tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-1327711234715756802024-03-13T08:43:39.622-07:00Revisiting Liberiadescriptions and reflections from and about LiberiaRichard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.comBlogger30125tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-55629590961164462782014-06-05T14:57:00.000-07:002014-06-05T14:57:00.932-07:00The Rains . . . in West Africa<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OKpnD3yExlw/U5DhYce8ylI/AAAAAAAACz8/QcPdrLQTRuw/s1600/IMG_1416.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-OKpnD3yExlw/U5DhYce8ylI/AAAAAAAACz8/QcPdrLQTRuw/s1600/IMG_1416.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>from my porch</b></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif; text-align: left;"> </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I am getting attached to the rainy season.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Tuesday evening when I went to bed about 10:30p. About 2a I awoke to some low persistent thunder. I lay and enjoyed if for 30 minutes or so.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> It was rolling thunder, as in it seemed to roll from one side of the house to the other. It reminded me of that first stereo we got in the late 1950s—the one that came with a demo record that included someone walking across a hardwood floor in hard-soled shoes. We listened over and over as some unseen, unknown person enthralled us with the illusion that someone was walking above and around us.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><br /></span></b></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;">I know, now, that the demo record was more than DEMOnstration. Maybe it was DEMONstration. It was a tech hook. The novelty of hi-fi and stereo needed a hook. What better hook than to include a demo record with every purchase, knowing that this new experience would demand new owners to invite friends to the house to hear and experience the wonder. Customers, then, became unknowing and willing salespeople.</span></b></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RTO1aWIeRiw/U5Dg-ohilrI/AAAAAAAACz0/_2fWhcAgx2s/s1600/Nipper+RCA+dog.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-RTO1aWIeRiw/U5Dg-ohilrI/AAAAAAAACz0/_2fWhcAgx2s/s1600/Nipper+RCA+dog.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Nipper</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;">
<b><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What worked in the 50s has been refined in twenty-teens in ways we could not have imagined “in the day.”</span></span></b><b style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><span style="color: #4f81bd;">I know, now, that the demo record was more than DEMOnstration. Maybe it was DEMONstration. It was a tech hook. The novelty of hi-fi and stereo needed a hook. What better hook than to include a demo record with every purchase, knowing that this new experience would demand new owners to invite friends to the house to hear and experience the wonder. Customers, then, became unknowing and willing salespeople.</span></b></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin: 0in 0.5in 0.0001pt;">
<b><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></span></b><b><span style="color: #4f81bd;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">What worked in the 50s has been refined in twenty-teens in ways we could not have imagined “in the day.”</span></span></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Still, I listened to the rolling thunder for thirty minutes
or so.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Then—like the "Victory at Sea" orchestral band on the demo—all of
West Africa exploded in the night. The storm that had been rolling toward us
hit with a fury. Flashes of lightening turned the palms into silhouettes. The
thunder wasn't rolling, anymore. It had found its destination and hit with a
force that shook the house and, even though I was anticipating the detonations,
caused me to flinch.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The show lasted another 30 minutes.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Then it was the hard rain that I never thought would let up. When the alarm
went off at 6a, it was still coming down.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> </span></o:p><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">My friend and the new General Secretary of the Liberia Baptist
Missionary and Educational Convention, Justus Reeves, read a version of this memo
on FaceBook. His comment was, “the rains in West Africa are so different, especially
the sound of the lightning and thunder.” Preach, brother!</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RYuLH3CLgG4/U5DhYU6b5rI/AAAAAAAAC0A/YQvOiUg1r5Q/s1600/IMG_1417.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RYuLH3CLgG4/U5DhYU6b5rI/AAAAAAAAC0A/YQvOiUg1r5Q/s1600/IMG_1417.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> By 7:30a there was a respite. I grabbed my briefcase and umbrella and headed
off to campus, surrounded by that ephemeral coolness of high humidity that
hangs in the air after the rains. Within ten minutes it was, however, a sauna.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Today it was raining when I awoke, but stopped enough for me
to get to the campus dry. During chapel the rains came, once again making it hard
to hear the preacher. (If it is hard to hear a Liberian preacher, well, . . . .) </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> As we were leaving, the rains came, again, with a fury.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I
made it to the portico of the admin/classroom building, named for Billy Graham.
The rain was exquisite, again.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> </span></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> I’m getting attached to the rainy season.</span></div>
</div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F1.bp.blogspot.com%2F-RYuLH3CLgG4%2FU5DhYU6b5rI%2FAAAAAAAAC0A%2FYQvOiUg1r5Q%2Fs1600%2FIMG_1417.JPG&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://1.bp.blogspot.com/-RYuLH3CLgG4/U5DhYU6b5rI/AAAAAAAAC0A/YQvOiUg1r5Q/s1600/IMG_1417.JPG" -->Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-19973660579557513982014-05-19T13:59:00.001-07:002014-05-19T13:59:32.680-07:00Fallow No More<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cn8tPfY39PE/U3pr8j7ITlI/AAAAAAAACx4/5m2kQnDULvQ/s1600/fallow+field.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-cn8tPfY39PE/U3pr8j7ITlI/AAAAAAAACx4/5m2kQnDULvQ/s1600/fallow+field.jpg" height="213" width="320" /></span></a><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This blog has lain fallow for some
time. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In this case the fallow field was
not for rejuvenation. My life in Liberia has been hectic and, at times,
frantic. The challenges have been more than I imagined. But, the good news is
that I have prevailed (so far). </span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In February I made the decision to
focus upon Friends and Supporters of the Liberian Baptist Theological Seminary.
There were international news accounts of “crisis” in Liberian Baptist life,
with the epicenter at the Seminary. The accounts were false in many cases and,
where there were kernels of truth, the stories were exaggerated.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">At the time I chose to focus upon an
audience that was more nearly keyed to those dynamics, as opposed to a larger,
more generic audience of folks interested in Liberia and my adventures.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">My particular—and the particulars of
Liberian Baptists—prevented me from investing much energy in universals.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EVVfBe-pQOg/U3pt1kJKXWI/AAAAAAAACyY/wIIzOWeRRZU/s1600/Liberian+flag.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; font-size: 18px; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-EVVfBe-pQOg/U3pt1kJKXWI/AAAAAAAACyY/wIIzOWeRRZU/s1600/Liberian+flag.jpg" height="109" width="200" /></span></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><b>The Lone Star</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Perhaps there are readers who would
like to be included in the specific reports of my life in Liberia. If so,
please let me know at<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>richard.f.wilson@gmail.com<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>and I will add you to my list (and
include you in the back issues of memos sent).</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Now I hope to return to a broader
audience</span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">As an academic, primarily, I am
aware of the so-called “post-colonial” perspective that has emerged in recent
decades. The perspective is a natural progression from the various liberation
movements that first emerged in the late 1960s. In the initial criticisms
(please read that term constructively) of the liberationists there was an important
re-ordering of sources for social, political, economic, philosophical, and
theological reflection and construction.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"> </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">In a word, the shift of perspective
drew attention to the great chasm that was opening between theory and practice.
In every discipline, scholars and practitioners were observing a gap between
received traditions and experience. Liberationists were bold enough to employ
the term<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b><i>praxis</i></b><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>as a new way to think about systems,
their successes, and their failures. It was a bold choice because<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b><i>praxis</i></b><span class="apple-converted-space"> </span>had come to be associated with Marxist
theory.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Liberation theologies continue to
bend under the weight of misunderstandings of<span class="apple-converted-space"> </span><b><i>praxis</i></b>.
It should be seen as an analytical tool rather than an ideological perspective.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5WaLA4Bk6hg/U3pr8EItCCI/AAAAAAAACx0/0S_Yi6TjCj8/s1600/Juan+Luis+Segundo.jpg" height="200" width="174" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Juan Luίs Segundo, a Catholic theologian
in Uruguay, caught my attention. He noted that reading scripture and tradition
from experience rather than from doctrine was a path of “the liberation of
theology” from its cultural captivity, by which he meant the West and the North
(as in western Europe and North America).</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Segundo’s trenchant analysis
provided a template for others to employ in the 1960s and 1970s. I confess that
I am among the community of the challenged and transformed.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">At first there was a spate of
distinct “liberation theologies” that seized the insight of Segundo in narrow
particularity. Thus there emerged a variety of “theologies of liberation” that
looked at ethnic groups, gender, economic groups, and the like.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Gradually there was a move toward a
more global (please read that term in light of geography and computer sciences)
perspective.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="clear: right; float: right; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-xU_irVs-K5A/U3ptuFHUayI/AAAAAAAACyQ/QGQsSMCV5YU/s1600/James+Cone.jpg" /></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Another confession: I wince under
the apparent return to a universal perspective (which is what some versions of post-colonialism
offers) because it threatens to smooth over the particularities of cultures
that define the universal.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">James Hal Cone said it clearly in
the early 1970s: “There is no universal without a particular.”</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">Nonetheless, we are awash in
post-colonialism.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;">I embrace the historical contexts of
colonialism. More so, I embrace the particular contexts of post-colonialism and
the distinct responses to it in Latin America, Africa, Asia, and, even, North
America.</span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="clear: left; float: left; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-iRbYTJwsp6E/U3psQkSc1cI/AAAAAAAACyE/MZngTxmY2Pg/s1600/Blyden+oval+1.jpg" height="200" width="160" /></span><span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Be advised and forewarned: My search
for Edward Wilmot Blyden may, soon, take a turn.<o:p></o:p></span></span></div>
<br />
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Day by day I am reminded of the
particulars of colonialism in Liberia and West Africa that were challenges
faced by Blyden and his contemporaries. Day by day I am keenly aware that Liberia
entered the post-colonial era by way of violence and decline that finally
erupted in civil wars that spanned fourteen hard years. Day by day I encounter
the deep-seated lingering effects of colonialism. Some days I despair that the
stain is indelible. </span></span></div>
<div style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin: 0in;">
<span style="font-size: 13.5pt;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Other days . . . I hope.</span></span></div>
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Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-16467304350030165532014-02-16T14:03:00.001-08:002014-02-16T14:03:18.165-08:00Nicodemus, William James, and the God of Abraham<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nQFPLnGwxis/UwEuGVHB1GI/AAAAAAAACok/6hJsKr1Z2hs/s1600/Ricks.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-nQFPLnGwxis/UwEuGVHB1GI/AAAAAAAACok/6hJsKr1Z2hs/s1600/Ricks.jpg" height="149" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Ricks Institute<br />Virginia, Liberia<br />Established 1887</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Recently I watched and listened as a visiting missionary
stood in front of more than one hundred Liberian pastors during a <i>Q & A</i> session at the end of a
three-day conference for rural pastors at Ricks Institute.</div>
From a Tuesday morning until noon on Thursday the pastors were invited to participate in four different experiences. During the days there were consecutive sessions of Bible Study (Philippians), a workshop on preaching, and lectures on apologetics. On Tuesday and Wednesday evenings the pastors and others from the Ricks Institute community joined in worship.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gbmbv7MtGnQ/UwEuF0982lI/AAAAAAAACoM/0EWkuinVt9o/s1600/Allah+Arabaic.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-Gbmbv7MtGnQ/UwEuF0982lI/AAAAAAAACoM/0EWkuinVt9o/s1600/Allah+Arabaic.jpg" height="139" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">"Allah" in Arabic</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After a series of questions about the content of the
teaching sessions, a pastor stood to ask a question about an issue that had not
been broached in any presentation: “Is the God of Mohammed the God of
Christianity?” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qv8Ds1LTgVY/UwEwzCntcOI/AAAAAAAACpI/oJx5RJQUPXg/s1600/Liberia+map.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qv8Ds1LTgVY/UwEwzCntcOI/AAAAAAAACpI/oJx5RJQUPXg/s1600/Liberia+map.jpg" height="163" width="200" /></a>In the context of West Africa—especially in many communities
in Liberia—the question is more than an intellectual exercise. Both Islam and
Christianity are foreign religions in sub-Saharan Africa. They came with
missionaries from Arab lands in the Middle East and Christian lands in the
West. The pastor’s question was at least about a theological assertion, often
couched in exclusivist terms. But, the question had (and has) a broader
horizon. Christians and Muslims in Liberia share land, government, economy,
hopes and dreams, as well as sorrows. Beneath the apparently simple appeal for
a “yes” or “no” about the God of Mohammed, there remains the larger and more
critical question: “How can Christians and Muslims live together in peace?”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The missionary on that Thursday morning was adamant in his
denial of any relationship between Allah and the God Christians claim is made
known in history through Jesus of Nazareth, confessed to be the Christ. His
denial began and ended with a doctrine of exclusion and never moved from that
sharp center into the equally important questions of worship, prayer, attention
to the poor, alms, and the quest for spiritual maturity.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<span style="color: orange;"><b>The Liberian pastor deserved more. He needed more. I am
confident, too, that he wanted more. At least he needed some guidance toward a
way to reflect upon how Christians and Muslims strive to live out their
convictions in Liberia with the integrity of their faiths.</b></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>That need is my impetus as I explore Nicodemus, William
James, and the God of Abraham. </div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kL1m6l7Pq-k/UwEuGhSpifI/AAAAAAAACoQ/LAMXe7tXi3A/s1600/Nicodemus+and+Jesus.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-kL1m6l7Pq-k/UwEuGhSpifI/AAAAAAAACoQ/LAMXe7tXi3A/s1600/Nicodemus+and+Jesus.jpg" height="141" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Representation of Nicodemus<br />and Jesus (John 3)</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Gospel of John is rife with misunderstandings, both
those embedded intentionally in the narratives by a creative author and those
carried away from the narratives—also often intentionally—by equally less-creative
interpreters. In the first of seven dialogs in John, Nicodemus carries the
burden of misunderstanding and, too, becomes the standard bearer for those
whose intention is to perpetuate the error instead of, like Jesus in the
narrative, to shed light on Nicodemus’ confusion. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Take a moment to read John 3:1-21, but do yourself a favor
and don’t read the version you usually read. Avoid the King James Version [KJV]
or the New International Version [NIV]. Try the American Standard Version [ASV]
or either the Revised Standard Version [RSV] or the New Revised Standard
Version [NRSV]. Try <i>The Message</i>, too!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The phrase “born again” found in KJV and NIV does not appear
in ASV, RSV, NRSV, or <i>The Message</i>.
Instead, a comparison reader will find “anew” [ASV] or “from above” [RSV],
[NRSV], and <i>The Message</i>.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In John 3:4 Nicodemus misunderstood “anew” or “from above”;
it was Nicodemus, not Jesus, who thought about returning the womb to be born
again. Jesus gently chides Nicodemus for the misunderstanding, but uses the error
to shed light upon an insight larger than physical birth, symbolized by “water”
(v. 5), and that is of “spirit birth” (v. 6).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Alas, characteristic of the Gospel of John, Jesus’ gentle
chide adds to the confusion! Before Nicodemus can ponder the differences
between “again” and “from above,” Jesus uses the word, <i>pneuma</i>, which can mean one of three things: wind, spirit, or
breath. Poor Nick. He concedes to the confusion and exclaims, “How can these
things be?!” Never again in the passage does he speak. Instead he listens as
Jesus elaborates upon “heavenly things” (v. 12).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“Born againism springs from John 3. At best it is a
phenomenon that owes allegiance to Nicodemus’ confusion. At worst it is a quip
mined from the ore of “heavenly things” that fails miserably at retaining the
context of demand and responsibility that come “from above” when one is “born
anew.”</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BlyUHzm9mjs/UwEx1uwn5wI/AAAAAAAACpU/gpCzKPX6-ro/s1600/Blyden.GIF" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-BlyUHzm9mjs/UwEx1uwn5wI/AAAAAAAACpU/gpCzKPX6-ro/s1600/Blyden.GIF" height="200" width="159" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Edward Wilmot Blyden</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In early February 2013 I was in Freetown, Sierra Leone with
my colleague, Olu Q. Menjay. We had crossed into Sierra Leone from Liberia and
travelled the bush roads to Freetown on a pilgrimage, of sorts. Olu and I have
shared interest in Edward Wilmot Blyden, a nineteenth century giant whose
contributions to education, diplomacy, African identity, and religion continue
to demand attention. We were excited in our journey because in Freetown we were
to meet Isa Blyden, the great-granddaughter of Edward Wilmot Blyden.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Our day with Isa Blyden was full of challenges and
discoveries. The highlight was a visit to a mosque in Freetown in the Foulah
district where Blyden lived the last years of his life, creating an educational
system for Muslim children that still is a model program a century later.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Blyden was a Christian (Presbyterian) missionary who was a
pioneer in Christian-Muslim relations in West Africa. He understood that
Christianity and Islam could contribute to the betterment of colonial and
post-colonial West Africa. He lived and died forging mutual respect and
understanding among Africans whose traditional religions had been challenged and
transformed by the foreign religions (Christianity and Islam) in their midst.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
After our visit to the mosque, which included some rich
conversation with the imam and some men who had gathered for afternoon prayers,
Isa was telling me and Olu about new tensions in the Foulah Town area. “There
are too many ‘born agains,’” she said. I pressed her clarity. “The ‘born
agains’ are Muslims from the Arab world and Christians from the West who want
to politicize their religions and make them rivals rather than partners.” Then
and now I see her point. It is further evidence that “the born agains” are not
interested in “heavenly things.”</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aoCNSwIbuKY/UwEuHFcI4GI/AAAAAAAACoY/kdZUOo-EQ-g/s1600/William+James.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-aoCNSwIbuKY/UwEuHFcI4GI/AAAAAAAACoY/kdZUOo-EQ-g/s1600/William+James.jpg" height="200" width="153" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">William James</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
William James, pioneer in psychology and personality, offers
a different way of describing and understanding the phenomena of what he termed
“once-born” and “twice-born” personalities. And, yes, they <b><i>are</i></b> personalities. In his
now-classic, <i>The Varieties of Religious
Experience: A Study in Human Nature</i> (the 1902 Gifford Lectures), James
organized his observations and analyses of experiences and responses to the
divine and/or religious teachings. The “once-born” and the “twice-born”
occupied his attention in four of the lectures.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The once-born, by James' description, live in a box of sorts. He writes:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In the religion of the once-born the world is a sort of rectilinear
or one-storied affair, whose accounts are kept in one denomination, whose parts
have just the values which naturally they appear to have, and of which a simple
algebraic sum of pluses and minuses will give the total worth. Happiness and religious
peace consist in living on the plus side of the account (Modern Library
edition, 163).</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
By contrast James describes the twice-born:</div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
In the religion
of the twice-born, on the other hand, the world is a double-storied mystery.
