I Witnessed

January 23rd, 2012 ·
by James Copple

The roads in eastern Ethiopia are difficult to navigate. They are water filled “canyons” with few markers to indicate direction. Large supply trucks, weighted down by their precious cargoes, are up to their axles in mud. Six of us were traveling in a Land Cruiser – an indispensible piece of equipment for this part of the world. One wag commented, “You want to get to Masai Mara, drive a Land Rover, you want to get home, drive a Land Cruiser.”

This five-hour, one way trip to several communities seemed like just one more humanitarian mission. For reasons I cannot totally explain, it became so much more.  Godare, a border community in dispute between Ethiopia and Somalia, hosts refugees while raided by rebels and terrorists alike. It is five miles from the Somali border. In just three months the camp has grown from 2,000 people to 25,000 people. Yet, international aid organizations such as UN agencies are not there. The border dispute prevents these agencies from doing their important work.

The four days we spent in eastern Ethiopia have affected me in a ways that no other journey has affected me.  In fact, I have not been able to write about it because anything I say seems premature, self-righteous, or judgmental.  The misery of famine and starvation, complicated by conflicts between faiths and political powers, washed over me and seemed to silence me. I felt broken on a rock of hopelessness that spilled any self-preserving detachment on to the ground to be soaked up by the horror of the moment. While nature caused the famine, politics and religion exacerbated it.  This suffering is preventable.

For four days I witnessed the choices made by parents and caregivers to either neglect or abandon their children because of starvation and fear. I watched human migration across barren lands in search of  food, water, or safety.  But perhaps, most disconcerting, I was a witness to the world’s neglect.  For certain, the usual suspects were present in Eastern Ethiopia – from faith-based NGOs seeking to put a finger in the dike to avert human suffering to a few global educators operating a school. There was no outrage, no anger, no urgency or call to action. People, both benefactors and beneficiaries moved through the motions of survival. There was a terrible sense of “normal.” I had seen this all before, but this time it just seemed different. It felt like I was becoming a witness to the worst in human experience.

A few days later, I came home to the hysterical debates of Congress and political campaigns during which the famine in the Horn of Africa and Kenya never received a remark.  In fact, in all the year-end reflections of 2011, nobody mentioned the famine and the number of people dying. As a witness to this horrible situation, I felt isolated and alone and every time I attempted to describe what I felt, people would simply stare. I felt like I was being a killjoy to the holiday festivities. Despite pleas by the ONE Foundation and other relief organizations with media capacity, nobody paid attention to the realities that over 30,000 children have died in the past three months. I went through my normal Christmas rituals of children and grandchildren, but I also felt lost and adrift.

I have grown stronger in recent days because of another fact associated with this experience – I was not only a witness to incredible suffering, I was also a witness to amazing courage. A group of Christians reached out to Muslims and offered them food and water. Because of religious conflict and persecution, I cannot mention their names nor their communities – but I can try to describe their acts. In this case, a small but committed Christian community worshipping underground had access to food and grains which they freely distributed to their Muslim neighbors. These Muslim neighbors told me how greatly they appreciated this act of compassion and care and how they wanted to join hands with their new friends to confront the immediate crisis of hunger and conflict. I witnessed Muslims embracing Christians and expressing gratitude for something so basic as a cup of water. I realized at that moment; I was witnessing the power of community action. Action at the community level that makes a neighbor more than an abstract concept but a person with a face, a person with a family, a person with dreams. These actions transcend religious and political conflict.

What has not been achieved in conference rooms, parliaments, or in complex negotiations is being achieved by tender acts of mercy. These acts are made possible by committed and dedicated individuals, often supported by generous donors thousands of miles away. Suddenly, I felt the bridge. Many people in the US and other parts of the developed world provide resources; courageous individuals living in remote parts of the Horn of Africa take those resources and convert them into sustainable acts of love and grace. Geopolitics aside in the global conflict between Muslim and Christian – faith based organizations and individuals go into the darkness of human suffering. They confront the noise of hate and subdue the violence with acts of charity and compassion.  Alas, I have been a witness to the worst of humanity and the best of humanity transformed by grace.

