Archive Page 2

Sabbatical Irony

I was never very good at languages . . . which can be something of a handicap when you spend your graduate school days in a foreign country studying a text written originally in several different ancient languages.  I’m not overly proud that I only (barely) managed a C in biblical Greek and never learned to converse very well in Swiss German or Czech.  I just have always thought that my gifts lay elsewhere, as my mother would say. 

(And, anyway, that’s what interlinear texts and babblefish are for!)

It is somewhat ironic, then, that I am spending my sabbatical with people who love languages, who are conversant in several, and who think it’s the height of fun to translate something.  I’m not quite sold . . . even after watching the Hawaiian Bible Project up close I probably will not rush home to take a refresher Greek course.  But I am learning some of the ways in which language can have a powerful impact on culture and social structure, and I’m definitely developing a strong appreciation and admiration for the work of the Hawaiian Bible Project.  Here’s an article I wrote about the current project phase, readying the text using the new orthography:

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With only 13 letters making up its alphabet, many Hawaiian words are very similar in spelling and pronunciation.  A native speaker would certainly know, for example, that kou means yours and ko’u means mine—the words are pronounced differently because of the glottal stop, or ‘okina, separating the vowels.  But the Hawaiian language was never a written language until the first missionaries settled in the islands and began a translation of the biblical text.  And . . . for reasons unknown to modern translators of the text, the missionaries who translated the first Hawaiian Bible did not include diacritical markings in their written translation.  As the Bible was the first text in written Hawaiian and set the standard for the written language, until recently diacritical markings were not commonly part of texts in printed Hawaiian.

The Hawaiian Bible Project’s work to insert diacritical markings in the biblical text comes in response to the current needs of those reading and studying the Hawaiian text. 

With the increasing influence of the West on Hawaiian society and culture in the first half of the twentieth century, use of spoken and written Hawaiian began to decrease exponentially.  The language was not taught in schools, and educators and parents embraced the idea that teaching children to speak and write English instead of Hawaiian would be the best way for them to succeed in Hawaii’s increasingly modern and western society.  The end result of this trend was a whole generation of Hawaiian children who grew up without learning to speak or read Hawaiian.  Regular users of the language became more and more rare, so much so that the American Bible Society ceased printing the Hawaiian Bible after its last edition in 1994 because there simply was not enough demand for the printed text in Hawaiian.

But beginning in the 1970s a Hawaiian renaissance emerged.  Hawaiian youth whose parents did not speak Hawaiian felt a yearning to know their culture and their language.  This movement became a critical reversal of a trend that could have rendered spoken and written Hawaiian language lost.  Today, the teaching and learning of Hawaiian language is becoming more prominent, with immersion learning options available for every age.  However, the learning and teaching of the language has changed quite a bit from the days of the first missionaries.  Hawaiian is now being taught in a society where it is not commonly spoken, to learners who generally do not speak it as their first language.  Because of this, since the 1970s the insertion of diacritical markings in written Hawaiian has become more and more common; these guidelines help readers differentiate the meanings of words and guide them in correct pronunciation. 

The first readers of the Hawaiian Bible were native speakers who knew the subtle differentiations in the meaning and pronunciation of the words; they did not need the diacritical markings to read or understand the text.  Because of this new age of Hawaiian speakers and students, however, the Hawaiian Bible project is currently preparing for the publication of a printed version of the Bible using a new orthography which includes diacritical markings.  In Hawaiian, these markings are the ‘okina, or glottal stop, and the kahakō, or macron.  The ‘okina is counted as a letter in the Hawaiian alphabet; it’s used to separate vowels.  The kahakō, a dash over a vowel, indicates the sound of that letter is drawn out.

The respelling of the text using the new orthography is painstaking work, but its completion opens the text of the Hawaiian Bible to a whole new world of learners and linguists, and helps preserve and perpetuate the gifts and language of the people of Hawaii.

Ocean Parables

In the hardship post that is the house where we are staying on Oahu this summer, I sit sometimes and watch the ocean.  It spreads out in front of the back porch, coloring the background behind Diamond Head.  Completely upstanding citizens would kill for a view like this to narrate their morning coffee . . . in my best moments I remember to be grateful and astonished, really, that childhood neighbors would so generously offer their empty house for our use.

