Majestic, part 2

(Note: At the writing of this post, we are driving east through the high desert of eastern Oregon. After leaving the giant redwoods of northern California, we spent three days at Crater Lake NP, then five days at Cannon Beach, Oregon. I have gotten really behind in blogging. Each day is so full; between exploring these destinations and chasing kids (ok, Aidan) we usually drop into bed just before being overtaken by sleep. For now I want to look back a little at our time in the Redwoods.)

The Redwoods are not like any trees we know. They greet us like ambassadors from another time. --John Steinbeck, Travels with Charlie

Steinbeck's observation is so accurate: the Redwoods are not like any trees we know. It's not just that they are so big around (which they are, though Sequoias are bigger), it's that they are so big and tall (taller than the Sequoias). We drove through a section of highway called the Avenue of the Giants, and could wrap neither our arms nor our minds around these silent, massive sentinels.

I want to share two impressions I had while in the giant redwoods. The first is our kids' reaction, which was something like playing with an enormous playmate. If Clifford the Big Red Dog were a tree, he would be like this. The kids ran among the trees like they were old friends, laughing at the sheer wonder of being in their company. At one point I heard Aidan say, "I can't believe I'm doing this!"

The other impression I had was that for Mary and me, all we could do was continually crane our necks and exhale in amazement. It's like wonder and awe and delight and unbelief and laughter and joy and intimacy and the inability to take it all in all at once. Then it dawned on me, it was worship... or I should say it was like worship...or I should say it was like what worship should or could be. Truly majestic.

Majestic, part 1

Over the last two weeks we have spent our time in the WiFi-free zones of Yosemite National Park and Redwoods National Park in California. In Yosemite, our campground was a few miles drive from one of the western entrances to the park, which means that it was about 40 miles from the park's primary destination: the incomparable Yosemite Valley. Which means that we spent a lot of time in our vehicle between stops on the steep and windey roads. But this was not a problem or inconvenience in any way, because being in the park at all is so grand, it's a pleasure just to be there.

Even so, catching the first glimpse of Half-Dome and El Capitan and then craning your neck up to try to take in their sheer massiveness is nearly overwhelmingly awesome (in the truest sense of the word). That is the immediate impression of Yosemite-- even though it is full of delicate and subtle wonders, it is almost unbelievably muscular and gigantic...from the monoliths of Yosemite Valley to waterfalls five times higher than Niagara, to a Sequoia tree that has one limb bigger in diameter than any other non-Sequoia tree in the forest. We all stand in wonder, speechless.

Hippos, Crocodiles, and Me

They say that the most dangerous animal in Africa is not the crocodile, lion, cobra, or black mamba, but the hippopotamus. More people are killed by hippos each year than by any other animal (unless you count malaria-carrying mosquitoes). Hippos seem surreal in their size, giant cartoon balloons bobbing in the water, bouncing on the river bottoms like astronauts walking on the moon. But hippos are fiercely protective of their personal space, and the space of their offspring. They are like pressure cookers ready to blow at any moment, and when they do they become a blur of white-hot rage.

Even so, I will never forget a visit to a particular village when a local elder stood up and thanked us for coming. "If there is anything you can do for us," he said, "please help us get a well so we don't have to keep going down to the river for our water." In the past few years, several women from the village had gone down to draw water, as usual, for cooking, washing, and drinking, and were killed by crocodiles. Just as they reached down toward the water, the crocs exploded from just under the surface and took them. Their orphaned children were there in the church. The people's only defense was to go to the river in groups so that if someone were attacked, the others could beat the animal with sticks in the hopes that it would relent and release its victim. We talked with one young man who showed us the scars from multiple gashes on his legs thanks to such a rescue.

Stories like this remind us that Africa is in some ways truly another world. Challenges like these, the conditions that many villagers live in, the abject poverty, from our rich, Western, point of view can be appalling. To tell the truth, it can also be  fascinating in its lurid details. It can break our hearts with compassion and sympathy; it can also confirm us in our wealth and comfort. (I remember a teenager once asking me to support him in his upcoming trip to Mexico. I asked why he was going. He said, "Because I want to know how lucky I am.")

But here's the deal: The Outreach Foundation is not working in Tete Province simply  to help people have lives that are more like ours. They are working to invest in people, to treat them with dignity, to share the gospel in its many implications, and, maybe most of all, to learn from them. Some people think of mission as "us" going to help "them." Certainly, there are needs, here and there, that need to be met as we reach out as the hands of Christ. But what I discovered is that "they" have more to teach "us." The poor simplicity of their material life does not get in the way of the spiritual reality of life the way our material obsessions do so often for us. This is not to romanticize their poverty, or to settle for conditions--like the need for clean water--that can and should be addressed; it is to recognize the truth that the lives of so many church members in Tete Province is brimming with joy and hope and peace in a way that eludes Westerners (okay, me) so often.