Peace cannot be reached by the simple addition of pluses and elimination of
minuses from life. Natural good is not simply insufficient in amount and
transient, there lurks a falsity in its very being. Cancelled as it all is by
death if not by earlier enemies, it gives no final balance, and can never be
the thing intended for our lasting worship. It keeps us from our real good,
rather; and renunciation and despair of it are our first step in the direction
of the truth. There are two lives, the natural and the spiritual, and we must
lose the one before we can participate in the other (Ibid.).</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Of the two types James observes that the first tends to be happier
with life while the second tends to bend under the burdens of life’s
ambiguities. In the end, however, James observes that the twice-born are
healthier once they make or find peace with life’s mysterious multivalences.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Applying James’ observations and analyses to the narrative
about Nicodemus in John 3, it appears that the born-agains are once-born; the born anew (or from above) are twice-born. Born-agains—as the term is used
in this post—live in a world of pluses and minuses, all of which are clear (to
them). The born anews, however continue to live in the midst of an ambiguous
world. As twice-born the face daily the tasks of personal and corporate
integration of multiple values, all ordered from a “higher” perspective.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-17zHnU02FaM/UwEzbqal_mI/AAAAAAAACpg/xof1yqJNQfY/s1600/Paul+Rembrandt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-17zHnU02FaM/UwEzbqal_mI/AAAAAAAACpg/xof1yqJNQfY/s1600/Paul+Rembrandt.jpg" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Head of Paul<br />Rembrandt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Paul must have been twice-born (but his term was “new
creation” [2 Cor 5:17]), especially with regard to the God of Abraham. He
finally was able to reconcile the pluses and minuses that his background gave
him. As a once-born Pharisee who could not have any compassion for the Gentiles,
he emerged twice-born, a new creation,
who was able to see that the God of Abraham was the God of the Gentiles, too. Then,
wonder of wonders, he chided the Gentiles (more forcefully than Jesus chided
Nicodemus in the Gospel of John) for their arrogant disdain for all things
Jewish. Paul’s chide of the Gentiles in Rome fills three chapters (see Rom 9–11).</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-34RP-S5JC_E/UwE0tYMrbXI/AAAAAAAACps/m1Od6vM0HI4/s1600/Romans.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-34RP-S5JC_E/UwE0tYMrbXI/AAAAAAAACps/m1Od6vM0HI4/s1600/Romans.jpg" height="126" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Romans manuscript</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
To the Romans Paul wrote: “The gifts and callings of God are
irrevocable. Just as you were once disobedient to God but have now received
mercy because of their [the Jews] disobedience, so they have now been
disobedient in order that, by the mercer shown to you, they too may receive
mercy. So God has imprisoned all in disobedience so that he may be merciful to
all” (Rom 11:29-32).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Although Paul knew nothing (of course) about the God of
Mohammed, he did pause to reflect upon Hagar, the mother of Ishmael, the son of
Abraham. In Galatians Paul offers a <a href="http://dictionary.reference.com/browse/midrash">midrash</a> on Hagar and Sarah and their sons,
Ishmael and Isaac. He says that the two women (and their sons) “are two
covenants” (Gal 4:24), one a covenant of slavery and the other a covenant of
freedom.</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AnX_XD3NDhI/UwE1DUZkDhI/AAAAAAAACp0/RxCIC2TPpto/s1600/Hagar_and_Ishmael_in_desert_(Grigoriy_Ugryumov).jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-AnX_XD3NDhI/UwE1DUZkDhI/AAAAAAAACp0/RxCIC2TPpto/s1600/Hagar_and_Ishmael_in_desert_(Grigoriy_Ugryumov).jpg" height="200" width="155" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Hagar, Ishmael, and the Angel<br />Genesis 21</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Indeed, the narratives in Genesis about Hagar (see Gen 17
and 21) are couched in the God of Abraham making promises to Hagar regarding
the son she bore Abraham. And, too, Ishmael, Hagar and Abraham’s son, bears the
mark of the covenant with Abraham—circumcision—before Isaac.</div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
That Liberian pastor deserved more than he got from the
missionary. He needed more. I think he wanted more. Perhaps . . . another
missionary in the future will do better with the question. Better yet, perhaps
. . . a Liberian pastor/teacher will offer a more reflective response to a
question that presses hard upon all Liberians, Christian or Muslim.</div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-82451495229872441062014-02-10T06:19:00.001-08:002014-02-10T06:24:34.594-08:00My Morning of Discontent<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MR1ROQgWKRM/UvjY0plaxmI/AAAAAAAACnM/72zw-bMmVcY/s1600/01112014+Al+Green+at+wedding.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-MR1ROQgWKRM/UvjY0plaxmI/AAAAAAAACnM/72zw-bMmVcY/s1600/01112014+Al+Green+at+wedding.jpg" height="200" width="165" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rick and the Reverend<br />
Al William Green</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With apologies to Shakespeare and Steinbeck, 5 February 2014
was my morning of discontent, made glorious by the Reverend Al Green.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Late on the evening of 4 February I had an email and a call
from one of my seminary colleagues. He wanted me to know that some LBTS Alumni
were meeting in Monrovia on the next day; they had invited me to join them to
meet and greet and receive encouragement. I said I would come, but knew that we
could not meet at the seminary because we are under temporary court order not
to be open (long story).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The Reverend Al William Green is a Liberian pastor. He was
at Ricks for a rural pastors’ conference (Green is the pastor of the founding
church of the Liberia Baptist Missionary and Educational Convention [1880] at
Edina in Grand Bassa County; it certainly meets the descriptor “rural.”) Al
offered to ride along with me. Thank God.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ohJyN73OHQI/UvjZ6ZAcJzI/AAAAAAAACnY/nM8LPlOK638/s1600/IMG_0275.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ohJyN73OHQI/UvjZ6ZAcJzI/AAAAAAAACnY/nM8LPlOK638/s1600/IMG_0275.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Logantown</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
We made our way toward Monrovia in “my” diesel-powered
Pajero, taking the shortcut through Logantown to avoid the congestion in Duala
(see the post from 14 January, “The Economy at Work”). The ten minutes were
better than the 40 or more it takes to get through Duala.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
As we arrived in Monrovia and turned left at Broad Street it
was about 10:30a. An officer waved us to the side and the discontent began to
unfold. I made two errors that I regret and will not make again.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The usual banter began: “May I see your vehicle
registration?” I produced it. May I see your driver’s license?” MISTAKE! I
handed it to him, knowing better. THE DIE WAS CAST!!</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The paper work was in order, but the insurance sticker was
not on the windshield. Hint, hint. The officer was looking for a bribe. My seatbelt
was not fastened. Hint, hint. I requested my license. The officer put it in his
pocket and walked away.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aajqU9xP0bk/UvjWaiCfmpI/AAAAAAAACmk/OBdnwOKM3IE/s1600/02052014+ticket.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-aajqU9xP0bk/UvjWaiCfmpI/AAAAAAAACmk/OBdnwOKM3IE/s1600/02052014+ticket.jpg" height="200" width="116" /></a>Al Green got out of the car and began the arguments. Yes, a
crowd began to form. The officer said there would be a ticket. I said, “Fine.
Write it, give me my license, and I will go.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Green went with the officer to the podium and then down the
street for a conversation with the police commander of the district. I wanted
to see what I could, so I made my second MISTAKE. I took my camera and used the
telephoto lens to see better. Uh-oh! </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The commander assumed I had taken his photo and became
enraged. He stormed down the street shouting, “He took my photo! He took my
photo!” with a small crowd following him. He tried to reach into the car and
take my camera, but I avoided him. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Now there were three or four officers and a crowd behind the
car. A large citizen intervened and tried to calm down the officer. I got out
of the car—with my camera—and showed the large man that there was no photo. I
showed him how I had used the telephoto to get a better view of the conversation.
He declared, “There is no photo.” The first officer verified that there was no
photo.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
But, the die was cast. I had
missed my several opportunities to bribe the “servant of the people” and now I
would have to pay. Two hundred Liberia dollars would have ended the drama, but
I wouldn’t pay (less than $3 US).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Efzefpd3K4/UvjXDoPpy-I/AAAAAAAACnA/yZ1MWC1MIFA/s1600/02052014+my+receipt.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-_Efzefpd3K4/UvjXDoPpy-I/AAAAAAAACnA/yZ1MWC1MIFA/s1600/02052014+my+receipt.jpg" height="124" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the bank receipt</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ELuosY2RTzk/UvjXC72_TLI/AAAAAAAACm4/qBJ53MhBJAE/s1600/02052014+my+clearance+slip.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-ELuosY2RTzk/UvjXC72_TLI/AAAAAAAACm4/qBJ53MhBJAE/s1600/02052014+my+clearance+slip.jpg" height="78" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the release document</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x6oYrvmh2bM/UvjWbyJd1EI/AAAAAAAACmw/Go28hoGVvaw/s1600/02052014+my+release+letter.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-x6oYrvmh2bM/UvjWbyJd1EI/AAAAAAAACmw/Go28hoGVvaw/s1600/02052014+my+release+letter.jpg" height="200" width="177" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the court document</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
For the next four hours (!!) Green
led me through the mazes of Liberian bureaucracy. I counted nine steps: (a) to
the Minister of Finance to register to pay the $20 US ticket; (b) to a business
center to get a photocopy of the ticket; (c) back to MoF to receive a deposit
slip for the bank; (d) to the bank to pay the fee and get a receipt; (e) to
traffic court to receive judgment; [lunch break]; (f) back to traffic court to
receive paper work; back to the podium on Broad Street to retrieve my license;
(g) to police headquarters to get a “release” notification; (h) back to Broad
Street to haggle, again, with the police to get the license and to refuse to
pay the bribe; (i) received my license.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NMWUQ5dGngc/UvjdHIA43hI/AAAAAAAACnk/53GvYWAUQSI/s1600/02052014+dumboy+at+Mary's+3+with+Al+Green+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-NMWUQ5dGngc/UvjdHIA43hI/AAAAAAAACnk/53GvYWAUQSI/s1600/02052014+dumboy+at+Mary's+3+with+Al+Green+cropped.jpg" height="161" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Al Green at Mary's</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
I never made it the meeting
(probably should not have agreed to go, anyway). I had a great Liberian lunch
of dumboy.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Dumboy is common Liberian meal (please read common two ways). It is a thick clump of pounded cassava root, mixed with water, and allowed to proof. Fu-fu, too, is pounded cassava root, but it is less thick. Both are served with some kind of soup and spices. I enjoy it; it is exotic (see the fish head and chicken foot) and quite tasty. Liberians are generally amazed that I eat it.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kFgR5-msyAk/UvjWapDZccI/AAAAAAAACmg/9__qobrJBcY/s1600/02052014+ticket+with+text.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-kFgR5-msyAk/UvjWapDZccI/AAAAAAAACmg/9__qobrJBcY/s1600/02052014+ticket+with+text.jpg" height="320" width="186" /></a>I got to spend time with Al Green and listen to his rants about “the
criminals” in the blue uniforms who were trying to “make some morning money” by
stopping “the white man.” Facts are facts. My offense was
being a white American. I know that. See right: "American" and "White." And, so I am.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
What did I learn? I will avoid the
podium at Broad Street in the mornings. I will not use my camera carelessly.
The police are greedy, but harmless. Many Liberians on the street are ashamed
of the way the police act. Dumboy is quite tasty (I’ve had it several times,
but the ambiance of the cook shop was great).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
The Reverend Al Green is a good
friend and companion. It was he who made my morning of discontent glorious.<br />
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Don't misunderstand me. I am not complaining about being a white American. What I know is that the years of colonial rule in Africa contributes to the challenges we all face in Liberia. I will write about that another time.</div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-72378861933114802602014-01-28T05:02:00.000-08:002014-01-28T05:11:25.364-08:00The Power of Song<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qCn6bEfTWuc/Uueha5vdmvI/AAAAAAAACko/g44VuLpiggQ/s1600/01212014+raising+the+flag+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qCn6bEfTWuc/Uueha5vdmvI/AAAAAAAACko/g44VuLpiggQ/s1600/01212014+raising+the+flag+1.jpg" height="192" width="200" /></a>Each morning the students of <a href="http://www.ricksinstitute.org/">Ricks Institute</a> gather
at the flag pole, standing in rank by class, for the start of a new day. At
7:30 the day is young and the promise of dawn is fresh. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
With the exception of the Pledge to the Flag of the Republic of
Liberia—to which we will turn in a future post—the daily ceremony is sung.
Every day six hundred or so voices fill the air with “the school ode!” as the leader
of the ritual announces it. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Most days the same choir successfully completes a rather
difficult anthem, “All Hail, Liberia, Hail.” It is difficult because of the
range required for voices of all ages. It is made more difficult by a dramatic
pause mid-way through (sometimes I see the younger children counting to four to
be sure not to jump in too soon).</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
A few days the fading dawn is greeted with “The Lone Star
Forever,” with the memorable and apt words </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
When freedom raised her glowing form<br />
on Montserrado's verdant height,<br />
She set within the doom of night,<br />
'midst low’ring stars and thunderstorms<br />
the star of liberty—and seizing from the waking morn,<br />
its burnished shield of golden flame,<br />
she lifted in her proud name<br />
and raised a nation long forlorn<br />
to noble destiny.</blockquote>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lg7hVrJ5dHU/Uuej7i8os1I/AAAAAAAAClE/w6CoRajLNUw/s1600/JE+Barclay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-Lg7hVrJ5dHU/Uuej7i8os1I/AAAAAAAAClE/w6CoRajLNUw/s1600/JE+Barclay.jpg" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">18th President of Liberia<br />
1930-1944</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The patriotic hymn was written by Edwin James Barclay
(1882–1955), Liberia’s eighteenth President. His administration was born in
scandal and rested in the glory of Liberia taking her place on the global stage
with the Allies in World War II. The immediate predecessors (President C. D. B. King and Vice President Allen Yancey) of Barclay’s
administration were swept away when their complicity in a later-day slave trade
was exposed (King and Yancey allegedly benefited from corvée associated with the domestic workforce and outright slave trading
with the Spanish). Secretary of State at the time, Barclay was selected to
finish King’s term; he was elected in 1931.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YLzWADfwhMc/UuejcVtctQI/AAAAAAAACk8/-5oGvEasbPQ/s1600/JE+Barclay+and+FDR.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-YLzWADfwhMc/UuejcVtctQI/AAAAAAAACk8/-5oGvEasbPQ/s1600/JE+Barclay+and+FDR.jpg" height="156" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Presidents Barclay and Roosevelt<br />
in 1943</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>During the fourteen
years of his administration, Barclay restored international respect for
Liberia, greatly improved the economy, and became a trusted ally of U. S.
President Franklin D. Roosevelt. Barclay was instrumental in the construction
of Robertsfield—with runways long enough to welcome Allied Forces planes;
perhaps Barclay’s legacy is negotiating with Pan American Airlines to make
Monrovia a destination for international travelers. In 1943 FDR visited Liberia
en route to a summit in Morocco; later that year Barclay was welcomed in
Washington, D. C. and was the first black person to stand at the rostrum in the
U. S. Capital as an honored head of state.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Barclay’s patriotic
hymn focused upon the dawn of Liberia in the 1820s, but the song’s power is in
part that it also touches upon so many new dawns that Liberia has greeted in
her troubled history.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p></o:p></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>Each time I hear the
Ricks students sing, “When freedom raised her glowing form on Montserrado's verdant height, she set within the doom of night,
the star of liberty—and seizing from the waking morn, she lifted in her proud
name and raised a nation long forlorn to noble destiny,” I
rehearse the recent horrors of war and know, for sure, that the Ricks students
understand “a nation long forlorn.”</div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s6mMdCmvyvc/UuelqS8OodI/AAAAAAAAClQ/NVcdu0InuJ0/s1600/Daniel_Bashiel_Warner.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-s6mMdCmvyvc/UuelqS8OodI/AAAAAAAAClQ/NVcdu0InuJ0/s1600/Daniel_Bashiel_Warner.jpg" height="200" width="163" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Daniel Bashiel Warner<br />
Liberia's 3rd President<br />
1864-1868</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberia’s third President, Daniel B. Warner [image] wrote
“All Hail, Liberia, Hail.” It is a song that captures the <i>Zeitgeist</i> of mid-nineteenth century for the hope of the end of
slavery and the greater hope of a land of freedom for “a race benighted race”: </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
All Hail, Liberia, Hail!<br />
All Hail, Liberia, Hail!<br />
This glorious land of liberty shall long be ours.<br />
Though new her name green be her fame<br />
And mighty be her power<br />
In joy and gladness with our hearts united<br />
We'll shout the freedom of a race benighted<br />
A home of glorious liberty by God's command. </blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Liberia was the focus of hope for abolitionists, slaves in
“the new world,” and free people of color for whom freedom already being
compromised by political and economic realities in the Americas that were
determined to establish a two-tiered society based upon race. And, for most of
the hopeful, it was “God’s command” that would bring their hopes to fruition.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
“And mighty be her power. And mighty be her power.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
In the midst of persistent challenges, Liberians hold to the
claim that Liberia is blessed by Providence with “mighty . . . power.” When I
hear the children sing those lines I know that they believe in the power (pun
intended) of the song. I know it because, even in the midst of confusion and
poverty and struggle, the children and their teachers and their public leaders
refuse to capitulate to the despair that lurks in every shadow. </div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Uj5FHBe006E/Uuen8T8DUyI/AAAAAAAAClc/Z5hAQdyFCtc/s1600/seal+of+Liberia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Uj5FHBe006E/Uuen8T8DUyI/AAAAAAAAClc/Z5hAQdyFCtc/s1600/seal+of+Liberia.jpg" /></a></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
All Hail, Liberia,
Hail!<br />
All Hail, Liberia, Hail!<br />
In union strong, success is sure<br />
We cannot fail<br />
With God above our rights to prove<br />
We will over all prevail<br />
With hearts and hands, our country's cause defending<br />
We'll meet the foe with valor unpretending.</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>The theme of Providence appears, again: “With God above our
rights to prove / We will over all prevail.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<o:p> </o:p>These same themes of hope and divine guidance permeate the
Ricks Ode, too, written in the mid-twentieth century by Baromi Morris,
well-known Liberian jurist and musician.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="https://www.blogger.com/blogger.g?blogID=132771123471575680" imageanchor="1" style="margin-left: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3qbM7XKq1OY/UuepdMp_xXI/AAAAAAAAClo/_v_kXPbR7B4/s1600/Ricks+Institue+logo.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-3qbM7XKq1OY/UuepdMp_xXI/AAAAAAAAClo/_v_kXPbR7B4/s1600/Ricks+Institue+logo.jpg" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<i><br /></i></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<i>Stella
Polaris</i>, O, Ricks Institute,<br />
Thy way to greatness and prosperity;<br />
Ye we point to glorious Ricks for fame and victory.<br />
With God before us, success we are sure,<br />
Upward and forward the victor we go;<br />
Therefore with uplifted eyes<br />
We are sure to win the prize.</blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
On the days when the students sing the Ricks Ode and The
Lone Star Forever, I am always struck by how the songs carry the singers and
listeners from the dark of night—the invocation of the North Star in the Ode—to
the dawn of perpetual new days—“and seizing from the waking morn' . . .
