Words Are Hard

I am currently in the process of reading a book entitled My Friend the Mercenary. Someone gave it to Fr. Garry and he read it on his recent trip to England. It is about the only journalist who was able to go into the midst of the rebel army during the Liberian civil war, and tells the story about the coup attempted to overthrow the government of Equatorial Guinea (this is a brutally honest book, I wouldn’t suggest it for all readers). But a good portion of it takes place in the exact area where I am staying now, so Father thought it would be an interesting and profitable read for me.

I’m only about a quarter of the way through (450 pages!), so I’ll hold my history lesson until I’m done. There is, however, a brief part that I wanted to share with you all now.

Bob and I have mentioned on occasion the difficulty in language that we have found. And in reading this book I came across a description of their speech that was enlightening for me, and I think might paint a better picture than I could:

His deep Liberian accent, the first I had ever heard, was immediately mesmerizing. It was a voice from another era, a way of speaking that had been brought to Liberia in the nineteenth century by freed slavery from the southern states of America. Endings of words, and other consonants, too, were dropped or swallowed in a unique Old American drawl: ‘now’ became nah, ‘it’ lost its ‘t’, which Joe pronounces ih; ‘th’ became a hard t or de – not unlike the accents of my Irish cousins.

The author even writes their conversations in the way that the people speak. Example: “Oh, yeah-o. I di’ mah trenin’ lon’ time ago. An’ nah, dese day’...I tink dis wi’ mak’ y’ bedder.” (Translation: “Oh, yeah-o. I did my training a long time ago. And now, these days…I think this will make you better.)

As for me, when I’m speaking one-on-one with someone then I’m usually fine, but when there’s a whole group talking and laughing together (like in the car…everyday), then I usually have no idea what’s going on. But I know that it works both ways, so I do my best to make myself heard clearly. And I pray to the Holy Spirit for the gift to interpret tongues…

-Dan
written 07/01/11

Beat It

This is a shout out to my high school art teacher, Mr. Blauvelt, who introduced me to the African djembe drum and how to play it. I finally applied this reservoir of knowledge in the drum’s native land.

I sat in on the choir practice the other night and they let me be the percussionist. My friend Elisa eventually showed up and we all got in on the tomfoolery. It was a lot of fun. As you can imagine, African music is heavy on percussion and vocals, especially for the Mass. They have a portable organ in the parish here that was donated, but it’s used sparingly. Some people would be scandalized by the music here (particularly one friend of mine who hates clapping…even if it saves fairies).

I dig it. I think God prefers that we get into the music that praises Him. Everything in moderation, of course; there’s times for somber tunes and silence. There’s also time to stir it up and jam out. I have had plenty of time for the latter.

-Bob
written 07/05/11

The Lost Boys (and Girls)

I found a lost colony of American students!

Ok, so they weren’t truly lost...they are students from the University of Washington on a study abroad trip. They’re living in a village about two hours away from Makeni. It is one of the parish outposts that Fr. Francis is only able to get to celebrate Mass at about once every two months. We headed there Sunday morning; he told me for the first time during the drive out that the village has Americans there. Sure, Father, sure.

They were more in shock to see me than I was to see 12 beautiful Americans sitting in the makeshift chapel/hut. Nine women, two young men, and their anthropology professor, all speaking the regional dialect better than I could imagine. Their professor has been coming to Sierra Leone every summer for 24 years and has an obvious love for the land. He prepares his students during the spring semester by covering the country’s details and a language preparation course. I later told one of the students that they had the “navy seal” training compared to my own preparation—they just threw me out of the airplane.

But I wouldn’t have it any other way. The students were all amazed that I have been here six weeks on my own without knowing the language or having another American to stay with. They are only here for one month and they are all still fresh off the plane—they overwhelmed me a bit with talking about their Powerbars, shampoo bottles, and packets of instant Starbucks (Seattle water, they called it). I’ve been here in Africa long enough to have a reverse culture-shock, I guess. Yet it gave me a great morale boost to head into this last stretch of my trip. It warmed my heart to have such an onslaught of American company the day before the 4th of July. They invited me back to the village today to celebrate our independence, but I had to teach. Shame, though—they told me they would be sacrificing a goat.