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Rise Up and Follow

December 25th, 2011 ·
by James Copple

I spent most of the year in the developing world with particular reminders of Ethiopia, Swaziland, and Kenya.  I observed for the first time a Church working underground in a hostile political and religious environment.  I was both amazed and startled by the harshness of religious bigotry and the courage of people who have made commitments to follow a Savior that if publically declared could lead to persecution or even death.  I have known persecution and have known of these threats, but I have never before witnessed what a persecuted people are willing to do in order to give their faith expression.  In a stark and famine defined area, they share their food, their water, and what little possessions they have to give witness to the redemption they have experienced.  Their story begs to be told, but alas, must remain silent to the outside world for fear of retaliation.  In one community I visited, if the Government knows you are a Christian, government officials might deny you water.

Early on in my last journey into Africa, I listened to Wintley Phipps’ interpretation of Rise Up Shepherd and Follow.  A haunting call summoning listeners to leave the familiar and to follow a star that will lead to hope and promise.  I decided in early December to make this my theme for Advent.  Rise Up Shepherd and Follow – You will forget your flocks and your herds, as the song calls us to follow him where ever he might lead.

Rise up is a call to action and if you take good heed to the Angels words, you will leave behind your sheep and lambs.   The tension between Rise Up and Leave is not easily resolved.  It certainly defies some of the sentimentality often associated with the Christmas holidays as families come together.  As I both wrestle and embrace this theme for Advent, it has produced a restlessness that is not easily calmed.  Rise Up can take on so many different expressions:

  • Speak when others are silent
  • Go to places where others refuse to go
  • Forsake blind allegiances to things of this world whether they are political, social, economic, or religious
  • Taking a stand to be on the side of the poor
  • Forsaking the comfortable lives of ease we have created and begin practicing a life of compassion and action

From a myriad of interpretations, each of us must sort through the meaning of Rise Up and Follow.   But, to all of my friends and family, I urge you to ask the question – what will it mean for us in this new year, to truly respond to the star in the East and the call of the angel – Rise Up and Follow.   I think the answer for each of us will certainly be different – but it could be the difference between joy and sadness, hate and love, peace and conflict.  I urge you to listen and then to Rise Up!

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Justice Achieved with a Fist

November 22nd, 2011 ·
by James Copple

It was 1958 and I was 8 years old.  The United States was still a nation divided.  The racial conflict found its expression in Jim Crow laws.  In the South, you could still see signs of Whites Only and separate water fountains for Negroes and Whites.  It was in this environment that I found myself in Tupelo, Mississippi with my father, mother, and older brother.

We were on our way to Florida from Kansas City for a family vacation.  A few miles outside of Tupelo on a two lane asphalt road, our brown, 1958 Oldsmobile blew a tire.  In the process a lug bolt broke making it difficult to mount the spare tire.  After assessing the situation, my father, a skilled mechanic, decided to remove the wheel plate that held the tire to the axle.  He and I would walk to Tupelo to find a garage.  It was July and I could feel the heat from the road through the thin soles of my Converse tennis shoes.  It was one of those hot, humid days that allowed you no escape.

We passed cotton fields where we saw the black faces of sharecroppers against the white blossoms of cotton as they bent over plants pulling their harvest from bolls of dry shells.  Dad explained the process.

On the horizon, we could see the familiar sign of a Sinclair station.  As we approached,  we could see it was not only a filling station but a garage with a small market.  Upon entering, we hesitated, twenty sharecroppers stood between us and the counter.  Suddenly, I felt the firm grip of my father’s hand around my hand.  The gesture created more fear than security.  Why was he holding my hand, I thought.  Suddenly from the counter someone shouted, “White man.”  A path opened and we walked to the counter.

