Guided Search: Kenya

A Guided Search: Kenya

At the end of my sophomore year in high school my father, mother and I went to Kenya where I was enrolled in Rift Valley Academy. Since I planned on attending college in the States upon graduation and British schools were reluctant to give full entering credit to American students, it was felt I should go to RVA, a school run by missionaries for mission children. The school was in Kijabe a 12 hour train ride away from Kisumu which was the nearest large town near the center of Friends Africa Mission in Kaimosi. I arrived at school with the sudden realization that not only was I the first Friend to ever attend RVA but that Quakerism was a relatively unknown faith that was assumed to be like the rest of “orthodox Christianity,” i.e. Evangelical Protestant. Although many of the aspects of the religion practiced at RVA were relatively well known to me and in fact seemed quite similar to some of that preached by some Friends pastors I knew, I still felt that somehow there was something different in what I had been taught at home.

I began to read, for the first time really, the writings of Friends, Faith and Practice, and the Bible. I had been led to these sources earlier and had splashed around the surface but had not delved into them. I read the Bible straight through twice in the first year, plus scriptural readings assigned in class, and studied George Fox’s Journal, Barclay’s Apology, and some history of Friends. I came to appreciate early Friends and the Bible, especially John’s Gospel and the prophets, as trustworthy guides that were not to be followed “lock step,” but rather as companions along the way.

One of the distinctive characteristics of my Friends practice was in the area of communion. The worship service at RVA observed communion once a month. I decided early on that I would participate in “silent communion” while the others went forward to receive the cup and bread. I did not make a big deal out of this, but it was obvious and several questions came up among the faculty and students. My participation in “silent communion” seemed to satisfy most people and I generally felt accepted. I didn’t realize how different this was until very late one Sunday night during my senior year when I was awakened by a younger student who came from a strong Lutheran background. As I had learned in class and discussions, communion was very central to some students and they missed celebrating the eucharist every week. The young man who woke me was one of these. In addition, communion had been celebrated that morning and would not be celebrated for another month. He explained to me that he had felt “unworthy” that morning and chose not to participate according to his belief that one needed to be “worthy” to partake in the communion. Now, in the middle of the night after wrestling with his beliefs for quite a while, he felt he needed to have communion, but realized that it would be another month before he could take communion in his tradition. He asked me to explain how I “took communion.” I tried to explain the belief that Christ needed no intermediary and then direct access was available if we would listen and open ourselves to commune with Christ. I don’t know how much this changed his views, if at all, but it did seem to give him some peace that night and he was able to get to sleep.

At the conclusion of my two years at RVA, I had what I consider one of the most profound spiritual experiences of my life. The seniors traditionally took a “senior trip” and we chose to go to Amboseli National Park for a camping trip of several nights. Just previous to leaving on the trip I had been told that my father, mother and several month old sister would be leaving for the US immediately and that I needed to stay in Kenya until graduation in August, more than a month away. The reason for their departure was the serious nature of my father’s health condition. I also had discovered that my sister and mother were “lucky to be alive. During delivery of my sister, whose conception had been deemed improbable if not impossible, my mother had been very near death and a very quick Caeserean section was performed. My sister had not breathed on her own for nearly forty five minutes and it was only through the skill, commitment and dedication of the mission doctors and the “grace of God” that my mother and sister were alive. On the last night of the trip the seniors “gathered sticks, kindled a fire and left it burning” as we shared some of our feelings, especially about our time at RVA. At that time I felt a strong sense of immanent loss with the knowledge that not only was I “alone” in Kenya, but that I might have been within moments of losing my father, mother and sister. However, as I experienced this possible loss a very clear sense of presence somehow communicated to me that I was not alone and that regardless of my aloneness, Someone would be with me.

Search: Jamaica

Guided Search: Jamaica

My earliest memories are as a preacher’s kid in Amboy, IN. However, the first lessons that I truly remember were on the island of Jamaica. My father had been called to serve Jamaica Yearly Meeting as Superintendent and doing ministry at the large “church” in Hector’s River. There I learned that I was not special or different from others because of the color of my skin, my father’s occupation, or my position.

My brother and I were sent to the local elementary school where we were the only “white” children in attendance. This was obvious, but became an item for discussion in the family when the other children called us “white feet.” We were asked by our parents why we were being called that. We explained that when we started attending the school we had been sent to school wearing shoes, but realizing that no other children were wearing shoes we had decided to take off our shoes. Being fairly respectful of our parents’ wishes, we dutifully put on our shoes in the morning, but took them off on the way to school and went barefoot at school. Since our schoolmates saw “white” people go barefoot only on the beach, our bare feet became an identifying attribute. Of course when my parents heard this, they said then don’t bother to put shoes on in the first place. This seemed to be contrary to what other “whites” expected but seemed quite natural to our family. Other missionary children were not “allowed” to go to the local school. I am not quite sure why, but it obviously was not due to lack of “education.” In Jamaica I started in “second” grade and when we returned to the States 4 years later, I was placed in 7^th grade. This placement was agreed to reluctantly by the principal at the school I entered in Ohio, but I had already been introduced to the basics of algebra and was reading at a high school level.

