“Having the baby now…No time to get to the hospital…At the tea shop,” hollered the “Grandma” as she ran up the stairs past Iven to retrieve something from her room, looking understandably extremely anxious. We don’t know these neighbors well but have been trying to connect more, especially with the three younger children in their family of five – quickly becoming six – living in the tiny apartment that shares a wall with ours. The oldest of the kids who lives at home was nine months pregnant with her second baby and we had been greeting them with “Has the baby come yet?” for weeks already.

I took our own little baby Elian across the street to the sidewalk tea shop where the girl was laboring, in a lawn chair, just behind the tea cart. Her mom was hurriedly pacing back and forth on the street and people were yelling to get the girl in a taxi, while others hollered back, “there’s no time!”

I joined the small crowd of women gathered around her, trying not to be in the way, quietly praying and wondering if there was something I could do to help. One of my neighbors and I joked together about how little Elian had come to help encourage the baby that was getting ready to greet the world.

After just a few minutes a motorcycle pulled up with two men on it. Their police radios and first aid bag told me that they were some sort of official “first responders”. We had read a newspaper article recently (actually, on Elian’s due date) about how in Bangkok there is a special division of policemen on motorcycles that are trained and dispatched to deliver babies for women stuck in traffic. The guy they highlighted had just delivered his 42nd baby stuck in traffic.

My neighbor, however, didn’t even have time to start fighting the traffic to the hospital – less than a minute after the official looking guys arrived the girl started shrieking in a manner which told all of us that have given birth before that the baby was coming NOW. Most people started shrieking back and the men I had expected to come take control of the situation passed out two pairs of rubber gloves, said repeatedly, “better for the women to do it” and turned to walk the other way.

The woman who runs the tea cart looked at me and asked in Thai, “Tam Pben Mai? (Can you do it/Do you know how?)” I totally thought she was joking so I half laughed and responded with, “I don’t know how, but I can pray!!” She and one other girl I don’t know put on the gloves and several of us helped pull off the shorts and underwear of the laboring women, from beneath a sarong that was draped over her lap.

The girl’s shrieking made it clear that the baby’s arrival was quite imminent, and though I am sure everyone else there also recognized this, nobody did anything. Finally the younger girl with gloves picked up the sarong and sure enough revealed the head of a baby that had already emerged between his mother’s legs. She timidly put her gloved hand under the baby’s head and looked at me with terror, clearly totally overwhelmed. I thought, “this is ridiculous…someone needs to step in.” I turned to a neighbor and asked her to hold Elian, reached my hand out to motion for the tea shop lady’s gloves (who gleefully pulled them off and worked to get them onto my hands instead) and reached down to help guide the baby all the way out of his mama, and into this world.

Continue Reading…

Many times over the years, my urban mentors have reminded me that the poor don’t need me. Rather, I need the poor.

I was reminded of this truth rather powerfully last week when none of the gringos (except for me) were able to come to the Spanish speaking bible study that meets at our house, so our group consisted of only myself and four of my undocumented Mexican friends. One of the families (Felipe and Monica) lives five blocks north of us and has been splitting time between Juarez (their home) and Denver. They were in Juarez in April when gunfire between warring drug lords broke out in front of their trailer. Everyone hit the deck and waited for the shooting to stop. When silence finally returned, they walked outside of their home to see five corpses, one of which was that of their 9 year old son. Another woman at the study was Ana, an undocumented mother of three who lives in an apartment a few blocks from us. The fourth person was an undocumented Mexican woman who now lives in Houston but was visiting for a couple weeks.

