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."

prayer and potential

April through August. Never before have I let so much time pass without putting my thoughts into writing. So much life has come and gone over the last 4 months. In the midst of it, I let myself get spread a little too thin. To return to this place of expression, to journaling, to letter-writing...these are some of my biggest desires in the months ahead. Ah, but back to the placing of thoughts on paper...

So I have been thinking a lot about potential this summer. In June, my small group chose to read through the book of 2 Peter (followed by 1 Peter...you know, like you do). I've always loved this epistle, penned by the bumbling and yet dauntless disciple to whom I have often related most. This time through his words, however, brought forth a depth of challenge I had never seen before, even in the most familiar of verses (the one quoted beneath hung on the wall of my bedroom all throughout high school).

"His divine power has given us everything we need for life and godliness through our knowledge of him who called us by his own glory and goodness. Through these he has given us his very great and precious promises, so that through them you may participate in the divine nature and escape the corruption in the world caused by evil desires."

Everything we need. It seems that God did not give us life and godliness directly, though that is what we often ask of him: "Father, I am a mess. Please make me godly." What he gave us instead was everything we need to turn around and choose to let him actualize that burning ball of potential in our Spirits. And so while we plead with him to make us godly, the seed of godliness and everything needed to make it burst forth into life are already within us. As I thought about it, it called to mind a passage from Ephesians:

I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, ¹⁹and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is like the working of his mighty strength...


There it is again. Paul isn't praying that the Ephesian believers would have power. He is praying that though would realize that they already do. He is praying that these children of God, who are bursting at the seams with the very power of resurrection, would let it loose and live lives of resurrection. We have everything we need.

Later in 2 Peter, we encountered the notion again. In chapter 3, Peter states the reason for His writing as follows: Dear friends, this is now my second letter to you. I have written both of them as reminders to stimulate you to wholesome thinking. Ok, sounds reasonable enough. He wants them to start thinking wholesome thoughts. Good deal. But then we read it in the NKJV, and the truth of chapter 1 stepped into the light again: Dear friends, this is already the second letter I have written you, in which I am trying to stir up your pure mind by way of reminder.

To be honest, I chuckled at this thought, and actually joked out loud, "I don't think there's a pure mind to stir up in me." Immediately I sensed the Spirit check me on that statement, sensed it with a clarity that I don't often encounter in my life of discipleship. Everything we need. There is a pure mind in me, burning with potential and waiting for me to set aside my old way of thinking and let it come to life. The clarity of that moment was so keen that I had to stop and say to my friends, "What I just said about not having a pure mind..it isn't true."

This all may sound basic, but it has begun to change the way I pray. I suppose that my prayers have always been much like the one I mentioned above. "God, I want to be really alive, to be godly. Father, give me a pure mind." Those are discouraging prayers, in some ways. They come from a heart that just hopes God can come through and make me something other than what I seem to be most of the time. Instead, God calls me to a prayer whose nuance is subtle yet profound: "Father, help me to actualize the pure mind that you've place in me. God, help me to choose to live out the potential for godliness that is just waiting to burst out of my life." There is hope in that prayer. It emerges from a belief that I am already have the thing that I hunger for. It is a prayer of faith in a God of resurrection: I already have everything I need. I just need to courage and wisdom to let that burning ball of potential loose in my life.

lessons in shutting up

Jesus threw some zingers out, I tell you.

Case in point: here's one makes me cringe pretty much every time I read it: "The good man brings good things out of the good stored up in his heart, and the evil man brings evil things out of the evil stored up in his heart. For out of the overflow of his heart his mouth speaks."

I have spent the last week or so regretting pretty much every time I open my mouth. It seems that every time I utter a phrase or two, I am left with an aftertaste of either a) superficiality, or b) bitterness. As the days pass, I crave silence more and more, simply because speech inevitably leads to frustration. I guess I figure that if I just shut up long enough, maybe things will smooth out a little. Jesus' words remind me that there is something else at stake: my heart. As I began to look back over my words from the week, this is the emerging portrait of my heart, that deep place from which my words flow: afraid, bitter, jealous, critical, and a semi-shade of empty. Even in light of Jesus' reminder, the conclusion is in many ways the same: shutting up is probably a good idea. The difference is that silence is not the fix, but the starting place. It is an avenue for encounter with the one who changes not just the overflow of the heart, but the heart itself. Silence, then, becomes far more than just a temporary form of damage control.