In the midst of this sea of black faces, I felt conspicuous – I felt exposed for being white.  I also felt very thirsty.  My dad caught me staring at a pop machine in the corner of the room.  He handed me a quarter and nodded as if to say, “Go ahead; get a drink.”  I walked confidently through the crowd and put my quarter in the coin box.  I lifted the lid and felt the blast of cold refrigerated air hit my face.  Before me soda bottles hung like soldiers in single file on tracks with an opening at each end.  After a few seconds, I grabbed an Orange NEHI.  I quickly thrust the top of the bottle into the chrome opener below the coin box.  As I put the round opening of the bottle onto my parched lips, I could see a boy about 5 years old staring at me.  After my initial gulp, I tilted the bottle in his direction and said confidently, “Would you like a swig?”  There was a collective gasp in the room.  The white man behind the counter shouted, “Don’t you do that boy!”  I looked at my dad as if to say, “Why not?”

Suddenly I saw a look on my dad’s face that I had seen before and it was a look that clearly telegraphed something bad was about to happen.  He grabbed the man behind the counter and slammed his face into the cash register and in a single move opened the cash register drawer.  He took out three quarters and with an underhand pitch threw them to me.  I caught two and one fell to the floor.  He lifted the bloody face of the clerk off the register and said, “He is my boy and he is going to buy that boy and the other boy by the door a soda.”  He then asked, “Do you have a problem with that?”  “No sir,” said the clerk.  Suddenly the sharecroppers moved out of the store and we followed them, me clutching desperately to my orange soda in one hand and my father with the other.  The sharecroppers formed two lines and we walked between them.

“Dad,” I asked, “what happened?”  He looked and me and said, “You have the freedom to give that boy a drink and he should have the freedom to take it.  That’s what happened.”  We walked back in silence to the car and we said nothing to mom and my brother,  Ron.  Dad mounted the spare and drove with one fewer lug bolt.

Mom asked what it cost, he said with that James Copple wry grin, “75 cents.”  That was my introduction to the price of Justice or Justice achieved with a fist.  It took some time for me to understand that lesson from a veteran of the “The Greatest Generation.”  I still think of it as I stare inequality down in remote places of the globe and wonder, what is the price or cost of justice?

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A Cup of Water and a Biscuit

November 7th, 2011 ·
by James Copple

This is not my story but the story of a case worker for CARE International.  It begins in Somalia and its ending is yet to be written.  I found the story in the harsh and desperate world of a refugee camp in Kenya, just 30 miles from the border with Somalia, an area controlled by Al Shabaab, the terrorist organization affiliated with Al Qaeda.

On a conference call to discuss the desperate need for grief counselors in the refugee camp of Dadaab, Kenya, where there is one counsel for every 50,000 people, I asked a rather naive question of Michael, the CARE employee, “Just how bad is it really for the children?”  He paused and then said, “Let me tell you about Omar.”

Omar arrived in the camp ten days before he appeared at the CARE clinic located in the IFO expansion camp.  Omar was accompanied by his young mother whose face and complexion added thirty years to her appearance.   In front of Omar, she told a horror story not, unfortunately, all that uncommon among the recent refugees fleeing into Kenya.  Her homestead had been raided by Al Shabaab and all the men were tortured and killed, including her husband.  They warned the women they would be back in several days to confiscate all food items.  Omar’s mother was terrified and feared for her own life.

On the day they arrived, Omar’s mother, with his help buried herself deep into the sand and used a hallow reed she inserted into her mouth in order to breathe.  She instructed Omar to give the terrorists whatever they wanted but not to reveal her hiding place.  They stopped 10 feet away from her hiding place.  She could hear the exchange.  They asked Omar for the location of his mother.  He told them she had already left the homestead and was headed for Kenya.  They knew it was a lie.  They beat him and asked again.  Torture and threats were not changing Omar’s story.  His mother was gone, he shouted.

Finally, the leader changed tactics.  He offered Omar a cup of water and a biscuit.  After a long silence, Omar silently pointed to the burial shelter of his mother. He gave him his water and the biscuit.  The four terrorists dug Omar’s mother out of her hiding place and gang raped her.  When they finished, she found Omar sitting near a bush dividing up the biscuit – a piece for his sister, two pieces for his mother, and one for himself.  Since that day he has said nothing and has turned his rage and silence against his mother and sister.