I started our time by asking how everyone was doing. Felipe and Monica said that it had been an exceptionally hard week, as the waves of grief around the loss of their son had been especially intense. They began to sob. Ana broke into a mini-sermon to remind them that God loves them and that he disciplines those he cares about. She sited both the life of Job and her own. I’ve known Ana for four years, but learned for the first time that her first child had died at 6 months of age. Ana talked about the extreme grief that she has known that comes with the loss of a child, but that for some reason God wants to take some of us home early, which she stated is what he had done with the son of Felipe and Monica. Felipe and Monica continued to weep; Ana continued to preach and comfort. We eventually laid hands on them and prayed. Afterwards, we opened our bibles to James 5:10-11 and moved forward with what we had previously planned to study:

Brothers and sisters, as an example of patience in the face of suffering, take the prophets who spoke in the name of the Lord. As you know, we count as blessed those who have persevered. You have heard of Job’s perseverance and have seen what the Lord finally brought about. The Lord is full of compassion and mercy.

 Felipe and Monica are homeless and – for the moment – living with Monica’s family. They are looking for a low-rent place to stay. As they were leaving they saw a For Rent sign in front of the apartment across the street. I explained that the reason it is for rent is that it was vacated the previous Saturday after an intruder broke into the neighboring house, tied up the man, and attempted to rape the woman. When she resisted, the intruder pistol whipped her and then shot (and missed) as she ran in terror from the house. We don’t have to worry, I explained, because the police ended up shooting and killing the intruder after a high-speed chase through our neighborhood. Ana replied that we don’t have to worry because God loves us and protects us. Felipe said at least this is a safer place than Juarez, which has the highest per capita murder rate in the world, higher even than Mogadishu, Somalia.

Continue Reading…

“There are those that look at things the way they are, and ask why? I dream of things that never were, and ask why not?” This is a paraphrased quote attributed to George Bernard Shaw  that fits with my thoughts today.

Over the years I have struggled to understand what my call is. I sometimes think it’s just to have fun with Mathare kids or help them go to school through sponsorships. Sometimes I think I should enter politics to change the institutions of power. I guess I still do not know precisely what my call is. Five days ago I received solemn news from one of the single mothers in the slum of Madoya which is next to Mathare. Her son, who was 11months old, had passed away while she went about looking for job. As is often the case in my community, she is a teenage mom heading the family as the child’s father is also deceased.

I gave my contribution as usual and offered my condolences to the bereaved. The family had invited a “pastor” who had agreed to conduct the burial ceremony. The so called “pastor” wanted to be paid for his services and had even offered to provide transport for the family to the cemetery for a “small” fee of $60 (which is double the normal price.) I am sometimes ashamed to be called a pastor since my predecessors and peers have not lived up to the name. The “pastor” in question backed out on this family at the last hour. Last year, I was ‘privileged’ to conduct my first burial ceremony for a father of one of the boys at Inspiration Centre. The same issue now faced me again. I was called by the family in tears, three hours before the burial. I guess I was the only wild card they were left with.

To me, it didn’t matter that I was the last choice and had not been given enough time to prepare. I wonder if God wants us to serve him when we are ready or not – wearing a great suit, nice tie, or just jeans and sneakers, using an amazing vocabulary or ghetto slang?  The list is endless and I am very sure that I am totally unqualified to fit in this league of who a “pastor” is. For starters, I rarely wear suits, ties, office shoes and always use “sheng” (slang) even when preaching. I guess the family was right for not putting me as their first choice.

Conducting a ceremony to bury baby Easter (who was born on Easter) was special to me since it confirmed to me that as much as I may try to shy away from being called “a man of God”, it is evident that I can run but I can’t hide. It reminded me of a quote I heard that says “knowing others is intelligence but knowing yourself is true wisdom. Mastering others is strength; mastering yourself is true power.”  My prayers are that all men and women will know their call and trust that the God who called them to His duties, like He did in ancient times, will be gracious enough to provide them with whatever needs they may have in the present.

Moses Okonji is the director of Inspiration Center located in Mathare Valley in Nairobi, Kenya. He is also a member of the CTM Nairobi Cohort working toward his Master of Arts in Global Urban Mission from Bakke Graduate University in partnership with CTM.

