“It has seemed to me sometimes as though the Lord breathes on this poor gray ember of Creation and it turns to radiance–for a moment or a year or the span of a life. And then it sinks back into itself again, and to look at it, no one would know it had anything to do with fire, or light…But the Lord is more constant and more extravagant than it seems to imply. Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like a transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see. Only, who could have the courage to see it?”
Marilyn Robinson, Gilead
These words were read to me by a colleague in 2006 during my first trip to Africa. We had long stretches of driving, often on roads that were a combination of red dirt suddenly transposed into mud, deep ruts and all sorts of jutting rocks which threatened to puncture even the toughest tires. It was during these times that I listened to passages from the novel, Gilead. I must admit, I didn’t understand the strangely sparse, yet rich writing, but I was drawn to it and instinctively knew it to hold a wisdom I wanted to imbibe and savor.
I’d seen a lot during that initiation into Africa. In fact, I felt as if I’d seen too much~too much poverty, too much need, too much suffering, too much despair, too much disparity between my comfortable life back home and the reality of life for most Sudanese and Kenyan people. In fact, on our last day in Kenya, our host skirted around the perimeter of Kibera, one of the large slums of Nairobi and asked if we wanted to see more of it. My answer was an emphatic “NO!” I wasn’t willing to see anymore suffering. I simply couldn’t take it. I didn’t want the visual of the slums to be my last memory of Kenya. On the flight back home, I began, somewhat unsuccessfully, to assimilate all I’d seen those three weeks in Africa. Landing back on U.S. soil proved to be its own culture shock for me.
Obviously, I did return to Africa. And, I did more than skim the outskirts of the slums, venturing deep inside the cacophony of blaring radios, car horns, motorbikes, kids at play, and the movement of life on the streets. Led by the tender hands of my deaconess sisters, we walked the maze of dirt roads and paths winding through tightly packed shanties constructed out of plywood, mud or tin with no electricity, no running water, no toilets. We walked past crudely built wooden stands selling vegetables, and kids kicking a “soccer ball” made of plastic bags rolled together and secured with twine~their playground was an abandoned railroad track.
I took in the smells: acrid smoke from charcoal cooking fires; raw sewage running through deep troughs next to skinny walking paths; sweat that comes from living in a shanty with up to 10 people and having no running water. Yes, the suffering was intense and the living conditions were unlike anything I’d ever seen. But the Lord is constant and extravagant and He gave me the willingness to see, and courage to see not only the suffering, but also the joy and light and mercy that could transfigure even the bleakest situation. Through the eyes of the deaconesses, I began to see the beauty of community, the way women would banter with each other, the delight of kids at play, the concern for neighbors and the hope pinning freshly laundered clothes to a piece of twine strung between shacks. I was given the eyes to see the world shining like a transfiguration.
A dear friend, Peter Ledic, recently said, “Mercy is being blind to the things that separate us.”
I pondered how being blind and being willing to see can sit side by side~it’s paradoxical. It makes no sense. But then again, mercy is a paradox. Its extravagance really makes no sense. Being blind to the things that separate us, doesn’t imply that there are no differences. It means that Mercy joins us in a way that transfigures us. For Mercy is given to us as a gift from the Lord who is Mercy Incarnate.
St. Cyprian says, “Mercy is an inexhaustible fountain”. And I have found that to be true. So, even when I’ve seen too much, when I’m tired and overwhelmed by the disparity between my cushy life and the lives of those who don’t have the basics of running water, electricity, healthcare or enough food to get through the day, Mercy illuminates the path so I can see. Mercy shines through people like you who take the time to read my posts, who pray for those in need, who give of your resources to ease the disparity just a bit.
This is what keeps me returning to Kenya, again and again.
Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like a transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see. Only, who could have the courage to see it?”
Always Mercy,
Pamela