Michael repeated, “For a cup of water and a biscuit a starving child chooses to surrender his mother to the men that killed his father.”  What can we expect?  Michael was angry and turned to me and asked, “How many counselors can you get me and do you have people that can train counselors?”

The answer to Michael’s question is yes.  Through African Nazarene University, we can do both.  We began organizing and soon there will be volunteer counselors in place to help.  Gender-Based Violence is a major crisis in the camps where crisis is the understatement of the year.  Women are continually under threat.  Children are in horrific pain.

When Michael asked me to help, Omar’s story became my story.  It is now your story.  Please pray for the Omars of this famine and for those of you that can do more – volunteer and donate so we can place counselors on the ground to bring healing to the soul, the mind, and the body.  We can do this; therefore, we must do this!  You can donate at www.ncm.org or at www.sai-dc.com.

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Religion and Its Bigotry

October 10th, 2011 ·
by James Copple

Following the Indian Ocean tsunami that swept across 14 Asian and African nations in 2004, killing 283,000 people, one of the first aid organizations to arrive in countries with body bags and 72 hour kits was the Church of Jesus Christ of Latter Day Saints – the Mormons. The Mormons rallied with 72 hour survival kits, and I soon learned beyond the medicines, water and food found in the kits the Mormons placed a prayer cloth and a Quran. WOW, I thought – would any other conservative religious tradition be so respectful of another’s religion? The Mormons did NOT see this as an opportunity to proselytize but to bring healing and restoration.

My academic training is in Church History. I majored in History as an undergraduate, specialized in Medieval Church History and Historical Theology in Seminary, and did doctoral work in both Medieval Church History and American Church History. I have looked at religion from just about every approach one can take. And, to be frank – the deeper I look and the longer I look the more disgusted I become.

I came to faith through the Church of the Nazarene, which is rooted in the theological tradition of John and Charles Wesley. The Church of the Nazarene was born in the context of its concern for the poor. They have historically expressed what I have experienced in my personal faith and journey.

Seeing the recent preoccupation of the media with Republican suitors for the presidency and their focus on Governor Rick Perry and the Baptist Pastor Robert Jeffress and his attempt to drive a wedge between Romney and politically conservative voters is another troubling revelation of the fine line between truth and bigotry. Forget the media’s need to keep the story alive and focus for a few moments on the arrogance of any of us to indict Mitt Romney because he belongs to a religious tradition that is just that – a religious tradition.

To be sure, the historical views of Mormons on marriage (polygamy) and race is not only unfortunate but challenges their assumption about how they were founded by a forgiving and inclusive God. These positions have been modified over time and no longer define their tradition. But then again, most conservative communities, including my own, accepted Apartheid in South Africa and dismissed it as a cultural and political anomaly that we should not challenge. Pick up that stone, if you are worthy.

All of this is now focused on Mormons – God forbid if we were to look seriously at our “Islamaphobia” that now condemns all Muslims to the scrap heap of history. The blogs and Facebook posts that continue to lump together all Muslims with Osama Bin Laden are reprehensible, bald-faced lies contrary to the spirit of the Gospel.

The sweep of history is a sad tale of blaming another’s religion for our own inadequacies. Whether it was Isabella and Ferdinand who drove the Muslims and Jews out of Spain in 1492, or some pastor’s need to make Perry more Christian than Romney, this whole discussion of one’s personal faith and its influence on public policy is a Trojan Horse. It is nothing more than an attempt to couch our political positions into a belief system that we want God to sanction. Imagine what we could do if we took “religious tradition” off the table as an influence on the way we do policy. Palestinians would not seek to push Israel into the sea and Jews and some apocalyptic Christians would not seek to justify their existence on Old Testament theory of pre-eminence. Mormons and Evangelicals could stand shoulder – to – shoulder with their concern for the family, the poor and the unborn. They could build bridges to the broken in the Horn of Africa – mostly Muslim – that are facing political and environmental famine and its consequence – starvation.