[Freedom] lifted in her proud name and raised a nation long forlorn to noble
destiny” from Lone Star.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Taken together, these three songs have a power that, I hope,
will sustain the students, faculty at Ricks, and any other who has the
opportunity to be present for the morning flag ceremony.</div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-66122099207789222182014-01-22T13:10:00.002-08:002014-01-22T13:19:59.904-08:00Rhianna's Stage<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IcE3W2feF3Y/UuAu1cp1mfI/AAAAAAAACj8/op6zfFFKP4w/s1600/01222014+RS+5.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-IcE3W2feF3Y/UuAu1cp1mfI/AAAAAAAACj8/op6zfFFKP4w/s1600/01222014+RS+5.jpg" height="320" width="128" /></a><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-pMUdDAYsNpc/UuAqBaxGN5I/AAAAAAAACjs/7IOybqhIvms/s1600/01222014+RS+2.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>She doesn't need of all of both hands to count to her age. With
only part of one hand she can let you know she is in grade 4. This is the
first year she has had classes in the main school building, which means this
year is the first year she gets buffeted by the bigger, louder, and more savvy
students at Ricks Institute.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Today, however, Rhianna Musa stepped onto the biggest stage
any nine-year old could imagine, short of discovering super powers and saving
the planet.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
It is exam week at Ricks Institute, the last days of the
first semester. With characteristic gravity, Principal Olu Q. Menjay has been
warning the students this week: “The last days are dangerous days,” he says. “You
must be careful; these are dangerous days.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The danger has nothing to with “the end times” associated
with the lore of popular Christian science fiction. These last days at Ricks are
fraught with the threat of failing an exam, or a grade, or getting expelled for
“spying,” the by-word at Ricks for cheating.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q8MJhJhp5lw/UuApvYXkwLI/AAAAAAAACjc/xSVRCMeJOvA/s1600/01222014+RS+6.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-q8MJhJhp5lw/UuApvYXkwLI/AAAAAAAACjc/xSVRCMeJOvA/s1600/01222014+RS+6.jpg" height="105" width="200" /></a>All week Menjay has been
warning the older students to review their lessons. “We are behind in Liberia,”
he says. “If a ninth-grader can do grade 7 work, fine. But we have to catch up.” Today he put it to the test
and set the stage for Rhianna Musa, grade 4, nine-years old.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UJnBUWJA-OI/UuAp3nDFSSI/AAAAAAAACjk/AZKof8rinjc/s1600/01222014+RS+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a>Out-of-the-blue, the Menjay
Way, in the middle of something else, he asked, “Who knows the ‘times tables’?”
A number of fourth-graders shot their skinny arms in the air in the way that
fourth-graders around the world must. Randomly, Menjay called a girl to the
front of the auditorium to face more than 600 students. </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then Menjay saw a
drowsy student in one of the upper grades: “Hey!” he said, pointing, “you
sleeping?” Soon, the offending lad was on his feet, squared off in a times
table competition—with a fourth-grade girl half his size.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UJnBUWJA-OI/UuAp3nDFSSI/AAAAAAAACjk/AZKof8rinjc/s1600/01222014+RS+3.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-UJnBUWJA-OI/UuAp3nDFSSI/AAAAAAAACjk/AZKof8rinjc/s1600/01222014+RS+3.jpg" height="143" width="200" /></a>“Times five,” Menjay said. The
lad began barely in a whisper. “Speak up! They need to hear you in the back!”
As Menjay slowly walked toward the back of the hall, the boy faltered, “Five
times seven equals forty.” </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The auditorium erupted in nervous
glee because more than 600 students had been spared, they thought, the very public oral exam.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Menjay turned to the waif: “Times
five,” he said.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Rhianna Musa stood up
straight, spoke in a loud voice—suitable for out-of-doors—and rattled off the “fives”
from one to twelve.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Menjay called up another
upper-class student. “Times six,” he ordered, and slowly walked away. (I turned
my attention to Rhianna and noticed her softly doing the “sixes” in her own way,
warming up in case the bigger, now quieter, student stumbled.) And, he did: “Six
times three equals twenty-four.” The hall howled. Menjay pointed to Rhianna and
she executed the “sixes” in the same strong voice and rhythm as she had
completed the “fives.”</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-XcNvMXl3n30/UuApRSci8BI/AAAAAAAACjU/bjmit5veLPo/s1600/01222014+RS+4.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a>She showed no pride or
excitement, but she did gently cross herself (yes, there are Liberian
Catholics). </div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
The game was on! Seventh-graders, tenth-graders, twelfth graders, eighth-graders, and ninth-graders all had the chance to boast of the chance of defeating the Fourth Grade Wonder: Rhianna Musa. Eight tried and eight failed. Each time Rhianna made it through whatever Menjay asked. And each time she crossed herself in a gentle way.</div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pwi0QFLpsXw/UuAu28iSFsI/AAAAAAAACkA/yFnI8EsfKDw/s1600/01222014+RS+end.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"></a><a href="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pwi0QFLpsXw/UuAu28iSFsI/AAAAAAAACkA/yFnI8EsfKDw/s1600/01222014+RS+end.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pwi0QFLpsXw/UuAu28iSFsI/AAAAAAAACkA/yFnI8EsfKDw/s1600/01222014+RS+end.jpg" height="244" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
Then Menjay made his point,
standing next to a high school student who failed and wept. “We are behind in
Liberia. But, we can catch up.” As Menjay made his speech about catching up and
what hard work it is, I motioned for Rhianna. I asked her name and told her I
was proud of her courage and excellent recitation. Then I slid a Liberian $50
bill across the desk where I was sitting. For the first time I saw her smile.</div>
<div class="MsoNormal">
When Menjay was done, the
assembly was dismissed. The other fourth-graders mobbed Rhianna as if she had scored the winning goal of a football match, and shared with
her the day she took the stage.</div>
</div>
<!-- Blogger automated replacement: "https://images-blogger-opensocial.googleusercontent.com/gadgets/proxy?url=http%3A%2F%2F2.bp.blogspot.com%2F-Pwi0QFLpsXw%2FUuAu28iSFsI%2FAAAAAAAACkA%2FyFnI8EsfKDw%2Fs1600%2F01222014%2BRS%2Bend.jpg&container=blogger&gadget=a&rewriteMime=image%2F*" with "https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-Pwi0QFLpsXw/UuAu28iSFsI/AAAAAAAACkA/yFnI8EsfKDw/s1600/01222014+RS+end.jpg" -->Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-27592909565403782992014-01-14T14:30:00.000-08:002014-01-15T03:22:34.515-08:00The Economy at Work<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Again I
saw all the oppressions that are practiced under the sun. </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">L</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">ook, the tears of
the oppressed—with no one to comfort them! </span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">On the side of their oppressors
there was power</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">with no one to comfort them. </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">~ </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Qoheleth
4.1</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> ~</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f-uLdj6owSI/UtW1w7Fo5JI/AAAAAAAACiQ/4psGq-RjSSg/s1600/01112014+potato+greens+palm+nuts+smoked+fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-f-uLdj6owSI/UtW1w7Fo5JI/AAAAAAAACiQ/4psGq-RjSSg/s1600/01112014+potato+greens+palm+nuts+smoked+fish.jpg" height="210" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Last
Saturday I had the luxury of passing through Duala as a passenger instead of
the driver. Usually I am at the wheel with 12-15 passengers on the way to an
appointment in Monrovia, or by myself making a grocery run.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">As a
driver I see a lot in Duala. As a passenger I saw even more.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Duala
is about half-way between Ricks Institute and Monrovia. That puts it near the
heart of Bushrod Island, which has a high population of struggling Liberians
and small population of economically stable—even comfortable—international business
people.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rEVr-Kw86h4/UtW2RzPnUBI/AAAAAAAACiY/myB1T_U6AVg/s1600/01112014+babies+smoked+chicken+feet+and+fish.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-rEVr-Kw86h4/UtW2RzPnUBI/AAAAAAAACiY/myB1T_U6AVg/s1600/01112014+babies+smoked+chicken+feet+and+fish.jpg" height="226" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Unemployment
in Liberia is about 85%. What jobs are available usually are passed out in
accord with a patronage system that has endured since the 1940s. If you get a
job and get some influence you make sure that your family and friends are next
in line for a job, no matter how small.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">That
leaves a growing population of poor and uneducated people crowded together in
squalid housing, if you can call an abandoned shipping container, or four walls
of woven palm-frond with a plastic tarp roof, housing.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ugvpEapevqU/UtW49bwexTI/AAAAAAAACig/EEBs4ToVzrY/s1600/01112014+clothing.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ugvpEapevqU/UtW49bwexTI/AAAAAAAACig/EEBs4ToVzrY/s1600/01112014+clothing.jpg" height="272" width="320" /></a></div>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Duala
bustles every day the under the sun. It is a picture of the economy at work.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here is
how it works: International business people, most from the Middle East, own the
traditional business like supermarkets and hardware/building materials stores
that dot both sides of the road that cuts through Bushrod Island. Duala is the
place the indigent and eager gather day-after-day. The lucky ones find
something like a job as a porter or as a vendor.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There
are wheelbarrows everywhere—thus, the porters. The contents of those barrows
range from fresh produce to grains to bread, to various meets, to palm oil, to
clothing. The porters carry disposable goods to the vendors who sit under the sun, or, perhaps, under a large umbrella advertising beer or a cell phone company.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bfuif_sHkjM/UtW4-klcOiI/AAAAAAAACio/BI-dZq6lEK4/s1600/01112014+plantains+finger+bananas+to+market.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-bfuif_sHkjM/UtW4-klcOiI/AAAAAAAACio/BI-dZq6lEK4/s1600/01112014+plantains+finger+bananas+to+market.jpg" height="240" width="320" /></a><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Where
do these disposable good come from? One hundred feet, or so, back from the road
there are modest warehouses, some nothing more than abandoned shipping
containers (there are a lot of them in Liberia), stacked full of 50 kg bags of
rice (from China), or tires, or plastics, or recycled clothing, or knock-off
sports shoes, and the like.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">The
international merchants buy in bulk and break down, for example, a 50 kg bag of
rice into zipper bags of a few ounces, or a wheelbarrow full of rice will be
delivered to a vendor who, in turn, measures out rice in a rusty can, according
to her customer’s desire. And, yes, “her” is right.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Duala
is the place one can buy one tablespoon of mayonnaise.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XRgqfwAO_YE/UtW6OLu_SVI/AAAAAAAACiw/-GUnqTnjow0/s1600/IMG_0044.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XRgqfwAO_YE/UtW6OLu_SVI/AAAAAAAACiw/-GUnqTnjow0/s1600/IMG_0044.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Here is
the economy at work: The international merchants own the merchandise and the
wheelbarrows. Porters and vendors are consignment workers. They pay up front
for what they carry and/or hope to sell. With each transaction the price goes
up, of course. Everyone needs to turn a profit, no matter how small (except
for the international merchants who always
get their money up front). And, yes, the international merchants collect
rent on the wheelbarrow.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">There
have been efforts to supply porters with a personal wheelbarrow, but the
efforts have failed. Unless a porter pays the rental fee, no merchandise is available to
move around Duala to the vendors.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">So, what
I see in Duala are the tears of the oppressed. The tears are not always literal,
but the pained expressions, the blank expressions, and the occasional angry
outburst between porters and vendors, all are tears, literal or symbolic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And
what of the merchants—the international merchants? They endure the scorn of
Liberians who lack economic power. “Lebanese” is a four-letter word in the
mouth of many Liberians. They have (economic) power, but there is no one to
comfort them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Liberia
is the only country in the world that refuses citizenship to all except those
who can document a shred of African ancestry. I understand that, given Liberia’s
beginnings as a colony—and then a republic—for freed slaves.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">My
point is not about Liberia citizenship. (Perhaps I’ll address that later.) My
point is that the power of the oppressors excludes them from comfort in the
same way that the oppressed are not comforted.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Both
the oppressed and the oppressor yearn for liberation. That, for ill, is how the economy works.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-59872713407073728142014-01-07T03:18:00.000-08:002014-01-07T03:18:05.115-08:00Settling In<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="Section0">
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt; text-align: center;">
<span style="color: blue; font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 11.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';">Written on 5 January 2014</span><span style="color: blue; font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 11.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 11.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';">I’ve been in Liberia, this time, less than twenty-four hours. That is less time than it took me to get here. Lucy and I left Macon around 2p on 3 January. My plane touched down in Monrovia at 7:30p, local time (with a four hour time difference that was 24.5 hours from Macon to Monrovia). It was nearly 11p, however, before I was in my place at Ricks Institute.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EIJVfVHtt1E/UsvfK4jEsdI/AAAAAAAAChU/IT4mFBZOOWw/s1600/IMG_0007.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-EIJVfVHtt1E/UsvfK4jEsdI/AAAAAAAAChU/IT4mFBZOOWw/s1600/IMG_0007.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">leaving Charles de Gaulle</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qHIWvLKTzZE/UsvfMI9GidI/AAAAAAAAChc/Z544ZluB-n8/s1600/IMG_0015.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qHIWvLKTzZE/UsvfMI9GidI/AAAAAAAAChc/Z544ZluB-n8/s1600/IMG_0015.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">West African sunset @ 35K feet</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
Between Macon and Monrovia I saw the ATL skyline from above; the lights of Dublin, Ireland, predawn; the grey, blustery morning in Dublin as I walked to the commuter plane that would take me to Paris; Charles de-Gaulle airport in mid-morning fog; a well-defined Iberian peninsula; the reddish sands of the Sahara; and, finally, the coast of West<br />
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><span style="font-size: 12pt;">Africa at sunset.</span></span><br />
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> Each time I arrive in Monrovia (this was the tenth time) I see evidence of changes for the better. The arrival process, including baggage claim, was so much better this time than the last. I’ll not begin to compare it to my first adventure in 2007.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> The havoc I had come to expect was gone. There was order and efficiency with the baggage handling. There were fewer folks in line filing “lost bags” paperwork. AND, the air-conditioning was working well.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G7MGMpjzWEw/UsvfPh4K-DI/AAAAAAAAChk/4FsZjFjsBe4/s1600/IMG_0017.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-G7MGMpjzWEw/UsvfPh4K-DI/AAAAAAAAChk/4FsZjFjsBe4/s1600/IMG_0017.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">six of my new colleagues from LBTS</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> I was pleased to Olu Menjay waiting for me. I was surprised to learn that Rev. Toby Gbeh and six of the seminary staff were also there to greet the plane.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> Olu and I navigated the less-than-usual press of porters in the parking lot. (At times there have been a dozen or more men and teenagers, or younger, eager to claim the right of carrying a bag in return for a US dollar.)</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> I learned that my house on the Liberia Baptist Theological Seminary (LBTS) campus was not ready, and that I would be at Ricks for a week. That is fine. It will give me a chance to see folks AND get some work done in the quiet of the guest house.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> The trip was tiring. I did not sleep at all on the first leg to Dublin. My mind was too busy and I had to get it focused. The first step was to find some background music, so I could test the noise-cancelling headphones Lucy gave me for Christmas. I had Beethoven piano and Vivaldi cello. The headphones worked wonderfully well.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> Reading has a way to quell my often too-active mind. I picked up a dense and technical essay by Harnack (turn of the twentieth century German historian of the church) on the origins of the Apostles’ Creed. In addition to learning more about the Creed, Harnack forced me to call up my Greek and Latin—in the style of his era, he assumed readers could navigate basic passage and, therefore, no translations offered. I had to make a short list of vocabulary that failed me, but in the end I managed to work through the 100 pages with the desired result of quieting my mind.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><br /></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> <table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W1ReGYeOJsc/UsvhNy4_rSI/AAAAAAAAChw/-NBtO_Cr6Kc/s1600/Rowan+Williams.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-W1ReGYeOJsc/UsvhNy4_rSI/AAAAAAAAChw/-NBtO_Cr6Kc/s1600/Rowan+Williams.jpg" height="126" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Rowan Williams</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt;">Alas, then I was keyed up in another way! So, I picked up Rowan Williams’ (former Archbishop of Canterbury) 2001 revised edition of his 1987, </span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt; font-style: italic;">Arius: Heresy and Tradition</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt;">. I previously had read the 1987 work, but had saved the revision—which Williams merely added as appendices—for later.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia; font-size: 12pt;"> By then I was in Dublin.</span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> Fearing that I would fall asleep and miss my connection to Paris, I found a hard chair at the gate and picked up a third book: Raimon Panikkar’s </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; font-style: italic; mso-spacerun: 'yes';">Christophany</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';">. I’ve been reading Panikkar for 35 years, but this book was/is a challenge.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> As a brief aside, these disparate readings are related to some projects I have before me. One is an attempt to sort out what “heresy” is, and the other is an independent reading course I agreed to do in 2014 with my student, Bandon Brock.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> While I was waiting to board the plane to Monrovia I found myself sitting next to an older man who looked, to me, to be Liberian. We struck up a conversation, in the end, what may become a friendship. Turns out that, in the end, I was sitting with Dr. Eugene Sawyer, a Liberian physician who for the last 30 years (that would have been early in the Doe administration in Liberia) has lived and worked in Michigan. Our time was rich and promising. We will meet, again, in the days ahead before he returns to the US.<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OhmIIb_V6Rs/Usvh0K0q6AI/AAAAAAAACh4/LyF4CqW4fno/s1600/Amos+Sawyer.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-OhmIIb_V6Rs/Usvh0K0q6AI/AAAAAAAACh4/LyF4CqW4fno/s1600/Amos+Sawyer.jpg" height="132" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Amos Sawyer</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> Dr. Sawyer is the brother of Amos Sawyer. Wow. In Liberia’s darkest days in the 1980s and beyond, Amos Sawyer was one of the few who stuck it out and held high the dim light of liberty, hope, and justice.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> My mind was, again, racing when I boarded the plane in Paris. I found Bach on the system, picked up, again, </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; font-style: italic; mso-spacerun: 'yes';">Christophany</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';">, read until lunch was served, had two glasses of wine, and slept for five hours.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><br /></span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> Now, I am in Liberia. I am content. My mind is not racing. I am well rested after 10+ hours of sleep since I arrived.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> Today I have seen </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';">two of </span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';">my Liberian sons, Faliku and Edmond. In them I see the success of Mercer’s partnership with Ricks and beyond. In them I see the beginnings of hope realized.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> The days, weeks, and months ahead will be full, I am sure.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> Now, I am in Liberia. I did not plan to be here this year, but I am. I am eager to meet the calling that brought me here. I miss home, already, too.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="p0" style="margin-bottom: 0pt; margin-top: 0pt;">
