Where clichés won’t hold

The last couple of weeks have been a walk through the thickets for me. It’s been like walking on an uncharted bush trail, deep in the heart of nowhere, armed with nothing but bare feet and a desire to keep walking. I have collapsed in exhaustion at the end of the day, only to wake up in the wee hours of the morning and pick up where I left. My body has been pushed beyond its limits. My heart has given up, given in then picked up the pieces at the brink of despair, with hope as its only sustenance. The journey of one thousand miles continues. The course is no longer the unfamiliar territory I thought it was but on some days, I do not know where I am or where I am heading.

In those quiet moments I manage to spare some time to meditate and pray, I have found myself wondering about clichés that I have easily quoted to those who are going through difficult times. You know them by now. They fly easily in the face of despair, loss, intense struggle and pain. Sometimes, it is all we can offer when we are staring at the difficulties that are our friends or loved ones are going through. They sound true, perhaps, even inspiring. Repeating them beats the silence that often clouds the heavy moments when loss, frustration, hopelessness hung heavily over a room.

“God has a reason for everything,” we say. As good as this sounds, it reduces life to a simple equation in which everything adds up. The chips are somehow meant to align themselves to reveal the cosmic reason behind sickness, death, loss of a job or the end of a relationship that looked good. We easily refer to the story of Job, his suffering and the ultimate redemption of the years of suffering.  A closer examination of the book of Job reveals that God did not reveal the “reason” behind Job’s misfortunes. He did not attempt to minimize his suffering by giving him the “five major and minor reasons” why his children died or his wealth disappeared like a leaf in the wind.

LEST WE FORGET: OF SAMARITANS, ELECTIONS AND MOVING ON

In a country like ours, our memories are wired to forget quickly. We are, in street speak, a “happening” country. As we speak, few of us remember what it was like to go through two and a half elections. There was a handshake and apologies. In spite of my cynicism towards the political class, I choose to think that there is hope for us. However, my hope is measured and placed beyond the political class. I say that because I remember the prolonged election period.  I was there when they said we should pray for this country. You may have been there too. I heard them say that the effectual and fervent prayer of a righteous man availeth much. So, we prayed in tongues of men and in tongues of angels. We fasted for days. We hoped and we remain hopeful. We prayed that there would be no violence or deaths. We prayed for a smooth transition and a just election process.

Some of us said they knew God had spoken so they spoke. I stopped in my tracks when I heard those words, not because God cannot speak to people but because that has been used to support selfish, manipulative and out rightly evil actions. The spoken words became a post on social media. A spark was ignited. There were valid questions, measured responses and misplaced opinions. God became a stone to be hurled at the other side. The scriptures became a poisonous arsenal, fired at the perceived enemy whenever it suited us. Tribe and party trumped over love. Love was trampled over in an attempt to be on the “right” side of things. Confusion ensued. Did we hear Him right? They asked. A defense was mounted for “our side” of things. Those who could not take it were marked as the enemies of purpose, progress and the very Power of God. The church, the body of God, lay on the streets, bruised, confused and naked.

We always read the story of the Good Samaritan under the assumption that we are the Good Samaritans. I have often assumed that if I came across a man who is wounded on the streets, I would be quick to attend to him. I would take him to hospital. I would pay the hospital bill, no matter what it would cost me. I assume that the years of being taught the scriptures have had an effect on my callous heart. That the coldness of my heart has been thawed by This Love I profess. The Scriptures say that a priest walked past the wounded man and he found himself an alternative route. In Hebrew, the term kōhēn (priest) refers to an official who was set apart in order to carry out certain duties related to worship. They were mediators between God and the people. Peter, refers to the believers in the New Testament, as a royal priesthood, a chosen people and a special people to God (1 Peter 2:9).

The priest and I share a name and a role. We also a share a response. As we speak, there are internally displaced persons in this country. Women were raped. Homes were plundered and burnt to ashes. Precious lives were lost. It is not news. It happened in 2007, 2013 and in 2017.  How many strangers have we left bleeding as we found ourselves an alternative route? How often have hidden behind our priestly garbs to avoid seeing the bruised man or woman, lying on the street? How often have we refused to see past our preferences, denomination, biases and tribal alliances?

Then, a Levite passed by and saw the man on the street (Luke 10:32). He saw him then went on with his journey. Look around you for a moment. What do you see? Do you see that terrified neighbour whose life will never be the same? Do you see yourself, posturing in prayer and denying your role in healing this land? Do you see the walls you have built to keep the “others” out? Do you see the powers and principalities at work?