For those who don’t follow the church calendar it’s easy to overlook that we remain in the season of Easter or what is known to some as Eastertide. So, the theme of resurrection rolls on until Pentecost Sunday 50 days after Easter. And it’s this season of the year that can serve as a powerful reminder for those who are captivated and called by resurrection to point out that through Jesus everything on the planet is groaning in one great act of giving birth as it is being renovated, reborn, and realigned.

 This past week at Access we practiced our identity as resurrection people as we hosted what is referred to as a “Moment of Blessing.” Recently one of our friends from the street community was found deceased on the bank of a nearby river. All that I remember of her is that she was a jittery, quick moving, and highly intelligent young woman of about 30 years of age.

 The early church recognized their role as resurrection people and would find the deceased on the margins of the empire and offer a dignified memorial and honorable burial. So, it seemed fitting that we gather outside of the coffee house with those who knew her best and read aloud the 23^rd Psalm and the Beatitudes, sing a couple songs and allow her friends to express how they felt about their significant loss.

 It was an awkward and beautiful moment that allowed everyone in attendance whether we knew her or not to acknowledge her life and death as a child of God. We claimed that what was tragically taken by heroin and violence will one day be restored to whole life.

 It’s in a moment like this that I’m reminded that resurrection people see all things through the unique and mysterious lenses of resurrection.

 This is what Paul was so crazy about in his epistles especially in 1 Corinthians 15

It’s resurrection, resurrection, always resurrection, that undergirds what I do and say, the way I live. If there’s no resurrection, “We eat, we drink, the next day we die,” and that’s all there is to it. But don’t fool yourselves. (The Message)

Think dandelions…

 As kids we used to love the fluffy remains of the seed heads. We’d pick one, hold it up to our mouth and be momentarily mesmerized to see how our breath scattered the little parachute-like particles through the air. Then we’d drop the stem to the ground having fully enjoyed it for it was. This was a resurrection moment.

Continue Reading…

When I took up the cross, I recognized its meaning….  The cross is something that you bear, and ultimately that you die on… And that’s the way I’ve decided to go.                          

Dr. Martin Luther King Jr. May 22, 1967, Penn Community Center, Frogmore, South Carolina

Editor’s note: In light of the recently revised Huckleberry Finn we thought this article was timely.

“All right, then, I’ll go to hell.” 

These are the courageous words of Huck Finn in Marks Twain’s classic Huckleberry Finn.  Huck is a 13 year old white boy growing up in pre-Civil War American South, helping a runaway slave, “nigger Jim” escape to freedom.  Huck’s declaration is the moral center of the story and a beautiful illustration of Good News.  

The 1850 Fugitive Slave Law made it illegal to aid or abet a runaway slave and required that every U.S. citizen assist in the capture of runaways.  Huck believes (as he was taught) that by helping Jim he will not only suffer the wrath of the law, but also the wrath of God himself.  Huck is convinced that he will be sent to hell for helping Jim escape slavery.

Suffering under the weight of this moral dilemma Huck decides to write a letter to Jim’s “owner” Miss Watson, and turn in Jim.  By returning Jim to slavery Huck would free his conscience and his soul from eternal damnation.  After writing the letter Huck begins to reflect on his relationship with Jim, their journey together down the Mississippi river, and the deep friendship they had formed along the way.  Yes, Huck had become friends with Jim.  This realization does something to Huck – something for which his upbringing, culture, theology and even his God had not prepared him for – that “nigger Jim” is not just a runaway slave.  Nigger Jim is a human being.  Unthinkable! 

Huck is completely undone by this realization.  He tears up the letter, convinced that by doing so he is condemning himself to hell.  As a result, Huck’s adventure takes a huge turn.  Huck is undergoing grace – the kind that empowers one to risk it all for the sake of those we love.  The kind of grace that frees us to forsake our culture, our religion and even our God when they keep us from doing good. 

“All right, then, I’ll go to hell,” Huck declares.

 Salvation has come and it has come to both Huck and Jim.  They are of one piece.  Their stories are bound together and inseparable.   These fugitives become radically united symbols of freedom in their rebellion to the powers that hold them hostage.

