Nkosi Sikelel'i Afrika

So What?

2009-04-27T10:35:00.000-05:00

Sermon on the Third Sunday in Easter, 2009

Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed. Alleluia!

…so what?

I think our gospel this morning asks us that question: So what? Christ is indeed risen, yes. So what does that mean?

We have many accounts of the risen Jesus meeting his disciples, and they respond in a markedly different way than a resounding, “Christ is risen, indeed! Alleluia!” They don’t seem to know what to do. Jesus comes and says, as always, “Peace be with you.” He brings them peace…and they’re afraid.

Hmm. Christ is indeed risen…? So what?

The disciples respond in such a way that’s natural. They’re afraid of the peace Jesus brings. They live in a world of fear of violence and peace is simply not something they know. It’s not their language. The disciples knew only fear and violence under an oppressive regime, Rome. Let’s put another modern spin on it – they knew fear and violence because they lived as people without rights in a land not their own, a land that was occupied.

Fear and violence was their language. They could understand how Jesus, who was wildly popular and also quite controversial, could upset the authorities – both religious and secular, both Judean and Roman – and, like any of the other radicals, experience Rome’s capital punishment: death by crucifixion. They could understand fear and violence winning out.

But they just could not understand how Jesus could defeat these powers, this death and fear and violence, so ingrained in their collective minds, and be raised from the dead. They couldn’t understand that peace could win. It didn’t register with them. They meet together in the wake of Jesus’ execution, speaking in the same terms they were raised on – fear of those who had come after Jesus, so, it seemed, they just as likely would come after them; and violence, both the violence they had experienced, and the violence maybe some of them thought about inflicting on somebody, anybody, in return.

And the disciples just could not understand how Jesus could come back and proclaim peace. How is this possible? And so they respond with fear, and trembling.

Christ is indeed risen… So what?

The risen Christ comes to proclaim peace in a world of fear and violence. Jesus appears before his disciples and says, “Peace be with you.” Jesus appears before his disciples and says, “The power of fear and violence is nothing in the face of the power of peace.”

This radical proclamation comes from the risen Christ, and it has so much more of an impact because of the fearful and violent world in which Jesus lived and died and was raised from the dead. Jesus the Christ was fearfully rejected by those he loved (including the disciples, his very own inner circle), and violently betrayed, taken, beaten, whipped, spit on, mocked, made fun of, and put to death. And yet he responded – only and always – with peace. Peace and love.

This proclamation of peace is so much more amazing because of these circumstances. You might imagine someone who had gone through all this violence and betrayal, and then appears before those responsible for abandoning him when he needed him most, might say something more like, “Hey guys…I’m baaaaack! Remember me?”

That might be more understandable. To continue in the ways of fear and violence. Yet the risen Christ comes back after all of that, and says, “Peace be with you.”

Wow! Christ is indeed risen. And so what? What does that peace look like?

Does it look like the girl who was the first to integrate the school in Little Rock, AR? Everyday she walked into the school amidst taunts, sneering, jeers, spitting, and much worse – the face of pure hatred. Years later, a journalist looked at video of her walking, and noticed the girl muttering something under her breath. In an interview, the woman said that she was saying the same thing, every day: “Father, forgive them, for they don’t know what they’re doing.”

Does it look like the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem? When I was there, worshipping with a community of Palestinian Christians who live under occupation – a wall stretches around the city of Jesus’ birth, to keep the inhabitants in, suffocating in extreme poverty and violence – and who were crying out to God. They weren’t crying for revenge, or retribution; they were crying for peace.

We know the disciples, maybe a little too well, don’t we? We live in a world just as driven and ruled by fear and violence as they did. And so when Jesus appears to us this Easter, saying, “Peace be with you,” we often respond with that same fear and trembling. Peace just isn’t the language we’re used to.

Yet, in the midst of wars raging around the world, and people who live in constant fear for their lives, Jesus appears to us and says, “Peace be with you.”

Alongside the 30,000 people who die every single day because of starvation and preventable diseases, such as the common cold, the risen Christ appears to us and says, “Peace be with you.”

Along with those who live under occupation, behind walls, with no rights, in the West Bank and Gaza, the risen Christ appears to us and says, “Peace be with you.”

In the midst of those in this country who are victims of domestic abuse, who cannot find peace even in their own home, the risen Christ appears to us and says, “Peace be with you.”

Next to those of us who are depressed, who suffer from addictions, who have scars in our lives, who are told by our society that we need more stuff to fill the void in our lives, the risen Christ appears to us and says, “Peace be with you.”

Whispering in the ear of those of us in this sanctuary, this Upper Room in which we are gathered, who don’t know exactly why we have come here today, but know that, in some way, we may feel fear, emptiness, or that we aren’t good enough, the risen Christ appears to us and says, “Peace be with you.”

Christ is indeed risen. And so what?

Jesus appears to us today and answers that question: “Peace be with you.” This Easter season, let us hear those words anew. Let us live as agents of peace, as the “peacemakers” whom Jesus calls “blessed.” In a world of fear and violence, let us stand and say that Christ is indeed risen, for us and for our broken world that continues to say that violence is the answer, that violence somehow brings peace. And Christ repeats, repeats, repeats, “Peace be with you.”

Fear and violence don’t bring peace. Christ brings peace. Christ is our answer. And the power of peace wins out. Christ is indeed risen.

Amen.

