a new first day

I love the Exodus story. Every other year, I read through the Chronological or One Year Bible, and it is always a highlight. What an incredible story.

A few days ago, as I read through Exodus 12, I noticed something I have never spotted before:

"While the Israelites were still in the land of Egypt, the LORD gave the following instructions to Moses and Aaron: 'From now on, this month will be the first month of the year for you. ...This is a day to remember. Each year, from generation to generation, you must celebrate it as a special festival to the LORD. This is a law for all time.'" (12:2, 14). Note that the Israelites are still in Egypt. The promise of salvation from oppression has been made, but the exodus has not yet come about. In the midst of the tension between promise and fulfillment (a tension we are often called to dwell in), God makes a command that calls for an incredible amount of faith: "Completely reorder your time, your record of history. I am about to transfigure all of life for you- what you know of me and how you relate to me. From now on, your entire calendar will be based on beginning each year with telling the story you are about to enter into."

It is a reordering of their lives indeed. Brought out of slavery under Egyptian rule, the Israelites are swept into a journey that proved far more adventurous than they ever could have expected, following a God who was far more wild than they sometimes wished. He brings them out from Egypt, then tells them to backtrack a bit; You know, "Just so I can let their army catch up and almost overtake you. For my glory." Um...ok. He leads them into a desert where they find only bitter water at first. Perfect. And he asks them to walk right into the middle of a perfectly good sea, trusting that the waters will hold back long enough for them to pass through. Sure. No biggie.

From generation to generation, God says, tell this story. If nothing else, you can say, "This, my son, is a festival to remember the day that our lives became...interesting."

My life as a disciple of Jesus is full of stories when life became adventurous and God seemed particularly wild. And I do remember them from time to time. I have a feeling that God, however, would ask of me the same thing he asked of the Israelites: "Allow me to become so central, my story so large, that it completely reorders your time, your life, your history. Remember the day I brought you out of slavery. It is the new first day of your life. Never stop telling the story."

The first day I was brought out of slavery was June 16th, 1996. I stood up to say that I wanted to follow the One who love me, and life got...interesting. I must remember that day. But I realized as I read those words from Exodus that God is bringing me out of slavery in a million other steps along the way. I often encounter them with awe, astounded, yet remember them blithely. Absentmindedly. I suddenly recall walking through a perfectly good sea as if it were dry ground, and all I can think is, "Oh yeah, I forgot about that." Again and again, I go back to the old order of things. God, however, asks me to let these moments be entire paradigm shifts. He asks me to allow them to reorder my world. "Today is the day I showed you my wonders. Tell and retell this story."

Goal for the year: Begin living my life by a different kind of calendar. The one in which all of time, all of my life, all of my history has been reordered- transfigured- by the story of God in my life. And learn to tell and retell the story.

blessed

They call it "flying signs." I didn't know there was a name for it, of course, until I was given the skinny from the inside. Until my clients came in and told me, quite nonchalantly, that in order to get their alcohol that day, they flew a sign. And I didn't have much perspective on it until then, either. Not until I knew their lives, their stories. Not until I called detox in vain, asking for at least a hint that they were there, were safe. Not until I watched them come back from rehab and blow it. Again.

Flying signs: Standing on a corner with a well-tailored (to look believable) carboard sign.

I write this knowing that I can't generalize all those who fly signs. I can't call them all fakes or manipulators, and if it helps, I also can't say that I dislike even those who fall into one of those two categories. But my time working at a homeless day center and winter shelter did change my perspective. I don't hand out money now, even if I do still feel hard and uncomfortable passing by them on a million city corners. On occasion, I will buy someone a meal or a tank of gas. But I mostly drive by. The dilemma I feel in those moments is rooted in my wrestling match with what it means to love. After watching client after client destroy themselves with alcohol and drugs, not actually in need of food as much as freedom from addiction, I no longer believe it is loving to aid someone in feeding that addiction. I wept for clients who made it 100 days without booze, almost got themselves back in housing, and came to me trashed and broken some unfortunate afternoon- back at square one. And so I continue to wrestle with all the uncomfortable ways those clients- friends- changed my perspective on love, and with what that should mean for my actions, but for now, it's where I have landed.