A Samaritan passed by and he had mercy on the man. He took it upon himself to attend to him and nurse him back to health. Historically, Samaritans and Jews were like the proverbial oil and water. According to Jews, even their way of following God, was wrong. Jesus said that blessed are the merciful for they will be shown mercy. Some of us danced on the graves of those who died tragically in one way or another during the election period. Life, we said, could only be valuable, if it was of our “kind”. The greatest lie in these shaky times is that we do not need one another. We are certain that we do not need the ones on other side (tribe, political party, denomination or religion). We are certain that those who are like “us” will meet our every need.  The trappings of our lives deceive us further into thinking we are self-sufficient. Our certainty has stripped our curiosity. We do not want to wander beyond the imaginary lines we must toe lest we find human beings, made in His image and likeness.

We prayed for this country and its well-being but we forgot that a country is only as good as its people. A person is only as good as his heart.  We lifted our hands in reverence of His Power but we shielded our hearts from His power. We repented for the sins of the nation and its fathers only to turn a blind eye to the logs in our own eyes. We raised our hands as the priests only to step back when God required a man who would welcome the stranger, nurse the wounded and love as He loves. We memorized the scriptures like the Levites then let grow stale in our hearts because it did not suit our political inclinations, our tribal alliances, our biases and preferences. Jesus, we said, can have everything, except that which we value most. We are here, a year after a turbulent time. Did the turbulence shake what’s unnecessary out of us or did it barely move us?

The election season revealed to me I am not a Good Samaritan. I do not know how to love past the lines. I am not a good listener particularly when my opinions are being challenged. My vision is blurry because of the layers upon layers of opinion-dressed-as-truth that have formed cataracts in my eyes. More than ever, I am cognizant of how counter cultural the invite to be a Christian (“mini Christ”) is less about belonging to a church or clique and more about being a beacon towards the Light. If the words of this Gospel are to come alive, then the Levite and the priest (after the old order) must die and make room for a holy priesthood (in the new order of priest). This kind of priesthood is not about piety and rites.

It is about deep seated transformation of the heart followed by love that challenges every fiber of my being by its kindness, faithfulness and authenticity. The stranger and the outcast find space in it just as the lady with a sassy mouth and lad with a tattooed body. This love does not respect lines because it is aligned by He who Loved the World that he gave His Son for it. This Love makes a way because He who first Loved us is the Way, the Truth and the Life.

#faithmeetswork: Rix Poet

Eric Onyango Otieno aka Rix Poet  is a poet, a performer and artivist. He is the co-founder of Fatuma’s voice, a social forum that brings people together to discuss social issues. He describes himself as young and curious, a man who loves to see the world with the heart of a child.  He loves literature, music, food, conversation, tea, and brisk walks. We had a chat recently about his craft, his faith and church.

As a poet and performer, what do you love more and why?
I live for the moments when people connect with my works. The magic and miracle of those moments is almost tangible.
Did you undergo any form of training prior to becoming a poet?

I was enrolled for a BA in communication at Daystar University but I could not make it past the first year due to family conflicts. My teenage life shaped me significantly. Writing provided me with an avenue to speak up about the things that were hurting me. I focused all my energy into writing. I began by writing music then ventured into writing poetry. The more I wrote, the more I felt whole. I am surprised that my poetry became what it is today because I never thought it would amount to much.

What form of preparation goes into your performances?

Surprisingly, I have written and performed my best poems on the eve of the performances.  I can’t explain how it works but that’s how I do it. I guess I allow myself to come to the moment at my time of need.

Renowned poet Sylvia Plath once said that let me live, love and say it well in good sentences. She committed suicide sadly. In what ways did your words help you live past your suicidal tendencies?

There is so much more that kept me alive than expressing myself on paper. Writing played a significant role in my healing because it gave space to breathe, space that was sacred and pristine.
Given that writing is a lonely craft but performance is a boost to the ego, do you struggle to find your identity when you are not doing any of these? How do you deal with that?

I don’t struggle with that. Writing is like breathing to me. When I’m not doing it on paper, I spend time with people, working and listening to music. I am creating memories as I live life to the fullest.
Do you ever fear that you will be a disappointment at your next performance?
 I am not afraid of giving a disappointing performance. I just show up with what I have. It is a miracle that I am still alive so I do not put too much pressure on myself.  If the performance goes well, I lived. If it does not go well, there is no shame in that.