Holy, holy, holy

2009-04-23T16:53:00.005-05:00

We had waited for a long time for this, and it was finally here. Holy Week. For those who still think that all pastors really do is show up on Sunday, preach, and then go home, this week affords the opportunity to show up at the church on other days of the week, and see that – surprise, surprise – the pastors are still there!

The week before, I had finished my sermon series on “Rediscovering the Liturgy,” which, in my free-flowing vernacular, quickly became renamed, “Worship MEANS Something.” I wanted to encourage all of us in mainstream, liturgical Christianity, to understand that what we do when we gather is more than just stand up, say a few words, sit down, then stand up again, later. We are deeply interwoven with something greater than us, a great flowing river of words, actions, and rituals – spoken, sung, and celebrated, in one way or another – for the better part of 2,000 years. What we do together means something. It’s not just done to be done. In short, I wanted all of us at my internship church to be unabashedly, unashamedly Lutheran.

Then we entered Holy Week. I had never been so busy in my entire life, and yet, I had an opportunity to really be, to be a part of the body of Christ, to take part in this holy and ancient ritual. I walked the labyrinth. I fasted. I sat in our sanctuary, the late afternoon sun piercing the darkened space, stopping for a moment to enter through a stained glass window, then continuing on in a kaleidoscope shower of browns, yellows, and oranges.

I was washed in this light, thinking about all the things I had done, and things I had yet to do. Thinking about the real, complicated, broken, and beautiful body of Christ in this church in Central Florida. Considering how God loves us so desperately and unabashedly it’s almost embarrassing. God as my supervisor’s Jack Russell terrier who lays in my lap, licking my cheek, making me blush.

Then came worship. One of the many things I have learned this year is that it’s hard to worship AND lead worship at the same time – but there are always those moments, for this worship-loving boy, when I forget where I am or what I’m doing, and I’m just speechless. Those moments were everywhere during the Maundy Thursday services, as the haunting words of Psalm 22 echoed in the silence, blanketing the child of God as she slowly and methodically stripped the altar. Jesus being taken by the Roman authorities, violence seeming to win over peace.

The Easter Vigil service also poured out those moments for me, drenching me in this grace that comes from the One who created us, who continues to love us, who invites us to co-create this world of ours. Listening to the stories of our ancestors in the faith, I was amazed at how these stories wait there for us, rarely being read in their entirety, enticing us to listen with new ears, to hear how God saves God’s people.

Holy Week is past, and I’m still so exhausted I am daydreaming about my pillow as I type. And last week, two years ago, my Mom died. Easter had come and gone for a few weeks then, but now it’s still in the air. When we call out to a God who says that not even death itself can separate us, I remember Mom.

And I hope that, now, Mom can finally remember me, too.

God's Gettin' Messy

2009-02-16T09:03:00.001-06:00

Sermon on Internship, February 15, 2009

I love stories. I really do. I especially love stories in which I can find myself; stories with characters with whom I can relate. And I can always relate really well with people who mess up. People who are imperfect and do stupid things. And the Bible is full of stories like this. Naaman and the Jordan is a perfect example.

It is in this story today that we learn that our God works through messy situations. It’s in this messiness that God works. No matter what obstacles or hard-headedness or miscommunication gets in the way, God overcomes them.

And this story is full of obstacles, isn’t it? It’s kind of a messy story.

There’s Naaman, a powerful general, not a Hebrew, has leprosy, and so he travels all the way to the land of Israel – where, by the way, his people had taken and enslaved at least one Hebrew girl, who served him – and then is offended when he’s not treated like a king.

There’s the king of Aram, who mistakenly believes that the king of Israel is the one who can cure his general Naaman, so he sends Naaman with an amazing array of gifts to win over the king.

There’s the king of Israel, who thinks the letter asking for a healing is a call to arms – interesting, since the writer of 2 Kings tells us that it was by the foreign Naaman, not the king of Israel, that the Lord had brought victory to Aram – and is probably mustering up his men for war by the time the message from Elisha arrives.

There’s even Elisha, who, with this powerful army just outside his front door, tells a messenger to tell Naaman to go wash in the Jordan. He can’t come himself – he’s a bit busy.

These are all characters who get in the way, who mess things up – they are obstacles to grace winning out, to a person being healed, to the glory of God being shown before all.

Yet God works in this messiness. God is at work even though people are messing up. And we can see it in the girl from the land of Israel. As fascinating as Naaman is, I think the award for most intriguing character goes to the girl from the land of Israel, the servant of Naaman’s wife. The phrase “girl from the land of Israel” is repeated, maybe to clarify that she is merely a girl; or that she comes all the way from Israel, a place way out there, much farther than U.S. 41 – I mean it’s far away. Or maybe the phrase is repeated because it’s a nameless girl – she doesn’t even have a name worth remembering.

Yet she is a complex, beautiful character in this already fantastic story. She refuses to believe that God’s work is over – even though she was taken captive – we call that ‘slavery’ – she continues the work of God. Forcibly taken from her home, from everything she knows, she continues to believe, to hope…to have faith.

God works in messy situations. Whether we are like the king of Aram, and too often misunderstand the situation, and do something, well, stupid. Or maybe we’re the king of Israel, taking something the wrong way and jumping to dangerous conclusions. We might be Naaman, letting our egos and prejudices get in the way.

It doesn’t really matter, though. Despite our best efforts, we’re going to mess up. We’re going to create obstacles. Maybe that’s why we can relate to well with the stories in the Hebrew Scriptures – they are flawed, imperfect human beings, just like us. Yet God overcomes those obstacles – every time.