<span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"> To have two rich lives in two places at the same time is a gift. I know that. I am grateful for it.</span><span style="font-family: 'Georgia'; font-size: 12.0000pt; mso-spacerun: 'yes';"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-64440742244258314942014-01-02T20:40:00.001-08:002014-01-03T07:16:50.176-08:00A New Horizon<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
I'm returning to Liberia.<br />
The return was not in <i>my</i> plan. It bubbled up. It surprised me. Indeed, it confounded me.<br />
When I went to Liberia--returned to Liberia--in January 2013, it was as a researcher. I went looking for Edward Wilmot Blyden, an under-appreciated giant of nineteenth century intellectual history who changed Liberia through his passion for education and promoted Liberia as a diplomat with stunning successes.<br />
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6xWZTo8wsNc/UsOafIoNZVI/AAAAAAAABrw/NSLPmskxZPs/s1600/Blyden+oval+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-6xWZTo8wsNc/UsOafIoNZVI/AAAAAAAABrw/NSLPmskxZPs/s320/Blyden+oval+1.jpg" width="256" /></a> For the last year I have lived with the legacy of Blyden: Linguist. Scholar. Journalist. Educator. Statesman. Pioneer. Explorer. Bridge builder between Christian, Muslim, and traditional West-African religions.<br />
Along the way I began to see Blyden as a potential key for a future, not only in West Africa, but more broadly in Christian-Muslim engagements.<br />
A subtext emerged. I was "theologian in residence" at Ricks Institute from January 2013 until early March. I gladly embraced that role. In addition to doing research on Blyden--including an enlightening trip to Freetown, Sierra Leone--I tried to learn more about Liberian Baptists.<br />
<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XzmYVzyx9N8/UsOaRs2NnPI/AAAAAAAABrk/eVNWpV-UH6w/s1600/LBTS+1+lagoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-ohDjXUJEfhY/UsOaRaR3PnI/AAAAAAAABrg/KljEd2m4UDI/s1600/Brown+Chapel.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"></a><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-XzmYVzyx9N8/UsOaRs2NnPI/AAAAAAAABrk/eVNWpV-UH6w/s1600/LBTS+1+lagoon.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a> I went to Greenville in Sinoe County, which is 150 miles from Monrovia. I went to Edina in Grand Bassa County, where the Liberia Baptist Missionary and Education Convention (LBMEC) was formed. I visited the grave of Joseph James Cheeseman, founder of the LBMEC (1880) and President of Liberia (1892-1896).<br />
In late May I was back in Liberia, this time with a group of<a href="http://www.mercer.edu/"> Mercer University</a> students from the Tift College of Education. Since 2008 <a href="http://mom.mercer.edu/">Mercer on Mission</a> has had groups of students at <a href="http://www.ricksonline.org/">Ricks Institute</a>, a K-12 boarding school near Monrovia.<br />
Mercer has a growing partnership with Ricks and, by implication, with Liberia.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PlHV2EId2GA/UsTj2m28_aI/AAAAAAAABsA/yjV_A7VHzIA/s1600/Brown+Chapel+cropped.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="168" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-PlHV2EId2GA/UsTj2m28_aI/AAAAAAAABsA/yjV_A7VHzIA/s320/Brown+Chapel+cropped.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Bradley Brown Chapel at the Liberia Baptist Seminary</span></td></tr>
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In early June I was in the company of Rev. Dr. Olu Q. Menjay, Principal at Ricks and President of the LBMEC and Rev. Dr. Craig McMahan, Director of the Mercer on Mission project at Mercer. We took a break from the adventure of our Mercer on Mission students and made our way to the Liberia Baptist Theological Seminary in Paynesville City (I had been there several times before). I was the preacher of the hour for the seminary's chapel program. The service was at the Bradley Brown Chapel (named for the first President of the seminary in 1976).<br />
In mid-June I returned to Macon, GA and began the process of re-entering my life as a teaching theologian.<br />
One of the projects Menjay and I worked on while I was in Liberia was ways to expand Mercer's partnership beyond Ricks Institute. We talked about many options. In the end we wrote a paper, "What Liberia Needs," and submitted it to Mercer admin.<br />
By July conversations were afoot and we were beginning to open conversations on many of our campuses.<br />
In late August I visited with President Underwood to give an update. He surprised me with a different agenda: "I think you need to go to Liberia as the President of the seminary." I was floored. I protested on various grounds: marital status (with profound desire to have it stay the same!), age, university policies, etc. Each time he had a response that kept things going. "At least think about it," he said. "Talk to Lucy." The conversations were frequent and focused.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Yw5uUPBN0dY/UsY7CDnC3bI/AAAAAAAACg8/47LjlWtgEg8/s1600/Menjay+and+Underwood.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="212" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Yw5uUPBN0dY/UsY7CDnC3bI/AAAAAAAACg8/47LjlWtgEg8/s320/Menjay+and+Underwood.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Olu Q. Mejay and William "Bill" Underwood</span></td></tr>
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I accused Menjay of asking for me to come to Liberia. He was adamant in his denial. "I did not ask for you, professor. I only asked the President to help us find someone to bring some stability to our seminary." I believe him. He and President Underwood have, after all, become friends these last many years.<br />
President Underwood has deep commitments to the developing world. Mercer on Mission is evidence enough to support the claim, but the commitments run deeper than programs.<br />
Since 2009 Mercer, under President Under-wood's leadership and support, has made it possible for a dozen Liberians to come to Mercer on scholarships--with the proviso that they return to Liberia upon the completion of their undergraduate degrees. Slowly we (the Mercer/Liberia partnership) are laying a foundation for a brighter future for Liberia.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UK-oyJXku_c/UsY7CjLVrJI/AAAAAAAAChA/SKFtdDkOi7A/s1600/Wilson+and+Menjay.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="211" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-UK-oyJXku_c/UsY7CjLVrJI/AAAAAAAAChA/SKFtdDkOi7A/s320/Wilson+and+Menjay.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;">Richard F. Wilson and Olu Q. Menjay</span></td></tr>
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Tomorrow I leave for an adventure larger than any I ever imagined. Nearly 20 years ago Menjay was a war refugee sitting in my class (Introduction to Christian Theology). Now he is historian of missions and the church (Ph.D, University of Wales), a force for good in the education of children in post-war Liberia (as the Principal at Ricks Institute), and the sitting President of the Liberia Baptist Missionary and Education Convention.<br />
And, I must add: he will be one of my supervisors as I take up the task as President of the Liberia Baptist Theological Seminary next week.</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-49426506277047904712013-03-06T14:10:00.001-08:002013-03-06T14:13:59.991-08:00Can Jews, Christians, and Muslims Co-exist?<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: orange; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">This post previously appeared in the February 2013 issue of <i>Baptist Studies Bulletin</i>.</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-size: 12px; line-height: 18.65625px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="color: orange; font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">http://www.baptisthistory.org/bhhs/bsb/bsb2013_02.html</span></span></div>
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<strong style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;"><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Yes.</span></strong></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">I offer Exhibit A: the life and legacy of Edward Wilmot Blyden. Imagine a man who, as a child, lived next to a synagogue in the West Indies and attended a Dutch Reformed church. Imagine, further, the same man as a young adult who arrived in Liberia under the auspices of the New York Colonization Society and, with funding from white American Presbyterians, was educated in a mission school in Monrovia, where his fascination with Jewish history helped create a passion to learn Hebrew as a way of getting to the bottom of false claims that divine providence had assigned the descendants of Ham to a life of servitude. Now imagine the same man in the twilight of a phenomenal vocation as teacher, missionary, statesman, explorer, and activist sitting quietly in the administrative of a mosque in Sierra Leone overseeing a national program for the education of Muslim children.</span></div>
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<img alt="" class="alignright" height="156" src="http://www.baptisthistory.org/images/blyden.jpg" style="border: none; display: inline; float: right; margin: 0px 0px 2px 7px; padding: 4px; text-align: left;" width="125" /></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 18.660715103149414px;">Edward Wilmot Blyden (1832–1912) is the real man you imagined. His life and legacy don’t get the attention they deserve, especially in the contemporary context created by the perceived and real conflicts among the Abrahamic religions: Judaism, Christianity, and Islam. That is a shame. I add that, for those who give attention to Blyden, there is more than Abrahamic religious harmony that animated this intellectual giant of the nineteenth century. Start turning the pages of Blyden’s life and one will find the source of a broad, long shadow still visible in many places early in the twenty-first century.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">In 1898 Blyden published an essay, “The Jewish Question,” in a British periodical. He began with reminiscence: “I was born in the midst of Jews in . . . St. Thomas.” He comments upon his excitements about “the annual festivals and feasts,” especially the “Day of Atonement,” recounting how he and his Christian friends assembled on “a terrace immediately above” the synagogue to “look down upon the mysterious assembly.” He concludes the introduction by noting that the “awe and reverence” of those experiences “have followed me all the days of this life.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">The essay goes on to engage the seminal work of Theodor Hertzl, the intellectual father of Zionism. Blyden suggests that “the Jew has a far higher and nobler work to accomplish . . . than establishing a political power in one corner of the earth.” He concludes: “The message of the great Zionist movement to the Jews, . . . is to rise from their neutrality and cooperating with . . . their children—Christianity and Islam—work for the saving of mankind . . . from a deadening materialism.”</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Blyden’s context, West Africa, prevented him from much practical engagement of “the Jewish question,” but that was not the case with Christianity and Islam. In 1887 Blyden’s sweeping life’s work, <i style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">Christianity, Islam, and the Negro Race</i> (<i style="margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">CINR</i>) was published; it was so well received that the next year it came out in a second edition. The book remains in print.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18.660715103149414px;">The connecting thesis of</span><span style="line-height: 18.660715103149414px;"> </span><i style="line-height: 18.660715103149414px; margin: 0px; padding: 0px;">CINR</i><span style="line-height: 18.660715103149414px;"> </span><span style="line-height: 18.660715103149414px;">is driven by missions. Blyden acknowledges the common origins of Christianity and Islam in the bosom of Abraham (i.e., Judaism) while at the same time noting the differences among the religions. In the end Blyden appeals for and practically engages cooperation. His profound sense of providence led Blyden to conclude that missions should be about basic education—teaching children to read and write and think and grow in place where they are planted. Pointing to the successes of Muslim missions surrounding the mosque school where children became literate in more than the Qur’an, </span><span style="line-height: 18.660715103149414px;">Blyden called for Christian missions to invest in education, too.</span></span></div>
<a href="http://www.baptisthistory.org/images/blyden%20grave.jpg" style="color: #990000; font-family: arial, verdana; margin: 0px; padding: 0px; text-decoration: none;"><img alt="" class="alignleft" height="162" src="http://www.baptisthistory.org/images/blyden%20grave.jpg" style="border: none; display: inline; float: left; margin: 0px 10px 2px 0px; padding: 4px;" width="216" /></a><span style="line-height: 18.660715103149414px; text-align: left;"><span style="font-family: arial, verdana;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">He was convinced that Christians and Muslims (and, by association, Jews) could and should teach the children and make room for the spirit of God to transform Africa, not by importing foreign cultures under the guise of religion.</span></span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 18.660715103149414px;">On 8 February 2013 I was in Freetown, Sierra Leone. It was one hundred and one years—plus one day—since Blyden died there (click the photo to the left to read the inscription on Blylden’s grave marker). My Liberian colleague and friend, Olu Q. Menjay, and I visited Blyden’s grave in the company of his great-granddaughter, Isa Blyden. For eight hours she escorted us through Freetown, </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif; line-height: 18.660715103149414px;">showing us where Edward Wilmot Blyden lived out his passions for education, missions, and harmony. The highlight of the day was, for me, a visit to the mosque in the Foulah district of Freetown where Blyden established the first school for Muslim children in West Africa. We met the imam and were warmly greeted by Muslim men and women arriving for Friday prayers.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Coexistence is possible. I saw it and experienced it in Freetown.</span></div>
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Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-60181258313410655352013-03-01T09:12:00.003-08:002013-03-01T09:38:01.432-08:00Riding Off into the Sunrise<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Today was my last chance—on this trip—to participate
in the morning rituals at Ricks Institute. I arose earlier than usual and made
my way to campus as the sun was rising. A hard rain last evening and the hint
of more today made for a brilliant sunrise. The clouds and low mist scattered
the early beams like so much spun gold behind and above the palms.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LAVy7vYvPDY/UTDalqrcaZI/AAAAAAAABhg/EhoLDMvzyAk/s1600/IMG_3142.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-LAVy7vYvPDY/UTDalqrcaZI/AAAAAAAABhg/EhoLDMvzyAk/s200/IMG_3142.JPG" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>1 March 2013</b><br />class line-ups at Ricks</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> For the first time in all of my trips to
Ricks I stood among the students for the raising of the flag and the singing of
the School Ode and national anthem. It was a different and good perspective.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> “One-eighty-one!” the song leader cried as
the students found their places in front of their seats, “One-eighty-one!”
There is a short canon </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">of songs the students select each morning. I so enjoy
listening and watching the Ricks community sing. The Liberia accents bring new
meaning to the words as often as not.</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3voXTrkcS9k/UTDcNjsHG_I/AAAAAAAABh0/oBaXkOsrkWw/s1600/IMG_3150.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3voXTrkcS9k/UTDcNjsHG_I/AAAAAAAABh0/oBaXkOsrkWw/s200/IMG_3150.JPG" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>"One-eighty-one!"</b></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> As the hymn began, “<a href="http://www.hymnary.org/text/theres_not_a_friend_like_the_lowly_jesus">There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus</a>,” Blyden found me—and caught me by surprise. He backed me
into a corner of history and showed how circumstances long past endure for
generations. By the time the hymn reached the refrain for the first time</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Jesus knows all about our
struggles,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">H</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">e will guide till the day is done;</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus,</span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">No, not one! No, not one!</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I was awash in bittersweet
anguish and delight. I’ve been looking for Blyden in Liberia and Sierra Leone
for seven weeks. As my time draws to a close Blyden found me and backed me into
a corner from which I could see past, present, and (perhaps) future in Liberia.
I remembered Blyden’s clear analysis of one of the differences between African
Muslims and African Christians. Islam, Blyden notes, was not hampered by a
history of complicity in the slave trade; Christianity, however, would forever
carry that burden.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Christianity, on the other hand, came to
the Negro as a slave, or at least as a subject race in a foreign land. . . .