In a culture that is increasingly finding it hard to relate to the idea of sin and salvation, can poetry be the bridge between this world and the kingdom that Christ often spoke of?

It is not the work of poetry to do that. We need to be better listeners, better Christians, better friends and thinkers. Poetry can be a medium that stirs some but it cannot save anyone.

Art has been alienated or tamed by the modern church due to fears that it will lead many astray. What does the church need to do to make space for imagination?

God is an artist. If that is not a reason for the church to incorporate more art, I do not know of a better reason. There are forms of art that have been institutionalized by the church but it is hard to relate to these forms of art. This may be attributed to the fact most of these forms have been borrowed from Europeans.
Do you consider certain forms of art sacred and other desecrated? Why or why not?

I do not categorize art into such categories. Art is created by someone with a certain intent. It is our work as the audience to interrogate it, critique it or learn from it. Categorizing art interferes with this process.

 In what ways does your faith influence your poetry?

My faith shapes my worldview. It shapes how I view situations and experiences and how I interpret them.

Are there instances in which you feel limited by your worldview?

I read somewhere that there are two dangerous things in the world: a mind that is too closed and a mind that is too open. I am open to learning and growing as a human being. I create out the limitations of my worldview at a particular point.

Christ said that you are in this world but not of this world. Do you find tension in living like that as an artist? How do you deal with the tension?

There is a tendency to look at artists through the lens of what they do rather than who they are. I am human being first then an artist. Being passionate about social justice and feminism does not always please everyone. I have learnt that tension is part of living. Nothing grows without tension. Many of my poems are created out that tension.

Whose works do you read? Why do you read them?

I love Maya Angelou, Thomas Sankara, Tupac Shakur, Ngugi wa Thiongo, Rumi, Marjorie Macgoye among many others because their works connect me to the earth. I read the Bible, the Dead Sea Scrolls among other religious texts because there is a lot to discover in them.

 

What if following my passion doesn’t make me happy?

I am a creative who holds one of those boring-eight-to-five jobs. Depending on how you look at it, what I do from eight to five would be considered something I am not as ‘passionate’ if passion is to be defined according to the Instagram-worthy definition. It appeals to my second love and my ‘other’ traits. It appeals to my desire to discover, explore, pause, reflect and do it all over again tomorrow. On some days, I find a trail that leads to an unenchanted world which opens up to a clearing in the middle of nowhere.

I fumble with my tools of trade as I try to make sense of what I have discovered which involves doing the same thing in different ways or finding new ways of doing the same thing or doing a new thing altogether. By the time I get home, my body is aching for rest   as a result of hours of standing, pacing and sitting. My mind is trying to slow down after a day of trying to make sense of ideas, events and tests. On some days, my husband calls me to remind me that he will be late so he won’t pick up the milk from the supermarket. So, that leaves mommy with the duty of standing in a queue at the end of a long day because I need to buy milk. Once I get home, I catch up with my family and then squeeze in time for my other love: writing and reading.

My day job has its happy moments. Together with a team of competent men and women, we make decisions that shape the lives of many. We laugh, we share meals, we plan birthdays for our children and we mourn with those who mourn.  I savor the highs. I am grateful that I get an opportunity to utilize my talents, work with an amazing team and make important decisions in the process. I love what my job does for me and my family. In spite of all that, my job is not my ultimate  source of happiness but I am still passionate about it. I am passionate about writing but writing does not always make me happy.  It challenges me, stretches me, frustrates me and on some levels, it is exciting.

The authors of living-your-potential would accuse me of living in my comfort zone at this point. The authors of one-life-live-it would say I  am wasting my life by doing something that doesn’t make me happy. I would respond by stating that there are no guarantees that those who do jobs that they are passionate about are always happy because happiness doesn’t always come with a job, an enterprise or a side hustle.

If living up to your potential only translates into doing what you are passionate about, then what happens when you lose your passion? What happens when the happiness wanes and the money disappears? What happens if you are passionate about five, eight or ten things and they only give you 1% happiness? I worry about the notion that happiness and passion are tied to one another because it leaves little room for seeing work as a way of loving your neighbour, your nation and God which should be the ultimate motivation for any vocation.

As I pursue the two different worlds I am passionate about, I am no longer asking myself, ” Am I happy as a result of pursuing my passion?”

The questions that drives me are:

” What is the goal of my vocation?”

“Does this serve my colleagues, my neighbors, my country and God?”

” Am I expecting too much from job and missing out on the abundance around me?”