In an attempt of following a sermon delivered in the language that doesn’t allow me sound sleep, two young persons, probably in their twenties, stepped inside the calmly-seated church. The usher directed one of them in the back pew where I was also an occupant. Both of them came and we managed to accommodate them, one on my left, though the pew was fully packed.
Hardly had the celebration ended than it started to heavily rain. Unfortunately, this rain never signaled that it will come and in a quick glance, neither of the faithful had an umbrella nor adorned in heavy clothes.
This was the third rain since I set foot in Congo. And I tell you, when the heavens open, it does so thunderously. In fact, the effects were immediately visible; scattered branches, flooding roads which at times are impassible, heavy soil erosion and many more.
Nonetheless, the celebration ended and the Priests at the altar headed for the sacristy. After a couple of Gregorian chants, the church broke loose amidst the heavy sounds of rain. Those who were in somber adoration mood turned into jovial and chatting mood. Each one on either his or her left or right, for the rain had blocked all of us from exiting the church building, while others just flocked the exit. For me it was all noise, period.
And the noise was with me. The gentleman on my left, who missed the better part of the sermon that by passed me though physically present, of an American height donned in black corduroy trouser and a kitenge shirt, became generous to start a conversation with me. Poor me! I hardly comprehended anything he said, save for the noun ‘rain’ that was in between his statement, than the little boy in me gave the affirmative sound. “Yes!” I responded munificently. When my seatmate realized how brief my response was, he got perplexed and I saw it all imprinted on his face that I never satisfied him. Probably I needed to make another sentence to rest my case. ‘Je ne parle pas bien français!’ I mumbled those few words in a staccato cadence.
At this point, the lady on his left chipped in with a giggle. On my part, I was determined to squeeze out another sentence but wapi! Luckily, she knew little English and acted as a go-between. By now the rains had stopped and we were outside the Church, getting to know each other very well. The two are siblings. The lady, Melisa, 27 and the young man, Jean, 16. Jean is the last and only boy in the family of five, parents inclusive.
Melisa could not fathom my presence in this land, while Jean had a superficial knowledge of missionaries since he schools in a mission sponsored institute. The two argued out their cases by themselves with me taking a spectator role. Then I realized that the two never agree even on simple empirical facts that missionaries exist. Latter they descended on me for ‘judgment’ and clarifications.
The chat went on for hours and hours. And the two never reached a consensus even after my contributions. The more they argued the more parallel they ended up. Then Melisa decided to open up for me.
She is very vocal and outspoken and bitterly reveled to me that Jean, her brother, robbed her of the most valued thing in her life time that she would have wished to behold until her transition to the next world. She wanted to live and die a last born in the family. She enumerated bitterly how her last born brother always gets the best in the family. All attention is directed to him. All energy directed in his affairs. All natural familial benefits are downloaded in his chamber! While she gets the least.
Jean, on the other hand, didn’t like the fact that he was the last born in the family. It bothered him much when everyone focused his or her attention on his life. He thought that he is big enough to go about the daily affairs without any interference from other family member. He yarned and wanted ‘privacy’ and self governance of his own life. For him, nothing like freedom ever existed in his vocabulary. He longed for the day he will taste freedom. He even told me that Melisa just accompanied him to the church just to ‘protect’ him and gave the reason why she followed him to the pew that was already full. All this was a nuisance and he thought it should end from this day hence forth…
Traditionally, the first and the last borns in a family received different attentions, benefits and disadvantages too. They had different roles to play and got different approach and treatments from their parents or guardians. The entire society also had its own expectations from them. The two siblings never realized this and for them it was a war of natural fate. A struggle for identity in the family. This struggle is with us in the big family, human society.
Like, Jacob, a follower and a twin brother of Esau, embezzled the birthright from the latter in a struggle that begun way before their birth, we find ourselves yearning and wrestling for identities initially not meant for us by fate. Identities that once acquired make our ergo be either contented with the status quo or advance for change. In the pursuit of this struggle, some get lost and submit to the fittest on the basis of preferences, choices and attitudes one has towards life. The identity struggle would worsen when the leaders, the peoples light to proper discernment, decide to take sides, like Rebecca, Bethwel’s daughter did to her two sons, preferring Jacob to Esau.
All in all, God is not bound by human socio-cultural structures to fulfill His intended plans. He chooses from many within many, and empowers His choice in the daily struggle. This yields a real taste of diverse experiences, talents and know-how within communion.
Fight for your identity, for it will not limit God’s intention for humanity rather augment it, but remember to ask Him to be part of the fight; and hope for the success since the best is awaiting you.
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