As much as I have longed for that companionship, yesterday’s escapade made me appreciate (for truly the first time) my conditions and the solitude I have been given. A sheltered, itinerary-bound study abroad program wouldn’t have done me any good, especially for discerning this priesthood of Christ. Benedict XVI writes, “In order to mature, in order to make real progress on the path leading from a superficial piety into profound oneness with God’s will, man needs to be tried..…Love is always a process involving purifications…and painful transformations of ourselves” (Jesus of Nazareth, 162). My prayer life certainly wouldn’t have been challenged to the next level if I had eleven friends living in such close proximity. Check out the picture below—how’s that for student housing?

That’s all I got. Oh, and that Seattle water was delicious.

-Bob
written 07/04/11

On Poverty V: Meat Dresses and Thieves

“Who’s the woman who made a dress out of cuts of meat?”

I smiled at this question, for it was only a matter of time before her name would come up. I had been talking with this parishioner about musical artists popular on both sides of the Atlantic: Beyoncé, Alicia Keys, Usher, and Jay-Z. We even went old school, getting nostalgic over the Fugees, Blackstreet, and Boyz II Men. Then he asked the question. Oh, that Lady Gaga. But it was his follow-up statement that took me by surprise.

He became serious and looked down, shaking his head. “What a waste of good meat. You know how many kids saw that here and how long some of them have gone without meat?” He was 110% genuine. I was taken aback. A fashion stunt by a musical artist, meant to shock and create dialogue, had a vastly different effect on the people of this country. No matter how hard we may believe that we live in a bubble or try to hide under a “right to privacy,” what we do affects others.

I witnessed a crowd of people in the market suddenly break out into a sprint last week. They all began running down a side street, many of their faces contorted in anger. It reminded me of high school when all the students would sprint across campus to witness a fight; I wasn’t too far off. I asked Fr. Francis what was going on. “They’re chasing a thief.” Stealing from one person is akin to stealing from the whole community here, and the community gets angry. Fr. Francis said that it is not uncommon for thieves to run straight to the police station because “they’ll live longer if they get to the police.” He wasn’t joking.

Our bread is not just our bread, and our cuts of meat…umm, err, are not…just our own cuts of meat. We pray for God to supply our daily bread—not just my daily bread. That is, we pray for bread for the world, and for those with abundance to share their earthly wealth. St. John Chrysostom said that, “every bite of bread in one way or another is a bite of the bread that belongs to everyone, of the bread of the world.”

-Bob
written 07/03/11

You Got Served

I am in 6th grade. I am on the receiving end of a volleyball that has been spiked directly towards my face. I hate this game.

I am now 26 years old. I am on the receiving end of a volleyball that has been spiked directly towards my face. Why, oh Lord? Why do I do this?

Youth ministry. I “woke up” to the incredible gift of our faith through youth ministry and many of my friends today were met during those formative high school years. I don’t know if I ever would have opened myself to the potential of priesthood if not for a Steubenville youth conference, and I have been blessed to chaperone an additional five conferences all around the country. Each time is a spiritual renewal for me, bringing me back to my roots. Aware of how I was blessed, I like to give back to youth ministry as best as I can…even if it entails playing such a cutthroat game as African volleyball.

I never enjoyed sports that involved throwing, catching, or chasing after a ball. It never made sense to me (now if it were a hamburger, I would chase after it). So I swam, ran track, and during college I evolved into a gym rat. If you need a guy to quickly get from point A to point B or lift heavy things, I’m your man. But for the sake of relational ministry, I will put myself in these situations where my whiteness becomes evident. Even with a language barrier, the teens here just enjoy me goofing around with them, joining in their drum circles, and at least showing up for the games. The athletics are taken very seriously here, I should note. The boys play to kill, and they will take your head off with some of their spikes. Thankfully, my testosterone level has increased slightly since 6th grade and I even stuffed the biggest guy at the net last week. I’ve come a long way since “Most Improved” on the 8th grade basketball team.*

-Bob
written 07/01/11

*I am well aware that what the “Most Improved” award in athletics really means is that “you were pretty awful at the beginning of the season, but now you’re less than awful.” And I’m ok with that.