However, apart from the social and educational advantages of being in Jamaica, The most important lesson I learned was that love was to be the basis for action and that those who love most, served most. My father and mother, rather than wanting others to become like “Americans,” strove to assist others in learning to lead and tried to work themselves “out of a job.” I learned that missionaries should see themselves as temporarily filling in where colonial powers had failed to develop leadership, and that “we” had much to learn from each other.

In the subsequent years as a pastor in Ohio, my father would more explicitly state that he saw his role as not “working” on Sunday but rather sharing in worship. He continued to believe as a Friends’ pastor that his “job” was to work himself out of a “job” by developing leadership and ministers within the congregation. This seemed a different interpretation of ministry than most other Christians and Quakers that I knew. I saw my father and mother as very caring persons who tended to preach what they lived and to live what they preached. This was different than most preachers I knew who told others to practice what they preached but seemed to live as if preaching was what counted and not practice, especially not their practice.

Up to this point I had followed the path that my parents set before me. I did not see much need to “strike out on my own,” although we were encouraged to read, study, and question what we were being taught. I accepted much of what was taught in Sunday School, but was also taught at home that I needed to think for myself. This included looking at the Bible as a source of spiritual truth and not as a science or history text. As I was soon to discover this was quite different from the view of many others.

Braided Rug theory

I started my “Guided Search” thread using as a basis a paper written for an Earlham School of Religion course in 1980. I wrote another paper for a second course dealing with Old Testament studies. The paper was entitled “In the Beginning: There were many beginnings.” As I reflected on starting a series of posts based on “A Guided Search” as somewhat of a memoir, I recognized that I would be leaving out a large portion of what I really feel a need to record. Recalling “In the Beginning” I realized that it might be appropriate to take some of the ideas behind that paper and apply them to a second thread of my “memoirs.”

As I spent some sleepless time last night, a relatively frequent middle of the night occurrence, my thoughts went to a metaphor, analogy, picture, or “whatever” to use as a gathering point for my memories. The image of a tapestry has been used to portray the entwining threads that are quite distinct but become a beautiful whole. I have used this image in the past to illustrate my concept of a community, school, or Meeting uniting people who retain their individual diversity into a beautiful unity. I also thought of a quilt as putting together various pieces into patterns that then are placed in a larger pattern. Both of these images seemed too patterned to fit the way I view my life.

Then an image came to mind that seemed to fit both a “guided search” and “many beginnings,” a braided rag rug. From a collection of strips of cloth, a braid is formed into what appears to be a long rope that is then coiled to form a rug. Some are relatively small like doormats while others are room size, but even the larger ones can be extended by additional braid. Sometimes strips of similar color are placed together to form a length of a unique color while at other times a mixture of color and textures produce a stretch that seems nondescript. Some transitions between sections blend well while at other times there may be a fairly abrupt change in color and appearance. This image seems to fit the way I view my life in retrospect.

There were periods when the direction and “color” of my life seemed very straightforward and uniform with relatively smooth transitions. At other times there were abrupt changes and apparent confusion. As I recall these times and relate them in somewhat of a narrative, I must add some strong advisories. My memory is quite selective. My view of events is clearly biased. I will attempt to be true in my descriptions. However, my perception of the truth may not be the same as another person’s perception of the same events and, as contradictory as it may seem, both perceptions may be true.

My intention is to write what I feel needs to be said and spend at least some time editing the writing. This is a process I do not like. My “style” has been much more of writing my thoughts out, editing as I go, and then leaving the result as the product. This provides a “flow of consciousness” of my thoughts at the time, that is normally my intent, but if I am to synthesize a collection of memories into a whole it would seem that I should utilize some editorial control. Thus the appearance of posts from either the “Guided Search” or “Braided Rug” series may be sporadic, at best. In addition, some posts may fit both categories while others seem incongruous. It is my hope that as I sew the pieces together, the thread I use will be essentially invisible and the end result will be functional, at least for myself.

Guided Search 1

30 years ago while at Earlham School of Religion for 2 summer courses I wrote a paper for one of them which attempted to trace some of my spiritual development up to that point. As I "settle" into "retirement" I am revisiting that "paper" with major editing and planning to extend the "search" over the last 30 years. I will be taking this process at a measured pace. I may intersperse the continuations with other more responsive posts, but I plan to work more carefully at the "Guided Search" thread.

In examining my life’s journey I find that there were a number of guides along the way. Some of these were individuals that I knew who had a strong influence on the direction of my journey. Others, from ancient to modern times, I knew through written descriptions of their experiences and advice. These guides were ones to whom I could look consistently and confidently, as well as being able to refer others to them. It was important to me that I found some relationship with these guides similar to that described in the following:

Do not walk in front of me, I may not follow.

Do not walk behind me, I may not lead.

Just walk beside me and be my friend. (Anon?)

A critical aspect of my journey that has varied over many twists and turns has been that of finding or rather, in a more complete sense, being found by, a spiritual guide that has walked with me my entire life. I learned that the people I most trusted and who served as the truest guides followed the recommendation of early Friends in their advice to those who would be guides: “Take them to Christ and leave them there.” These true friends did not ask that I follow in their footsteps nor that I take the lead but rather they walked with me for a while as I found the trail markings they helped me to learn and bore witness to the one guide to whom I could listen and walk with regardless of how rough the terrain or obscure the path seemed to be.

My earliest guides were my father, Logan Smith, and my mother, Opal Perry Smith.