WAKING UP TO THE GOSPEL

I hope this doesn’t sound too weird. To those that know me, it might – to others who have come across the blog and don’t know me; I’m not a religious person. I believe in God; I have private ideas and thoughts. Most are not shared. I’ve always thought of organized religion as organizations that are politically divisive and pressure people into group think. I don’t fault people who are members of these establishments. It’s a personal decision. For me, it’s never been a place where I have found comfort. My opinions about this were formed as a child. I haven’t looked at this objectively . .. until now. This doesn’t mean I’ve found religion. It doesn’t mean I will rush out and join the first church in the village. It simply means that I’ve discovered another way to look at it.

It’s Saturday. I awake this morning to loud music. Gospel music. It was coming from the next block. I looked out my balcony and there were children with their mothers and fathers dressed in their best clothes and ready for church. There is a growing membership of Seventh Day Adventists in Saint Lucia. Rather than closing my windows and going back to sleep, I got up and opened the back door to my balcony as well as the door of my front balcony. The sounds of Gospel came rushing through both doors. I hear the church women singing praise to God. It nearly brought me to tears.

A few years ago, on a Saturday morning, I went to the museums in Los Angeles, by the University of Southern California. It was a leisurely rainy day, and so with nothing to do, I set out by myself to explore yesteryear. I walked into the small African American Museum. As I remember it, the museum is one room, maybe 5,000 square feet. As I entered, I thought to myself that I would complete the tour in ten to fifteen minutes. I emerged from the building three hours later having had a profound and lasting experience.

I saw the shackles worn on the ankles and necks of slaves. I looked at the primitive tools they used and the improvised musical instruments they played. I listened to audio-acted testimonials that expressed the fears and dreams they had while living on plantations. In the corner was a simulation of a large boat, standing on its end. Drawn inside were silhouettes where each slave lay shackled for several days while crossing the ocean from Africa. It was an interactive demonstration.

I stood there within one of the silhouettes and imagined what it would be like. I would be frightened, hungry, maybe claustrophobic, and terribly hot. I would be thirsty and dehydrated from the sweat dripping from my body. I would watch people around me die and left there as a reminder that I could be next. There would be no way to communicate as people were taken from many villages, each speaking a different language. I would have no idea what would be next if I were to survive. . . or worse yet, if there would be a “next”. It was an overwhelming experience. This is how many Saint Lucian ancestors came to the island.

I’ve spent some time at the library in my village library researching Saint Lucian culture. Yesterday, I went to Vieux Fort for a couple of errands. I was curious what was upstairs from the Super J Market. I walked up the stairs and there was a food court, a couple of clothing stores, an internet café, and a bookstore. I went into the small bookstore and came across a book written by a local from Vieux Fort, Anderson Reynolds. The book is titled The Struggle for Survival. I began reading it when I returned home.

Reynolds book tells the story of why two striking banana farmers were shot by police in 1993, and the affects the strike and violent ending had on the island. He relates the struggle of the Saint Lucian people from its earliest history to recent times. He paints a picture of people at the mercy of powerful countries who have more resources, a desire to satisfy their own need, and one common characteristic: greed.

The author writes about early island history and the Carib’s futile fight to keep their island under their control. He writes about the years of sugar plantations and the exporting of slaves to sustain their industry. He reminds us that although their official language is English, the Kweyol they speak was devised out of desperation and need to communicate. They needed one “native” language they could all speak. He talks about the greed of other societies and the problems it creates on this tiny island. He focuses on the people’s dependency on others for survival.

He eloquently relates their struggle along with the strong forces against their survival. He tells the story of how farmers are at the fate of the weather gods. Hurricanes and draught are a fact that can and does put entire agricultural industries out of business. He focuses on the farmer’s powerlessness to fight the weather gods.

This book, along with other research and experiences I’ve had, leaves me yearning to learn more. They are a people who have been and still are dependent on others and the environment for survival. Once in a while they try to take what is rightfully theirs and the result has been the same. Saint Lucian’s struggle, but they don’t give up.

The people of Saint Lucia have a foundation of faith. School starts with prayer. Meetings start with prayer. Dinner starts with prayer. It seems most things begin with prayer. They don’t have the separation between church and state that we have in the Untied States. Religion is important on this island because so many times God was the only place where people could find hope. People openly talk about God in their everyday lives and no one is uncomfortable with it. The religious groups are there to lift the spirit of people when there is no work, when hurricanes have destroyed their crops, and when powerful countries exploit this country to satisfy their needs. As a people, is hopelessness necessary to seek faith to regain their hope?

I know this sounds simple. Intellectually, I’ve known this. But being here, it smacks me in the face. It’s not just what I know in my brain – it’s in my heart. I get it. I’m writing this post while sitting on my balcony. I’m listening to arguably the best gospel music sung. I realize I just gained another reason why it was so important for me to be here.