We Welcome You with Both Hands

June 14

This morning we travelled outside of Mutarara to two different villages. The first was on a road that was not really a road, but a path through the bush. We knew we were approaching the village not because we saw it but because we heard it first. Only then did we see the patchwork of colors that was people's shirts. They were standing in a crowd, clapping and singing as they waited for us to drive closer. Soon our car was surrounded by the jubilation; they accompanied us for over one hundred yards as we inched closer to the church. 

When we arrived, we began the same process we would repeat at every congregation we visited. We got out of our vehicle and greeted people as they stopped singing and clapping long enough to shake our hands. Children especially would look very wary as we extended our hands, then as our large white hands took theirs, huge smiles would wash over their faces. Several times I did what seemed natural to me: I reached out and patted their shoulder or touched the top of their head, as I would with my own kids, but it was clear to me that this was not something they were at all used to. 

After the initial welcome, we would file into the church, which sometimes had brick walls, sometimes sticks and thatch, and sometimes no walls at all. It was typically about 15 or 20 feet wide, and between 30-40 feet long, and would hold up to about 200 worshipers. After singing several songs, the people would sit down while Nedson would say something. Then one of our team would give a welcome (which Nedson or Sebber would translate), on behalf of our congregations at home and the Outreach Foundation. After we were each introduced, a local elder would stand and welcome us on behalf of the congregation. These welcomes were very touching. The people were exceedingly grateful that someone from somewhere else would have thought of them and taken the time to visit them. They showered us with gifts of appreciation--chickens, gourds, even a goat. 

During one of these welcomes, the elder said, "We welcome you with both hands." What a fitting and beautiful picture of their hospitality and attentiveness. I came to understand that this notion is present in other ways in their culture. For example, when shaking hands, a person will place their left hand on their right forearm before taking the other person's hand, as a way of showing that they are not hiding anything. And when you wave hello or goodbye to someone, the response is a two-handed wave. May we learn to welcome people with both hands. 

Jackson Hole

Hello from Jackson Hole!
I am so grateful to be here, not simply because Jackson Hole is such a stunningly beautiful place (which it is), but also because I am so grateful to be attending the Jackson Hole Writer's Conference, which begins in a few hours. I don't know what to expect, but what I hope for is inspiration, motivation, and some direction in getting my writer's life in a better gear. So, thank you, Westminster, for the opportunity to be here!

"Here," for the moment, is a pretty sweet place to be. As I walk from my motel room to the coffee shop where I am writing this blog, I stroll past the spectrum that you find in a glitzy mountain resort town like Jackson--rusty pickup trucks with gun racks and bumper stickers that say things like "Wyoming is full. Go home" and "Wolves: smoke a pack a day." Then steps away is a bistro where the least expensive thing on the menu (if the menu includes prices) is the fois gras. 

I learned something really interesting yesterday on my out-of-the-way route to get here. As I was driving through Grand Tetons National Park, I stopped at one of the turn-outs to take in the magnificent view and read the interpretive plaque. What I learned is that the geological forces that formed the almost unbelievably steep and dramatic Tetons was not volcanic or even simple uplift. It was a combination of the plate on one side of the fault rising up, and the plate on the other side of the fault diving down, supercharging the rising up of the other. In fact, the plate that took a dive (creating Jackson "Hole") fell four times more than the mountains went up. You would never guess it by gazing at the majestic peaks towering over the valley like the Eiger. Sometimes it's the sinking that creates the rising. But however it happened, the result is stunning. 

Thank you to those who have read my other posts about my trip to Africa. Presuming that you are still interested (which may be a big presumption), I want you to know that I am not done with them. I hope to post a few other things this week. 

Finally, the thing that makes this day so special is not the grandeur of the Tetons, but the life-changing event that happened 21 years ago today in Casselton, ND, when Mary and I were married. The gift of grace that she is to me is far more spectacular than all the Rockies. Thank you, Mary, for being the wonderful person you are. And thanks for letting me be here today. I'm looking forward to celebrating with you in person! I love you with my whole heart. 