I think it probably was not coincidental that my sabbatical has been largely surrounded by this view, this picture of the ocean.  I’m not a person who naturally takes to deep meditation and contemplation—I would prefer to be in conversation with others.  But as long as I can remember, there has been one thing that gets me thinking and praying: the ocean

My memory of childhood is full of the feeling of ocean breeze; campfires on the beach; layers of water with sunlight streaming through.  My teenaged angst was eased by the view off Makapu’u lighthouse, where the water goes from shallow to deep very quickly and produces the most incredible variations of the color blue that you have ever seen.  There’s no peace like staring out over the expanse; there is no deep understanding of your own powerlessness like watching the waves crash over the rocks and splash up into the air. 

Though I could never have imagined we might have the gift of waking up to a view like this on this sabbatical journey, I think maybe it must be here for a reason.  Maybe I need to wake up every day and fill my vision with the beauty of the colors.  Maybe I need to look with recognition and remembrance at the patterns of the tides as they pull the water and crash against the shore.  I know I surely need to see those huge commercial barges moving tons and tons in between islands or toward the mainland and marvel at how little and insignificant they look in the whole view.  I need the familiar backdrop of the ocean to ask the questions I’d planned to ask again: Who am I?  What is this life I have to live?  What does it mean to be called by God?  What makes my heart sing?  What connects me to God?  Where is my home?

I’m asking those questions and more, sitting on the porch every morning while reading the wonderings of one of the greatest pray-ers of all, King David.  He poured out his heart in Psalm 56 and wrote, “Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!  I would fly away and be at rest—I would flee far away and stay in the desert; I would hurry to my place of shelter, far from the tempest and storm.” (v.6-8) 

Maybe, I imagine, the desert was David’s ocean.  I think so.  So when the beautiful, breath-taking view of the ocean invites me to listen for God, I’m praying along with David, just changing the words a little . . . Oh, that I had the wings of a dove!  I would fly out over Diamond Head, I would dip down to see the whales, I would try to count as many different colors of blue that my eyes could see.  I would hurry to my place of shelter and remember that I am so small in the very large plan of God.  I would fly right through the summer showers, I would catch the updraft of the tradewinds, I would rest to the sound of the waves, and I would feel the very touch of God’s hand in the warmth of the sun.

Reliving

It’s strange and surreal to watch your children relive your childhood.  Inevitably the memories come rushing back, but I am finding that they are not the factual kind of memories at all.

In other words, I don’t remember how old I was when my Grandma taught us to dance the hula, but I can still feel her hands lifting my wrist into the correct position. 

I can’t mark the exact dates we went to Bellows Beach to camp out, but my eyes sting when I think about long days spent body surfing in the salty ocean water. 

Of course I could never tell you how many trips we made to Chinatown to buy leis for special occasions, but I can hear the busy-ness of the Chinatown market ringing in my ears and I can smell the jasmine and ginger in Cindy’s lei shop on Mauna Kea Street.

Watching the kids make these same memories is reminding me of what a rich experience it is to grow up in Hawaii Nei.  I wonder how I ever lived this long without recognizing that gift?  I wonder if I’ll ever know the depths of influence these memories have in every moment that I live my life far away from the islands?

As I watch my kids run from tidepool to tidepool holding up their treasures with looks of wonder on their faces, I can remember the scrape of the rocks on my bare feet and taste of fish cooked on the grill straight out of the ocean.

I wonder if they’ll remember.

No Words

What do you do, I wonder, when there are no words? 
 
What do you do when the powerful tool you’ve always used to express the deepest wonderings of your heart doesn’t seem to work anymore, when it just lies there, dusty and broken on the ground?
 