It’s more than God working in messy situations, however. Even God starts getting messy, y’all. And it goes everywhere. It’s Grandma God, at the Thanksgiving table, with a huge bowl of grace and mercy and love and forgiveness, and she’s doling it out with a huge ladle, and she’s gettin’ messy.

It’s getting all over our Sunday-best, and there’s no amount of laundry detergent that can get these stains out. It’s staining us and our lives, forever. It’s not coming out.

And when this starts to pour out, when Grandma gets messy with her love and forgiveness, we see normal, everyday things, become holy and amazing. God’s mercy and grace is so messy, it spills out, drenching us and getting us messy, too.

When God starts getting messy, we see incredible things happening.

We see Naaman washing in the Jordan – anyone ever been to the Jordan? It ain’t blue and beautiful…it’s kinda murky and muddy. It’s a messy little river. Not the kind of place you’d pick to take a bath. Yet Naaman steps into it, and is healed. Normal, everyday water turns into a Word of healing.

We see a star in the sky becoming a bearer of the Most High God. We see our words spoken to loved ones who are in the hospital or sick become God’s own words of comfort, spoken to our ancestors, to God’s people throughout the millenia; spoken to us, today.

We see people doing everyday things that become holy and sacred with God’s messy grace getting on them forever. Rosa Parks refuses to give up her seat, and her humanity, taking something simple and making it sacred. Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. speaks the words of the Declaration of Independence in Washington, D.C., and these words become more than just a hollow pronouncement – “All people are created equal.” They become holy words of a God of justice and equality.

We see ourselves come into this sanctuary, and speak words from a cranberry red book. Yet they are so much more – they are God’s holy words to us. It’s Grandma spilling out into our worship, shaking hands with us during the peace, calling on us to be her people, inviting us to her table.

God’s gettin’ messy, y’all, and it’s a mess I want to get into, too. It’s a word that spills out, a word of overwhelming grace and unending mercy.

And today, we see it everywhere look. Our God works in the messy situations. And when God gets messy, look at what happens: normal, dirty water becomes life-giving. Stars in the sky become bearers of the Most High God. Wine and bread become salvation.

God’s gettin’ messy, y’all.

Amen to that.

Being Human

2009-01-21T13:27:00.001-06:00

“I feel like a human being again.”

That’s what a parishioner – a small older woman with wispy hair and a soft smile – said to me in the hospital, after having just taken a bath. And by “bath,” I mean that she had a tub of hot water on her lap, and that morning she had taken the time to use a towel and wash her upper body.

Just something as simple as taking a bath, of cleansing herself, had given her back her humanity.

That morning, she had the ability to feel like a human being again. Maybe it was because of the attention she was able to give her body; maybe it was the lack of someone else helping her do something; or maybe it just felt so good to be warm and clean again, that she remembered who she was:

A beautiful child of God.

I visit people all the time at Trinity. Whether it be in hospitals, waiting rooms, hospice homes, actual homes, kitchens, living rooms, bedrooms, or even prisons, I spend a good amount of time on my internship listening and talking to people.

And I live in south Florida, the home of all things retirement facilities and golf courses. I see a lot of old people. I’ve gotten to know them, learn from them, listen to them, and experience their humanity.

Too often that humanity is subtly taken away. And it’s not malicious in its intent. It’s just simple things – doctors talking to the nurses and family in the room, but never to the person in the bed. People who are ‘shut-in,’ stuck in their homes, in the same chair, in the same room, because they don’t have the ability to leave the house, whether it’s physically or mentally. 70-year olds, 80, 90, 106 year-old people who talk about the life they’ve lived and who seem to be preparing for it to end.

I’m 26, and I never talk like that. But I’m learning the power of that conversation. I’m learning the importance of regaining a sense of humanity in the onslaught of a culture who has a place, a prescription, or a ‘solution’ for the problem of old age.

“I feel like a human being again.” I hope that everyone, every day, can say that.

Backstage Passes

2008-12-10T19:07:00.002-06:00

I say it all the time to the kids at my internship church: It’s not Christmas yet. You, of course, wouldn’t know that if you paid attention to the radio or the TV. Christmas carols start before Thanksgiving, Christmas sales begin with the infamous Black Friday, and Christmas dwarfs what Christians are called to be: a hopeful, waiting people. When Christmas dwarfs Advent, Christians lose the very thing it means to be Christian.

And it’s in Advent where we meet John the Baptist – Jesus comes to the world through a half-naked lunatic who eats bugs. Here’s a guy whose sole purpose is to point to something beyond himself. He is, essentially, that really good supporting actor in movies that you love, but who never gets top billing. He’s Djimon Honsou in Gladiator, Philip Seymour Hoffman in 25th Hour, Zooey Deschanel in Eulogy.

And it’s just not like our society to reward those people. Nobody cares about the offensive lineman who helps LaDanian Tomlinson into the end zone – it’s only the running back who spikes the ball.

But Christians revel in our supporting role. We are John the Baptist, speaking the truth – “I am not the Messiah.” When society tells kids they must be the best, the brightest, the skinniest, and the coolest, Christians say, “I am nothing without God.”

This is not a limitation, however. It allows us to do amazing things, to love our neighbor, to work for justice in the world.

It was Oscar Romero’s words that ring true: “We cannot do everything, and there is a sense of liberation in realizing that. This enables us to do something, and to do it well. It may be incomplete, but it is a beginning - a step along the way. An opportunity for God's grace to enter and do the rest.”

We are not all quarterbacks and leading actors. We are the backstage people, making the set ready for the main event. And there’s no shame in that; there’s no disappointment because we “should” be something more.