Country Mouse, City Mouse

I mentioned a few things in the last post about access to daily water, and what a difference a bicycle makes. Now I want to share a few thoughts about our experience with food in Tete Province. While it would be easy to go on about "strange" food from my western point of view, the main thing I learned is the remarkable resourcefulness of the people. Most poor people of the land, according to Nedson, eat one real "meal" a day, usually in the evening. They may have a few bites of sweet potato or something in the morning, but the rest of the day is spent in working to put something together for the evening meal. This often involves selling something (anything) along the side of the road, harvesting something from their subsistence plot of land, and collecting some wood or charcoal for the evening cooking fire.
Some of the foods that might be available are corn, sorghum,melons and gourds, sesame seeds, bananas, chickens, cassava root, rice, mangoes and papayas (in season), goat, chicken, fish (if they are close enough to a river), and (gulp) mice. It was explained to us that people are very particular that the mice that one might find in one's house or in a town or village are not the ones you eat, because they tend to have a bad odor or taste. Instead, it is the mice from the field that have good taste (insert joke here).
At each congregation we have gone to, the people show their genuine appreciation and hospitality by laying a feast for us--and it is rude to refuse. The meal consistently consists of rice, chicken, tsima (sp? a boiled blob of corn meal), and a great delicacy: goat liver wrapped in intestines. Yum!

Original Recipe

We arrived in South Africa after a 16 hour flight (with a stopover in Dakar, Senegal). The "we" so far includes myself, Rob Weingartner (Exec Director of the Presbyterian Outreach Foundation), and Tom Biery (a pastor from suburban Orlando). After going through customs, we found our driver for the Dove's Nest Guest House. The name makes it sound like a quiet romantic getaway, but it is in fact a little compound in a rough neighborhood near the airport, surrounded by a security fence. Unfortunately, our reservation at the Dove's Nest was no longer reserved, so we were shuttled to another facility: the One World Guest House, in a slightly less secure-feeling neighborhood. But the sign on the iron security gate said, "Accommodations fit for a king." Hmmm.
The hour was late, and the only remaining dinner possibility was taking a taxi to a nearby KFC. Not exactly what I had in mind for our first meal in Africa, but that's globalism for you. As we were eating our Original Recipe, we heard the faint sound of people singing African-sounding songs. It started in low and rose to a glorious crescendo. A small church was meeting in a ramshackle building next door. Through the window, under the fluorescent lights, I could see hands raised in worship, and an occasional colored head scarf, bobbing up and down on the tiptoes of praise.
The next morning we returned to the O R Tambo airport in Johannesburg. I hadn't noticed the night before what a beautiful modern facility it was. I noted it to Rob, who smiled and said, "When we land in Blantyre (in Malawi) you'll know we're in Africa.
Off to Blantyre...

Welcome to Malawi

June 12

We landed in Blantyre, the second largest city in Malawi. For a city of nearly a million people, the airport is not what I expected. We got off the plane (which runs twice a week) and stood on the runway as we waited to go through immigration.We were met by our other teammates (Berry and Elizabeth Long from suburban Orlando, and Tom McDow from Nashville), and our hosts: Rev. Nedson Zulu and Sebber Banda.  Nedson and Sebber direct the holistic ministry work in Tete Province, Mozambique, but they live MN Malawi because the schools are in English (Malawi was an English colony, while Mozambique was Portuguese). Most of the roads in Blantyre are dirt roads, and are an unending string of roadside vendors; so we bumped and jolted our way to Hudson's house, and then to the hotel where we spent the night.
Tomorrow, off to Mozambique...

Church of the Wide Road

June 14

When we drove from Malawi to Mozambique yesterday, we caught our first glimpse of how beautiful the countryside of Malawi is. Rolling verdant mountains, fertile valleys, and big rivers. We also experienced just how rough the roads for when we neared the border. Suffice it to say that they are the roughest roads I have ever driven any distance on. Nedson and Sebber have the equivalent of Toyota 4-Runners, and we all just jostled around like rag dolls. Because of the recent civil war in Mozambique, the infrastructure, even on the Malawi side, is in very rough shape.
Today we ventured out from Mutarara into the rural villages of Tete Province. What I would have pictured when I heard "rural" is not what I actually experienced. To me, rural meant "far from town," which is true, but it also meant long stretches of open space between where people live, which is not true. This is a very rural setting, but the land is crawling with people. On these sometimes barely passable roads or trails, there is one hut and tiny patch of tilled ground, then another, then another. Rarely is there unoccupied space, at least along the way.
We bumped along until we came to a tiny village (read: slightly more condensed collection of huts) called Njanjanja. This was the site of a new church development of about 20-25 people, some of whom moved from another village to help begin this congregation. They met us enthusiastically as we drove up, singing and dancing. The trail we had been driving on became significantly wider as we approached. We soon learned why: the church had widened the road in anticipation of our visit, chopping plants and roots with an adze and sweeping the area with a twig-broom.
The church structure was a thatch roof supported by several upright logs. The dirt floor had been wetted down so it wouldn't be dusty; already goat hoofprints imprinted the soft clay ground like decorative stamping. What a beautiful welcome!