To me, words have always been a world of wondrous possibility, all shiny and full of potential, just waiting for that miraculous weaving process that will spin them into something beautiful and heart-touching and even breath-taking. 
 
random_words_2I don’t ever know how it happens really, but there they are, always waiting for me.  And when I feel the nudge of God’s Spirit or whatever that creative muse calls herself, I’ve always felt them right there beside me, right where I can reach.  I can begin picking them up, putting one here and one there, pulling some out and putting them over there, hunting for one that’s hiding right on the edge of my memory, then laying them out on the table and pinning them together.  I start by stitching them together to try to express the hope and possibilities and wondering deep inside, even if it doesn’t have a real name yet.  The words don’t usually ripple out in beautiful harmony the first time, but that’s okay.  It’s the crafting that names the wondering, it’s how I touch the deepest part of who I am and sometimes, who I think God must be.  It’s a process that’s hard to describe . . . I just keep smoothing, replacing, adding, shaving away, until the textures are just right and the cut is perfect, and that beautiful piece of wondering catches the wind and billows with the deepest expressions of my heart. 
 
I know that the words don’t have to be profound questions or ideas or prayers . . . in my case they often are very mundane.  But I have always had, all my life, the words, my friends, sitting at the ready.
 
They seem gone now.  
 
I miss them.
 
Their absence is the most confusing thing; I don’t recognize it no matter how hard I try.
 
Oh, I can see them there, still beside me.  But instead of shiny and new, they seem lifeless and empty.  Scattered.  Useless.  Lonely. 
 
And when I look at them I don’t feel a rush of excitement or possibility.  I just feel confused and bewildered, because I don’t recognize these words.  Where are the words that have always been solace and hope and possibility and beauty to me?
 
I wish for the easy comfort of the words. 

I wish I could pin them together, even into a rough estimation of the wonderings of my heart right now, so that I could pull them around me like a warm blanket and know the very deepest pain and joy in me won’t stay stuck inside but might come out into the wondrous light of day to play in the world and find connection to others who have maybe felt something similar.
 
If only I could find the words . . . I would pray for them to come back to me, for something—anything—that feels familiar right now, because without the words, how can I reach for God?
 
Likewise the Spirit helps us in our weakness; for we do not know how to pray as we ought, but that very Spirit intercedes with sighs too deep for words. Romans 8:26

Baibala Hemolele

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I’m spending some time this summer at the offices of Baibala Hemolele, the Hawaiian Bible Project.  On my first day I heard the history of the Hawaiian Bible, which I was assigned to write up in an article, the text of which follows here:

The Hawaiian Bible, Baibala Hemolele, is a critical document in the history of the Hawaiian people. 

From a sociological standpoint, the translation of the Bible into the Hawaiian language marked the irreversible collision of an insulated native culture with the influences of the Western world.  The West came to Hawaii and brought Christian faith along with many other influences, and the islands and the Hawaiian people were forever altered.  The story of the assimilation that followed can be told through the development of Christian faith in the islands, including the translation and publication of the Baibala.  From a linguistic standpoint, the Baibala Hemolele is a unique translation of biblical texts.  Translated directly from the Greek and Hebrew texts, it was the vehicle by which the Hawaiian language became a written language.  For students of Hawaiian language, which has experienced a resurgence of fluent speakers in recent years, the Baibala is a critical text for understanding the Hawaiian language.

The first Baibala Hemolele translation team was made up of five western missionaries and a team of Hawaiians, most of whose names we do not know.  No formal account of the translation process exists today, but many of the missionaries kept detailed journals that may contain information about the process the team undertook in their translation project.  Scholars have yet to mine those documents to try to reconstruct the story.  In the meantime, this is what we know about the history of the Baibala Hemolele.

In 1837 this team of missionaries and Hawaiians finished the first translation of the New Testament; in 1839 the Old Testament was completed.  Together they made the 1839 version which, when printed and bound, looked like a football, or a coconut.  The people called it “poipoi”—round.  As the Baibala was the first book ever published in the newly invented Hawaiian language, its publication started the process of Hawaiians learning to read and write the language that had been the basis of their oral tradition.

Baibala Hemolele was reprinted with minor revisions in 1868, an effort guided by a committee led by Kahu Ephriam Clarke, pastor of Kawaiaha’o Church in Honolulu.  It was this 1868 version printed by the American Bible Society that was printed over and over again until 1994, when the decision was made to cease publication.  At that time, Hawaiian had become an almost obsolete language, as most Hawaiian children were encouraged to learn English in school.  The market for the Baibala was small to begin with and shrinking because of this educational trend; it didn’t make sense for the American Bible Society to keep printing the Baibala.