The religion of Jesus was embraced by them as the only source of consolation in
their deep disasters. In their abject miseries, keen anguish, and hopeless
suffering they seized upon it as promising a country where, after the
unexampled sorrows of this life, “the wicked cease from troubling, and the
weary are at rest.”</span></blockquote>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DkkeCCsh5wA/UTDfr-22vtI/AAAAAAAABiI/p-KHrmBTuU4/s1600/Blyden+oval+1.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DkkeCCsh5wA/UTDfr-22vtI/AAAAAAAABiI/p-KHrmBTuU4/s200/Blyden+oval+1.jpg" width="161" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Edward Wilmot Blyden</b><br />1832-1912</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">Upon checking my memory I had the sense that
Blyden was pushing me around, maybe roughly. Yes, I thought back to his
gravesite and, according to his great-granddaughter’s interpretation of the
kola nuts—that Blyden wasn’t listening to me. Perhaps he was listening after all. In the quotation above Blyden had cited
Job 3.17, but I wondered, too, if there was a hymn in his mind as he wrote. The
larger context from which the quotation comes approaches the lyrical, with
references to how the [American] slaves put “new songs in their mouths—those melodies
inimitable to the rest of the world—which . . . have recently charmed the ears
and captivated the hearts of royalty and nobles in Europe by a tenderness, a
sweetness, an earnestness, and a solemnity, born of adversity, in the house of
bondage.”</span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DE9Rp9SpFuU/UTDfqzHuCMI/AAAAAAAABiA/xFBMpZRUxxg/s1600/Henry+Hart+Milman.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-DE9Rp9SpFuU/UTDfqzHuCMI/AAAAAAAABiA/xFBMpZRUxxg/s200/Henry+Hart+Milman.jpg" width="161" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Henry Hart Milman</b><br />1797-1868</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> So, I searched and found a hymn
by <a href="http://www.cyberhymnal.org/bio/m/i/milman_hh.htm">Henry Hart Milman</a>, a contemporary of Blyden’s and Dean of St. Paul’s in
London. It was a rough push. Often Blyden mentions the splendors of St. Paul’s
and uses the dome as a measuring stick for other places he visited (such as the
Great Pyramid of Giza). I wonder if, perhaps, they had met. As I continue
looking for Blyden I will look in the corner for Milman. Milman’s “Burial Hymn”
concludes:</span></div>
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<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">And when the Lord shall summon
us</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Whom thou now hast
left behind,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">May we, untainted by the world,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> As sure a welcome
find;</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">May each, like thee, depart in
peace,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> To be a glorious,
happy guest,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Where the wicked cease from
troubling,</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> And the weary are
at rest.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></blockquote>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">For good measure, Blyden pushed me again. On
Fridays Visiting Principal Kris Keske hands out recognitions of folks in the community
who embody the values of Ricks. This morning she described the person: “She came
to Ricks during the war as a displaced person and has stayed. She always goes
beyond what is expected of her. She is an inspiration to us.”</span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VizZAtTqQMM/UTDbb2P7TtI/AAAAAAAABho/nNSDe_R3G6Q/s1600/IMG_3156.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-VizZAtTqQMM/UTDbb2P7TtI/AAAAAAAABho/nNSDe_R3G6Q/s200/IMG_3156.JPG" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Principal Keske and Mrs. Dixon</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Mrs. Dixon came forward. I’ve known her
since I first came. She is a cleaning woman who works tirelessly and diligently
to keep the floors clean. She sweeps and mops and mops and sweeps—everyday, all
day. The smile on her face never fades. She pauses for conversation. She never
asks for anything but prayers for herself and her son. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">Jesus knows all about our
struggles,<br />
He will guide till the day is done;<br />
There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus,<br />
No, not one! No, not one!<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<br /></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Bittersweet anguish and delight. My Liberian
friends have struggles I know nothing about; even my prosperous Liberian
friends do. Liberia still is a place where water has to be fetched, clothes are
washed in a bucket, and food is cooked over charcoal fires. The delight came
from having Blyden find me—even if he did push me around a bit.</span></div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-76257724419551662642013-02-23T03:18:00.000-08:002013-02-23T03:18:22.694-08:00A Distraction<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5OwqxV6ffwQ/USidAN-wjAI/AAAAAAAABS8/8H4ecPEAIYs/s1600/05222008+Providence+pulpit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--vQMJ4S73QA/USihXeJMYdI/AAAAAAAABTs/vTMXFcpfBcM/s1600/022020132+mural+in+CP+Monrovia.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/--vQMJ4S73QA/USihXeJMYdI/AAAAAAAABTs/vTMXFcpfBcM/s320/022020132+mural+in+CP+Monrovia.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Independence Mural</b><br />in Centennial Pavilion in Monrovia, Liberia </span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">I tell my students that research is often perilous because of the distractions. Further, I tell them, a scholar needs the discipline to establish</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><b style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"><i>and</i></b><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">maintain a sharp focus once a thesis has been formed or once a subject has been identified. I’ll not take back those exhortations, but I will confess that this week I have not been able to follow my own advice.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> Looking for Blyden laid the trap for me that in which I happily am ensnared. I read with keen interest Blyden’s account of his association with Sinoe County and, too, what today is called Grand Bassa (in Blyden’s day it merely was Bassa County). In an essay entitled “A Chapter in the History of Liberia” and a section entitled “Prelude to Independence,” I read:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">In Bassa County, owing to certain misrepresentations and misconceptions, there was curiously at first a strong feeling on the part of a few against assuming an independent attitude; but there were clear-headed and able men in the country at the time, who overcame the plots of the factious and discontented.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">In a short paragraph Blyden shines a light on the tensions in Liberia a few years before the push for independence. The last white Governor—Thomas Buchanan—of </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">the Colony of Liberia died in 1841 following a “violent attack of fever” (it must have been either yellow fever or malaria). His replacement was John Joseph Roberts, a mulatto born in the US and destined to become Liberia’s first President.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">Blyden continues:</span> </div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"></span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">There were resident here then [such as] Rev. John Day, with his cultivated and critical intellect . . . . There were giants in those days.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> When the time arrived for the convention to form a Constitution for the new State, Bassa sent four of her strongest men to represent her in that important assembly—John Day, A. W. Gardner, Amos Herring, Ephraim Titler.</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span></blockquote>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tYYpia2VlVI/USidRAr2JjI/AAAAAAAABTE/6CjdoRO9MP0/s1600/Judge+John+Day.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-tYYpia2VlVI/USidRAr2JjI/AAAAAAAABTE/6CjdoRO9MP0/s320/Judge+John+Day.jpg" width="269" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Judge John Day</b><br />1797-1859</span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">It was John Day that caught my attention. I had remembered that my good friend, Gerald Thomas, had told me about a free black man, Thomas Day, in North Carolina/Virginia who was a master furniture maker in the late 1700s. I read that John Day came to Liberia and made a living as a cabinet maker. My first impulse was to think that John and Thomas Day were the same person. Turns out the John Day was the younger brother of Thomas Day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> John Day was on the second ship that sailed from America with freed slaves and free black men. His passion for Liberia was evangelistic, despite the fact that he was not formally trained as a theologian. Day was a self-starter, we would say in our century. He read widely and became a competent theologian, physician, and lawyer (all by 19<sup>th</sup> century Liberian standards, mind you).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ukbsWJtoVgU/USifZTa8AiI/AAAAAAAABTY/Yk4V1mFklVo/s1600/02202013+detail+of+mural+in+CP+signers+of+the+declaration.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="84" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ukbsWJtoVgU/USifZTa8AiI/AAAAAAAABTY/Yk4V1mFklVo/s200/02202013+detail+of+mural+in+CP+signers+of+the+declaration.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>detail of the Independence Mural</b><br />(see "John Day" in fourth line)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> In Liberia Day had the stature of Jefferson, Franklin, or Adams. Not only did he sign the Declaration of Independence in 1847, soon his presence in Monrovia was required for the shaping of the new Republic. He accepted the </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">call as Pastor of the Providence Baptist Church—the first church in Liberia in 1822. And, too, he rose in reputation and influence to become the second Chief Justice of the Supreme </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">Court of Liberia. He was, you recall, self taught.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> When Day died in 1859, Edward Wilmot Blyden delivered the eulogy at Providence Baptist Church. What a piece of writing, and, I imagine, oratory. For twenty-two pages I was riveted, imagining the scene (and glad that I had not know in 2007 what I know now; in 2007 I preached from that same pulpit).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5OwqxV6ffwQ/USidAN-wjAI/AAAAAAAABS8/8H4ecPEAIYs/s1600/05222008+Providence+pulpit.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="272" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-5OwqxV6ffwQ/USidAN-wjAI/AAAAAAAABS8/8H4ecPEAIYs/s320/05222008+Providence+pulpit.jpg" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>original pulpit, c. 1820s</b><br />Providence Baptist Church<br />Monrovia, Liberia</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> Near the end of his eulogy, Blyden recounted Day’s demise:</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span></div>
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> On Sunday, the sixth of February [1859], he came, as was his custom when able to walk, to this house [Providence Baptist Church], where a large and eager congregation was anxiously waiting to hear the words of wisdom and counsel which were to fall from his lips. He conducted the preliminary exercises with his usual ease and dignity; but, alas! the “silver cord was loosed,” and his audience knew it not. When he arose to announce his text, he was seized with such weakness as rendered him wholly unable to proceed. Having been taken home, he went to bed, but from that bed he rose no more. On the fifteenth of February his spirit was summoned to eternal realities. The last assembly he met on earth was an assembly of God’s people, with whom he was assaying to worship.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">Perhaps I may be excused my distraction. It was, after all, dramatic. And, too, it feeds my primary focus upon Blyden. The passion of Blyden for his contemporary and friend, Judge John Day, deepens my understanding and appreciation for the heritage of Liberia and the legacy of Edward Wilmot Blyden.</span></div>
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Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-70307789987766374822013-02-17T11:22:00.002-08:002013-02-19T09:40:57.764-08:00A Tale of Two Greenvilles<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Looking for Blyden has presented some
surprises and challenges. The two usually have been related. I’ve been nursing
one instance for almost a month. What I encountered my first weekend in
Liberia—this time—rattled me out of what could have been merely an academic
adventure, although I would like to think that my pursuits as a teaching
theologian rarely are merely academic.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Hold on to “rattled.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I arrived in Monrovia, Liberia on the
afternoon of 17 January 2013. On the afternoon of 18 January I departed on an
arduous overland journey to Sinoe County, Liberia. I was in the company of some
dignitaries of the Liberian Baptist Missionary and Education Convention: the
Reverend Dr. Olu Q. Menjay, President of the Convention; the Reverend A.
William Green, Vice President of the Convention; the Reverend Victor Koon (pronounced "Cone"),
Pastor of the President of the Convention; and Mr. Gideon Washington, Director
of Youth Education for the Convention. Make a note: these dignitaries are also
my friends.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> We left Monrovia about 6p and drove on paved
roads to Buchanan in Grand Bassa County (Google will allow you to see the
geography). The four-hour trip was a time to get (re)acquainted. In Buchanan we
spent the night in a modest guest house with air conditioning and running
water, hot and cold. I was wondering about the cautions Olu had given me about
the trip.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jGSFswZ3Xt4/USEkJWsi7GI/AAAAAAAABSA/sdROoGQ4bWE/s1600/IMG_1404.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-jGSFswZ3Xt4/USEkJWsi7GI/AAAAAAAABSA/sdROoGQ4bWE/s320/IMG_1404.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Olu Q. Menjay</b><br />Intrepid Driver of the Sinoe Road</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">At dawn the next day we headed southeast toward Sinoe County. On the way would pass through River Cess County. Almost immediately the paved road became a memory of luxury lost. Soon we were in the midst of evidence of the rainy season, recently ended. At places the ruts in the road were three and four feet deep—created by transport trucks that had braved the roads in downpours to deliver food and supplies to what Liberians call “the hinterland.” Sometimes we paused, got out of the 4-wheel drive SUV, and discussed strategies to make it the next fifty feet. Usually we fell silent and held our breath and trusted the driver to make the right decisions. I had quit wondering about the cautions Olu gave me about the trip.</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JF-7KLFQ8jA/USEkAwWv0nI/AAAAAAAABR4/_kpLPlG5fds/s1600/IMG_1418.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JF-7KLFQ8jA/USEkAwWv0nI/AAAAAAAABR4/_kpLPlG5fds/s320/IMG_1418.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Travelers of the Sinoe Road</b><br />l-r: Rick Wilson, the Reverend Al Green, Olu Q. Menjay,<br />Gideon Washington, and Victor Koon</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Seven hours later—after stops, now and then
in villages along the way—we arrived in Greenville, Sinoe Country. We were only
150 miles from Monrovia. I felt beat up. The rough road tossed us about in the
car. I’ve never seen the like. I was surprised and relieved to see the paved
road in Greenville.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Then I saw the name of the main street:
Mississippi Street. “What?!” (The quotation marks invite you to imagine a characteristic
Liberian use of the word. The voice starts low and ends high, with great force.
It is an expression of surprise and, too, a trigger for laughter and
conversation.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> I immediately began asking questions. Yes, I
heard, Sinoe County was settled by freed slaves from Mississippi. Indeed, I
heard, Sinoe County once was called the “Commonwealth of Mississippi” or
“Mississippi in Africa.” And I was told
that Sinoe and the adjacent regions—now occupied by Grand Kru and Maryland
counties—were late additions to the Republic of Liberia well after independence
in 1847. (Those claims were later disproved, mostly, by a little research.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RseVXGx-tEo/USEnl78LloI/AAAAAAAABSQ/0It0ZPVjWec/s1600/01202013+Mississippi+Street+b.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-RseVXGx-tEo/USEnl78LloI/AAAAAAAABSQ/0It0ZPVjWec/s320/01202013+Mississippi+Street+b.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Mississippi Street</b><br />Greenville, Sinoe County, Liberia</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">Greenville in Sinoe County looks like the
Mississippi Delta: flat and fertile. It is different, though, because </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">this</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> delta is coastal rather than
inland. Unlike the Mississippi, the Sinoe River has a modest—even
minimal—delta. The river runs quickly to the Atlantic, probably as a result of
the distinct wet and dry seasons of West Africa.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Upon my return to Ricks I pored over my
books, borrowed books, and some websites to find out about the two Greenvilles.
Working backwards, a result of rapid access to data via Internet, I learned
that in 2009 Greenville, MS and Greenville, Sinoe County, Liberia, forged a
sister city pact. I’m going to pursue that arrangement to see what it entails.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Then I discovered that, in 1838, Mississippi
planters/slave owners decided to establish a colony in West Africa, following
the lead of the American Colonization Society. In 1817 the ACS was formed; soon
after there was an enduring controversy about the motives of the founders. Some
claimed the Society was a ploy for abolition; others claimed that the Society
was attempting to inflate the price of slaves by returning older slaves to
Africa. As it turns out, the ACS was neither a cat’s paw of the abolitionists
nor the slave traders. It was an effort to ameliorate what had become a blight
on America, North and South.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JF_SLsB23G0/USEnUXISKzI/AAAAAAAABSI/bXQOkX2lZ8I/s1600/IMG_1623.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" height="200" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-JF_SLsB23G0/USEnUXISKzI/AAAAAAAABSI/bXQOkX2lZ8I/s200/IMG_1623.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>The Baptists of Sinoe</b><br />surprised me with a shirt<br />for the convention so I could<br />fit in with the crowd (?)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The Commonwealth of Mississippi—if that term
ever was used—was philanthropic <i>and</i>
strategic for those in the Mississippi Delta. Those terms are not necessarily
mutually exclusive. On the one hand there was some compassion for the slaves
who had served the </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">purposes of King Cotton. On the other hand there was a
reading of “the writing on the wall” that slavery’s days were numbered and,
when it ended, there would be a crisis of racial imbalance in the Delta. (Later
history supports that fear of crisis as Greenville sought legal means to restrict
the number of freed blacks, both in the city and Washington County.)</span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o6kvjmMkATI/USEqx9WLwDI/AAAAAAAABSY/tmwzPCS7Ls4/s1600/01202013+c.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-o6kvjmMkATI/USEqx9WLwDI/AAAAAAAABSY/tmwzPCS7Ls4/s320/01202013+c.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">Sunday morning in Greenville</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> And, too, I learned that Sinoe County was,
in fact, included in the first configuration of the Republic of Liberia in
1847. Grand Kru and Maryland counties joined the Republic later.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-ansi-language: EN-US; mso-bidi-font-family: "Times New Roman"; mso-bidi-language: AR-SA; mso-fareast-font-family: Calibri; mso-fareast-language: EN-US;"> The rough—shall I say “bad”—road from
Montserrado County (Monrovia) to Sinoe County (Greenville) rattled me. After
the weekend I literally was bruised. But, I confess, my mind was shaken free of
assumptions and misinformation.</span></div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-83587421854096084372013-02-16T12:41:00.000-08:002013-02-16T12:41:57.629-08:00Vignettes (no images)<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Today—16 February 2013—has
been memorable.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I slept in ‘til 8:30a
and decided I wanted breakfast. Except for when Olu and I were in Freetown,
Sierra Leone last week, I have not eaten breakfast. Our accommodations in
Freetown included a breakfast buffet, so . . . . <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The sumptuous meal this
morning included fried “spam” (really a Lebanese version of processed chicken
with cayenne that looks like Spam) and eggs, with a piece of flatbread.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">My sole agenda for the
day was to return to what is left of the refugee camp to see how the Ricks
service-learning project was going. Readers of <b>Revisiting Liberia</b> will recall the post, “Redemption,” that
introduced Mrs. Hawa Sirleaf. Her husband and children died in the Liberian
civil wars and her living conditions are deplorable. Today Ricks students were
meeting to make bricks for her new house. (There will be a post—with images—forthcoming.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I made my way to the
camp. Along the path I met my good friend, Robert (see post, “Friends in Real
Places”). We walked along for quite a while. I was amused because it was
apparent that Robert did not think I knew where I was going. Now and then he
would talk to others on the path and, then, I would tell him what he had said.
For example, I had told him about Mrs. Sirleaf and he asked someone on the road
where “omah” was. I laughed and told him I knew where “omah” was. [“Omah” is a
Liberian-English term of respect for “old person.”]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally, Robert followed
me to the mud pit where the students were working.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">There were eight Ricks
students, three former students, and James Blay. James is the Service-Learning
Director at Ricks and a recent Mercer graduate. Readers will have to wait for a
glimpse of the process of making mud bricks. I was awed by how labor-intensive
it is and how hard the students worked.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">About 1p I was in the
palava hut at Olu’s house; that is where I take my lunch each day. I was
delighted that Olu was there—along with Mia and Q, his children. We had what
turned out to be a working lunch, during which we had focused conversation
about my project. Olu is something of an expert on Edward Wilmot Blyden and I
run my ideas by him. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">In the course of our
conversation we were talking about Blyden’s relationship to Ricks. I’d found a
source that claimed that Blyden was on the Ricks faculty for five months in
1888—the year after Ricks was established. Olu told me about an article I have
not seen in which Blyden described his first visit to Ricks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Then Olu said, “You know
that Blyden donated property to Ricks?” I did not. Olu: “I have the original
deed.” I shuddered. Was there a chance that I would see and touch a piece of
paper that Blyden wrote and signed? Olu disappeared into the house and returned
with a worn brown envelope. Soon I had before me—I would not hold it because it
is so fragile—the deed, drafted in Blyden’s hand, signed by the man, and with
an official embossed stamp affixed, dated May 3, 1889.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I ran my finger over the
signature . . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Olu then produced another
document. This one also had to do with Ricks property. It was signed by John J.
Cheeseman, President of Liberia. I note, too, that I mentioned Cheeseman in one
of the “Edina Road” posts. Cheeseman was born in Edina and rose in politics.
Before being elected President of Liberia in 1891 Cheeseman had founded the
Liberian Baptist Convention in 1880. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Once more, I ran my
finger over the signature . . . .<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I needed to go to Duala—my
regular Lebanese grocery is there—so I asked Olu to borrow the Nissan that we
had taken to Sinoe a month ago. Off I went. Did my shopping and headed back to Ricks.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Duala is surreal.
Congestion beyond description. Low-income street market where a shopper can
purchase a tablespoon of mayonnaise, for example. Nerve-wracking taxis and
motorcycle taxis that have no regard for courtesy on the road. [An aside: I’ve
been lots of places in the world from Buenos Aires to Beijing to Seoul to Manila
to Paris to London to Bangkok to Rangoon to Prague, and to NYC, Philadelphia,
Boston, Los Angeles, and Atlanta. I’ve <b><i>never</i></b> seen traffic like I find in
Monrovia and, especially, in Duala.]<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Frankly, driving through
Duala is compounded by being a white man. Since 2008 I have been comfortable
driving in Liberia. Over the years I have had to learn how to deal with the attempts
of local law enforcement—or pretenders—to procure money for various reasons. I’ve
paid attention when I’ve been with Olu and we’ve been harassed. I have
developed a strong edge. Indeed, some at Ricks call me “The White Liberian”
because of my learned skill of deflecting the scam artists, in or out of
uniforms.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">This afternoon I had the
most aggressive, yet, encounter. An officer of the Liberian National Police
flagged me down. I complied with his request to pull over. We then entered a
thirty minute or more pissing match. From the beginning it was clear to me that
he wanted money and I was determined to resist. I know that giving in only
creates more challenges (there is a well-developed communication among
officials; they share successes and failures in attempts to shake down people).