Recently in the Dadaab Refugee Camp in Kenya, a Christian leader with tears in his eyes said, “Jim I don’t see Muslims I see women, children and men in desperate need of humanitarian assistance and we have the power to help.” Yeah, my friend has figured it out. It should be one’s personal faith that defines our life and actions not the coercion of organized religion. I am convinced that God wastes no time on our attempts to divide each other by religious traditions but looks at how we live our lives in light of his sacrifice for each and EVERYONE of us. To paraphrase one of my favorite 19th Century European philosophers, Søren Kierkegaard – a long time critic of the Church – cut through the rubbish and try love. Now there is a thought. In this current political environment we will need a very big knife.

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The Cultural Practices of Female Oppression

September 10th, 2011 ·
by James Copple

This post/column/blog contains graphic details and information about cultural rites that mutilate and victimize women. If you are faint of heart – please do not engage.

To state the obvious, we live in a male dominated culture and world. Various cultures and societies have made progress in their treatment of women. As they earn seats in parliaments, state houses and corporate board rooms, it would seem that there is no turning back – women are equal to men.

Not so fast! In the developing world and no doubt in many places in First World, women still struggle to live a life free from male dominance, abuse and slavery. This week, I interviewed a young woman from the rural Kenyan county of Samburu – a university graduate – the first from her community.

My new friend and colleague from Samburu, Celina Arames Lepurcha from Sesia, in Samburu County Kenya, was unusually transparent with me in what was probably one of the more shocking interviews of my career.

Samburu young girls are forced by older women and tribal leaders to practice Female Genital Mutilation (FGM) as a rite of passage into marriage. Over 90 million young women in Africa between the ages of 0 and 15 undergo this ritual. Though the Kenyan government has taken steps to stop this practice, it is still very much a part of the culture and values of this community.

Young girls are victims of the sexual whims of elder men in search of another bride. Polygamy is the norm as men – older men – continue to seek younger brides often between the age of 12 and 15. Many of these child brides become widows sooner than later as their male partners die from either old age or disease.

She related the practice of older men seeking younger women as potential brides – many as young as 12. The men in the tribe or clan will have sex with these young women and if the young woman becomes pregnant and has not had the community ritual of female circumcision (cutting), then the women of the community force an abortion. Please note I said “forced abortion.” If forced abortion is not bad enough, the procedure for forcing the abortion is horrific. Celina said that the customary practice is to lay the young woman on her back staked to the ground or held down by other women in the community. At that point women jump up and down on the woman’s stomach and uterus crushing the fetus in the process. They continue to jump until they see the profusion of blood pouring from the uterus. The womb and its contents are crushed.

Celina emphasized at no point in this process is a woman given a choice. She has no choice but to have sex with the male, she has no choice about birth control, she has no choice about female circumcision and she has no choice about the abortion. The emotional and physical trauma of this experience is horrific and can be lifelong.

Celina returned to Samburu from Nairobi to work with women support groups. She focuses her attention on the young adolescent women of her community. I met with many of these woman on my trip to Samburu. They wear western clothing. They have goals and ambitions that include education and setting their own destiny for a family and career. Celina told me later that at least two of them had experienced this abortion rite.

Truly, a cultural clash looms on the horizon. Celina also meets with the elder women of the community, dressed in their costumes (shukas), to teach them how to market their skills at bead work and to create some economic independence. Celina teaches and empowers both groups to become independent. Celina tampers with centuries of oppression, cultural values and norms.

Change is happening in this remote village of Sesia led by a young woman of courage and determination. There is a glimmer of hope. Westerners are conflicted over these practices, admonishing us to avoid cultural intrusion and yet wanting us to protect and guarantee the rights of women. I am not sure we can have it both ways anymore. These practices, while not unique to Samburu or Maasai tribal communities cannot continue because they victimize half the population. As long as one woman must endure these practices, none of us should rest.

