Can Jews, Christians, and Muslims Co-exist?

This post previously appeared in the February 2013 issue of Baptist Studies Bulletin.

http://www.baptisthistory.org/bhhs/bsb/bsb2013_02.html

Yes.

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.

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.

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.”

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.”

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, Christianity, Islam, and the Negro Race (CINR) was published; it was so well received that the next year it came out in a second edition. The book remains in print.

The connecting thesis of CINR 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, Blyden called for Christian missions to invest in education, too.

 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.

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, 

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.

Coexistence is possible. I saw it and experienced it in Freetown.

Riding Off into the Sunrise

   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.

1 March 2013
class line-ups at Ricks

   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.

   “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 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.

"One-eighty-one!"

   As the hymn began, “There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus,” 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 

Jesus knows all about our struggles,
He will guide till the day is done;
There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus,
No, not one! No, not one!

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. 

     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.”

Edward Wilmot Blyden
1832-1912

    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.”

Henry Hart Milman
1797-1868

   So, I searched and found a hymn by Henry Hart Milman, 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:

And when the Lord shall summon us  Whom thou now hast left behind,May we, untainted by the world,  As sure a welcome find;May each, like thee, depart in peace,  To be a glorious, happy guest,Where the wicked cease from troubling,  And the weary are at rest.   

   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.”

Principal Keske and Mrs. Dixon

   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.

Jesus knows all about our struggles,
He will guide till the day is done;
There’s not a friend like the lowly Jesus,
No, not one! No, not one!

   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.

A Distraction

Independence Mural
in Centennial Pavilion in Monrovia, Liberia 

 I tell my students that research is often perilous because of the distractions. Further, I tell them, a scholar needs the discipline to establish and 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.

   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:

      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.

   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  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.

   Blyden continues: 

    There were resident here then [such as] Rev. John Day, with his cultivated and critical intellect . . . . There were giants in those days.    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. 

Judge John Day
1797-1859

   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.

   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^th century Liberian standards, mind you).

detail of the Independence Mural
(see "John Day" in fourth line)

   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 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 Court of Liberia. He was, you recall, self taught.

   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).

original pulpit, c. 1820s
Providence Baptist Church
Monrovia, Liberia

   Near the end of his eulogy, Blyden recounted Day’s demise: 

     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.

    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.

A Tale of Two Greenvilles

   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.

   Hold on to “rattled.”

   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.

   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.

Olu Q. Menjay
Intrepid Driver of the Sinoe Road

   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.

Travelers of the Sinoe Road
l-r: Rick Wilson, the Reverend Al Green, Olu Q. Menjay,
Gideon Washington, and Victor Koon

   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.

   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.)

   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.)

Mississippi Street
Greenville, Sinoe County, Liberia

   Greenville in Sinoe County looks like the Mississippi Delta: flat and fertile. It is different, though, because this 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.

   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.

   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.

The Baptists of Sinoe
surprised me with a shirt
for the convention so I could
fit in with the crowd (?)

   The Commonwealth of Mississippi—if that term ever was used—was philanthropic and 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 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.)

Sunday morning in Greenville

   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.

   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.

Vignettes (no images)

Today—16 February 2013—has been memorable.

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 . . . .

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.

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 Revisiting Liberia 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.)

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.”]

Finally, Robert followed me to the mud pit where the students were working.

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.

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.

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.

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.

I ran my finger over the signature . . . .

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.

Once more, I ran my finger over the signature . . . .

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.

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 never seen traffic like I find in Monrovia and, especially, in Duala.]

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.

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).

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.

I called Olu. Olu talked to the officer. It was a stalemate.

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.

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.

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.

It really was a scene. A crowd formed. It was theatre.

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.

I wish I had a picture. He made the incorrect connection between “Ricks” and “Rick.” (It happens often.)

We shook hands, Liberian style, three or four times. It was snappy, indeed.

And, I was on my way.

Now I’m “home” and happy and clean and looking forward to another day.

Redemption

 

Faliku Stephen Dukuly
master brick maker

 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.
   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.
   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.
   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.
   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.

getting water from the well
in the refugee camp
near Ricks Institute

  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.
   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.

Mrs. Hawa Sirleaf

   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 by hand. 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.
   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.
   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.
   Mrs. Sirleaf also makes brooms. I saw the parts drying in the sun and asked Faliku about
 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 

my new broom

the spikes (my term) have to cure before they are bundled to make the broom.
   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.
   I'm proud of my Liberian broom. I'm even more proud of my Liberian son.

A Citizen of the Republic of Letters

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.

“Preface to the Second Edition,” Christianity, Islam, and the Negro Race, i.

   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.

Edward Wilmot Blyden
A Citizen of the Republic of Letters

   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?”

   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.

   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.

   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).

   As I continue to look for Blyden I hope to become a better citizen of the Republic of Letters.

Paying Respects

Rick Wilson and Isa Blyden
(great granddaughter of
Edward Wilmot Blyden)

   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.

   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.

   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.

   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 his time.” Boom! Perspective shift.

   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.

   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.

   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.

Rick Wilson and Olu Menjay
at the grave of Edward Wilmot Blyden

   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.

   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.

libation at Blyden's grave

  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.

   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.”

libation at Blyden's grave

   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.

   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.

a lecture for "friends of the dead"

   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.

   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.

  

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"Small, small" at Ricks

     Soon after I arrived in Liberia, at Ricks Institute for the first time (2007 February) I learned "small, small."
   The lesson still evokes my emotion. When I arrived the wars were fresh memories and evidence of the conflict was ubiquitous. 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.
   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.
   After a few days at Ricks--where I was "campus pastor" with the task of delivering a morning devotional--I was awash in despair.
   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.
  I had agreed to it all.
  But after a few days I was awash in despair.
  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?"
   I was stunned. I had not seen any of those things. All I had seen was the horror.
   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."
   It sounds like, but is not, cliche: "My life was changed."
   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.
   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.
   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.

Harvesting potato greens
at Ricks Institute
Virginia, Liberia

 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.
   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, seasoned with Liberian peppers, a Maggi cube, and some palm oil, 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.
   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.
   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.
   My lunch today was fresh potato greens.
   Small, small. I can see how one healthy plot of produce will lead to more and more and more.

Bovine Baptists grazing on the Ricks campus
(girls dormitory in the background)

   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.
   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. I guess that the herd has at least doubled since it was established at Ricks.
   Small, small at Ricks.
   Yet, in my heart and mind, it looks "large, large."

On the Edina Road: Part II

3 February 2013
Post-service photo at the First Baptist Church
Edina, Grand Bassa County, Liberia

   On the Edina Road: Part II:

   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.   

   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. 

James Blay, Patrick Lincoln, and
Rick Wilson with a fufu feast

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.

Fufu closeup

    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.
   We laughed and enjoyed the cool breezes from the Atlantic.

Grave of President John J. Cheeseman,
d. 1896 while in office

   After the meal we continued our city tour. This time we visited and paid respects at the graves of President  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!”

The 1839 Colony Safe

   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.   

   We also had to visit the beach long enough to confirm that there was an ocean.

   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.

   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.