In my desire for reprieve from my stupid mouth, I pulled one of my favorite books off the shelf as I headed out the door this morning. The plan was to spend a few (hopefully speechless) hours at a coffee shop, and the book was Henri Nouwen's The Way of the Heart, a short but hugely impactful look at the importance of the monastic virtues of solitude, silence, and prayer in our current context. His words on silence have stayed with me in a profound way since I first read them: "Silence teaches us to speak." According to Nouwen, words are meant to give life, but can only do so when they are rooted in a listening silence. The way we throw words around left and right as if it's a virtue to constantly tell all (I am as guilty as anyone of this) has cheapened words. They are stripped of their sacredness, their power. More than that, they are actually dangerous. James tells us that the tongue is a world of evil, and in most of our lives we seem happy to prove his point. Nouwen writes that even an abundance of good words is a cheap substitute for the rich utterances that come from one who has allowed silence to teach him to truly speak. In that deep silence, the inner fire of the Spirit is guarded and kindled. It is the Spirit who teaches us to speak not death, or even simply distraction, but life and healing.

Nouwen nails it. But the nitty gritty of it all...that's the challenge ahead. Silence is not exactly easily incorporated into my daily life. Just this morning I had to explain to someone that my lack of words was not, as he had supposed, due to my being angry with him. It requires a whole paradigm shift to learn to spend time with others with few words involved. I don't know where to start, really. But I'll try, because I crave that carefully guarded fire of the Spirit. I crave the taste of words that reflect the creative and life-giving power of my Maker. From the fruit of my lips, Proverbs tells me, I will be nourished. I feel like I've been downing package after package of corn syrup-y fruit snacks. Some resemblance to fruit in shape, pretty much none in nutrition or taste. I think I've hit my limit.

I'm ready for a growing season of silence, in hopes of tasting the real stuff instead. Less crap, more fruit. Jesus, help me shut up long enough to get there.

lenten loneliness

Confession: I have practiced a lenten fast for several years now, and it has rarely meant a lot to me, at least not on any spiritual level. Lacking sweets or caffeine or whatnot generally doesn't remind me of Jesus or his suffering much. The year I gave up TV in a house that constantly had it on may have been the most effective fast in previous years, simply because it opened my eyes to the vast amount of time I actually have, and how much peaceful I am when I spend it on fruitful things. Still, not much to knit my story with Christ's.

This year, for the first time, my lenten fast felt connected to the story of the passion. I gave up Facebook, which those who use it daily will understand to be a challenging task. That, honestly, is why I took a friend's suggestion to leave it behind for 40 days-- because I knew it would hurt a little. But I had chosen other fasts for the same reason in years past, and as I mentioned, they did little to connect me to Jesus' walk toward Jerusalem, his journey toward death and then life. Little did I know, Facebook would break that pattern.

At random (I am reading the One Year Bible this year), I read through the passion narrative just before Lent began. One thing stood out to me as I read the story, something that had not struck me so deeply before. It was the deep loneliness and sadness of Christ as he prays in the garden and walks through the events leading up to his death. Weeping in the garden, asking God to choose some other way, he returns again and again to find that his closest friends can't stay awake to pray for him. Then moments after the mob arrives to take him, each of those who had walked closely with him--those who had been his friends--turn tail and run. They leave him standing there, and he walks through the most horrific of nights alone. The next day, as he breathes his last on the cross, he cries out in agony as even his Father seems to have abandoned him. Such loneliness. I imagine that Jesus' life had been growing in estrangement for many days before that night in the garden. As he moved forward in ministry, speaking subversive and often divisive words, and predicting an ending that no one seemed to grasp, Jesus sense of aloneness must have been acute.

I realized something during those days when I wanted to so much to log on to my account, and had to choose not to. I became aware of the role that Facebook often plays in my life--it is a salve for loneliness, a false fix when I feel estranged and disconnected. It opens the door, on a shallow level, to be instantly connected to the goings on of people in my life. I can even stop and make a comment, verbally jumping into a story in which I might normally play no part. My lenten time of staying away from that vehicle of connection (save for a few times on the road, since I had to connect with places to sleep...) forced me to sit with my aloneness, with my estrangement, and consider the far greater loneliness of Jesus. Again and again throughout those weeks, I was called back to look in on that place in the garden where he wept, on the trials and flogging where his only company was those who hated him. For the sake of my salvation, out of sheer love, Christ chose to walk a path of loneliness. He felt it just as any other human does, and yet he chose the path of estrangement anyway.

As I return to Facebook, Easter having come and gone, I am called to remember another thing. Facebook doesn't need to be the salve for my estrangement when loneliness strikes. I am called to remember that the effect of Christ's loneliness is my reconciliation. It is an intimate connection with the One who created me, and who is always with me. I pray that I will learn to enjoy tools that connect me with my friends, yet refuse to bank all my hopes on false fixes. The Christ of Lent, the resurrected One of Easter...he is to be the salve for all my broken places.

small town Sunday: mosaics

Sunday after Sunday, these last few weeks, I have sat in my pew in Green Mountain Falls with the same thought: "I need to write about this." It has become a mosaic of beautiful and challenging moments in my mind. And so that is what I come to offer now: tiny, colorful pieces of faith and community, drawn from the deep well of my small town Sundays.