The New York Yankees are such a prolific baseball team, any year they don’t win the World Series, it’s considered a failure. Luckily we don’t have such high expectations.

We are just wandering around, searching, waiting. And then God’s grace enters and does the rest.

It’s not Christmas yet. All we can do is wait, in a society that never does.

The Passion of Black Friday

2008-12-03T19:19:00.001-06:00

There are some who mourn the loss of God in our schools (as if she couldn’t get in there without our help or something). Others decry the moral degradation of our nation, witnessed in such things as the Ten Commandments being refused public placement in courthouses across the United States. This is where we can see how much our country has fallen from its “godly” ways, they say. If only we could get back to that golden age when God was worshiped (and so was the United States of America).

I’m pretty sure, however, that the U.S. isn’t bowing down to the Christian God – I seem to remember that we were a nation of religious freedom, first off – and I’m pretty sure it never has. The nation we know was founded by deists, people who believed in a deity up there, in the sky, but no mention of Jesus Christ in the Declaration of Independence. (I think I would remember – I learned that document in our “godless” public schools, and it certainly mentions a Creator…)

But this nation has always bowed down to another god, and this has never gone challenged. It’s the god of consumerism, wealth, and materialism, and it is worshiped with such vigor and passion that Protestant Christians, for one, could learn a lesson.

I don’t think Jdimytai Damour would have ever imagined that his day would go like this. But, indeed, the son of Haitian immigrants died on the biggest shopping day of the year, a martyr to the god of consumer wealth that has certainly not disappeared from our schools, as well as everywhere else. Bum-rushed by more than 200 people at 5am, this guy’s only sin was to be the one to open the door that fateful morning.

That’s not the worst part. As he lay dying, and medics came to his side to revive him, people still rushed by, undaunted by this dismal scene. A dying man was not going to get in the way of their LCD flat-screen TV for $399, thank you very much. “Don’t even think about closing the store,” you could almost hear them saying. “That dying dude better not get in the way of my shopping!”

And so another innocent bystander dead in our obsessive worship of this god. There are those that may fight for God to ‘return’ to schools, but I think a much better use of our time is to rid ourselves of the god who infiltrates every aspect of our society…and its refrain is loud and clear: “Purchase me, and you will be a better person.”

This god is passively entertained – if not wholeheartedly endorsed – by our society. And someone died for it on Friday.

But, hey. Widescreen LCD flat-screen TV’s for $399! Wow, what a deal! I’d kill for that!

Defining Life

2008-11-18T14:09:00.003-06:00

Before I formed you in the womb, I knew you...

|Jeremiah 1:5|

I would love a coherent definition for “life,” because I just don't get it.

The pro-life camp wants to protect the rights of the “unborn,” or, basically, to defend innocent babies – human beings who can’t defend themselves. I know there’s some discussion over what constitutes a “life,” whether it’s at the moment of conception, or nine weeks later, etc…

God says Jeremiah was known before he was “formed in the womb.” This seems to clarify the definition of the beginning of “life” a bit more, at least from a Judeo-Christian perspective.

If it comes down to a definition of what constitutes human life in general, however, then the scope broadens.

I wonder about the thousands of human beings who die every day from hunger and other preventable diseases. Are they also innocent human beings who deserve protection against harm? What about the millions of victims of genocide and bombing campaigns in places like Darfur and Iraq? Are they deserving of life as well? How about the human beings (not “aliens,” no matter how many times you say it, CNN anchor Lou Dobb) who cross over national borders, trying to survive? Did God know them before they were formed in the womb?

The Bible has things to say about life across the board. For immigrants, legal or not, we are told to “love [them] as yourself, for you were [immigrants] in the land of Egypt” (Leviticus 19:34). For those who are poor, or hungry, or naked, or imprisoned, we are told that “just as you did it to one of the least of these…you did it to me” (Matthew 25:40).

For those who are imprisoned, Jesus says. Perhaps for those on death row who are overwhelmingly men of color, whose lives are scheduled to be taken away by a government that kills people in order to say that killing is wrong.

As a man, I can never know what it means to be faced with a pregnancy or possible abortion. I can never, ever understand what that’s like, and I’m very wary of male politicians making judgment statements on women in those precarious positions.

But I do know what ‘life’ means. And if it applies to defenseless unborn babies, then it must equally apply to defenseless born babies in Rwanda and Chicago, to teenagers in the rundown and neglected inner cities across the United States, to people wasting away in places ravaged by war, genocide, and AIDS.

If we’re going to use the Bible to defend a “pro-life” stance, then let’s please ask what constitutes life. If we’re just being “pro-birth,” then let’s call it that.

Because I just don’t understand how a view can defend to the death the right for babies to be born, but care less when it comes to those same babies who grow up in the crumbling homes and schools of the forgotten America; or the wretched lives struggling to eat from day to day across this world; or the lives taken by bombs for no other reason than that they happened to live in a place overflowing with much-needed oil.

I just don’t get it.

The Meaning of Hope

2008-11-12T16:07:00.003-06:00

500 years ago, you’d be called a flat-out lunatic if you had the radical notion that the earth revolved around the sun (still, however, we pretend like it doesn’t: the sun “rises” and “sets”). 100 years ago, you’d be quickly dismissed if you thought that human beings could fly. And less than a few weeks ago, you probably still couldn’t convince people that the United States of America would elect someone other than a white male to be president.

