40 Days and 40 Nights

The desert, to me, is a place of purification, a place of retreat. Metaphorically, it’s where one goes to remove the distractions in their life, to regain focus, to center oneself and reconnect with his or her soul. A person leaves behind the things of the outside world to discover what lies within. Because, it’s when the physical world becomes barren, that the oasis of the spirit can begin to flourish.

Before all of this happened, back in the months before I even found out that I would be going to Namibia, I prayed that God would send me to the desert. I meant metaphorically, but the universe is not without a sense of humor and I was sent to a literal desert as well. I had reached a point in life where I felt I had learned a lot and grown so much in so many ways. I wanted to go to a place mentally where I could turn within and solidify at the core of my being, the person I choose to be.

I was reminded of this prayer on Sunday, March 1, 2009, when I was attending Mass with my host family at a Catholic Church in Okahandja (where I was the only white person). It actually happened to be an Ash Wednesday Mass (but on a Sunday), which adds to the whole desert theme overlaying my experience here in Namibia. Ash Wednesday, for those that aren’t familiar, marks the beginning of lent, a period of sacrifice, a time when we go to a metaphorical desert by giving something up, usually a bad habit, in remembrance of Jesus going into the desert for 40 days and 40 nights.

It wasn’t really the sermon or the readings that reminded me of my long forgotten prayer, mostly because the Mass was spoken in five or so alternating languages, and I couldn’t follow along. It was the spirit of the church, the soul with which they prayed that reminded me. I sat there in a cramped, hot, simple cement building without air conditioning, and without fans even because the power was out. The church was a desert, but the congregation was an oasis. They sang with so much soul and passion and love for God. I have never in my life heard singing as incredible as what I have heard in that tiny Okahandja church. They don’t have much, but at the same time, they have everything. Their soul, their song, will endure forever.

It made me reflect on what’s missing in the churches in the states. Most of those churches have everything they could ever want or need. They have really beautiful buildings, pretty decorations, perfectly regulated temperatures, expensive sound equipment and musical instruments, and all sorts of other various experience “enhancing” resources, but they are sadly lacking soul, at least to the degree that I’ve experienced here in Africa. What happens when you strip down the American church, when you take away the bake sales, the fancy trimmings, the comforts, the equipment, etc? Does much substance remain?

Similarly, I think that the problem a lot of times with people in the states is that we start to rely upon or identify ourselves with outside factors. We identify ourselves with the way we look, with what others think of us and how we are viewed, with our “failures” and accomplishments, and sometimes with an image we want to be associated with. But take away the beauty products, the lotions, the gel, the makeup, the cologne, the designer clothes, the trendy sunglasses, the expensive jewelry, the job title, the degree(s), the work, the money, the material possessions, your good looks, your friends, your relationship with your significant other, your family even…and what endures? Who are you when you’re standing naked and alone in the middle of the desolate desert?

That’s what I’m here to find out. You take everything away and what’s left? … So far, my truth, what I shout from the center of the desert, mentally stripped of everything ever associated with me from this fleeting world, including my physical body. What I cry with an undiminished voice and an indestructible essence is, “ME!!!…I remain, I endure…the desert strengthens me, reminding me that I am spirit…and I endure”…