At the opening of every service, our Pastor asks the congregation if there is anything they are thankful for. There is seldom the awkward silence that one might expect (in fact, one time there was such a silence, and the Pastor exclaimed, "What's up? Usually I can't shut you guys up!"). My favorite moments of thanks almost invariably come from the two small children that are usually sitting in the pew in front of me. They will raise their tiny hands, and to my delight, the Pastor never fails to call on them. The outcome is usually hilarious. One time, the little girl--maybe 4--spoke loudly: "When you're in the snow, you'd better wear boots!" Last week, she simply asked a question: "Does Jesus live in Woodland Park?" Shortly thereafter, her younger brother took his turn. "It's snowing today," he proclaimed, "And I want lots of bouncy balls!" Smiling from two feet behind, I thought, "I am thankful for these kids, for a church that validates them." And, of course, for the giant bowtie around the neck of the 10 year old behind me.

Our church follows the liturgical calendar, and the first Scripture reading for the day is often read by a member of the congregation--sometimes adults, sometimes children. My favorite is an older man, who walks to the lectern slowly and reads at about the same pace. It is beautiful. Recently, upon reaching the lectern, he held up a torn piece of paper in his shaky hand. "You might notice," he spoke slowly, "that my Scripture has been eaten by a large, black dog," and then continued with his reading. A couple weeks later, again having concluded his slow walk to the stage, he paused and announced, "I'm a little off balance today. One of my hearing aids is dead." And on with the reading.

The sermons, of course, usually leave some sort of mark on me, whether laughter or deep thought. When the liturgy presented us with Jesus' apocalyptic words from Luke (I think), the Pastor began with, "I figure if Jesus could sum up the end of the world in about ten lines, I should also be fairly brief this morning." And he was. On the Sunday following the tragic earthquake in Haiti, he opened with a bold statement: "Those who stand in pulpits this morning and claim to have answers, I would argue, are blaspheming." I have always appreciated that he is willing to call his congregation to wrestle with the difficult and seemingly nonsensical aspects of the world we live in, of the gospel, and of what it looks like to be a disciple. There are moments to be treasured from the children's sermons as well. One week, after trying to perform a rather obvious magic trick, he led them through this simple prayer: "Thank you, God, for silly magic tricks and for miracles. Help us to know the difference." Yes, God, help me to know the difference.

Last Sunday, it was a visiting preacher who left a mark on my life. He had cerebral palsy: His gestures were awkward, and his words were difficult to understand. And yet, he was one of the most gifted speakers I have ever heard, and his simple presence taught me something of courage. This man had followed God's call to preach even when it seemed like a crazy proposition. I thought of Moses, who claimed he was not good with words and yet was called to speak to Pharaoh. I thought of a poem by Ruth Bell Graham:

He is not eloquent
as men count such;
for him
words trip and stumble
giving speech
an awkward touch,
and humble:
so, much
is left unsaid
that he would say
if he were eloquent.
Wisely discontent,
compassion driven
(as avarice drives some,
ambition others),
the old, the lonely,
and the outcast come;
all are welcome,
all find a home,
all — his brothers.

Behind him
deeds rise quietly
to stay;

And those with eyes to see
can see
all he can say.

Perhaps he'd not have spent
his life this way
if he were eloquent.

"God uses ordinary people, " this courageous man reminded us, "because frankly, God likes ordinary people." And so, having followed God into an unlikely calling, he left an indelible mark on the lives of an entire congregation of ordinary people.

Tomorrow, I will make the drive up the pass, my insides slowing down as I make my way out of the city and onto the quiet street that runs through Green Mountain Falls. I will experience the presence of God in the gathering of his ordinary people. And tomorrow, sitting behind thankful children in my favorite pew, I will likewise be thankful. Thankful for snow boots and bouncy balls, for Scripture-eating dogs and silly magic tricks, for bowties and sermons and potlucks. Thankful, that is, for the whole mosaic of my treasured small town Sundays.

love for the oppressor

After only a few months of living in our neighborhood, my roommates and I made up a little ditty about the fine folks we pay rent to; It was called, "Mr. Slumlord", and was sung to the tune of Mr. Sandman. In this low-income setting, where we have come with the goal of showing the love of Christ to those we call neighbors, it has been difficult to watch them taken advantage of again and again. Charging outlandish rents (when compared with the assessed value of the actual trailers) and ignoring code requirements in the name of being cheap, our landlords seem to have no problem kicking folks while they're down. Meanwhile, they drive home to a huge house in the richest part of town, and take annual vacations to Hawaii. I don't understand it, and it makes me angry. I want to hate them, and I consistently rip on them. I have somehow come to the conclusion that I should love my neighbors and disdain my landlords. Love the oppressed, hate the oppressor.

It is not the gospel.