In the Hawaiian community it is a custom to present the Baibala on special occasions and to use it in worship, so eventually the community became aware that the Baibala was no longer being printed.  Ironically, Hawaiian language was at that time increasingly being taught in schools again, including several Hawaiian immersion options for children of all ages.  With the pool of native speakers growing and the ongoing need for the Baibala, the Hawaiian Bible Project began in 2002.

With seed money from concerned individuals, Partners in Development Foundation applied for and was awarded a sizable grant from the Administration for Native Americans.  Their plan was to retranslate the text from the Greek and Hebrew and publish it on a web site so that any students or churches needing to access the text could easily do so. 

Once the project began, however, it became clear that additional resources for students of the Baibala could and should be included in the project.  After translating and posting the text on the Baibala web site, the team next added an audio version of the text.  The following phase included posting the different versions of the text: 1839, 1868, and the 1994 versions.  Currently the team is respelling the words to offer a printed text with the new orthography which includes grammatical markings for easier pronunciation and understanding.  Ultimately the team hopes to have the text available in printed form once again so the Baibala can continue its life and influence in the Hawaiian community.

Christian faith in Hawaii and the Baibala Hemolele have much to offer the larger Christian community, and the Hawaiian Bible Translation Project is building a foundation from which the Hawaiian culture can share its rich traditions of faith with the world. 

Somewhere Over the Rainbow

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I categorically refuse to engage in any platitudes about rain and rainbows, but I guess this morning I could see why God decided a rainbow might be a nice touch after the flood. 

Off the back porch of our house we watched these rainbows grace the sky as the rain clouds moved off into the ocean. 

Sam and cousin Eli didn’t stare too long; they were busy planning hikes to find the pot of gold at the end.  So far, no luck.

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Kaumakapili Church

kaumakapili

On Sunday we attended worship at Kaumakapili Church.  There was a guest preacher as their pastor is away on sabbatical (Sam’s comment: “Where would you go on sabbatical if you LIVED in Hawaii??!?!?”)

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The sanctuary is beautiful; the music was very nice; it was fun to watch the kids trying to sing familiar songs in Hawaiian.  Most of all, I could feel God there and, for a few minutes, felt surrounded by God’s presence. 

Thanks be to God.

Hardship Post

View from our house . . .

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First Church

Big Island First Half 120

One of the strange and wonderful experiences of sabbatical is attending church.  Since I work most Sunday mornings I rarely get to be an anonymous attendee at a worship service.  So, our first Sunday on the Big Island we put on our shorts and t-shirts, slipped on our flip-flops and went to church.  Since we found ourselves in Kailua-Kona on the Big Island, the obvious place to go was Mokuaikaua Church, the first and oldest Christian church in the Hawaiian Islands. 

 Big Island First Half 119

It was interesting to sit in worship with the winds blowing off the ocean right outside . . . and to think about how Christian faith and Hawaiian culture intersect and clash all at the same time. 

And, I missed Calvary.

Things I Forgot to Remember

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I’ve spent a lot of time these first few days of sabbatical remembering things I’ve forgotten. In random order, here are a few:

The crash of the waves

The fact that snorkeling gear is the great equalizer—everybody looks dorky in a snorkel and mask.

How the world underwater is a hushed paradise.

My “little” brothers: how wonderful and amazing they have turned out to be.

What it feels like to be around people who have known and loved you since the day you were born. And they love you still, strangely enough.

How the Creator of the Universe is an artist of the highest order . . . colors you have never imagined together look masterful on, say, a parrot fish.

Skin pulled tight as the salt water dries.

Balloon fish—black with perfect white polkadots—my favorite.

Feeling small in a whole undersea world and remembering how small I am in the real world.

How much I have always wanted my children to run from tidepool to tidepool with their nets, exclaiming in glee.

The rough scrape of the lava rock on my bare feet.

Finding a sea cucumber . . . and bringing it up to the surface for my kids to touch.

Exhausted kids at the end of a long day on the reef.

Feeling the big strong presence of God and hanging on tight.

Why did I ever let myself forget?

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