Yet, it has happened. And it happened regardless of all the (obscene) un-truths spreading around, the idea that Obama isn’t a natural-born citizen, that he’s a radical Muslim, that once he’s elected president, the U.S. will become a Marxist haven that has abortions every day on the White House lawn while pledging allegiance to France…naked.

America has chosen change, and, as John McCain said Election Night, the people have spoken, and they have spoken clearly.

We’ve not just chosen change: we’ve chosen hope. And we’ve chosen to believe in Barack Obama’s own words: “In the unlikely story that is America, there has never been anything false about hope.”

But it’s even more than that. We’ve chosen, as a people, to stick our necks out, and dare to dream. To imagine that the world is circular, not flat; that the center of the Universe is nowhere near our piddly little planet; that we can travel to the skies, and beyond; that pompous, middle-aged white male farmers are not the only ones deserving of citizenship in this great country.

We’ve chosen to move forward, so that our children can live in a world better off than how we found it, not worse.

Barack Obama is not the Savior, he’s not the end-all-be-all. It’s not “In Obama We Trust.” But he’s always said this election wasn’t about him; it’s about us. As Gandhi said: We are the ones we’ve been waiting for. And we've chosen to hope.

Just as Galileo chose to hope for a world that realized its place in the Cosmos. Just as Martin Luther King, Jr. hoped for a country that judged people by the content of their character, first and foremost. Just as all those innovators through the millennia hoped for a better world...somehow, someway.

500 years from now, will the notion that people drive gas-guzzlers that get 15 mpg be laughable? 100 years from now, will the extreme nationalistic divide be considered the definition of "inappropriate" in the face of global threats in the form of self-destruction and climate crisis? A few weeks from now, will there finally be a realization that it might not have been the destruction of the Grand Ole’ Party, but more of the success of a junior senator from Illinois to inspire millions, that led to this new administration?

Let’s hope so.

Just As We Are

2008-10-16T14:59:00.005-05:00

Just as I am;
thy love unknown
has broken every
barrier down...

This week, members of the Equality Ride – http://www.equalityride.org - were arrested in Palm Beach, Florida. After being told they were “unwanted guests” and would be arrested if they crossed the line and trespassed, five members crossed that line. These people, traveling across our country to colleges and universities in order to seek justice for lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people, in the spirit of the Freedom Rides in the 1960s, continue to cross that line.

In the one and only vice-presidential debate, both candidates quickly said that they considered marriage to be between “one man and one woman,” before going into subtle differences on what “rights” same-sex couples were entitled to in this country. Two straight people talking about what should be given to – and taken away from – lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people in the United States.

In mainline Protestant Christian denominations, a continuing debate on sexuality rages, deciding about the fate of our LGBT partners in the faith, often talking about them, instead of to and with them.

And these Equality Riders – one of whom is a dear friend of mine from college, Lauren Parke – walk across the line, singing “Just As I Am.” I’ll never know that kind of courage. This act, to me, defines 'faith.'

Recently “National Coming Out Day” was celebrated by many people close to me. Many people God has called, to the ministry, to the Equality Ride…and to simply living life just as they are.

And I continue on my internship in this place, working toward what I feel God has called me – rostered leadership in the church. Do I have the courage to ‘come out’ as an ally? Do I have the faith to affirm that God loves all people? These are questions that continue to, rightly, follow me wherever I go.

An ally who knows what it means to ‘come out,’ and who has been spending years speaking out for God’s radical love, is another dear friend, David Weiss. (Check out his exquisite book on this subject – http://www.davidrweiss.com)

Lauren and David inspire me in their love and longing for justice in this world. I can only hope that this justice wins out. It’s going to take a lot of work from us in the church. I feel it’s what we’ve been called to do. God’s final answer to God’s people is yes. Justice will prevail. Truly, if God is for us, who can be against us?

God's unknown love has broken down barriers, and will continue to do so.

A Slight Misunderstanding

2008-09-29T09:36:00.001-05:00

This past weekend, I gave a sermon on the necessity (or lack thereof) of understanding in the Gospels. I believe that Jesus made no distinction, and loved people regardless of their understanding. I connected it to the debate over how old a person must be to receive communion – their age is a factor in their understanding, after all. The sermon is done (for me, this means giving it four times in a 20-hour period, which translates into a few of these: !!!), but I’m still thinking about it.

I’m still thinking about it, because every time I turn on the TV to one of the “Christian” (I use that term loosely) stations, or any time I flip the radio station to one of the three – or 3,000, it’s hard to tell sometimes – conservative talk-show/fundamentalist Christian sermon-hours, I experience a full-on assault of immensely absolute and fundamental knowledge. There’s no room for not understanding with this theology.

They understand all, it seems – and we better figure out how to do the same. And soon. ‘Cause Jesus is coming. And, apparently, he’s super pissed.

I related the story of my mother, who understood close to nothing in the last years and months of her life, yet she could have still received communion. Because it’s not about whether or not she understands. It’s not about what she can or can’t do. It’s about what Jesus does. What he promises in the bread and wine.

We serve an amazing God, a God, I believe, who is quite powerful and loving. You’d never know it from listening to this understanding-based theology on TV and radio, though. For them, the answers are necessary and critical, and we must understand all of God’s innermost attributes and characteristics. We must understand what – and who – God hates, and follow by example.

In this theology (I believe), it is “understood” that we must work towards God, instead of God emptying Godself and coming down to us, to be among us. It’s understood that we must prove ourselves again and again, accepting Jesus into our hearts – instead of Jesus accepting us, and God calling us to be God’s people in the world.

Basically, this theology is so concerned with what we must do – include understand – instead of the amazing things God does. What a sad view of God.