That is the message God has been opening my eyes to over the last few weeks. It is true that our landlords actions are wrong, and I am in no way called to condone, or even to remain silent about them. Yet I am unequivocally called to love them. The gospel speaks of a God who sends rain on the just and the unjust alike. It speaks of a Messiah who came for both the oppressor and the oppressed. It speaks of One who, when being brutally nailed to a chunk of wood, asked God to forgive those who were swinging the hammer. "If you love only those who love you, what good is that...?" asks Jesus. And so I begin to ask myself--and to ask God--what it would mean for me to show extravagant love to the oppressor in our midst.

Now it is important that I chose to love simply for love's own sake, but I will admit that I am becoming more aware of the strategy in loving my landlords. They are the people of greatest influence in our neighborhood. If their hearts are changed, and their actions follow suit, then the situation of every single one of our nieghbors could improve. The oppressor may become the advocate, the catalyst for change.

If I am honest, sometimes I think it's actually a kind of righteousness, my hatred for the oppressor in my midst. And indeed, some of David's great laments suggest the same. Yet the one to whom I have chosen to follow, the Christ whose truth I am banking my life on, calls me to love. "Love never fails..." THIS is the gospel. May I learn to live it well.

lessons from a Christmas Eve candle

Christmas Eve in Indiana. I found myself in a small church sanctuary in Mishawaka, listening to the traditional Scripture readings of the season and singing carols. Sadly, the music did not include my favorite lyrical reflections: O Holy Night, and O Come, O Come Emmanuel. They are the songs which call me back to the deep longing into which the Christ child was born. A people who mourned in lonely exile, who pined away in sin and error--these are the people to whom a savior was given that night. The songs remind me to hear the call of Christmas: Rejoice! Emmanuel has come, and the soul has felt its worth.

The service ended as most Christmas Eve services do, with the lighting of small candles while we all sang Silent Night. (Though at the church I used to attend in Carbondale, they actually play the Hallelujah chorus instead.) As we sang, I stared at the candle. I watched as the wax melted into a clear pool of liquid around the wick and then dribbled down the side and into my protective plastic holder...thing. I turned and saw Tim tip his candle toward his bulletin, playing with the wax in the way that, if we are honest, every person in the sanctuary wants to do. Verse by verse, the candles continued to burn. A year or two more of keeping vigil over the singing of Silent Night, and the candle would be gone, melted entirely and spilled on perhaps a few more Christmas Eve bulletins.

I realized something as I stared at my candle. That small flickering light is meant to symbolize the light of the world, the call to let my flame flicker bravely in the darkness in the name of the one whom we celebrate each Christmas. What I realized was this: the continual, vigilant burning does not end well for the candle. The candle receives no honor or award for longevity or faithfulness: The candle disappears. Its form--it's existence--is sacrificed to its purpose.

In many ways, this is the gospel. As John the Baptist once said, the goal is that Christ would become greater, and his servants would become less. The fire of the Holy One is all consuming, and the life of faithful discipleship is made of a million small deaths. We sacrifice ourselves to our purpose, which is to let God burn so brightly in our lives that we ourselves are less and less visible, and eventually we disappear into the love that burned us up. We give up self preservation because we trust that we will one day be re-formed and made new in that place which is invisible to us while we are in the world.

This little light of mine, may God help me let it shine. And may he create in me a heart that is willing to disappear so that some may find their way home.

small town Sunday and me: we will be just fine

Green Mountain Falls may be a blip on the map. Population less-than-800, its few businesses don't even fill two sides of one street. One gets the feeling of being at least a little insulated from the rest of the world and its tragedies at times. Yet GMF is no less vulnerable to recession than the rest of the nation right now, and my small town Sunday church is feeling it. Outside the sanctuary, charts can be seen with dollar signs on them. I've seen such charts before, usually showing how much money is needed to build the new addition or fund the mission trip. This chart, however, simply shows how much more red the church can handle before it goes under. Not growth, not expansion, not needless spending--just fiscal survival.

As one who cringes at the mention of money during services, I wondered what to expect when the Pastor was slated to give a report from the team dedicated to "stand in the gap" between today's offering and an empty bank account. I wondered what the admonition might sound like, since I know the pastor well enough to imagine that he likewise cringes in such settings. He stood, stared down at the podium for a few seconds, and began.

My pastor never once told his people to give more money that day. Instead, he told them how much he loved them, and how proud he was of the way that they were loving one another and loving the community. He praised them for standing by one another, for embracing every person who walked through the doors, and for seeking to be people who authentically live out their faith. He reminded them that "giving" was about money yes, but about so much more than that. He paused, the continued with the tired but resolved look of a man surrendered to faith. "I know," he said, "that I may not have a salary in 12 months. I know that. But if we keep doing what we are doing, we are going to be just fine. If we keep loving each other, if we keep sharing God's love with the community, we are going to be just fine. Peace be with you." I got home and realized that I had just heard the words of Jesus: Seek the Kingdom, seek righteousness, and you will be just fine.