Recently, however, a sign-flyer gave ma a different change in perspective. He gave me what I now recognize as a true gift.

I was headed home after work that day, tired and perhaps unnecessarily grumpy (an all too common malady for me). Waiting on the offramp for the light to change, one almost always sees a figure of some shape or story, wandering the shoulder with a cardboard sign, and today was no different. At times, I am selfishly irked by the fact that I must wrestle inwardly yet again, when I am already tired and, quite frankly, would rather have my conscience left undisturbed (terrible, that thought). I shifted in my seat, and my eyes darted between detachment and the natural desire to read what has been scrawled on this particular shred of cardboard. I caught a glance of the ragged, worn man and watched him walk toward me. I caught his gaze, but saw that, unlike any other scenario like this one, his eyes asked me no questions. I paused, and then I saw his sign.

Scrawled messily in black marker, on a scrap of cardboard that had surely seen better days, were three words: "I am blessed."

That was it. No attached request. No "I am blessed, but pretty darn hungry, too." Just a declaration that caught me so off guard that I almost missed my light. Shaggy, dirty, and very likely pretty darn hungry, this man wandered the shoulder of our busy commutes and told us all, lined up and probably thinking a multitude of complaining thoughts, that he was blessed.

It has been months since then, but I cannot shake his image. His face. The moment I caught his eyes. And of course, I cannot shake the words written on his sign. In the busyness of my day, in the frustration of wrestling with the meaning of love, in the million ways I live as if I am the center of the universe...in all of these things, I completely forget the truth he shared so clearly with me. I am blessed. It is true of me now, and would remain true of me even if I were to find myself in that man's shoes. In many ways, he redeemed each encounter I have with a ragged face, flying a sign. There, alongside the dilemma, is a memory and a reminder.

Take a breath and chill out, Katie. You are blessed.

I, the oppressor

Over the last several years, I've put a lot more thought into how I spend my money. You know, "responsible consumerism" and all. It began sort of on accident, when I was in a class that required me to write a weekly essay evaluating a news article from the viewpoint of biblical ethics. One week, while flipping through the only magazine I had (at the last minute, of course), I found an article about Wal-Mart's then-recent application with the FDIC to have their own bank. It was pretty much my only option, and so I began an essay that I honestly imagined would involve pulling ideas out of...that place from which less-than-grand ideas often come.

The more I read, the more I hunted through the Word, I was surprised to find some compelling reasons to avoid America's favorite mega store. (In the beginning, it had mostly to do with the destruction of community, a huge biblical value. Later, of course, I discovered a plethora of other reasons to stay away.) I began to mention the notion to other people, and it was on my mind a lot. It wasn't until about a year later, though, that I decided my words left me a hypocrite, and I made my last purchase at Wal-Mart.

Over the next couple years, I ran into other people who cared about their habits of consumerism. I read about food ethics, and I spent bits and pieces of time researching which clothing companies used sweat shops. I learned about fair trade, and about how to invest my money in organizations that support those whom larger corporations often exploit. Still, I felt a little overwhelmed trying to find information, and wished for a comprehensive guide. I searched, but found none. That is, until one day, wandering into a fair trade store not far from my house, I happened upon such a guide: Better World Shopper. The book (and website) rank a huge variety of stores and products for their ethical practices. Information in hand, I was forced to turn a corner and radically change how I spent my money. My goal became to consume nothing that got below a "C" in ethical rankings, and to seek even better than that when possible.

I did all this with a conviction that was passionate and yet still a little ambiguous. It was the right thing to do, right? The way of Christ calls us not to take part in supporting injustice, not to be an accessory to the crime, right? But hey, it's good enough for me to do my best. I mean, at least I'm not as bad as some other people, right?

The ambiguity left completely when, while preparing to lead a Bible study one day, I was faced with James 5:1-6:
"Now listen, you rich people, weep and wail because of the misery that is coming on you. ² Your wealth has rotted, and moths have eaten your clothes. ³ Your gold and silver are corroded. Their corrosion will testify against you and eat your flesh like fire. You have hoarded wealth in the last days. ⁴ Look! The wages you failed to pay the workers who mowed your fields are crying out against you. The cries of the harvesters have reached the ears of the Lord Almighty. ⁵ You have lived on earth in luxury and self-indulgence. You have fattened yourselves in the day of slaughter. ⁶ You have condemned and murdered the innocent one, who was not opposing you."

