I did not sleep much last night because I was anxious about the liturgy at Magburu; it would be my final public Mass in Adjumani and the refugee settlements. I am used to anxiety in my work here, because I never know what is going to happen on a daily basis, but this was different. I remembered having a similar feeling at my first Mass in the Rhino Camp Refugee Settlement, six years ago, fretting about my pronunciation of the Bari language. I knew, of course, that today's nervousness was not over language deficiencies; it had to do with all the feelings I was having about my imminent departure. I asked to do this final Mass at Magburu because it is central to many of the villages and because of my special care for its people.
The Magburu chapel is in a spectacular location, opening out onto a panoramic view of the Nile valley. There are occasions when one can look out across the Nile and see gigantic storm clouds gathering like muscles. The chapel here is long, with mud-brick walls constructed by the people. One village carpenter built efficient swinging doors of coconut tree wood that can be secured when the chapel is in use, preventing goats from wandering inside and stinking up the place. The grass for the chapel roof was purchased with the help of JRS.
When it was time for Mass, the Kitito dancers, twenty strong, led the procession, with catechists Samuel and Francesca flanking me. We ducked under the roof at the back of the chapel, entering a room full of kids dancing, people swaying, choir rocking, and women ululating. I was goose bumps. What is the language of goose bumps? What are they trying to say? I think they are alerting us to the presence of the scared and mysterious. My goose bumps were telling me that I was entering into a liturgy that is the sanctuary of the divine, and that liturgy would include at every moment an awareness of how far God has brought me and how wonderful the people are whom God has given me.
The Gospel was Mark 10:17-30, the dilemma of the rich young man who can't follow Christ because he is a man of great wealth. This reading was combined with Hebrews 4:12: "The word of God is something alive and active: it cuts like any double-edged sword but more finely." I spoke (Francesca, in her deep and comforting voice, translating) about God's power being alive and active, founding our faith and empowering us for the next step, which, in the case of the people of Magburu, implied the not-too-distant return to Sudan. To make that next step, we have to keep reminding ourselves of the priorities to which the Gospel our attention.
I had asked the teenagers of the chapel to do a drama depicting the rich young man of the Gospel. The people watched attentively as the person of wealth reluctantly abandoned what could give real wealth: following Christ. Interestingly, the young boy playing Christ became very sad as the young girl acting the role of the rich young man walked away. There was much applause when the drama was completed. This Gospel story is never a problem for the poor. This is not a group of people weighed down by the compulsions of wealth. Of course they would like to live in better conditions, have access to decent food and education for their children and a secure future. It is the abuse of money they resist. No matter how much one possesses, the Gospel calls each of us to have a free heart.
After Mass I took questions from the floor about my family and why I am going. I know they are sad because they love me and do not want to see me leave. I feel this love and sadness everywhere lately, in all the villages and among the JRS staff. The refugees know that I came because I wanted to come and that it entailed leaving my family. They understand that it is important and proper for me to return to my mother country and my family. Someone asked if I was leaving because I was sick. I told them I wasn't sick and then joked about how when an African adult suffers from malaria, he or she just keeps on working and moving, whereas the mundi (Madi for "white man") stays in bed and cries, cries, cries. Everyone nodded and laughed in agreement.
The came a question that I did not know how to answer: "Will you come back to us?" I responded that I did not think I would, but ultimately, as they know, God is the one that sustains us, and if God chooses to bring me back to Africa through circumstances and superiors and the movements of my heart, then I would happily accept such a call. I also told them that I would always carry them in my heart, as a father and a mother carry within their hearts a distant child. All nodded at that truth; exiles know it better than I do. The people applauded at the end of the questions-and-answer session and gave the Swahili clapping gesture of gratitude, which concluded with all right arms pointed toward me, a snappy and happy blessing.
Gary Smith, SJ, worked for six years with the Jesuit Refugee Service in Sudanese refugee camps in Uganda. He is the author of Radical Compassion, an account of his ministry to the poor and disabled in Portland, Oregon.
This is an excerpt from They Come Back Singing: Finding God with the Refugees by Gary Smith, SJ (Loyola Press 2008). Reprinted with permission of Loyola Press.
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