There was a sermon on Sunday, but for me the moment of transformation was his "report" from the cash committee. I am in my own time of staring at a dismal fiscal forecast. I feel confident that I have followed the road God pointed me down, and it seems to be leading to anything but the farm where the cash cows are kept. Without eyes of faith, things might look rather grim. Yet on Sunday, my pastor called me home to a great truth. There are bigger things at stake in life than money. If I seek God wholeheartedly, if I follow him as best I know how and try to love the world around me, I will be just fine.

Hallelujah. We will be just fine, my small town Sundays and me.

bolted doors and barred off lives

St. Gregory's Abbey. Though it has been years since I sat in its worn pews, I often think of and long for the warmth of that enormous stone sanctuary where I often went to meet with God in silence. At the time, I was a college student at a Southern Baptist University, a denomination not known for its contemplative practices or use of silence. Southern Baptists are, well....loud. And so I would often slip away to the nearby campus of St. Gregory's University--also a functioning Benedictine monastery--and enter into the deep silence of its beautiful stone abbey. As is the standard among Benedictine places of worship, the doors were always open. Whatever time of day or night I needed to sit with God, I could enter in. My years since leaving OBU have made me painfully aware of what a privilege it is to live just miles away from such a monastery. I am often at a loss when I feel the hunger for hours alone in a silent sanctuary.

The tragedy, of course, is not that a lack of monastery means a lack of churches. They are all over. In fact, it doesn't necessarily mean that there aren't any grand stone sanctuaries there to wrap me in their cavernous regard for the holy. The tragedy is this: most of those grand sanctuaries are locked. It seems that monastic communities are one of the only places where the doors remain always open to the seeker, the penitent, the lover of God.

Earlier this week, I needed to sit in silence with God. Bitter winter winds made a journey into the wilderness near my house unappealing at best, so I drove off in hopes of spending a few hours in the tiny mountain church where I attend lenten taize services. The sanctuary is simple and snug, holding 100 people at the very most. I smiled at the thought of feeling its warmth.My smile faded, however, when I walked to the door and found it locked. Somewhat disheartened, I got back in the car and drove toward the beautiful Episcopal church I had passed on the way. Huddled against the wind, I made my way toward the great, red doors feeling hopeful. I pulled at the small latch, and the smile that had faded at the first church now disappeared entirely. It was locked. Locked like so many other churches I have tried over the years. I felt lost and somehow rejected. I muttered frustration, turned toward the chilly wind, and walked back to my car.

Thankfully, I recalled one large chapel, situated on a local college campus. Nestled in the company of people who are awake at all hours, it locks its doors only when its flock has all gone to sleep: never. Day or night, the great stone walls welcome those who seek sanctuary, whether from the bitter winds or the harshness of life. In that chapel, out of the cold, I sat in the balcony and breathed. My restless heart had found a place to rest.

How sad it is that that beautiful chapel was a 'lucky find.' To me, this closing and locking of the doors is one of the most grevious losses in our current church setting. The brokenness of our culture and the depravity of our human condition has won out. We have conceded defeat in some small (big?) way. In order not to have our sanctuaries damaged, our space abused, or our churches robbed, we lock the doors. Penitents may come when someone is on guard, and with that they will have to be content. The trouble is, the doors are open only for services, classes, potlucks....they are open for activity. For the moment alone, for the welcoming embrace of silence, the doors are locked.

My encounters with locked doors earlier had made me a little angry. I was frustrated to be shut out of the sanctuaries where I had hoped to find solace. As I went through the day, however, my eyes were opened to another tragic element within the church. Shut more tightly than any church or chapel door are the intimate spaces of our stories. So very few of us live hospitable lives: not hospitality in the sense of welcoming others into our home, but of welcoming them into the deeper parts of our own lives. The church--the body of believers that transcends any structure or building--is even more the place where people should be able to find acceptance and sanctuary. How often, however, do they come in out of the cold, feeling hopeful, and find the doors locked tightly. I ask this of myself. Have I, along with the keepers of so many church buildings, allowed the brokenness and depravity of my world to win out? "Don't come in. I do not know if you are safe and I don't want my heart to be vandalized." Is this what my life says? Or do I live a life that is more like that precious Benedictine Abbey or that great college chapel, one that says, "Come and be welcomed, not matter your state, no matter the hour. The one who indwells me is able to care for me, and he calls me to welcome you in."? Of course, there are times for boundaries. There is no way around that. Yet it may be that strict boundaries, locked doors, were made to be more of the exception than the rule. Perhaps the rule is one of hospitality, of welcoming in.

May the both church of stone and the church of flesh both begin to stand in trust again, to refuse to concede defeat. May we remove our locks and re-open our doors to those who, huddled against the harshness of weather and life, come seeking sanctuary. Let us pray they would find it waiting there.

small town Sunday: coming home

I sat near the back, as I always have. My favorite stained glass windows filtered in the sunlight at my left, while in front of me the old woman who once shaved her head for cancer funds made an announcement that her recent prayers had been answered. After a year away, I was home again, home under the great wooden beams that keep vigil over my tiny church in Green Mountain Falls.