The temptation with such verses is to distance ourselves from them, to try and learn from the warning given to "those other people." You know, the ones who oppress people and whose workers' wages cry out against them. Wow, such a harsh warning for "those people." It's gonna be a rough ending for them. As I prepared, though, I felt God asking me to linger over these words and listen a little more."What is oppression?" I sensed him ask me.

oppression noun

1. the exercise of authority or power in a burdensome, cruel, or unjust manner.

"Oppression is the misuse of power," I replied in my mind. "What is power?" he asked next. (Dictionary-wise, power in this sense is defined as "sway, rule, sovereignty.") "Well, in America, money is power," I thought. "I mean, other things provide power here, too. But money seems to be king in the long run."

It took only a second to hit me like a brick to the noggin. Oppression is the misuse of power. Money is power. To misuse my money, then, to misemploy my financial voice, no matter how insignificant it might seem at times, was to oppress. It was not just to be an accessory to the crime, somewhat distanced. It was to be the oppressor. The hammer hit even harder when I heard a sermon by a man named Steve Chalke, who runs an anti human traffikking organization called Stop the Traffik. Speaking about oppression in the world of chocolate production (raise your hand if you invest your power- aka money- in chocolate), he read a simple quote from a young boy who served as slave in the industry, on the Ivory Coast (where much of our chocolate comes from).

"When you eat chocolate," the boy said, "you eat my flesh." Over a year later, I tear up as I write those words. My consumption of a particular brand of sweet oppresses a young boy half a world away. I might even sponsor a kid like him through Compassion, and then turn around and perpetuate the systems that will enslave him.

(Side note: For a list of ways to eat chocolate without being the oppressor, check out Stop the Traffik's chocolate guide, or consult Better World Shopper.)

As a follower to Jesus Christ, I do not want my misused dollars to cry out against me. I want to hear and respond to the prompting of 1 Timothy 6:17-19, trusting in God rather than the almighty dollar, and using my money- my power- to do good. I will be honest: Responsible consumerism is a pain in the rear. It takes a lot of extra brain power. It limits my options, eliminates some favorites, and it thwarts convenience and the ever-tempting bargain. It almost always costs more. But I believe in a God who will stretch my dollar if I use it well.

I, the oppressor, have not always used my power well. May I depart from that pattern a little more, every day, for the rest of my life.

Pedro the Wise strikes again

It's summer, which means the lure of two wheels on dirt has come. Just yesterday, I returned home in classic form: a little blood, some gear grease in unusual places, and a lot of dirt. "I fell," were my first words to my husband. "Clearly," he replied, and laughed at me.

(Pedro, by the way, is the bike from which I fell.)

When I bike alone, which is usually the case (anyone want to donate an old bike to my husband?), I talk a lot. Not in my head, mind you. Out loud. I probably sound crazy, but somehow it is a part of how I navigate it all, my biking world of hills and rocks and sharp curves, all beckoning me to overcome them. Often, when I am approaching a hill that looks less-than-possible (generally when I am coming from the bottom), I will say, "I own you." Yep, that's right: I say "I own you." (Occasionally, "You're mine.") Of course, the hill cares very little about my deluded sense of ownership, and I'm sure its sense of self-worth would not be rattled by my successfully making my way to the top. In reality, I am speaking to myself. I am declaring to myself that the obstacle before me does not have the upper hand. I am declaring that I am capable of overcoming anything, no matter how daunting. Anything.

A few days ago, when I approached a few sketchy spots involving uneven rocks and a rather lengthy fall should I slip, I found myself saying, "No death wishes today, I think. No death wishes today." These are places where I weigh the glory of overcoming against the guaranteed broken bones (maybe death) of the fall, and I decide to take the humble route. Picking up my bike and trying to convince myself that I am not a chicken, I carry Pedro over the rocks and prepare to take on the hill immediately following. "No death wishes today."

