Any Given Sunday

Like any given Sunday, I went to church with my sister and mother. Mom gave the sermon, and made us stand up so the congregation could see her children. Yet now I found myself in Kenya, surrounded by parishners from Kuriambani, a slum of Nairobi. My host mom preached from Ezekiel 9, reading mainly from the text as she gave modern day examples of how people are ignoring the painful sin and tragic occurences of everyday life as they go about their business. As chairperson of the Woman's Guild, she had seen Kenya's worst. And she had listened to the victims' stories. Eleven-year old girls are being betrothed to men over 60. Young women are being raped by men in their community. Mothers and fathers cannot find work and are forced to steal or prostitute themselves so their children won't go hungry. More youth fall into the drug world daily. These are the cries of help, she said.

And then she asked earnestly, her voice cracking with the force of pain: Why aren't we listening? Why are we not mourning? Why are we not responding to such tragedy? Are we too busy to hear God's children? In order to help, we must first listen. And to listen we must give ear to those who hurt. In doing so we risk hurting ourselves, yet in our common anguish and pain we find renewed hope and fervent prayer. We are called to the margins of our community, to reach out to the marginalized and feel their pain. Only once we become marginalized ourselves do we find common course with those who suffer, working together for a better future.

Are we willing to listen?