The welcome I received should have not surprised me, yet I none the less found myself caught off guard by the hugs and questions and excited hellos. The announcements began, and I settled into the quirkiness of the place. The pastor announced that the church had been called upon to contribute 80 boxes of jello for a local Thanksgiving food drive. Of course, in the land of small town Sundays, the jello will not be stored in bags or boxes; there in Green Mountain Falls, a jello tower will be erected. Perfect. Other announcements included an abundant pumpkin harvest, one of which had been brought as a donation to the church. A choir member stood and announced that he had been married to his wife for 40 wonderful years. A high school student asked prayers for her upcoming audition with the city orchestra. I listened to it all smiling, feeling as if I was in a congregation that had its priorities straight.

Midway through the announcement, I watched the pastor's wife walk in holding their son, nearly 2 and looking like a miniature of his father. I remembered the day when our pastor held his cell phone up to the microphone and announced that they were going to have a baby. Another is now on the way. Beautiful.

One of the things that kept me in Green Mountain Falls in the first place was the pastor's unwillingness to candy coat the difficult side of the gospel. Sunday's sermon did not disappoint. He told the story of a drug lord in Brazil, a man named Fernando who, even after "converting" to Christianity, continued to provide drugs and contribute to poverty and needless death. He spoke of his initial reaction to this man--scorn, the same scorn that we all felt as we listened to the story from our pews. Yet as he related it to the passage for the day--the story of blind Bartimeus, who would have been understood to be a sinner by virtue of his disability--he called us back to the reality of the example set for us by Jesus. The gospel, he reminded us, is not only for the poor, but for Fernando. It is a gospel that calls us realize that if a man like Fernando were to step onto the road and cry out, "Son of David, have mercy on me," Jesus would accept him as he accepted the blind man. "Are we willing to help the violent, the despicable, and not just the poor? That is the gospel, and I don't know what to do with that. Peace be with you." And thus the sermon ended.

As he prepared to speak the benediction, the pastor reminded us that we seldom listen to the postlude, though the women who play put effort into it every week. "Perhaps this week," he said, "we should stay and listen." It was one of the most beautiful piano pieces I have heard in a long time, and I would have missed it. I wonder what other small beauties I fail to take time for.

I ended my return to Green Mountain Falls with a potluck, several people gathering around me simply to ask questions about my year away and hear what was ahead for me. I felt it as the embrace of authentic love among the body. It was precious to me, this homecoming. The gift of God in the form of a small town Sunday.

thoughts from room 124

Alabama, USA. I have stepped into the thick Southern humidity for four days to visit a friend who goes school at Auburn. Until I set foot outside the airport, I had forgotten how much I hate the sticky feeling of the air as I walk, the feeling that I am breathing soup instead of oxygen. Yet I had also forgotten how much I love the rolling hills and vibrant greens, kudzu vines blanketing the landscape, draped over trees and bushes like a sheet tossed over seldom used furniture. And in accordance with Southern tradition, the people are so welcoming and gracious that you might as well just move in. Of course, there are elements of Alabama that are foreign to me, and sometimes quite funny. I was feeling a little guilty for making so many snide remarks, until a walk through the Piggly Wiggly revealed a shelf dedicated to pickled pig parts. Pickled pig lips, anyone? What planet am I on? The other evening highlight was a drive-in restaurant whose marquee read: "You gotta eat and we need the money!"

I write now from one of the sketchier motels I have ever graced with my presence, just off the highway in Phenix City, AL (yes, that is spelled correctly). I'm with one of the few friends who would join me in purposely finding a fairly trashy motel to stay in. As one who needs to explore the world this way, I am unspeakably grateful for such friends. So here we are, sitting on stained mattresses we hope don't have bugs and adjusting to the stench. The carpet is torn up in places, there is a filthy office chair where a normal sitting chair might be found, and an unidentifiable stain marks the wall next to my bed. Four paintings hang on the wall: three of them are the same print. I look at them and immediately begin the song in my head: "One of these things is not like the other..." (Thank you, Sesame Street, for helping me identify my world even 20 years after I abandoned you for cooler programming.)