<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The officer took offence
that I would not let him hold my driver’s license. I pointed out to him that I
was looking out for myself because I knew that giving up documents were often a
ploy to collect a bribe. I held my DL firmly, out of reach, for the officer to
see. The drama ensued and escalated. When the officer began making threats to
impound the car and arrest me for not obeying the commands of a policeman I
thought I needed help.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I called Olu. Olu talked
to the officer. It was a stalemate.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">The whole time I was
creeping along the road. Sometimes the officer would stand in front of the car;
when he would come back to talk to me I would creep ahead.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Olu told me that he was
calling the chief of the LNP and that the chief would call me and I could give
the phone to my nemesis. Meanwhile, the officer and I continued our creeping
confrontation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Things came to a head at
a junction. I pulled onto the shoulder and committed to a shouting match. The
officer accused me of not respecting the laws of Liberia. I accused him of
failing to be a welcoming agent of the State. He accused me of not respecting
his person. I accused him of attempting to intimidate a visitor. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">It really was a scene. A
crowd formed. It was theatre.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Finally, I said to him: “We
have done our best. Why cannot we be friends? What is your name?” He smiled
broadly and said, “I am Elijah. Who are you?” I said, “I am Rick.” He did not
understand, so I showed him (again) the Ricks Institute card on the dashboard. “I
am Rick,” I said.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">I wish I had a picture.
He made the incorrect connection between “Ricks” and “Rick.” (It happens
often.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">We shook hands, Liberian
style, three or four times. It was snappy, indeed.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">And, I was on my way.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">Now I’m “home” and happy
and clean and looking forward to another day.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-32695312769844130122013-02-15T08:05:00.001-08:002013-02-15T08:35:04.566-08:00Redemption<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qEVkD5Z89oA/UR5Z2nUy-ZI/AAAAAAAABRQ/usTtPRXTdC8/s1600/IMG_2989.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-qEVkD5Z89oA/UR5Z2nUy-ZI/AAAAAAAABRQ/usTtPRXTdC8/s1600/IMG_2989.JPG" height="200" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Faliku Stephen Dukuly</b><br />master brick maker</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;">Some readers of Revisiting Liberia will know about Faliku S. Dukuly. Duke is a Liberian from a village near Ricks Institute who came to Ricks on a service scholarship years ago--soon after Olu Menjay became the Principal. I have a special place in my heart for this young man; he is one of my Liberian sons. In 2007 while I was at Ricks for the first time I was surprised by the announcement from the Principal that a new service scholarship had been named for me! Faliku was the first recipient.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Duke graduated from Ricks in 2010. He did well enough to get assistance to go to Cuttington University for a year. Then, in 2011 he competed for the Sam Oni Scholarship to attend Mercer. I was pleased to find out that Faliku was one of two students selected to come to Mercer.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> The next year was a challenge. Duke worked hard at his lessons and, too, invested himself as a servant leader in his community--including at First Baptist Church of Christ at Macon. Everybody who met him loved him. He was--and is--dependable, compassionate, and industrious.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> By the end of the first semester it was becoming clear that the academic challenges might be more than Duke could manage. The issue was not ability so much as it was the difficulty of making a cultural adjustment. Things simply did not work out. When I returned to Liberia in May 2012 with a Mercer on Mission team, Duke was on the plane with us.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Duke's friends and Liberia and in the States were concerned. Some Liberians can be harsh in the face of changed plans, revised hopes, and opportunities cut short by circumstances. Duke's friends didn't know what would happen when Duke returned sooner than expected and without a Mercer diploma.</span><br />
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O392ebsc-XU/UR5VZ5uF_VI/AAAAAAAABQ8/7y4Pghmj4tU/s1600/IMG_2984.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-O392ebsc-XU/UR5VZ5uF_VI/AAAAAAAABQ8/7y4Pghmj4tU/s1600/IMG_2984.JPG" height="224" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>getting water from the well<br />in the refugee camp<br />near Ricks Institute</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Quickly, however, Duke landed on his feet and, in the process, learned who his real Liberian friends were. They were the ones who offered support and encouragement. Within weeks Duke was back to doing the things at Ricks that defined him as a servant leader.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> These last few weeks I have seen a different Duke. He has matured in many ways and is taking steps toward a brighter future. He is in school in Monrovia at the United Methodist University and doing fine. He also is active on the Ricks campus and is a splendid role model for the students. Read on for more information about that important point.</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e2Neqm2P7wg/UR5ag5wAN7I/AAAAAAAABRY/cTdaiiNF7lo/s1600/IMG_3016.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-e2Neqm2P7wg/UR5ag5wAN7I/AAAAAAAABRY/cTdaiiNF7lo/s1600/IMG_3016.JPG" height="200" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">Mrs. Hawa Sirleaf</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> In the refugee camp near Ricks Institute, Faliku and one of his Ricks classmates, Grace Mensah, have launched an ambitious project to build a house for a widow, Mrs. Hawa Sirleaf, and her sister. Building the house includes making mud bricks. Duke, Grace, and volunteers from Ricks are making the bricks one-at-a-time <i>by hand</i>. Already there are nearly 1000 bricks, each about 15 pounds, stacked neatly. By the time the "pole and brick" house is started there will be about 6000 bricks.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, Times New Roman, serif;"> Tomorrow, 16 February 2013, Ricks Institute students will have work day to make mud bricks. I plan to be there, too. I may even get dirty with them. At very least I will try to document the day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Today Duke took me to meet Mrs. Hawa Sirleaf in the camp.She and her sister will move into the house when it's done. It was a memorable experience. I saw how she now lives. I watched as she boiled palm oil nuts in the "bush" way. She will sell some of the oil and use the rest; palm oil and rice are staples in the Liberian diet, especially in the bush.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> Mrs. Sirleaf also makes brooms. I saw the parts drying in the sun and asked Faliku about</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> the process. He took me to a palm tree and snatched off a parts of a frond and stripped them down to the center spike, all the while describing how to do it. Then he told me that </span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hP8sLW-2DDA/UR5ao1piaVI/AAAAAAAABRg/jNFWmewtzFY/s1600/IMG_3023.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-hP8sLW-2DDA/UR5ao1piaVI/AAAAAAAABRg/jNFWmewtzFY/s1600/IMG_3023.JPG" height="200" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>my new broom</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;">the spikes (my term) have to cure before they are bundled to make the broom.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I asked if Mrs. Sirleaf would sell me a broom. "Yes," Duke responded, smiling. "It will cost $10 Liberian (that's about fourteen cents, US). I told Mrs. Sirleaf I was interested in a broom. She stopped what she was doing and went into her living shelter and produced a small bench. Then, back inside, this time emerging with three brooms. She arranged on the bench and began describing the quality. I produced a LD $20 bill and selected one broom. I got a bargin and she had a good day.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"> I'm proud of my Liberian broom. I'm even more proud of my Liberian son.</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, 'Times New Roman', serif;"><br /></span>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-16706781951325999292013-02-14T01:53:00.001-08:002013-02-14T01:53:23.791-08:00A Citizen of the Republic of Letters<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<blockquote class="tr_bq">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><b>In the Republic
of Letters . . . there is no such thing as caste; . . . if any man, whatever
his race, has anything to say worth listening to, men of all races who think
will give him more than a respectful hearing.</b></span></blockquote>
<blockquote class="tr_bq" style="text-align: right;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">“Preface to the Second Edition,” <i>Christianity, Islam, and the Negro Race</i>,
i.</span></blockquote>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<br /></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Words are important, but they are not final.
They are, at best, means, not ends. With the exception of words used in
science—especially the sciences of numbers—words don’t have inherent value. Even
those words that appear to have inherent value have a context that imbues them
with value. For example, the word “four” and its Arabic synonym “4” presupposes
a base number system that gives it value. The word “four” means different
things in a ten-base or a twelve-base system. The word “four” does not exist in
a binary system. So, when we use “four,” we have implicitly agreed to
understand that word in a particular context.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qu3N_MQlvDU/URyzQ_5fzLI/AAAAAAAABPs/_LifVRcoxaw/s1600/Blyden+in+chair+with+book.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-qu3N_MQlvDU/URyzQ_5fzLI/AAAAAAAABPs/_LifVRcoxaw/s320/Blyden+in+chair+with+book.jpg" width="265" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Edward Wilmot Blyden</b><br />A Citizen of the Republic of Letters</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> As I am looking for Blyden I am concerned
about words and contexts. I keenly am aware that I am a white American living
in a twenty-first century context attempting to learn about and from an African
who lived in a nineteenth century context. Already I have heard challenges
along the lines of “What can a white man from America say about the father of
pan-Africanism?”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My professional and vocational life has been
centered in concerns for words and contexts. Near the beginning of my training
to become a teaching theologian I chose to focus on what was, at the time, a
new method of thinking and writing about Christian theology. Liberation
Theology arose in the 1960s out the often painful reality that thinking and
writing about theology had been dominated by particular contexts:
European/American, privileged male, and a particular economic system. When I
decided to take up various theologies of the oppressed I found myself on the
defensive. I learned quickly the need to concede the points that I was a white
American man, not Latin American, not black American, and not a privileged
white woman.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> At the same time I was compelled to proceed.
I simply could not capitulate to the tyranny of the particular any more than I
could promote a tyranny of the universal. I learned from James H. Cone, the
father of Black Theology, that “every universal is rooted in a particular.” I
learned that the rootedness—the context—shapes our understanding and
application of the universal.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> As I continue to look for Blyden I have not
and will not presume to co-opt him or his words. I hope to learn from him and,
too, to learn how better to live deeply in my time (see previous post).<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Times New Roman","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> As I continue to look for Blyden I hope to
become a better citizen of the Republic of Letters.</span><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"><o:p></o:p></span></div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com2tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-81333470706988016162013-02-13T02:45:00.001-08:002013-02-14T02:08:29.454-08:00Paying Respects<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vzBGkruw2Ak/URtg0CVcCEI/AAAAAAAABPQ/8mZFbtjPPnU/s1600/IMG_2899.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vzBGkruw2Ak/URtg0CVcCEI/AAAAAAAABPQ/8mZFbtjPPnU/s1600/IMG_2899.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Rick Wilson and Isa Blyden</b><br />(great granddaughter of <br />Edward Wilmot Blyden)</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> One hundred and one years—plus one day—after
Edward Wilmot Blyden died (7 February 1912), my colleague, Olu Q. Menjay, and I
paid respects at his grave. We were in the company of Isa Blyden, great-granddaughter
of the man and preserver of his legacy. She welcomed us to Freetown, Sierra
Leone and gave us the gift a full day as we traced some of Blyden’s steps.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> For a month I have been in Liberia, “looking
for Blyden.” Visiting his grave was an important part of the search. Once we
arrived, the find was more significant than I had imagined.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> In mid-morning Ms. Blyden met us at our
guest house in Freetown. We immediately set out for the cemetery. Along the way
we passed introductions and staked out some agenda that we hoped to address.
Our conversation was frequently interrupted as Ms. Blyden directed our
attention this way or that, making sure that we saw landmarks old and new that
helped us know where we were.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> At one point I commented that “Blyden was
ahead of his time” in reference to his interests and energy. Gently Ms. Blyden
corrected me. “No,” she said, “he lived deeply in <i><b>his</b></i> time.” Boom! Perspective
shift.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Of course she is correct. Since her
arresting comment I have turned her words over in different contexts. The
prophets of the Old Testament lived deeply in their times. For three decades I
have tried to impress upon my students that if prophets were only interested in
the future they would have been irrelevant. I often attempt to make the point
that prophets are historians who understand the dynamics that shape the
present. But, because they are visionaries the prophets also have clear
anticipation of how changes in the present can contribute to a future with a
better shape. “They lived deeply in their times,” I will say from now on. That
character is not only part of biblical figures, but of figures in all ages
whose vision effects change.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> After nearly an hour we arrived in the
neighborhood of the cemetery. Ms. Blyden had told us that it is called “Racecourse
Cemetery” because in colonial days the British wanted horses and a track in
Freetown. The climate, however, was not equine-friendly. As the horses died the
hope for a racetrack was abandoned. Soon the cleared land became a graveyard.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Today the cemetery is a mess. For some time
the walls have been gone, graves desecrated by vandals, and the few structures
taken over by squatters who call themselves “friends of the dead.” Recent
efforts to rebuild the walls promise some change, but the work is far from
complete. As we pulled in I thought we
had stopped at a dump site. There were mounds of trash, some burning. At first
I thought I saw piles of rubble, but as I focused I realized that I was looking
at gravestones strewn about. My heart sank. “How could have Blyden’s grave
survived over one hundred years,” I wondered.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e8ajOQPF_O4/URtex_AkEFI/AAAAAAAABOs/DnhOwxQEz9g/s1600/IMG_2833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto; text-align: center;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e8ajOQPF_O4/URtex_AkEFI/AAAAAAAABOs/DnhOwxQEz9g/s1600/IMG_2833.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Rick Wilson and Olu Menjay</b><br />at the grave of Edward Wilmot Blyden</span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> We stopped at a sturdy structure near the
gate. “Here is where Blyden rested before he was buried,” Ms. Blyden told us.
The squatters welcomed us into their claimed space. I could see and easily
imagine how it once was a like a chapel. I was saddened by the debris and signs
of less than reverence in the space, today.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Only a few yards away was Blyden’s grave,
weathered but intact. I surmised that Isa Blyden’s regular visits contributed
to the grave’s condition. She told of memorial visits and vigils and her work
to clean up the whole of Racecourse Cemetery.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-e8ajOQPF_O4/URtex_AkEFI/AAAAAAAABOs/DnhOwxQEz9g/s1600/IMG_2833.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yWfVOnJ6k0Y/URte0_aXHyI/AAAAAAAABO0/HrWAkqQgKCo/s1600/IMG_2843.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-yWfVOnJ6k0Y/URte0_aXHyI/AAAAAAAABO0/HrWAkqQgKCo/s1600/IMG_2843.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>libation at Blyden's grave</b></span></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">We had been told that we would share in a Yoruba custom of speaking to the dead. We had brought bottles of water for the ablution; on the street we purchased kola nuts, white and red. Ms. Blyden made sure we had what we needed. As we began I literally trembled—just because.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> The kola nut meat has a natural seam that allows the nut to be divided into halves; each half has a round and flat side. Olu and I each divided one red and one white nut. Ms. Blyden gave us instructions: “Talk to him as you pour the water on his grave. Ask of him what you might want. Then toss the kola nuts to see what he says.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jHuGyongVMU/URtfEA2I-YI/AAAAAAAABO8/h6SgGcMrJJc/s1600/IMG_2846.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-jHuGyongVMU/URtfEA2I-YI/AAAAAAAABO8/h6SgGcMrJJc/s1600/IMG_2846.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">libation at Blyden's grave</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> I went first. I spoke with admiration for Blyden’s work and legacy. I cited the passing of the mantle from Elijah to Elisha and Elisha’s request for a “double-portion” of what Elijah had. My request: merely half of what Blyden had. I tossed the kola and all four pieces rested on the rounded sides: Blyden did not hear me, Isa said. I poured more water—rinsing the pieces that brought no response, and tossed them again. This time two pieces—one red and one white—landed on the flat side. “He heard you,” Isa said. We picked up the two pieces that landed on the round side and passed them among us, communion-like, taking a bite of the bitter kola before handing it to the next person.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> Olu went next. His petition was eloquent, recalling the struggles of Africans in colonial times, recalling successes and challenges in the present, and voicing hope for days to come. His request was for strength and vision. All four pieces of the kola landed flat side down. “You got everything,” Isa said.</span></div>
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k2IItZNDUDU/URtfhzk9b4I/AAAAAAAABPE/zbL3IjcOYu8/s1600/IMG_2859.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-k2IItZNDUDU/URtfhzk9b4I/AAAAAAAABPE/zbL3IjcOYu8/s1600/IMG_2859.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">a lecture for "friends of the dead"</span></b></td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> As we left the cemetery Isa paused to lecture the young men who now live in the graveyard. Her tone was firm, but gentle. She pleaded for respect for the dead and the living. She asked for help. She reminded them to share the funds they received from visitors.</span><br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-left: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> We left for other sites in Freetown. I wondered whether Blyden would be with us. It was certain the Ms. Isa Blyden was with us. The day ahead was full of insight and passion. Soon I hope to post other markers of the day.</span></div>
<br />
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vzBGkruw2Ak/URtg0CVcCEI/AAAAAAAABPQ/8mZFbtjPPnU/s1600/IMG_2899.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;">. </span></div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-46652225906936747172013-02-04T14:46:00.000-08:002013-02-05T12:49:40.063-08:00"Small, small" at Ricks<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Soon after I arrived in Liberia, at Ricks Institute for the first time (2007 February) I learned "small, small."<br />
The lesson still evokes my emotion. When I arrived the wars were fresh memories <span style="color: red;">and evidence of the conflict was ubiquitous</span>. The road from the airport, through Monrovia, over Bushrod Island, and on to Ricks was a wreck. On top of that, the UN had turned the road into an obstacle course. Five times, as I recall, we were either slowed by barbed-wire serpentine paths through check points, or detained for a document review.<br />
I'm still chilled by the memory of the sandbag bunkers with UN Peace Keepers peering at me down the barrels of 50mm machine guns.<br />
After a few days at Ricks--where I was "campus pastor" with the task of delivering a morning devotional--I was awash in despair.<br />
In addition to my "pastor" role, my host, Olu Q. Menjay, also had asked me to observe classes from K through 12. He wanted me to see what was happening at Ricks. He wanted me to offer observations and encouragements to the faculty and students. He wanted me to meet with 11th and 12th grade students to hear their hopes and dreams.<br />
I had agreed to it all.<br />
But after a few days I was awash in despair.<br />
I told Olu that I needed to go home. Liberia was, I said, too hard for me. I recounted what I saw: poverty, destruction, confusion, decay, and more. I asked to truncate my stay and leave. Olu listened carefully. He did not argue with me. When I was done, he said, "Professor, maybe you need to look at different things." I asked him what he thought I should be looking at. He said, "Did yon notice this morning that there was paint on a wall that was not painted yesterday? Did you notice that the grass had been cut along the path? Did you see the excitement of the students in the classes?"<br />
I was stunned. I had not seen any of those things. All I had seen was the horror.<br />
Olu said, for the first time in my hearing, "Small, small. The little things we do lead us to believe in the big things we will someday do."<br />
It sounds like, but is not, cliche: "My life was changed." <br />
<span style="color: red;">I took to heart my former student's gentle challenge, glad that he was there to become my teacher. The next day I saw different things. For example, instead of seeing a high school teacher carrying a broken piece of blackboard into class and prop it up on a pair of chairs, I saw his determination to teach students how to plot points on a graph as a way of solving a math problem. He carried the broken piece of blackboard back and forth each day because in his office he was meticulously preparing the "graph paper" for his students--yes, day after day Mr. Sherman drew and re-drew the grids that he would carry into class.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"> When I met with the students in the 11th and 12th grades I determined to listen more to what they hoped for. Yes, I paid attention to their descriptions of what they had lost in the war--parents and siblings, now dead; dreams of medical school; security; daily bread--but I became mesmerized by the courage of their dreams to usher in a new generation of peace, to combat corruption, and to restore Liberia to her pre-war glory.</span><br />
<span style="color: red;"> At the end of my stay I was able to hold up my head and heart as I reported to the faculty what I had seen and heard. I remember saying, "And, I'll be back." They had no reason to believe me. When I did return we had a grand reunion. Each subsequent return has strengthened the hopes we share and work toward for a new Liberia.</span><br />
<table align="center" cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CjR0JPX8veE/URAu679SXSI/AAAAAAAABOY/0-9kClj5xUM/s1600/IMG_2724.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-CjR0JPX8veE/URAu679SXSI/AAAAAAAABOY/0-9kClj5xUM/s1600/IMG_2724.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">Harvesting potato greens</span></b><br />
at Ricks Institute<br />
Virginia, Liberia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Two things happened today that made me recall "small, small." The morning was cool, the students are gone, and I was not pressed to be anywhere. I knew that I could get a good Internet connection at the main building and, so, I went about 8:30a. On the way I saw a woman harvesting greens from a newly-cultivated plot near the main building. I went right instead of left and engaged the woman in conversation. She told me that the potato greens were ready to pick.<br />
Potato greens are indescribably delicious and, I am told, nutritious. When in season they are a staple in the Liberian diet. A bowl of potato greens<span style="color: red;">, seasoned with Liberian peppers, a Maggi cube, and some palm oil,</span> and rice is a feast. Some add, when they can afford it, chicken or fish. With or without the meat, it is a meal to enjoy.<br />
Ricks Institute covers 1100 acres of mostly arable land. Yes, there are a number of banana, plantain, and coconut trees on campus. There are oil palms, too. Some staff have grown cucumber, pineapples, tomatoes, peppers, and more. I've wondered why there has not been more intentional planting. Now that is becoming part of the institution. It involves staff and students.<br />
Small, small. Some things take time. Many weeks ago the large plot near the main building was plowed up and planted with greens, corn, okra, eggplant, and more. Now the produce is coming in.<br />
My lunch today was fresh potato greens.<br />
Small, small. I can see how one healthy plot of produce will lead to more and more and more.<br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-raZLAFhk4yY/URAuq4DYrKI/AAAAAAAABOI/b74m_vkktCc/s1600/IMG_2729.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-raZLAFhk4yY/URAuq4DYrKI/AAAAAAAABOI/b74m_vkktCc/s1600/IMG_2729.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">Bovine Baptists grazing on the Ricks campus</span></b><br />
(girls dormitory in the background)</td></tr>
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The second thing involved cows, specifically Baptist Bovines at Ricks. A few years ago the Liberian Baptist Convention implored Olu to take the cows that the convention had purchased (without thinking through how they would sustain the herd). Olu agreed, knowing that he would not be compensated for his husbandry. The herd was small, maybe 25 or fewer.<br />
After my delicious lunch of home-grown potato greens, I headed back to my quarters, only to find myself in the midst of a hungry herd of cattle, including a large number or recent additions-by-birth. I stopped and allowed the cows to make their way around me. It was great fun--and quite satisfying--to see that the Baptist population in Liberian is healthy and growing. <span style="color: red;">I guess that the herd has at least doubled since it was established at Ricks.</span><br />
Small, small at Ricks.<br />
Yet, in my heart and mind, it looks "large, large."<br />
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Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-46868976127666868572013-02-04T03:39:00.000-08:002017-02-11T07:51:42.758-08:00On the Edina Road: Part II<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>3 February 2013</b></span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Post-service photo at the First Baptist Church</span><br />
<span style="color: red;">Edina, Grand Bassa County, Liberia</span></td></tr>
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<b><span style="color: red;"> On the Edina Road: Part II:</span></b><br />
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Our service at First Baptist Church of Edina ended with a group photo. Yes, that is the congregation that had gathered on 3 February 2013.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Soon there was
another flurry of activity. A small table was set up in the shade of a tree.