I’m just fairly certain of one thing: I don’t understand much. I’ll never truly “get” God. And I think that’s the only honest thing I can come up with – for who can really understand the truly mysterious?

I realize that this blog post talks about how it doesn’t matter whether or not we understand by assuming that I “understand” that this is the correct way of thinking. But I’m pretty sure God is greater than us. So it makes sense to me that it’s not about what we can do. It’s not about us.

It’s about the One whom we worship. Whether or not we understand what that really means.

Wii Don't Live Here Anymore

2008-09-17T16:21:00.004-05:00

As time goes on in my internship, I find my eyes straying more and more to the Wii’s advertised on Pandora.com (which is a phenomenal free radio station that personalizes its music selection – shameless plug, I know) or in the window of the Gamestop next to my apartment.

And why? Because I’m bored here in Florida? Not really. I have plenty to do most days, and even when I don’t, I am usually content lounging around and watching movies.

The reason I haven’t bought one yet is mostly because I am extremely wary of video games. This is not a rip into those who have them – I have many myself, and have appreciated playing them from back in the days of the original Nintendo.

What gets me, however, is the amount of time often spent playing them. Time that could be spent doing any number of things. Nintendo has been trying to get around that, however, by pushing their Wii’s interactive and exercise-oriented gameplay. Don’t worry about getting stuck inside staring at a TV screen, they say – you are getting plenty of exercise playing our games.

I hear that – the Wii is not your typical system – which explains my continued interest in it. But then there’s the whole consumerist thing. In a society that tells us that we need certain items in order to be whole and acceptable human beings, I feel like I’m buying into that if I get a Wii.

I know I don’t need it. But I do find myself wanting it. And, again, this is not an elitist, holier-than-thou rip on those who are Wii-owners. I’m just honestly struggling with this.

Whether or not I get one, I want to take my time and not go into such a purchase lightly. I want to make sure I don’t buy one simply because I’m on internship in a new place, and am basically bored. I want to distinguish between an unhelpful distraction and a healthy, entertaining way to relax.

Any thoughts?

On a First-Name Basis

2008-09-09T13:31:00.000-05:00

It’s hurricane season in Florida, as this state has welcomed me by constant reports and weather warnings focusing on the next tropical storm that is making its way from the west coast of Africa across the Atlantic. These storms, starting with Faye – and working its way down the alphabetical list to the current monster, Ike – are mulled over by tropical weather teams on the local news channels all over south Florida. Where are they headed? Are they a tropical storm, or a hurricane? If a hurricane, what category? And – the most important question, by far – where is it headed?

These are important questions, no doubt. But the insistence of our media to focus on the United States – and the United States alone – is really getting to me. When asked by a member of my church what was one of the interesting things I’ve found living in Florida so far, I told her that I’m amazed how much attention is given in the news to two countries: Haiti and Cuba. These are two places that may as well not exist as far as the U.S. is concerned, but they figure prominently in hurricane talk – and for one reason:

How have they affected the tropical storm/hurricane? Have they slowed it down, or increased its wind? Nevermind that the infrastructure in both countries is shaky at best, and pitiful at worst. In Port-au-Prince, the capital city of Haiti, they continue to be pummeled...without mercy. Cuba gets hit again and again. Food sources are destroyed. People starve, if they haven’t drowned.

And according to Channel 9 News of Tampa, the deaths and misery leveled on these people by Gustav and Hanna, Faye and Ike, matter only in the sense of how they’ve affected the current strength and direction of the hurricane. Nothing more.

The important thing is where in the United States it will hit. Now, I’m not saying that the people in our country don’t matter, or that their suffering (especially in New Orleans post-Katrina) is somehow less important. But as Gustav showed, with enough pre-warning, these people have places to go.

Haitians and Cubans continue to be mercilessly rained down upon this hurricane season, and they have nowhere to go.

It is in this situation that I hear echoes of the occupation of Iraq, when we are given up-to-date, detailed accounts of every American citizen who has died or been injured, but hardly a mention of the Iraqi people who continue to be killed and maimed, usually hidden beneath euphemisms like “collateral damage” or “smart bombs.”

It’s ironic to me that we personalize these hurricanes so much by giving them first names. It’s just more euphemisms. Haiti wasn’t destroyed by a hurricane with winds up to 115 mph last week; Gustav was simply weakened to a category 2 hurricane as it passed over the mountainous region of Haiti.

Mmm. That sounds so much better, doesn’t it?

The Politics of Internship

2008-08-26T11:03:00.005-05:00

The Democratic National Convention is in full swing, and the Republicans come on the stage next week. I’m mostly drooling over all of this, as my political science self kicks into high gear.

And then I remember where I am, and what I’m doing this year. Most of this identity comes in the negative format: I’m not in Chicago anymore, and I’m not a student anymore. I’m an intern, working with people at this church – and as I drive to work each day, I pass home after home with a simple sign displaying proudly in their green lawn: John McCain, 2008. Obama is nowhere to be found.

Here I am, trying to minister to – and, simply, love – the people who have accepted me so fully and graciously into their midst as vicar, and I am coming to the realization that many of them do not share my own political views…at all. It begs the question – how do I stay committed and authentic to the worldview to which I subscribe, while at the same time affirming these people as wonderful and beloved children of God?

There’s an “easy” answer, of course: Don’t talk politics. Obvious enough, it seems.