As I post this article to my blog, the Kenyan Parliament passed draft legislation prohibiting FGM and punishing individuals with a three year sentence for stigmatizing young women who refuse FGM. Development projects and emphasizing positive cultural practices that build trust is the alternative. Now, it is up to the communities to comply and the government to both enforce the draft legislation and promote development projects. The international community must work with these governments to assure that their young women are afforded the same protections that my daughters have. I would not stand for this treatment in my home, nor should I tolerate it in the global community.

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Dreamers and Social Entrepreneurs

September 1st, 2011 ·
by James Copple

Sitting in a classroom at the African Inland Church school in Kibera, the world’s second largest slum, I was impressed by the young people making presentations outlining their business plans. The 30 individuals from groups working with the empowerMEnetwork, an initiative of the Kenya Youth Empowerment and Employment Initiative (KYEEI), are bold leaders. Most have completed university or are soon to graduate. Their ideas were compelling. Here are some of the projects:

  1. The Golden Rabbit Farm (Marketing Rabbit to High-End Restaurants and Game Parks for Crocks).
  2. The creation of a Therapeutic Community to provide drug treatment in the slums.
  3. An upscale bowling alley and coffee house combination where young people can hang.
  4. A greenhouse project to be used in drought areas producing tomatoes, mushrooms and other “hothouse” food.
  5. A massive fruit tree reforestation project to support the needs of children suffering from malnutrition.
  6. An Ambassador program where young people provide tutoring, counseling and business development guidance to rural communities.

These are just some of the ideas shared at this event. I was there to listen, offer suggestions and make recommendations on their presentation style. Like me, most of them struggle to develop a business plan that are both profitable and humanitarian. These young people have a heart and they are trying to figure out a way to make money and do compassion and justice – all at the same time. A struggle, I must confess, I have yet to resolve. In fact, my firm is looking closely at changing our current Limited Liability Corporation (LLC) to a non-profit. Since we truly are a “non-profit”. Unfortunately, if we look like a duck, walk like a duck, then we should probably just be a duck.

If you do humanitarian work, you are not suppose to make money. That value is embedded in the American mindset steeped in a Calvinist theology that we have exported through missionaries and other humanitarians working across the globe. The Puritan ethic has found its way into the Kenyan reaction when young people want to do good but also want a lifestyle that can support a family and fulfill a dream of sending their children to a university. These issues should not have to collide.

Kenya and most of the world are in need of social entrepreneurs that will tackle the tough problems of a community or country. In the process they should not have to take a vow of poverty. We need “tentmakers” to use a biblical metaphor that will confront intractable social problems and transform them into solutions. Entrepreneurs are the kind of people we want taking on these issues. I don’t know who said it, but I have it on a plaque somewhere, “Discovery is seeing things that everyone else has seen but thinking things that nobody else has thought.”

That is what I saw today. Young people seeing the harshness of their environment and the poverty of their circumstance, something you can see throughout Kenya – but they were thinking things nobody else has thought. We should encourage this, promote this and Kenya and Africa will be a better place for it.

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DISPLACED in a World of Famine

August 27th, 2011 ·
by James Copple

Mother and ChildShe walked nearly 300 miles to get herself and her two children to a refugee camp in a not too distant land that merely tolerates her presence. On the journey she was raped and she witnessed the murder of her husband by Al-Shabaab – the terrorist organization threatening the region known as the Horn of Africa. When I saw her – all you could see was relief – she had made it and now she needed to sort out her future and the future of her boys – ages 5 and 8. Hers is one story of a collection of stories that arrive daily in this small and remote town of Eastern Kenya. For nearly 20 years, refugees have poured across the border seeking refuge in a camp that has the capacity of holding 90,000 people. Today, the Dadaab area has grown to nearly 450,000 refugees and now there are plans to expand to five separate camps. Approximately 1,500 new people arrive each day.

Nobody in Kenya likes to talk about this expansion because they fear the camps will become permanent settlements. Complicating this reality is the political situation in Somalia, the regional drought and the subsequent famine affecting 12 million souls – and the Kenyan government would rather see the refugees return to their homes in Somalia. Today if possible! Yet, the economic conditions and the drought in this area of Kenya also drive Kenyans to the camps because they can receive services they do not receive in their villages and communities. It is better to be treated as a refugee than neglected as a Kenyan.