Chairs for Rev. Green and the guests were set up. A tablecloth, bowls, plates, and
utensils were arranged. Then the feast began. We had fufu—pounded cassava root
shaped into balls and allowed to rise. Fufu is to be “swallowed,” not chewed.
The diner puts a ball of fufu in the bowel and adds some ground spice, boiled
okra/ cabbage, and Liberian peppers to the side. </span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_I2jwXyMnSc/UQ7UubJ6-6I/AAAAAAAABLs/mE_kRtg8aHw/s1600/3.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-_I2jwXyMnSc/UQ7UubJ6-6I/AAAAAAAABLs/mE_kRtg8aHw/s1600/3.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px; text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>James Blay, Patrick Lincoln, and<br />Rick Wilson with a fufu feast</b></span></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;">We had a tray of “country
chicken” and some smoked fish. The meal comes together with a spicy soup that
is poured over the meats, turning the cassava ball into an island in the center
of gustatory glory.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KnM9XnbgfyA/UQ7ZKRE-o8I/AAAAAAAABMM/t1eDAsNX8Bg/s1600/4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KnM9XnbgfyA/UQ7ZKRE-o8I/AAAAAAAABMM/t1eDAsNX8Bg/s1600/4.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><span style="color: red;"><b>Fufu closeup</b></span></td></tr>
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<a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dwOGovAPIJ4/UQ7Z_KBXBiI/AAAAAAAABMU/v5A-d74FbBQ/s1600/6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a> Throughout the meal we were attended to by folks from the church eager to extend hospitality to the guests. I asked who had pounded the cassava for the fufu. She came forward and I hugged her neck for her hard work on our behalf.<br />
<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> We laughed and enjoyed the cool breezes from the Atlantic.</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8_CasVepigE/UQ7bP1lRTUI/AAAAAAAABMc/xQOznGGgMYE/s1600/5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="https://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8_CasVepigE/UQ7bP1lRTUI/AAAAAAAABMc/xQOznGGgMYE/s1600/5.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">Grave of President John J. Cheeseman,<br />d. 1896 while in office</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;">After the meal we continued our city tour. This time we visited and paid respects at the graves of President </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"> and his wife, Edina natives. We noted the ruins of another of the former President’s house. “How many houses did he have?” I asked the Reverend. “Oh! Many! He was the President! [pause] And he had the economy in his hand!”</span><br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dwOGovAPIJ4/UQ7Z_KBXBiI/AAAAAAAABMU/v5A-d74FbBQ/s1600/6.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="200" src="https://2.bp.blogspot.com/-dwOGovAPIJ4/UQ7Z_KBXBiI/AAAAAAAABMU/v5A-d74FbBQ/s1600/6.JPG" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">The 1839 Colony Safe</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> From there it was to city hall to see the monument erected during the presidency of William R. Tolbert, Jr.—whose assassination on 12 April 1980 marked the beginning of Liberia’s precipitous decline, from which she only now is beginning to show signs of recovery. There atop a marble slab is a rusty iron safe. The inscription reminds all who gaze on the safe that it was where the fortunes of the colony were held in 1839 when Governor Buchanan saved the day for Grand Bassa County and Liberia.</span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: "georgia" , serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span></div>
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<a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-8_CasVepigE/UQ7bP1lRTUI/AAAAAAAABMc/xQOznGGgMYE/s1600/5.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><br /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> We also had to
visit the beach long enough to confirm that there was an ocean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-KnM9XnbgfyA/UQ7ZKRE-o8I/AAAAAAAABMM/t1eDAsNX8Bg/s1600/4.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; float: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-right: 1em;"><br /></a><span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> Our final stop
before returning to Monrovia was to call on the Mayor of Edina and his wife. We were
greeted warmly. Chairs were set up under a large shade tree. A table was
brought out, and then a tray of water and Club beer. We sat and talked,
enjoying the cool breezes coming off the ocean.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "georgia" , "serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%;"> While looking for
Blyden today I found reminders of the Liberia that called out to him. He was a
contemporary of President Cheeseman, for example. What I knew before today
about Edina and Grand Bassa, I learned from Blyden. I’d like to think, too,
that as I sat at table and swallowed fufu I shared some similar nourishment
with the subject of my research.</span></div>
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Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-20195549721749269182013-02-04T03:11:00.002-08:002013-02-04T03:11:50.713-08:00On the Edina Road: Part I<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m2y8LyGRGDM/UQ-Kot2xunI/AAAAAAAABM8/VOoYB7RNuXI/s1600/IMG_2659.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-m2y8LyGRGDM/UQ-Kot2xunI/AAAAAAAABM8/VOoYB7RNuXI/s1600/IMG_2659.JPG" height="200" width="178" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">Stele in Edina, Bassa County</span></b><br />
commemorating the Bassa King<br />
Bob Gray, so named by the settlers</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">After only a few years following the arrival of the first ship carrying freed slaves from the United States, the Americo-Liberians pushed inward, following the Montserrado River and the St. Paul River, and along the coast of Liberia to the Southeast of Monrovia. As they went they encountered indigenous tribes, sometime hostile to the settlers, and were stunned by the resources of their new home.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> Edina (eh-DYE-nuh) was a town established in the late 1832. The name honors Scottish supporters of the efforts of the American Colonization Society. The “edin” in Edina is a reminder of Edinburgh. The settlement appeared to be an ideal place with fresh water (the newcomers called it St. John River) and a stretch of shore on the Atlantic Ocean that seemed promising for fishing and, perhaps, the construction of a port from which to engage in commerce. Virgin forests offered lumber for local use and commercial potential. A variety of palm tree that produced oily nuts eventually gave rise to a booming business in palm oil. And, of course, there were the coconut palms, plantain and banana trees in abundance.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> The bright future of Edina soon was eclipsed by another settlement on the eastern side of the St. John. What came to be Buchanan had a better port site than Edina. Soon Buchanan—named for the last white Colonial Governor of Liberia, Thomas Buchanan—was a thriving settlement, despite some unfortunate conflict with local tribes that erupted in the “Fish War” of 1838.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> Edward Wilmot Blyden describes Buchanan’s success as Governor and his important work toward laying a foundation for a republic:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> In the month of May, 1839, Governor Buchanan again arrived from the United States, quite unexpectedly, and to the great joy and relief of the settlers. This sagacious philanthropist and statesman soon summoned the hostile chiefs and arranged matters on a satisfactory footing.</span></blockquote>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> I had read about Edina and its promise and trials. When I told my host, Olu Menjay, about Edina and Edinburgh he smiled and said, “Maybe you should go there and preach at the First Baptist Church; I can arrange it.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3Jt1TK76PEA/UQ-MQidfJlI/AAAAAAAABNM/Oqs61ZZ86hk/s1600/2.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-3Jt1TK76PEA/UQ-MQidfJlI/AAAAAAAABNM/Oqs61ZZ86hk/s1600/2.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">On the Edina Road</span></b></td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> On 3 February 2013 I went. The going and coming was at least as exciting and informative as the being there.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> There is a paved road from Monrovia to Buchanan. We made our way in that general direction for a couple of hours. Abruptly, the Revered Al Green, pastor of FBC Edina (he had come to Monrovia on Saturday so he could guide us through the bush), ordered James Blay, our driver, to leave the paved road. For the next hour or more we followed a narrow dirt road, passing villages, crossing creeks, all while listening to BBC World on the radio.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IxdFMeSG1qY/UQ7datQ9RZI/AAAAAAAABMk/jcr4rmAOeS4/s1600/7.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-IxdFMeSG1qY/UQ7datQ9RZI/AAAAAAAABMk/jcr4rmAOeS4/s1600/7.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="font-size: 12.666666984558105px; text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">A village on the Edina Road</span></b><br />
The cut wood will be turned into charcoal,<br />
one way villagers make a living.</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> As usual, I was full of questions. I inquired about the flora. I wanted to know how the villagers were able to make a living (“They make charcoal, make a cassava farm, or rice,” Rev. Green said). I asked permission from my Liberian travel companions to take photos of some villages. I did not ask permission to photograph the road.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> I did not know what to expect to find in Edina, but I was imagining something other than I found. The First Baptist Church was founded in 1832; the present structure was built in 1868. Bamboo scaffolding surrounded the bell tower, but that did not prevent the ringing of the bell that called the small congregation to worship.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iEWS_9-JO5Y/UQ-OMA6tdDI/AAAAAAAABNc/nM4TXuYOC5o/s1600/IMG_2648.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-iEWS_9-JO5Y/UQ-OMA6tdDI/AAAAAAAABNc/nM4TXuYOC5o/s1600/IMG_2648.JPG" height="240" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">First Baptist Church</span></b><br />
Edina, Bassa County, Liberia<br />
Est. 1832</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> “We are making some renovation,” Rev. Green explained. “It will take some time. The people do not have jobs and they make a little by farming or fishing so they can bring their tithes and offerings into the storehouse.”</span><br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 16px; line-height: 18px;"> Before the service we had a short walking-tour of a few sites: the ruins of the house of the Reverend John Cheeseman, former President of Liberia (d. 1896 in office), a memorial angel in Cheeseman’s honor, a simple stele adorned with a bust of the Bassa king (see photo above) with whom Governor Buchanan made peace, and the compound of the sitting mayor.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"> Cheeseman was from Edina. He was one of the early pastors of the First Baptist Church. It was he, too, who provided the energy and early leadership for the founding of the Liberian Baptist Convention. Even now the shadow of John H. Cheeseman is well defined on the landscape of Liberia and Liberian Baptists.</span></span></div>
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2f38OD5v_aw/UQ-TzGfYvgI/AAAAAAAABNs/UxfoHrRkOiw/s1600/IMG_2670.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-2f38OD5v_aw/UQ-TzGfYvgI/AAAAAAAABNs/UxfoHrRkOiw/s1600/IMG_2670.JPG" height="200" width="150" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">Memorial Angel</span></b><br />John J. Cheeseman<br />Edina, Bassa County, Liberia</td></tr>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"> In a prominent place in the village Cheeseman is memorialized with a quite southern-looking monument. (I've seen similar angels in Macon's Rose Hill Cemetary, dating from the late 19th century.)</span></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"> We returned to the church where some already had gathered and were singing.</span></span></div>
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">The service was an interesting mix of what I imagine to be the church experiences of the parishioners. We sang out of a 1977 edition of</span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> </span><i style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">The New Broadman Hymnal</i><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;">, cast-off copies from a Georgia Baptist church whose name and locale was stamped on the now soiled and tattered books. I noted, however, that even though we knew the page of each hymn, the tunes we sang did not always correspond with the signatures for the hymns. And, too, there were idiosyncratic changes in the lyrics. We recited the Apostles’ Creed and the Lord’s Prayer. The offering time coincided with “fellowship time,” which meant the lone usher was having to dodge people in the aisles. I noted that the usher had a pretty good bead on who had or had not put something in the basket!</span><br />
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<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ADKU7GMLGbc/UQ-T37HBwYI/AAAAAAAABN0/JAChTxIhfqY/s1600/IMG_2678.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-ADKU7GMLGbc/UQ-T37HBwYI/AAAAAAAABN0/JAChTxIhfqY/s1600/IMG_2678.JPG" height="150" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;"><b><span style="color: red;">With Rev. Al Green</span></b><br />at First Baptist Church<br />Edina, Grand Bassa County, Liberia</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> The service ended and promptly restarted. A deacon placed poles over the open doors at the back of the room as Rev. Green and I negotiated how we would share the officiating of the communion service. And, yes, after communion we sang “Blest Be the Tie.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 18px;"> Rev. Green invited all in attendance to get in a photo with “our guest from beyond the Atlantic Ocean.” We gathered for a photo. (Please see photo in the next post, "On the Edina Road: Part II.)</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif;"><span style="line-height: 18px;"><br /></span></span></div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-31883118395355586972013-02-02T13:39:00.001-08:002013-02-02T13:39:57.561-08:00What I Learned Today<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
Tomorrow I have an arduous trip. I'll be going to Edina, Bassa County, to preach at the First Baptist Church. The pastor is the Reverend Al Green! (at least that is what his friends in Liberia call him).<br />
The road to Edina is good, by Liberian standards. By American standards, however, it will be a challenge. We will have four hours, each way, on rough, but paved roads.<br />
By comparison, the road from Buchanan, Grand Bassa to Greenville, Sinoe County would be called "impassible" by American standards. On <i style="font-weight: bold;">that</i> road the ruts are deep enough to swallow an SUV.<br />
I digress.<br />
Since I have a very early departure tomorrow I decided to bathe about 6p. Wow. That's what I will do from now on. I am still fresh (as my Liberian friends say) and have had a great evening.<br />
My hope is to find some support for Rev. Green to visit the States. He would be a good ambassador for Liberian Baptists--he is a VP in the Baptist Convention of Liberia. He is witty and well-spoken. I'll be asking friends in GA, SC, AL, and beyond to consider welcoming him.</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-34840149962568074942013-02-01T14:06:00.001-08:002013-02-01T14:20:34.164-08:00Friends in Real Places<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<div class="separator" style="clear: both; text-align: center;">
</div>
<br />
<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;"> </span><span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt; line-height: 115%;">I guess it was
twenty years ago, or so, that Garth Brooks lured me back into the fold of
popular country music. His chart-bustin’ “Friends in Low Places” was and is a
classic commentary on seeking influence and expecting privileges through
friends in high places. What he sang about—tinged with the twangs of his style—was
the comfort of friends in low places who don’t seem to have as much interest in
influence and privilege that high-toned friends expect.</span><br />
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> These days back in Liberia
have reminded me, too, that I have friends in real places. Since my first trip
in 2007 I have had the privilege of getting to know folks in Liberia who are, I
think, part of the strong skeletal system that is allowing Liberia to stand
erect and proud after years of war.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Here are some of my
friends in this real place:<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-40wVsWfiQ6c/UQw3GEZDLoI/AAAAAAAABLM/y2KGjCA7FdM/s1600/101242013+Joseph+Dennis+and+Rick.jpg" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="181" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-40wVsWfiQ6c/UQw3GEZDLoI/AAAAAAAABLM/y2KGjCA7FdM/s1600/101242013+Joseph+Dennis+and+Rick.jpg" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Joseph Dennis and Rick Wilson</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Mr. Joseph Dennis is
one of the first people I met at Ricks. His tenure at Ricks stretches back to
the 1970s. He has seen the glory and the horror at Ricks. Now he is a part of
its renewal. Polio rendered Joseph lame, but he limps with a grace that challenges
others to learn to live with challenges. In those days he learned some
accounting skills and demonstrated unquestioned integrity as he handled money.