Working with the homeless, and doing my best to learn more and more about the life of the American working poor, I look around this room and cannot help but think of the millions of Americans who are paying most of their paychecks to stay in such motels for months at a time. Unable to save the money for the huge up-front deposit on more suitable housing--indeed, more affordable housing--they shell out hundreds of dollars a week to keep a roof over their heads. It is not an option. It is the option. Not so for me, of course. If I wanted to, I could say "Dude, this place just reeks a little too much," and Kristin and I could pack our things and drive home, or check into a place that has a more diversified art portfolio. But my growing awareness of the part of our society for whom this rank room is reality makes me want to stay simply for that reason. Something in me wants to understand, even if it is on a limited level. We are arrogant indeed if we think we can fully understand, coming from a secure middle class world. I can come to understand the aggravation that comes with appliances constantly breaking, the discomfort of having no insulation in the walls, or the shame of walking through the world knowing that your clothing and hair reek of the room you slept in last night. But I cannot understand the hopelessness, the sense that this all there is. I cannot understand the isolation that is often a key factor in perpetuating poverty. And I cannot understand the depth of frustration that led the mother in the room next to us to scream at and slap her child into the middle of the night. I tried to report the incident, but I know nothing will be done. That child will experience the true plight of the poor in America: invisibility. Silence. As I lay in my bed on the other side of that thin, stained wall, listening to the horrible sound of a frightened child, I could not stop thinking of the Proverb God used to call me to the poor several years ago: "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy" (31:8-9)

In a few weeks, I am headed back to the low-income neighborhood where I lived before coming to work at FMS. I desire so much more than to be the school bus and the homework help and the Thursday night cook. Granted, I adore those things. I love simply living life at the Trailer. Yet I long all the more to speak up for those around me who have no voice. The child in a terrible home setting. The struggling family being cheated by the landlord. The injured working man who cannot get the insurance that would allow him to go back to his job. These people need a voice. It takes courage to be that spokesperson, courage that I do not always show. Looking at the months ahead, I pray that I might be brave. I pray for grace to love the invisible, and the courage to raise my voice.

the need for dignity

One cannot work with the downtrodden long without becoming aware that there is something they crave more than a meal: dignity. Dignity is why my clients are far more upset if our shower is broken than if our food has run out. It is why, much to our frustration, so many of them will turn down work that pays less than what they once made. It is why so many of them come in with heads hanging and with tears welling up.

Just yesterday, a man came down to register, and I invited him in to my office. I began as we always do when it comes to new folks that come down: "So, tell me about your situation right now." This man immediately reached behind him and closed the door, then began a desperate plea. He trembled and spoke quickly, his eyes looking anywhere but at me, clearly ashamed to be asking for help and afraid I was judging him the whole time he talked. "If I could just get a shower and wash my clothes. I won't ask for a place to stay. I'm staying in my storage unit. I can sleep there. But if I could just get a shower and get out of these clothes...I...I just need some help." He tried to hold back tears, and only partly succeeded. Before I went to get the registration forms, I asked, "Are you a hug man?" He wavered, "Well, yes, but I don't think you want to hug me. I'm pretty ripe." But when I gestured, he stood anyway, and I hugged him. I could feel him shaking. Later, I watched that same man emerge from the shower like a whole new human, still a little shaky, but with a calmer face. "Feel good?" I asked. "Oh! that was divine," he replied. My replacement, who started this week so that we can overlap for a while, looked at me and shook his head in amazement. "That's incredible." I nodded knowingly. It is indeed incredible what happens when you allow someone the dignity of being clean.

Sometimes it is difficult to know how to use dignity as a motivator. As I mentioned in a previous post, there is debate about whether offering work to an alcoholic may help them out of their addiction by offering dignity and curbing boredom. The situation I mentioned in that post ended with the client in question guzzling 6 bottles of cooking sherry (high alcohol content and can be purchased using food stamps) and spending the next few days in the hospital after a minor heart attack. Strike one.

Another client, Tom (not his real name), recently got a job at Wal-Mart and lost it within a week because of his drinking. Of course, he later confessed to me that he had also mouthed off to his manager because he couldn't handle the idiotic way they were going about a shipping/stocking task. True, most of our guys are skilled tradesman. It must be painfully difficult to be a peon at Wal-Mart, accepting orders from someone who doesn't know what they're doing (in regards to the mechanical/technical side of things) because you aren't the professional in that setting and have no say. Still, a job is a job--some dollars is an improvement on no dollars-- and so we encourage our guys to get rid of excuses, even when we understand where they come from.

When Tom came into my office to vent about the situation, he was drunk again. I listened for a while and debated about how to respond. "Suck it up," was an option. "You're going to have to deal with your drinking, man, and take what work you can get." In some cases, that is the right response. But in Tom's case, I just asked, "Tom, what did you do before you were homeless?" He told me about his work in mechanical engineering and electrical jobs and plumbing. He's a very skilled guy, a jack of all trades. Watching him light up, I took a different angle. "Then go do what you're trained for, Tom. You're good at your work. Go find it." I could see the wheels turning in his head, the sudden boost of confidence. "Yeah. You're right. Hey, there's a place I used to work. Can you look up their number for me? I did good work for them. I know that if they can, they'll hire me." I typed in the business name--a construction place in Michigan--and handed him the number. "Tom, you are better than living in a tent. You are better than Wal-Mart. Go and do th..." He stopped me short, stepping in right after the word Wal-Mart. "Thank you, Katie. I heard that. Thank you." And then Tom, who has shown almost no motivation from the moment he registered at FMS, walked out my door straight to the phone, and called Michigan. He didn't get the job, but he has been calling other people ever since, and left early on Thursday because he had some day labor to attend to.