But what about the alternative? Is there one? A way to be honest about how I feel, and how much I’m passionate about this issue, especially as we inch our way toward the first Tuesday in November? Is there a way I can refrain from hiding the fact that my entire being is wholeheartedly connected to the intense hope that McCain is not elected in the fall?

The truth is, this passion is most likely shared on the other side of the aisle by many folks in my congregation – by many people with whom I worship, to whom I serve communion, from whom I have received so much already. “God is NOT a Republican,” the bumper sticker on my car shouts, “…or a Democrat.” But I am most certainly driven by a certain way of viewing the world, and it is a deep and sincere part of my very identity.

At the same time, my identity is also tied into that radical notion: I’m a child of God, made in God’s image. As are the rest of the people in this congregation.

So, what’s the answer? Luckily, I’m Lutheran. We don’t have answers – we have paradoxes. I love these people, even when I vehemently disagree with them.

And I pray for the same from them.

Radical Presence

2008-08-17T20:57:00.001-05:00

I gave my first sermon as “Vicar Jason” this weekend, preaching once on Saturday and three times on Sunday. This will be my task for every other weekend this year on internship. Luckily, I do not require sleep. ;)

I thought about posting my sermon on this blog, but it is quite long for an online post. Plus, I gave the sermon without notes, so it really isn’t what’s written down. It was so much different once I got up there, once I let go, and started talking. It was actually a rush, to be honest.

What hit me from today was the response from people in the congregation. Standing there after each service, shaking the hands of the different people in line, I was given a snippet of lives lived, each in their own unique way, as they continued my sermon in their own words. It was like the body of Christ – that which we proclaim to be – in action. People had taken my imperfect sermon and applied it to their own lives, taking my inadequate words and, with the Holy Spirit, made them real.

“Good sermon, Vicar. I’ve been going through some tough changes lately myself, having been laid off from two jobs. Just know that I take comfort in the presence of God in the unexpected places, too.”

“Thank you for your words. God continues to be present in my life, after 106 years.”

That’s right, there’s someone in our congregation who is 106 (and a HALF, as she makes sure to mention). There’s also someone who’s recently lost their job. There are people who are in every stage of life, dealing with every kind of problem, reveling in every kind of situation life throws at them. And we have the audacity to get up and proclaim God’s radical and sustaining love for each and every one of them…including us. I mean, wow.

How could we do any of this without God’s help? It would be egotistical and condescending to imagine we could. Yet pastors get up and proclaim in the pulpit, speaking God’s word to us today.

That great Lutheran response, “I will, and I ask God to help and guide me,” is our confession of faith. Who are we to get up and proclaim? We continually ask. And God answers from the depths of time and eternity, echoing through the millennia, “Who are you not to? I am with you. This is all you need.”

Post-Atlanta

2008-08-09T19:43:00.002-05:00

So, I just got back from a 4-day conference on Biblical storytelling in Atlanta, walking into the apartment, sitting down at my computer, and having it all sink in at once: I live in Florida, now. Alone. And I’m an intern. Wow.

The storytelling conference – run by the Network of Biblical Storytellers (http://www.nobs.org) - is a fantastic annual gathering, in which 150 or so storytellers descend upon Atlanta, to, basically, hear and tell stories. Mostly Biblical ones. Without notes. By heart. I'm telling the Gospel tomorrow - Jesus walking on the water, from Matthew. I never think of Matthew having good stories, but this one is pretty sweet.

Right, so. I was the emcee for this particular shindig in Atlanta, mostly because I’m under 40, and, therefore, a celebrity. However, more young people are coming every year. But, yeah, I’m kind of their golden boy. I’m okay with this.

Tomorrow I’m getting to the church at 7:15am (is that actually a time? I thought everything before 8am was a blur in the space-time continuum) to go over my assistant minister part. I’m going to dress in a collar, for only the second time in public. I’m going to try not to scream – I don’t think that’d go over too well.

Yeah. That’s it. I’m Vicar Jason now. Watch out, world. Or, at least, watch out, this particular congregation that has me for a year.

Transition Tension

2008-08-02T10:04:00.001-05:00

So, I sit here, having successfully made the move to Florida, and waiting for my first introduction to the congregation at this evening’s worship service. I have to echo my colleague Rachel’s response to my Facebook status of “I’m now a vicar. Holy. Crap.”: “This. Is. Terrifying.” I’m not sure what to do right now, oscillating between unpacking some more; staring off into the deep blue yonder, pondering my place in the cosmos; or simply vocalizing my transition-tension with blood-curdling screams. I think my new neighbors will appreciate that.

I won’t be taking part in the service tonight; I’ll most likely just sitting there and doing some form of looking pretty. I’m okay with this.

I have the largest amount of space I’ve ever had to myself, complete with two bedrooms, two bathrooms, AC, and a washer-dryer unit. Nobody else lives here except me – I might have to resort to having conversations with myself in different rooms in the condo.

I now have a bedroom and an office. That’s right – two separate rooms in which to do two separate things. I don’t really know what to do with all this space. It feels like I’m staying in someone else’s place, and any moment they’ll show up and demand that I explain myself. I’m working on my explanation right now.

Umm…yeah. Maybe I’ll have more to say about something other than my apartment soon. You know, vicar-like things.

Polite Dinner Conversation

2008-07-28T16:27:00.025-05:00

Lately I’ve been having conversations about my upcoming internship – especially related to getting back into the habit of writing in this blog.

