be spending the next 2 nights in tents, 2 fat and hairy warthogs amiably wandered past grazing. The guy showing us to our tent walked over to one of them saying, “You’re bad aren’t you!” and slapped it right on the rump. I was surprised, foolishly thinking beforehand that warthogs were somewhat dangerous, but this one leapt in the air even more startled than I with an annoyed grunt.

Driving through the game park the next morning, our vehicle came to a halt next to several other SUV’s on the road. We could see a herd of antelope standing off in the distance, pawing the ground and looking anxiously toward a patch of trees. The guides told us that by the response of the herd, this probably meant there was some sort of predator nearby. We kept waiting, and eventually all of the other vehicles drove off and out of sight. Almost immediately and without a word, our driver yanked the wheel 90 degrees to the right and our vehicle was bumpily speeding across the savanna on no known trail toward the clump of trees with the supposed predator. The adrenaline was pumping pretty good at this point and we had our cameras ready. As we approached the trees, we slung around the far side in u-turn fashion coming to a complete halt. One standing and one stretched out on the grass were 2 male lions. They were both gazing in the direction of the herd and did not seem to be intimidated by us in the least. We were about 10 or 12 feet from where they were and held our gaze with a mild curiosity. We had about 7 or 8 seconds to stare them down from the safety of our vehicle before our driver punched the gas, completing his u-turn, and had us pointed back in the direction of the road we had left. We could hardly believe that we had just gotten to see such powerful creatures up so close. We had a great weekend seeing some of the beauty of Uganda and are grateful for the special experiences that have been granted to us.

-Jamie

Though we ventured to Rwanda over a month ago and have had various continuing adventures since that time, the experience deserves one more post, if only to share more stories from oft-silenced voices. And so I shall recount another small snapshot from our excursion to the “Pays des Mille Collines.”

Subsequent to a long and death-defying bus ride and an arduous-yet-rewarding hike to summit Mount Bisoke (three armed guards in tow, a mandatory safety precaution along the Congolese border) we found ourselves in Kigali, four of us crammed into a room meant for two at the Hotel des Mille Collines (better known as the “Hotel Rwanda”). Our goal was to soak in as much as we could the enormity of the events that had transpired there. Staring down at the swimming pool from our balcony, we imagined the refugees collecting drinking water in buckets, unsure as to when rescue would come – if it were to come at all.

The next day we paid a visit to the Kigali Genocide Memorial. Amidst the mass graves, photos of genocide victims, quotes of children’s last words, and large panels explaining the chain of events, attempting to give some sort of order to senseless evil, one story continues to stay with me. It was not particularly highlighted; the text and accompanying picture occupied a small space on the side of a large panel, one of many illustrations offered to drive home the sheer magnitude of what had occurred. The story told of a pastor who, shortly after the killing had begun, told Tutsi members of his congregation to gather in the church building for protection. As his flock huddled in the church, likely shaking with fear, that very same pastor ordered the church building to be bulldozed. He literally murdered nearly his entire congregation.

Rwanda is a mesmerizing country shaped by its jagged mountains, dense jungle, and tiered coffee plantations. Three days ago on Easter morning I sat in the southeast of Uganda, reading my Bible and looking out over different hills. The Passion of the Christ never ceases to move me, yet one particular line caught my attention that day. Some women who loved Jesus were following him weeping as he carried his cross. Jesus turned and asked them not to cry for him but for themselves and their descendents. And what he said after that struck a deep chord within me: “For if men do these things when the tree is green, what will happen when it is dry?”

He knows what men are capable of; he saw the screams of the Tutsis as he made his way up Calvary, his own screams close at hand. “Repent, for the Kingdom of God is at hand,” said John the Baptist. Depending on your theological leanings, the Kingdom of God is either growing now, as in a mustard seed emerging into a large tree, or is to come in the future. Being of the former disposition, I believe we are mandated to strive here and now, as God’s outworking of His Kingdom on earth and as our blog title boldly proclaims, for “peace on earth, goodwill to men.” For evil is not the only force at work in this world, but there is also the good and, as Tolkein writes, “that is an encouraging thought.”

Though this Easter message comes a bit late, grab a jelly bean and rejoice with me that Christ marched up Calvary to die so that his Kingdom may come; we are given the privilege to help build that Kingdom “on earth as it is in heaven.”

- Sara