Pedal Power

One of the first things a visitor to Mozambique or Malawi will notice immediately is that there are very very few motorized vehicles, many many people on bicycles, and a great multitude of people on foot. In the poor areas of Tete Province, for example, the great bulk of a person's day is taken up in the daily tasks of collecting water and arranging for something to eat. Regarding water, if a family is fortunate enough to live within a well, then collecting water is a relatively simple (though not necessarily easy) task. Usually one or more 5 gallon jerry-cans are brought to the well to be used for a family's cooking, drinking, and bathing. But many are not so fortunate. Their option is to travel, however far, to a river, or, more likely, to a shallow hole dug in a dry river bed or low spot until enough water seeps into the depression. In any case, having access to a bicycle is a luxury that can make all the difference in the world.
The typical bicycle is a sturdy steel-frame one-speed cruiser, often made in India. They have a steel cage over the back wheel for one of two extra passengers, or a load of goods to sell or a bundle of twigs or firewood. Usually the pedal platforms have been broken off, leaving the rod alone.
Nedson tells us that the price of a new bicycle is about $170. Considering that the average annual income is about $350, this is a massive amount, but it can make such a difference in a person's or a family's life, people will be willing to work for a year to afford a bicycle so that the option of transport can even be considered.
It is very humbling (and something more than humbling that I'm not sure of the word for) that my sweet bicycle at home is worth several years' income.
Next, more about food...

Unable to Communicate

(Note: i just landed back in the USA after my sabbatical trip to Mozambique. So the next few posts were written a few days ago. Turns out Wi-Fi connectivity is spotty in Mozambique. Go figure...)
We landed in Malawi this afternoon. I have a wi-fi phone card, but so far all I get is the message "Unable to Communicate." Which, I realize, if you see this message, will make it untrue. But it may serve to explain why you may not see any blog posts for the next few days, or even until I return. So much for blogging in real time. Now, about my ability to communicate...

Why "Brittle Crazy Glass"?

The term "brittle crazy glass" comes from the brilliant English poet George Herbert, from his poem "The Windows."

Lord, how can man preach thy eternal word?
    He is a brittle crazy glass;
Yet in thy temple thou dost him afford
    This glorious and transcendent place,
    To be a window, through thy grace.

But when thou dost anneal in glass thy story,
    Making thy life to shine within
The holy preachers, then the light and glory
    More reverend grows, and more doth win;
    Which else shows waterish, bleak, and thin.

Doctrine and life, colors and light, in one
    When they combine and mingle, bring
A strong regard and awe; but speech alone
    Doth vanish like a flaring thing,
    And in the ear, not conscience, ring.

In the great cathedral of Winchester, the enormous East window is the size of two tennis courts. In 1642, Oliver Cromwell's forces smashed the magnificent window into bits because they deemed the artwork to be idolatrous. That night, the villagers snuck into the cathedral and gathered up the shards, keeping them hidden in their homes until the civil war was over. Afterward, they brought them all out and began the Herculean task of putting them all back together as they had been. But it soon became evident that this was impossible. So they put the broken pieces back together in a mosaic of shapes, colors, and partial images--a hand here, an eye there, a leaf, a word, a patch of sky. The result is stunning, not only in its beauty, but also in its meaning. The window is not the thing; it's the light, "thy story" shining through the window, and the combination of the light and the glass, doctrine and life, which makes the window the new thing. Not just preachers, but everyone, is like that: brittle, crazy (distorted or flawed) glass, either being broken or being put back together. Brilliant. Literally.

Hello

Now let me introduce myself. Some of you following (especially this summer) already know me, at least a little. I am Bob Jacobs: human being, child of God, husband to Mary, dad to Allison (8) and Aidan (6), and pastor to Westminster Presbyterian Church. I am on much-needed sabbatical rest after 11 years in parish ministry (thank you, Westminster!). I live in Rapid City, in the wondrous Black Hills of South Dakota...as far as I'm concerned, one of the finest places on earth. This summer I and my family are on a journey of discovery and renewal. I will be travelling to Tete Province, Mozambique this June with the Presbyterian Outreach Foundation, attending a writer's conference, and taking an epic camping trip with my family to northern California and Oregon. Thanks for reading along...

Mom, This is Like Paradise to Me

Yesterday, our 6-year-old son Aidan was scampering on the rocks near Mt Rushmore. At one point he paused, looked around, drew a deep breath, and said, with great contentment, "Mom, this is like paradise to me."

Indeed. Not just because it's the Black Hills (which are pretty great), but because you are (he is) in the wonder of the moment in all its immediacy.

I am at the moment on the tarmac in Minneapolis, beginning this journey to Mozambique. And I am already missing the Paradise that is my home and family, but I am off to another Paradise. I don't know if I will discover something there that is not at home; maybe it's me that will be found.  It reminds me of what the  Benedictine writer Esther DeWall wrote: "The reason for stability is this: God is not elsewhere."

So enjoy the journey you are on today. May it be like Paradise to you.