Remember

This is one of my favorite scenes from The Lion King—it also taps into a foundational theme for the masculine identity. Simba has been running for quite some time, running from his past and ultimately his identity. It takes a woman (well, female lion) calling him out to prompt his entrance into a space of remembrance, and in that space the heavens open up to reveal his father, Mufasa. The dialogue that ensures centers around one key command: Remember.

One of the foundational words for the identity of man in Hebrew is Zakar, which means “to remember.” Thus, an essential ingredient of a man is his ability to remember who is and Who he is made for. When men forget their identity their courage often fails, and so too do they fail the ones who depend on them. Adam failed to protect Eve because he forgot who he was and stood by in passivity. It’s a favored trick of all those spirits not on God’s side. What better way to sabotage a good man than from within? For a long time I let my past mistakes and sins define how I looked at myself as a man, but thankfully this past year I have been able to remember in my heart Who I belong to. Here in Africa, I am in a primordial land of new beginnings and natural wonder. I am daily shaken out of my comfort zone and reminded that I am not in charge. I did not create myself or these rambunctious children outside my window or the monkeys that invade the local restaurants.

“You have forgotten who you are and so have forgotten me. Look inside yourself…you are more than what you have become. ” Mufasa’s appeal echoes that of our Lord’s—remember. Simba grows to manhood during his period of exile and reflection upon the face of his father. Only then can he finally transcend his reluctance and excuses. The Scriptures continually remind us of the urgency to remember. Only by remembering can we move forward—identity precedes mission. “Remember who you are. You are my son.”

Dan and I have been given the amazing opportunity of reuniting in Kenya near the end of July. You can bet that I will be on the lookout for lions, meerkats and warthogs, but more than these I am anticipating a time of spiritual renewal. I guess I’m expecting God to offer me a “Pride Rock” experience of consolation and profound grace to conclude my adventure—yeah, I can be demanding. Until then, my task is to daily remember that my time here is limited and give myself to each day.

I entreat you now to hear within yourselves that commanding inflection of James Earl Jones: “Remember.”

-Bob
written 06/30/11

Freedom From or Freedom To

Last summer around this time I was stationed in Clearwater with Fr. Ken Malley. We were engrossed in the HBO series John Adams, and our viewings timed out well with the celebration of our nation’s independence. He gave a very patriotic homily, with more than few elements from the series creeping into his rhetoric—I was very proud. This year, I am sitting in a remote African town where there will likely be no firework celebration, hooting, or hollering come July 4th. Well, maybe I’ll do some hollering.

I have been humbled by the warm reception I’ve been given as an American. Many presuppose I am Italian, so they speak very slowly to me at first like I’m an idiot. It bothered me for all of one day, and then I started having fun with the people. What has been surprising is the amount of priests admitting to me their own surprise to see a seminarian from America, where they gather the media has done such a number with the scandals that no normal man would consider the priesthood. Even the Bishop confessed to me that I gave him a sense of hope for the future Church, especially the Church in America. “If young men and women are still willing to give their lives freely to Christ to serve others in this age..…well, I don’t know why I bother worrying,” he told me one afternoon. Again, very humbling.

America is courageous, but we can also be courageous arrogant. Our notion of freedom often comes with underlying connotation of license—freedom from restrictions, freedom from anything that could hamper my pleasure. Authentic Christian freedom looks like service—freedom to do the good, freedom to be led by the Spirit of God. Of course, this often entails embracing the Cross. This is the paradox of a life laid down in love. Freedom without a purpose runs out of steam quickly. Egocentrism leaves a hollow void. God’s law is not given for His own good, but for our own good. We have a God who wants our lives to be not bound in a set of legalistic rules but lived in an authentic love story: “I have come to cast fire upon the earth, and how I would that it were already blazing” (Lk 12:49). He wants our communion with Him to be a blazing fire that rises up into a fullness of life. Now that freedom would taste sweet. End of soapbox.

That all being said, here’s to chicken fried, a cold beer on a Friday night, a pair of jeans that fit just right, and the radio up. Here’s to all that have freely given their lives for our nation. And here’s to our Christ who freely offers His body every day. May our God continue to bless America. Miss you all.

-Bob
written 06/29/11

PS: No patriotic image to share. So enjoy this picture of a cute African child instead.