(He yearns to get some formal education—at Mercer—but I don’t see how that is
possible.)<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> I’ve learned from
others that even before the wars devastated Liberia Joseph’s character was
smeared in the midst of his loyalty to place and superior. He lost face and suffered
for wrongs that were not his. In the early 2000s as the war was winding down, Joseph
languished in a dilapidated building on the campus of Ricks, barely subsisting.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> When Olu Menjay came
to Ricks he learned about Joseph and his plight. Gradually Joseph was nurtured
back into the good graces of the community. Menjay allowed him chances to
burnish his character in the face of the challenge to rebuild Ricks. Today Mr.
Joseph Dennis is Ricks’ business manager, once more managing the money and accounts.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZROhOlTNXJ8/UQw4eBDWVtI/AAAAAAAABLc/DCPsxZxGaZ4/s1600/IMG_2640.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="320" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-ZROhOlTNXJ8/UQw4eBDWVtI/AAAAAAAABLc/DCPsxZxGaZ4/s1600/IMG_2640.JPG" width="240" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">Bob Boy Wilson Styling on a Campus Walk</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Bob Boy Wilson is a
painter at Ricks. If you watch him you will see that he carries himself with a
pride and verve born of military exposure (you can see it, too, in the photo on the right). A few years ago one of my Mercer
colleagues joined me on a trip to Ricks. David was a US Army officer stationed
in Monrovia at the time of the <i>coup dé
tat</i> that ended the life of President William Tolbert and sent Liberia
reeling down a path of uncertainty and destruction that lasted a quarter of a
century. When the retired US Army officer entered the room Bob Boy stiffened at
attention, recognizing his old acquaintance and giving him due respect. David
told me that he remembered Bob Boy from those many years ago; he appreciated
the show of respect.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Bob Boy calls to me,
“My son!” each time he sees me. I respond, “My Papa!” We have great fun telling
people we are related. Papa says, pointing to himself, “Liberia Wilson,” and
then, pointing to me, “America Wilson.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> After several days
in country this time I was concerned that I had not seen Papa. I asked, and
learned that he had been ill and had required surgery. Another friend, Isaac
Jallah (see below), offered to take me to see Papa. One morning we made our way to a
building on campus that had a couple of accessible rooms. There was Papa and
his wife. We embraced, laughed, and talked. He told me of his injury on the job—a
hernia—that required surgery. Matter-of-factly he said, “But in Liberia, if you
have no money you die.” I knew he told the truth. He disappeared into a small
room and returned with an envelope that contained the simple bills of his
surgery and post-op care, all marked “paid.”<o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Now Papa is on
leave, hoping to return to work in a couple of months. One morning this week he
showed up at my door, looking fit and trim. He was out for a recuperative walk
on the campus.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cw8GqYHJBI8/UQw4WbmNPcI/AAAAAAAABLU/DBJJht01r6g/s1600/05272010m+Robert+and+Isaac.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="240" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-Cw8GqYHJBI8/UQw4WbmNPcI/AAAAAAAABLU/DBJJht01r6g/s1600/05272010m+Robert+and+Isaac.JPG" width="320" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">l-r Robert and Isaac</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> And then there is
Isaac. He is a master carpenter who probably never has used a power tool. He
saws a square cut with a handsaw better than I could do with a Skil saw. Over a
life of carpentry and paying attention he has become a friend of wood and iron,
knowing how to let them—not make them—work together. He knows about real friendships.<o:p></o:p></span><br />
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> When a team from First Baptist Church of Christ came to Ricks in 2009, Isaac quietly taught us all about resourcefullness, especially the reason to save sawdust! I'll never forget that lesson.</span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> He has a story, too.
Not long after Menjay came to Ricks under bleak conditions, post-war, Isaac’s
elementary-age son was injured in a playground accident. He broke his back in a
fall. The physicians could do nothing for him and the child died. The next day
Isaac was at work—looking for lumber scraps suitable for building a coffin.
Menjay intervened, making it possible for Isaac to make a proper coffin and,
too, making it possible for Isaac to bury his son with dignity.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Each time I come to
Ricks I’m eager to find Isaac at his job. His eyes sparkle; his strong snappy
handshake rattles my weak arms; and he embraces me with obvious pleasure. I
share his joy.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> Isaac is from the
Gola tribe. One of my simple pleasures is going into the bush on a Sunday
morning to the Good Shepherd church where Isaac worships. If I go, I have to preach, but that is fine.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> There are other
friends, too; maybe I’ll introduce readers to them another time. You would like
to know about Ma Musu, an extraordinary cook, or Robert (see photo, above), an intelligent worker
of wood and tile, or James, a porter at a local grocery, or that “Charles
Taylor’s Child”—an amputee—who sits outside the grocery and greets me, “Hello,
Doc!” each time I go to market.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: .0001pt; margin-bottom: 0in;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt; line-height: 115%; mso-bidi-font-size: 11.0pt;"> I’m happy to have
friends in real places.</span></div>
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<br /></div>
</div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-40879972558952381002013-01-30T13:38:00.000-08:002013-01-30T13:49:31.831-08:00The Palace of Healing<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-izn_gkfrc1A/UQlzyFaRP2I/AAAAAAAABKs/nrv065l_R70/s1600/IMG_2627.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://3.bp.blogspot.com/-izn_gkfrc1A/UQlzyFaRP2I/AAAAAAAABKs/nrv065l_R70/s1600/IMG_2627.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from the front of the house</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vOQ8xt4kIVM/UQl1OZpvh7I/AAAAAAAABK8/XY2jpXbxwiE/s1600/IMG_2639.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://4.bp.blogspot.com/-vOQ8xt4kIVM/UQl1OZpvh7I/AAAAAAAABK8/XY2jpXbxwiE/s1600/IMG_2639.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">from the rear of the house</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UWVQEEoC6nE/UQlztBRzB9I/AAAAAAAABKc/E9_n3nXYU6Q/s1600/IMG_2631.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-UWVQEEoC6nE/UQlztBRzB9I/AAAAAAAABKc/E9_n3nXYU6Q/s1600/IMG_2631.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">one of the corner rooms</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
For a few years folks at Ricks Institute and Mercer University have been nursing a grand idea of a "Mercer House" on the campus of Ricks. The hope is to establish a permanent place for Mercer's growing interest at Ricks. Already Mercer has a strong partnership with Ricks through the <a href="http://mom.mercer.edu/liberia/">Mercer on Mission</a> program. Since 2008 there have been five trips from Mercer to Ricks (I'm including the in-process trip for 2013). Four of those adventures were joint journeys with the College of Liberal Arts and the Tift College of Education. More than fifty students from Mercer have experienced the "challenges and possibilities" at Ricks.<br />
As an aside: Most mornings at Ricks the Principal, the Rev. Dr. Olu Q. Menjay, greets students with the call and response that goes:<br />
Menjay: "Every day is a new day, with what?"<br />
Students: "New challenges and new possibilities!"<br />
Menjay: "New challenges and new possibilities!"<br />
The chance to have a Mercer House is a challenge that brings new possibilities to Ricks and Mercer, and, too, to all of Liberia.<br />
When the idea first was broached Menjay seized the dream and began working toward its realization. A structure on the campus--ravaged by war and neglect--was selected. The residents of the house, faculty and staff at Ricks, were relocated to other equally dilapidated buildings that bore the testimony of war and want.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: left; margin-right: 1em; text-align: left;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KMxckdSqszA/UQlztRCzQLI/AAAAAAAABKg/zieb-RsN1t8/s1600/IMG_2629.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: left; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://1.bp.blogspot.com/-KMxckdSqszA/UQlztRCzQLI/AAAAAAAABKg/zieb-RsN1t8/s1600/IMG_2629.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">the commons area, <br />
which will be a classroom</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Now the Mercer House in waiting has a new zinc roof. The ceiling has been restored (look closely at the photos). The old windows and doors have been removed. Structural repairs to some walls have been completed. The floors, mostly, have been prepared to receive new ceramic tiles.<br />
<table cellpadding="0" cellspacing="0" class="tr-caption-container" style="float: right; margin-left: 1em; text-align: right;"><tbody>
<tr><td style="text-align: center;"><a href="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-00cyi6lI0qA/UQl07aQ-9OI/AAAAAAAABK0/F1CZc0k8M10/s1600/IMG_2634.JPG" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: auto; margin-right: auto;"><img border="0" height="150" src="http://2.bp.blogspot.com/-00cyi6lI0qA/UQl07aQ-9OI/AAAAAAAABK0/F1CZc0k8M10/s1600/IMG_2634.JPG" width="200" /></a></td></tr>
<tr><td class="tr-caption" style="text-align: center;">a prayer of hope</td></tr>
</tbody></table>
Yesterday I went through the house and made the photos you see. In a back room I was brought to tears by graffiti on the wall: "The Palace of Healing." I imagined that one of the displaced persons scrawled on the wall something of a prayer for what could become of the building. Perhaps I will explore my impression, or not. I saw what I saw: a prayer of hope. My many trips to Liberian and to Ricks have taught me that Liberians are hopeful people, eager to find healing after the fourteen years of war that nearly destroyed a proud and productive nation. Too, I know about the history of Ricks Institute and its hope for restoration.<br />
A Mercer House at Ricks would be a fountain of hope. It would be a place, eventually, where Ricks teachers could become better prepared for the tasks they have accepted. It could become a place where College of Liberal Arts students spend a semester learning about Liberia and her challenges. It could become a place where students in the Masters of Public Health program could have a staging ground for surveying local villages for health needs. It could become a place where Ricks and Mercer could show the world--yes, the world--that hope drives and nourishes people of all kinds.<br />
<br /></div>
Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com1tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-86551751924610138622013-01-30T01:27:00.002-08:002013-01-30T01:33:57.855-08:00Firebell in the Night<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
<br />
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;">When
Missouri appealed for statehood in 1819 the issue of slavery in the Union was
thrown on the table, where it would writhe for decades, first as an economic
issue with moral implications and later as a more-nearly pure moral issue, not
so much about the institution of slavery, but as the smoldering issue of race
relations. Thomas Jefferson called the appeal a "firebell in the night” that
struck terror in him. Smoldering. From the establishment of the colonies
slavery was a moral issue.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<a href="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQmNYEPBlqvP_mgWuB_32Vyqj5JvQMOyH08sC5izz-GKnGFgCSFcw" imageanchor="1" style="clear: right; float: right; margin-bottom: 1em; margin-left: 1em;"><img border="0" src="https://encrypted-tbn1.gstatic.com/images?q=tbn:ANd9GcQmNYEPBlqvP_mgWuB_32Vyqj5JvQMOyH08sC5izz-GKnGFgCSFcw" /></a><span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> A few years before the “firebell” rang for
Jefferson, a cadre of forward-looking citizens, including statesmen, businessmen, and even plantation owners, launched a society to address “the negro
problem.” With the likes of Henry Clay, Francis Scott Key, and James
Monroe—some of the notables in a group with a host of activists—the American
Colonization Society began its arduous work to address the nearly impossible
challenges of slavery. The Society was founded in 1816 and was disbanded in
1964. Along the way there was a remarkable success—the founding of Liberia in
1822—and a long string of failures.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My time in Liberia as I am “looking for
Blyden” has demanded that I also explore the formative period of US
history that saw the mercurial rise and fall of slavery. As I do I am nearly
overwhelmed by the complexity of the issues and, too, the courageous attempts
to address them.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Early Lee Fox (<i>The American Colonization Society: 1817-1840</i>, The Johns Hopkins
Press, 1919) has helped me grasp the magnitude and gravity of the issues.
Through an impressive array of primary sources he lays out the
“ultra-abolitionists” and the “radical pro-slavery” camps that hemmed in the
ACS.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> The story of the ACS is, of course, centered
upon the establishment of the colony of Liberia that, in 1847, became the
Republic of Liberia. It is a story of vision, ambition, moral courage, racial
cooperation, high ideals, and the depth of human suffering.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My subject, Edward Wilmot Blyden, was
enmeshed with the ACS. Because of his experiences in the Union—rejected as a
student at Rutgers and elsewhere in the 1850s, mistreatment in Philadelphia,
New York, and Washington, in the 1860s—he gladly became an advocate for the
repatriation of freed slaves to Liberia. In the 1860s Blyden accepted the task
of being an itinerant among “the coloreds” in the North of the Union at the behest of the President of Liberia. From the
1860s through the 1890s Blyden addressed the annual convention of the ACS now
and then, offering challenges and perspectives on the ever-changing nuances of
repatriation.<o:p></o:p></span></div>
<div class="MsoNormal" style="margin-bottom: 0.0001pt;">
<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> Blyden became the Negro Patriot who, on the
one hand, encouraged all of African descent to return to Liberia and, on the
other hand, affirmed the hopes of those who chose to remain in the US that there
would come a day of racial reconciliation. <o:p></o:p></span></div>
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<span style="font-family: "Georgia","serif"; font-size: 12.0pt;"> My time in Liberia, my time with Blyden’s
works, my time with the history of the 19<sup>th</sup> century, all are
changing me day-by-day.</span></div>
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<span style="font-family: Georgia, serif; font-size: 12pt;"> It is not new. For more than 30 years I have
been steeped in Liberation Theology. Now I am looking back, looking for Blyden,
and finding deep mines that demand digging and assaying.</span></div>
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Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com0tag:blogger.com,1999:blog-132771123471575680.post-50507154553026038082013-01-28T12:41:00.000-08:002013-01-29T02:26:23.831-08:00My Normal Routine<div dir="ltr" style="text-align: left;" trbidi="on">
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My daily routine in Liberia is fairly simple. I rise in the mornings, around 6, and tend to hygiene in the comfort of the buckets (see right). The water rarely runs through pipe or faucet, but when it does I have to be prepared to catch as much as possible for storage in the large white barrel. I imagine it holds about 40 gallons.<br />
Bathing is a matter of wetting oneself with the dipper, soaping up liberally, and then rinsing with the dipper. The green bucket is where I put water so as not to unduly contaminate the white barrel with soap, etc. I confess that some days I heat up some water and mix it with cold in the green bucket. I prefer a lukewarm rinse to the bracing cold.<br />
The purple/yellow bucket I use for flushing the commode. Water is precious, so I have to decide when flushing is a necessity and not a luxury. (I know, too much information for some readers.)<br />
When school is in session I attend the morning assembly at Rick Institute. The end of my first week coincided with the end of the first semester. For two weeks the students will be away and I will be rising with the roosters and not the alarm clock. And, yes, that is a literal comment. The campus is the roaming place for chickens, goats, dogs, and cows. The roosters greet the dawn vociferously. It is hard to sleep past dawn.<br />
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To the left you see my workspace. It took me a few attempts to get it right. In front of the desk/table is a bank of windows facing West. Ambient light most of the day allows me to work with ease. Although it cannot be seen, there is a light fixture on the wall above the box fan. I was relieved to find that it works (there is a matching fixture on the wall behind my chair that does not work). When it is overcast, and always in the evenings, the energy-efficient fluorescent bulb--yes even at Ricks--provides good light for my poor eyes.<br />
The box fan is my friend. Most days the heat and humidity requires me to change shirts two or three times. I am tempted at times to sit naked . . . . In the cool of the mornings (use your imagination to discover "cool" and "mornings" six degrees North of the Equator) and in the evening after sunset the fan pulls in fresh air.<br />
My work is regular. In the mornings I hope for a strong connection on the USB modem so I can correspond as needed and, too, check on news at home and around the world. That usually takes place while I boil water in preparation of making Liberian coffee. (If you've not had Liberian coffee, you should try some.)<br />
Next I review what I accomplished the previous day. I revise notes that I made from my readings. Then I decide what to take up next.<br />
My explorations of Edward Wilmot Blyden (1832-1912) include a dozen or more primary source pamphlets, a helpful anthology of his writings--some of which are abridged from the other materials I have. I read them all. I compare the full texts to the abridged texts in hopes of muting the influence of the editor(s). I also have Blyden's most complete and intriguing work, which he wrote late in his life, <i>Christianity, Islam, and the Negro Race</i>. I am passing familiar with that work and, as I read the earlier works with the memory of where Blyden lands. For example, early in his amazing vocation Blyden used "negro" exclusively. Then there is an essay that includes a bombastic critique of the lower case in the writing of white missionary; Blyden considers it an affront on the Negro race.<br />
I also have with me some secondary materials relating to West African politics and history, specifically an investigation of the sources for the Pan-African Movement, which builds mightily upon Blyden's careful construction of race nationalism in Africa. And, too, I have the last critical review of Blyden's life and work, <i>Edward Wilmot Blyden: Pan-Negro-Patriot</i> (Oxford Press, 1960) by Hollis R. Lynch. Finally, I have a dense history of the American Colonization Society that is a trove of cited primary materials from the likes of Henry Clay, Francis Scott Key, and a host of lesser-known advocates for the repatriation of freed slaves to Liberia and elsewhere in West Africa.<br />
Midday I break for lunch and walk 1/4 mile to the house of my host, Olu Menjay, where I am served a Liberian meal. Usually that meal holds be for the day.<br />
After lunch I nap. Then I return to the tasks described above.<br />
I do try to break up my day. I may invest my morning in a 30 page essay/speech--recall that in the 19th century public addresses were quite involved! And aside: Blyden's rhetoric often enthralls me. His use of language, his ability to craft an image, his broad learning, all keep me alert. His remarkable language skills challenge me. This morning I read an Independence Day Address, delivered in 1865, that included Latin, Greek, French, Italian, and German--almost always citing poets or historians. The afternoons are less focused. I'll chase a rabbit or two . . . .<br />
My evenings give me a chance to look away from my task, if I so desire. I write blog entries, for example. I have other writing projects to which I devote a few hours. I have correspondence and--unfortunately--administrative tasks to attend. An aside: The joys of the Internet and Cell Phone are soured by the connectedness to what I have tried to leave behind.<br />
And, too, I confess that I packed three biographies (Mickey Mantle, Jackie Robinson, and J. Edgar Hoover) that I had begun reading last year in the throes of my malaria adventure. Now and then I take a break from the 19th century and feed my hungry mind on the character of notable people.<br />
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Without looking at the clock, I retire when I feel like it. What I mean is that I don't have a bedtime. I do look at the clock when I head back to my sleeping quarters, but only out of curiosity. Sometimes it is early--9p. Other times it is approaching midnight. I guess it depends upon the length of my naps.<br />
I sleep in a wooden twin bed with a thin mattress on a plywood base. This is the first time I have come to Liberia that I sleep under a mosquito net. My malaria adventure will always be fresh with me. I use a fan most nights, but the last two have been cool enough to forgoe the fan. My corner room allows for a good breeze, which contributes to good sleeping.<br />
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Richard F. Wilsonhttp://www.blogger.com/profile/15000953935161586924noreply@blogger.com4