The most common phrase to come from my mouth (and one that I have actually said many times even when I'm not alone) is, "No quitting allowed." In the midst of a hill that I had planned to own, when my muscles are about to stage an insurrection and gravity makes a compelling case for surrender, I tell myself that quitting is not an option. Failure? Yes, it is an option that I cannot always preclude. Quitting? This is what I have control over, and it is the thing I refuse. "No quitting allowed" reminds me of the difference between the two. Often it plays out with me falling to the ground before I will ever stop pedaling.

Every time I get back in the rhythm of mountain biking, I am reminded of a strange truth: it somehow makes me a braver person. Consistently facing obstacles from the seat of my trusty steed (this designation builds Pedro's ego), my perspective on life is a little different. I am more likely to face a daunting hill on this new adventure called marriage by saying, "I own you." Yes, I will tell that hurdle that it doesn't have the upper hand. Perhaps when life presents me with an obstacle and my heart calls for surrender, I will declare that there is "no quitting allowed," and that if I fail, it sure as hell won't be because I gave up. And maybe I will learn to face some circumstances in life in which the consequences outweigh the benefits, and I will have the humility to say, "No death wishes today, I think. No death wishes today." Perhaps I could learn to choose humility and wisdom over blind, prideful risk-taking, and begin to understand that my self-worth is in no way lessened as I pick up my bike and carry it for a while.

Here's to you, Pedro, for reminding me of what it means to be both brave and wise. And here's to you, God, for being creative enough to use an old, gray mountain bike to get through to my often distracted heart.

small town Sunday: old paintings and new covenants

In an effort to do greater justice to the power of Holy Week, our pastor has mixed things up a bit. Rather than celebrating Holy Week during....well, Holy Week, we are taking the six Sundays before Easter and using each to celebrate a day of Holy Week. Hence, though next Sunday is traditionally Palm Sunday, we will be observing Good Friday. It has felt a little odd at points, but I have begun to really appreciate it, especially today: Maundy Thursday.

In place of the traditional service order, today's gathering was a mix of long readings from Mark 14 (read by the most amazing liturgical reader I have ever encountered: the man reads in a way that makes one chew on Scripture and, perhaps for the first time, actually taste it) and short reflections from the pastor. Following the reading of verses 17-26, in which Jesus eats the Passover meal with his disciples, our congregation partook of communion. Yet our pastor asked us to do this in a new way today. Rather than simply dipping the bread in the cup and partaking as we usually do, we were to instead feed the bread and juice to the person behind us. Yep, literally turn and place it in their mouths. This was, not surprisingly, a bit awkward, all of us eating and then feeding, looking like baby birds as we accepted the juice-soaked bread from the hands of the one before us. As I made my way up the line toward the front, I began to hear that, in the place of words usually spoken by those giving communion, some members of the congregation were speaking sacred words to one another as they offered the intimate gesture of passing the elements from hand to mouth. Indeed, the man before me, a friend and retired pastor, looked at me and spoke a deep reminder of what that meal symbolized. There was something newly beautiful about it, hearing those words from him, spoken specifically for me.

Stepping forward to reach for the elements, with Tim coming behind me to receive it, I considered simply saying what is most often spoken in that setting, something about bread and cups and covenants and forgiveness. But a phrase overcame me somewhere in between placing my final step and reaching for the bread. Honestly, I can think of times when I would have brushed it aside, simply so as not to sound odd, except that this morning it was overpowering. It echoed in my mind as I took the little piece of bread, that symbol of a broken body of love, and dipped it in the dark red reminder of a covenant of forgiveness. And I turned to Tim, placed the communion gift in his mouth and simply said, "This changes everything."

They were words that came out of my own mouth, yet I spent much of the remainder of the service pondering them. This changes everything. This bread, this cup--they rewrite the entire script of creation for those who, through the eyes of faith, look to see the grace and reconciliation happening all around us, even in the midst of ugliness that sometimes astounds us. This changes everything. It changes the way we treat enemies, it turns the notion of status on its head, and it dethrones pride and guilt both in the presence of divine and underserved grace. This changes everything. And yet I sat and felt, on the inside, as if my life did not show evidence of a belief that it changed much of anything at all, at least in how I relate to God and to myself.