Continue Reading…

For years all CTM training was done on an informal basis with no degree status tied to any part of our training menu. As the years have progressed, while continuing our informal training with grassroots leaders, we have also had opportunities to accept invitations into formal educational opportunities. This process began in Nairobi, Kenya with a partnership with Bakke Graduate University (BGU) where there are currently 33 Masters students and a doctoral student working on degree’s in Global Urban Leadership. There are also other cohorts of BGU/CTM Masters students in Anchorage, Alaska and Cincinnati, Ohio.

In Latin America, we were invited several years ago by the Central American Theological Seminary in Guatemala City (SETECA) to develop an Urban Missions Emphasis track using our training menu as part of SETECA’s Masters in Ministry Degree. The desire of many in the seminary is that this would expand into a full-scale Masters Degree in Urban Ministry. At this point, we are teaching two intensive classes a year at SETECA and just last week we led a course called “Poverty, Diversity and Social Justice in Latin America.”

Continue Reading…

Editor’s note:  This was first published as a Word from Below email on February 23 2009. At the start of a new year -  a time of hope, a time of resolutions that are often forgotten a few days after they are made, this is a timely reminder of a faith and spirituality that doesn’t call us to a false perfection.  To receive the weekly Word from Below by email, click here.)

For the last 12 years our friends at Northwest Leadership Foundation have been hosting a weekly gathering known as Theological Roundtable. Each week about 15 leaders gather for a conversation that seeks to hold the Bible in one hand and culture in the other. It is a simple and powerful tool for leadership. We have adopted this as part of our strategy for leadership development in the cites that we serve. We have been encouraged to see similar roundtables formed in places like White Center, WA., Camden, NJ, and Denver, CO, Guatemala City, Santo Domingo and Nairobi, to name a few.

Not long ago, the Tacoma group invited a local Catholic priest named Father Lantry, to talk about “Recovery Spirituality.” Each week the group sends out a recap of their discussion. I am including a brief summary of their discussion with Father Lantry. I think it gets at something important for the communities that we serve. Here it is…

…Father Steve Lantry from St. Leo’s Church guided the table through the implications of what it means to take seriously addiction and recovery as it relates to our own spirituality. We talked of addictions in the conventional sense—substance abuse—as well as the more subtle, but no less serious addictions in our thoughts, behaviors, and destructive patterns that control us.

In light of this shared struggle, Lantry suggested that one of the most tragic responses to the reality of addiction is the natural but dangerous attempt to strive toward perfection. He suggested that a spirituality of perfection, which is a seemingly godly endeavor, is destined to leave us disappointed.

Continue Reading…

Editor’s note: We follow last week’s word on the power of the poem by a powerful poem from Street Psalms Community member Sam Trujillo. To  read more thoughts on Advent by Sam go here.

Image Provider
They are bleeding.
They are bleeding and you watch them bleed.
They are bleeding from the wounds of life
Caught between the crossfire of gang warfare
Shot down as a maddened animal in need of relief from itself
And yet you watch them bleed.
Tell me Holy One
Where do the wounded travel for a moment of blessing?
A moment behind the storage shed of life in the midst of the concrete universe they call home?

Image Provider
They are bruised.
They are bruised and you watch them bruise.
They are bruised from the beatings life hails on their fragile bodies
Caught between the violence of the streets
Crushed bones by the weapons of breath
And yet you watch them bruise.
Tell me oh Holy One
Where do the beaten search for a moment of blessing?
A moment behind the soreness of flesh to find exquisiteness in their face within the walls of a prison they call home?

Image Provider
They are shamed.
They are shamed and you watch them shamed.
They are shamed from the countless naked moments life rapes their souls
Caught between the language of love entangled with the thrust of lust
Forcibly taken against their will and tormented by a story of lies
And yet you watch them shamed.
Tell me Holy One
Where do the shamed journey for a moment of blessing?
A moment behind the veil of inhumanity where the purity of their soul can be saved while still they remain in this basin of poverty they call home?

Continue Reading…