Defining or categorizing groups of people is complicated: A neglected Kenyan, Somalian Refugee, Somilian Ethiopian and Ethiopian Refugee. Each person above the age of 5 is finger printed and has an identity card that classifies him/her so the host agencies and governments know their gender, age and place of origin. Each family unit is given a two minute call home to assure family and relatives they made it safely. What is common here is displacement. Not just the refugees, but the individuals and families living in the host communities. The wandering, nomadic existence defies any sense of permanence. Nothing to hold on to – no anchor – no foundation. The standard dictionary definition of displaced is, persons who lack a home, as through political exile, destruction of their previous shelter, or lack of financial resources (usually preceded by the ): After the earthquake, the displaced were temporarily housed in armories.

What this definition does not capture is that many of these displaced individuals left their pastoral lands, homesteads and villages because there was no food, no water and their livelihood simply evaporated in the desert heat. They simply collected what they could carry and started walking.

As long as there are people displaced in this manner – perhaps we should all feel a sense of displacement. Sitting in my flat in Nairobi and reading Facebook posts and watching the drama around earthquakes in Washington, hurricanes in the Atlantic and economic stress in my home country, there is a disconnect that gives me a feeling of displacement. I have shelter, water, food and I have resources to replenish them. Yet, my soul will not now allow me to settle into these comforts or these realities. I have been a witness to a human suffering that has shattered my sense of permanence. May I never forget.

Right now, I am doing everything I know how to do to mobilize resources (human and financial) to respond appropriately to this crisis. I am containing my anger, turning my empathy and my intellect into a vehicle for meaningful action in a chaotic world. The inescapable stench of death and hunger envelopes your senses. While I have seen these scenes before and I am a somewhat seasoned and aging veteran of these crises, I am losing patience with a world so indifferent that they can stand by and allow 12 million of God’s souls to walk aimlessly through the desert.

Our biggest fear with media absorbed images of famines is that we might somehow still feel the pain of someone else’s suffering or displacement. God Forbid!

I will return to my home soon – but it will not be with a sense of permanence – but one of displacement. Nothing compared with the displacement of my sister and her two children described above. If I am to walk along side her in her journey, I must be prepared to surrender my own identity, and somehow with her, take on the pain and isolation that is her brokenness. Maybe then, we can both be healed. I think that is, in part, what is meant by incarnational living.

FOLKS, STAND UP and DO SOMETHING! I urge you to give to Nazarene Compassionate Ministries or the Red Cross or CARE or Servant Forge. Your contributions do make a difference!

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A Child Named Mamba and the Scandal of the Particular

July 22nd, 2011 ·
by James Copple

Poverty, drug abuse, hunger and disease are issues that capture my time and attention on most days. Data and statistics come off my tongue as if I had chiseled them into my soul and conscience. I try to impress funders and policy makers with my ease of verbal and mental dexterity that allows me to navigate through a wide range of information. I am an advocate and advocates must do that. I was trained by some of the best to do that. I often speak of the many global catastrophes that threaten our children. I chide, I beg and I plead to make them a priority.

The numbers are sometimes numbing. There are 2.2 billion children in the world and 1 billion of them live in poverty. In the United States 17 million children wake up daily without the promise of a hot meal; and globally 13,000 children die every day because of hunger. Staggering numbers! However, they seem to fade into the landscape of our competing interests and concerns.

Then yesterday I read of an individual disaster. I often work in Swaziland and support faith-based initiatives seeking to address poverty and disease. We have many partners and collaborators in this mission. Highest HIV/AIDS prevalence rate in the world, number 6 in food security in Africa and one of the many African nations facing multiple years of drought. There we go again with the numbers. The individual disaster I refer to is the story of a 7 year old boy named Mamba who was beaten and then hanged by his stepfather. He was a special child to many in the ministry to orphans and children funded by several different organizations in Swaziland. I never met Mamba but this tragic and individual death stalks me today. Maybe because I have two grandsons that are 7 years old. Knowing them somehow has made me know Mamba. I don’t know – but today I am not talking about 2.2 billion children but one child.