I never know when it is a good idea to say, "You're better than Wal-Mart", and when I should say, "Hey man, I know it isn't the professional setting you're used to, but it's a good job. Suck it up." I'm learning that it just takes case by case discretion, and that such discretion will only come through relationship, through me putting in the time that helps me see the difference between Tom's mindset and that of any other client in my office. But the need for the Church to establish that kind of relationship with the downtrodden is a whole different blog...

For now, I just say again that dignity seems to be at the heart of healing for the folks I work with, and for so many others around us. To be called by name, to have a shower and a shave and some clean clothes, to know that their skills are recognized...these things are as important as the loaf of bread we might offer. May we always seek to acknowledge and affirm the dignity of those who need our help, but not our condescension.

a prodigal comes home

The paper has become a stranger now.
I have forgotten the feel of it:
[my thoughts stretched out across thin blue lines,
a thousand-word self portrait,
the moment of finding myself on the page]
I want to return somehow, like
a prodigal wordsmith
a wanderer coming home.

Here, notebook open
I imagine myself, small,
timidly stepping out onto the first of 33 thin horizon lines.
I pause, look around wide-eyed, taking in the whiteness
hearing it call to me like a field of untouched snow.
I make a mark
step back, look
make another.
And before I know it, there I am dancing
jumping and climbing from line to line
flinging ink
laughing.
I flip my wrists, let my thoughts fly, fall where they wish
big words
small words
scratches
scribbles
re-writes.
Reaching the bottom, I plop down exhausted
breathless
and dangle my legs over that last blue precipice, #33.
I am covered in smudges,
my face stained with the messy markings of self-expression.

Reacquainted with the once-blank page, content
I lie down there and sleep
peaceful, dreaming
like the prodigal wordsmith
a wandering poet come home.

it's not about breaking the rules

Lately I have been reminded of something about myself: I am pretty prone to idolatry. Not so much the carving images out of wood variety of idolatry, or the kind that has platinum hubcaps or custom plates. My idolatry tends to be a little less visible, but it is there all the same. It is more in line with what the dictionary calls idolatry: "blind or excessive adoration of something" often something that is "visible but without substance". In many ways, I simply have an addictive personality, a tenacious devotion to the people and things I value. I am an all or nothing kind of kid, to be sure; it is both a strength and a weakness. Sadly, I often get mixed up on which things get my all, and which ones get my nothing.

Most of the time when I am confronted with my tendency for misdirected devotion, I feel my conscience chide me for breaking the law of the Torah: "You shall have no other gods before me." I live a pretty rules oriented life, unfortunately, and so I process most failures as simply an inability to live up to the standard of the law. This time around, however, has been a little different. I am seeing the same problem through a different lens.

Recently, God has been doing some pretty amazing things in and around me. He has answered prayers in ways that have dropped by jaw, and has sent confirmations and encouragements from the most unexpected places. It has been a sweet time of sensing him walk closely with me. His kindness toward me has been undeniably relational and undeserved. Now, as I again feel the pull toward idolatry, this kindness sets a new backdrop. Idolatry is not a law that condemns me. No, idolatry is a lie that cheats me.

Even in the midst of sweet expressions of love from the Father, I find myself reaching toward my most common idol: people. I want a love that is tangible sometimes. I want it in writing I can read, a photo I can stick on my bulletin board to look at when work feels depressing. Those aren't necessarily bad things. In fact, those very things are often expressions of love from God ("every good and perfect gift comes from above"). The problem comes when I offer those people--those words, those pictures, those phone calls--my "blind and excessive devotion." The problem comes when they, rather than God, consume my thoughts and efforts. And the problem is this: those things are always going to fail me at some point. They are only a shadow of the love that is steady and reliable. No matter how sweet those sources of love are to me today, there will be a day when I find that they fall woefully short, and I will be crushed, because I threw my all into them.

But like I said: this isn't a law thing for me right now. It's not a shameful violation of standard for me to put all my eggs into an unreliable basket. Instead, it is the sad exchange of what is better for what is only good. And the love of God is always better--better than life, if you ask the Psalmist. Better than any letter in the mail or photo on my bulletin board. It is the great reality behind those shadows, and the framework in which I am meant to enjoy them and yet not rely on them. The God who is love is the only safe and worthy place to offer my "excessive (even blind!) adoration." May I let him capture that tenacious devotion in me, and allow him to take my addictive personality and satisfy it with the only thing that won't ever leave me dry. As I wrote once before, may I choose to live a live that speaks aloud: "The love of God is better."