Beyond feeling a tad disheartened, I couldn't shake the familiarity of the phrase. It struck a chord that I couldn't name, until I finally remembered a painting I did in college during the time when I was most debilitated by the vicious side effects of my epilepsy medication. My concept of my limitations, the way in which I related to people, the lens through which I saw the world: all of these things had been uprooted and thrown topsy turvy as those little pills rewrote the rules for my bodily existence. The painting was simple, and was perhaps my neatest work during that time when chemicals caused my hands to twitch at random. It was a giant pill bottle, the likeness of the basic, orange bottle I opened every day, complete with label. Behind it, written sideways and blurred (in a representation of what the world felt like to me at the time) were three words: this changes everything. It was a visual representation of what had for months felt like a devastating reality. That stupid bottle, those little pills, the chemicals coursing through my brain: it had changed everything. It had stolen something from me and made the whole of life seem sideways and blurry. I think somehow I hoped someone might look at the painting and understand: This changes everything.

Communion, I sat there and realized, is supposed to change my life on that same level. The reality of the gospel, of a new covenant by which I am received as a daughter into the Kingdom of God, ought to do much of what my medication did. It ought to transform my concept of my limitations, to change the way in which I relate to people, and to offer a totally new lens through which I see the world. Indeed, it ought to rewrite the rules for my bodily and spiritual existence. Perhaps I have not recognized it, or allowed myself to be overtaken by its recreative powers, but the reality remains nonetheless: this bread, this cup, this covenant changes everything. Except this time it carries my past the place where all is sideways and blurry, and slowly shows me a world that is suddenly set aright, suddenly in focus, suddenly in color.

In the end, I realize that communion is not so different a thing from my painting. It is a visual reminder of a wonderfully devastating reality. And it changes everything.

small town Sunday: a justified life

Each week at church, somewhere near the middle of the service, we practice "the passing of the peace." Church members rise from their pews and offer warm greetings, "Peace be with you," and, "Good to see you." I have to say that our pastor does a great job of at least puting forth the intended power of that gesture; he reminds us again and again that it is a time to speak peace and reconciliation to one another as a people who have been reconciled to God and to one another. And honestly, I try. I want to look into the eye of my neighbor and mean it in a powerful way. I want to speak, "Peace be with you" as one who believes that the power of the Spirit of peace is somehow present in those words. It has always disappointed me that I am somehow unable to make that transition from random, amiable greeting to powerful declaration of truth.

A few weeks ago, when our pastor was enjoying a much needed vacation to sandy places, we had a guest speaker. His story was a powerful one; he had personally met Martin Luther King Jr. and had lived a life marked by a willingness to act on behalf of justice even when doing so ran counter to the status quo (which is most often the case of genuine justice, I suppose). However, though his message impacted me, what has remained with me most is what he said as an introduction to our weekly peace-passing. "Offer one another signs of peace," he said, "and while your at it, perhaps ask your neighbor what he has done to justify his existence this week." I didn't hear anybody ask the question. I mean, for the most part those who fill pews are shy about such questions, if not afraid of them altogether. I wanted to ask it, but I didn't.

We should have asked each other the question.

I may not have posed the inquiry to anyone in the church that day, but I have been asking it of myself for many days since. What have I done to justify my existence? To justify my existence? It is a profound and unsettling question. The temptation, at least at first, is to find the question a bit offensive. "What do you mean, justify my existence? I don't have to justify anything; God created me simply because he loves me." This, of course, would be simultaneously true and a cop-out of sorts. We must balance the notion that we are created simply out of love with the biblical assumption that we are not created to be well-loved bumps on a log engraved "theology". Case in point: Abraham was told quite plainly that God's promise stated both that he would be blessed and that he would be a blessing. Millenia later, Jesus, when commisioning his disciples before he returned to the Father, did not, surprisingly, tell them to go and spend their lives thinking about how much he loved them, warmly shaking hands on a million successive Sundays. He told them to go and make disciples. To go and be a part of bringing about a Kingdom marked by justice and love and compassion. In a way, he told them to go and justify their existence. Following that command seldom left those disciples in safe places. It generally shook up the very existence he had told them to justify.