In Seminary we often discussed the Scandal of the Particular – how odd of God to have created the universe but cares about the fall of the sparrow. I came across this quote in a sermon from Dan Clendenin, Ph.D, “I recently heard of a wonderful theological idea: the scandal of the particular. The idea is that God, this enormous creative force that “hung the stars” and created “that great leviathan just for the sport of it” would care about one of us, a particular person. That the God of Creation—Aristotle’s Unmoved Mover or Plato’s Divine Source—would stoop to join us in the mundane details of every day human life, would care even if a single sparrow fell to the ground. This “Yahweh” was completely low-brow to the Greeks, it was a scandal: from the Greek skandalon, which means ‘snare or stumbling block.”

If God is to be found anywhere it is in the scandal of the particular. An individual child – a victim of an abusive relationship – a victim of hunger and poverty – yet loved by a mother and caregivers that welcomed his smile and his life into their lives. They were transformed by this ONE child. His loss is a reminder that the numbers we deal with in global policy analysis often hide the reality that behind those numbers is a child found in the bush, beaten and abused. Mamba had individuals that loved him and he loved them in return.

What we do is personal and what we must continue to do is translate the abstract into the particular – if for no other reason – that is exactly what God did!

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Talking Trash

June 6th, 2011 ·
by James Copple

Today, I walked the stoned and cavernous streets of a Nairobi slum with about a hundred volunteers all committed to cleaning up the trash and garbage that fills these streets on a weekly basis. Each week forty young people meet at the Lunga Lunga Biogas tower and organize themselves to collect trash from about 400 families or homesteads that have signed up and pay their ksh10 a week for the service. Ten shillings is about 5 cents in US equivalent currency.

The volunteers and their leadership don’t complain, they don’t shout at the government, they just show up and get the job done.

I have been to this site before and I have written about my experience. Each time I go, however, I leave amazed at their hope and amazed by my despair. When I am home in the States, I don’t even think about trash. I walk into my kitchen and if the trash can is full, I mean really full, I finally pull the trash bag out of the container and walk it out to the dumpster. Several times a week a large truck comes by and raises the dumpster over its hood and unloads the trash and garbage. I don’t smell it, I don’t examine it, I don’t even think about it. It is gone.

Trash is a big deal for the billion people who live on a $1 a day or less. Many of these people live in urban slums in Mumbai, Jakarta, Nairobi and Islamabad. They search the trash looking for things they can sell to the recyclers or as I saw today, a young man put a castoff sandwich in his pocket as he was picking up other garbage. Trash is a big deal to the poor. It doesn’t seem to be that big of a deal to governments whose populations are predominately poor. The squalor in these slums piles up and the indifference is palpable – thus my despair. Daniel Patrick Moynihan, global thinker and former U.S. Senator said, “A nation is judged by how it handles its waste. “ Really – I use to question. I am convinced now that he was right. Unmanaged trash can cause disease, including water born diseases such as diarrhea and cholera; infections from disposable needles, and lung diseases including the breeding ground for TB. Trash in the slums is highly flammable and destroys whole sections in a matter of minutes.

The list could go on and on. It is time that all of us start talking trash. It is time that we hold the global community such as the United Nations, the World Health Organization and the funders at the Gates Foundation to all the Global AID organizations from all the countries doing AID in the developing world to a higher standard of concern. Governments in the developing world should be pressured to focus on trash and waste management. It needs to become a priority of economic development.

Kenya is currently boasting a 5.5% increase in GDP. That is impressive given the economic down turn since the post-election violence of 2007-2008. Yet, this growth is offset by the disease and unemployment found in the slums of Nairobi. Government needs to show up when it comes to waste management.

Mobilize your organizations and your youth groups to begin thinking about the global impact of trash and how we can better manage our waste. There are things you can do. Find them and then do them.

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