I think of it this way: I ask myself if I can stand before God and say, " Today I have been a good steward of the life you gave me. I have allowed you to use it as you wish, no matter the cost." Essentially, today I have been willing to be shaken up and taken to uncomfortable, unsafe places. On the day our guest speaker asked us that question, I don't know that I could have said those words. May I strive to live up to them in the days to come, to embrace the radical challenge that found me right in the middle of a small town Sunday.

p.s. you might wanna flip that upside down

I've heard Jeremiah 29:11 about a million times. In fact, a fairly cheesy version of blared out of my car speakers today, "For I know the plans I have for you, declares the LORD...." I've heard it at graduation commencements, seen it in sympathy cards, spotted it on inspirational posters. And I have read it many, many times on the pages of the Bible. This time, however, I was struck by the context. I spotted the blaring "p.s" for the very first time: "I have plans to prosper you! Plans for hope, for a future! (p.s. first you are going to be in exile for a very, very long time.)"

Ok God, that's a little like saying to the hopeless, unemployed person, "I have a job for you! (p.s. first you will be financially destitute for at least three decades)"

Great. Thanks. Can't wait to start.

It sounds so backward, doesn't it? And yet as I read Jeremiah a month or so ago, I realized how much of his message calls us to interpret events in an upside down sort of way. It calls us to reconsider what good plans are. Case in point: a huge portion of the nation of Judah is dragged off into exile by the Babylonians. Those left behind are probably thinking, "Well, the punishment has come and we came out on top! God took the guilty ones and removed them from the land, and it's all smooth sailing from here." On the other hand, those trudging off across the desert, their backs to the land promised to their Fathers, their steps taking them toward the land of their oppressor, must be thinking, "The punishment for the sin of Judah has fallen on us. We are the cursed ones, and our brothers will be happy in the land again."

And God says, "Nope. Flip it upside down."

Through a vision of figs (because figs always make me think of people groups, you?), God speaks to Jeremiah about this. In the vision, there are two baskets of figgy goodness. One basket actually is figgy goodness. The other is figgy badness; the fruit is rotten. About these baskets, God says to Jeremiah,

"Like these good figs, I regard as good the exiles from Judah, whom I sent away from this place to the land of the Babylonians. My eyes will watch over them for their good, and I will bring them back to this land. I will build them up and not tear them down; I will plant them and not uproot them. I will give them a heart to know me, that I am the LORD. They will be my people, and I will be their God, for they will return to me with all their heart." (24:5-7)

It's good to be a good fig, no? As for the rotten fruit, God says,

"But like the poor figs, which are so bad that they cannot be eaten...so will I deal with Zedekiah king of Judah, his officials, and the survivors from Jerusalem, whether they remain in this land or live in Egypt. I will make them abhorrent and an offense to all the kingdoms of the earth, a reproach and a byword, an object of riducule and cursing, wherever I banish them. I will send the sword, famine and plague against them until they are destroyed from the land I gave to them and their fathers." (24:8-10)

Suddenly Babylon sounds like Candy Land, right? Suddenly there's no place like anywhere-but-home.

It seems that those who escaped being captured by the Babylonians and remain in Jerusalem are not, in fact, the lucky ones. Not even the king. They were not spared because they are awesome. In fact, the scene in Jerusalem is about to make exile look like an evening with Mr. Rogers. Yes folks, those who think they have come out on top will soon be dead. And those who think they have been forever rejected? They will soon be planting vineyards in Babylon, far from home but safe and well.

Now I can't paint a dichotomy of good and evil kind of image here. I mean, the ones who are stuck checking out the Babylonian real estate market for a 70 year investment aren't all innocent cherubs. They have a long way to go in mending their ways, and the prophet Ezekiel is on his way to lay down the divine smack. But they are the figs with a future. Their story doesn't end in sword and famine and plague. It ends in prosperity and hope. In between now and the end, though, there is a long walk to Babylon and a lot of years away from home.

In the end, I guess the whole thing has me wondering how limited our interpretations of "good" and "prosperous" plans are. Do we quote Jeremiah 29:11 with the underlying assumption that it can serve as a sort of talisman against such "bad" things as, oh, I don't know....exile? Would we consider the verse a dud if God's plans led us to a slave market in the middle east, with our own lives up for the bidding? (Makes me think of a guy I once read about named Joseph....) Maybe it all means that when we look around at the situations of our lives, when we begin to interpret who ended up with the good plans and who got the rotten fig...when we look at those things, we need to listen long enough to let the Father say,

"Nope. Flip it upside down."