Why, Jason, you know people will be able to read everything you’ve ever written, I’ve been told. Entries written about the current Bush administration, for instance, or articles written about inclusive language when we talk about God – or another type of inclusion: that of all people in our churches, regardless of the lines society often draws for us. Lines across race, ethnicity, economic status, or even sexual orientation and gender identity. Lines that have been erased in Christianity, as Paul couldn’t help but point out: “There is no longer Jew or Greek, there is no longer slave or free, there is no longer male and female, for all of you are one in Christ Jesus” (Galatians 3:28). And if that’s not enough, I’ve connected my opinions and beliefs with my Christian faith and identity.

Certainly these are things I cannot think anymore, right? I mean, at least not while I’m on internship. Does that mean I can go back to having these opinions on August 1, 2009, when I’m all done at my internship site? No, it would just continue, on to my first call after I’ve graduated from seminary, and so on…

I feel as though I’ve been called to be at seminary, and I especially feel I’ve been called to this particular aspect of seminary: internship. I’m going to be working full-time (and probably more) at a church, gloriously diving into all aspects of what it means to be in a church, to continue discerning what God has called me to do. Meeting people. Learning to be a pastoral presence. Preaching the gospel among the gathered believers.

But this call does not stop at the church doors, or only on Sundays. It does not only include my internship experience – it includes everything else in my life. It includes how I feel my faith informs my political and social beliefs. It includes how I feel the church is called to attend to the “least of these”…and how it so often does not. It includes accepting a certain level of discomfort and frustration with the current status quo of things.

So I argue that I can continue writing in this blog, even though it’s open to anyone. This means that my words might anger someone else, or go against the core beliefs of another person. And that’s okay. As a Christian, I am not called to be an intern at a social club, a gathering of like-minded, look-alike people, in order to feel better about myself.

I’m called to struggle, to doubt, to proclaim Christ crucified, to share in communion…with everyone. As my worship professor would say, especially with those whom we struggle. With whom we vehemently disagree. We are not called to agree…we are called to love one another, as God has first loved us. It’s that simple, and that inexplicably difficult and complicated: To love God, and to love our neighbor.

I’m not perfect, and thank God for that. Here we are – especially those of us working in the church – understanding God to be present, even amidst our glorious imperfections. Maybe because of those imperfections.

Any words I have written in here are meant to be a conversation-starter, not a cause for shutdown. This is my sincere hope.

Serving Christ in the World

2008-07-21T12:00:00.007-05:00

This past June, 23 young people from across the country congregated in Chicago. This was to be a three-week immersion program, including time in the city of Chicago, Mexico City, Cuernevaca (to the south), and north of the U.S.-Mexico border in Texas. The title of this program was "Serving Christ in the World."

And I will never forget it.

It wasn't just that I was changed as one of the mentors (which I was, more than I could have ever imagined). Or that the youth changed me (which they did; we each had 3-4 youth in a covenant group, with whom we met daily). Or that I had a good time (which I most certainly did) or found out I love working with youth (which, crazily enough, I do). Or even that I'll never forget these young people, who gave up a part of their summer to do this work (which I won't...and they did...with gusto - I don't know if I could have done what they did when I was their age).

No. It's so much more than that. It's that God was present in those three weeks, in a way I don't have words to describe. It always happens like that, you know? Every time I think I've got God figured out, or that I know how and when God normally shows up, God does it again. God breaks out of the pathetically small boxes we create, and bursts into the world, here and now.

Serving Christ in the world. What does this look like? The 23 phenomenal young people approached this question with daring, with passion, with hope. And we were all changed for the better.

So to all those people of God, I say thank you. Thank you for opening my eyes to the fact that we'll never be able to categorize our God, but that God will continue to break down walls - and refuse to let us get away. We are God's beloved.

What they did was remind me of this. As I head to internship in Bradenton, Florida (which starts August 1), what I needed was a refresher course. And, thank God, I got it - in abundance. I got a full dose of God's mercy, which, in the words of author Anne Lamott, meets us where we are, but doesn't leave us where it finds us.

Amen to that.

John Hagee, Anyone?

2008-03-28T15:56:00.002-05:00

Here’s my question: Why does Barack Obama get so much crap for being associated with Rev. Jeremiah Wright, and John McCain gets absolutely no grief whatsoever for actively seeking out the approval of Rev. John Hagee?

Here we have the leader of Christians United For Israel (CUFI), which actively calls for an end to any peace agreement in Israel-Palestine, because to support the so-called Biblical Mandate for Israel (basically, the secession of all Palestinian land to the original borders of ancient Israel) is a “moral mandate for all Christians.” (see http://www.cufi.org/site/PageServer?pagename=about_AboutCUFI)

Rev. John Hagee has repeatedly denied the very existence of Palestinians as people:

"God gave to Abraham, Isaac and Jacob a covenant in the Book of Genesis for the land of Israel that is eternal and unbreakable, and that covenant is still intact. The Palestinian people have never owned the land of Israel, never existed as an autonomous society. There is no Palestinian language. There is no Palestinian currency. And to say that Palestinians have a right to that land historically is an historical fraud." (from http://www.evangelicalright.com/john_hagee/)

This is interesting, since there are Palestinian Christians who have been living in the land for generations, and, I imagine, would be surprised to learn that they have no right to their land, and, in fact, no culture at all. From one Christian to another, Hagee denounces any plan to give up ANY land from Israel.

This is not because he has a sincere love for Jewish people. Jews simply have a part to play in the sick end-times scenario peddled by Left Behind creator Tim LaHaye and others. For Jesus to come back again, Israel needs to expand, and the Temple needs to be rebuilt in Jerusalem. That’s all there is to it.

And perhaps the saddest thing of all: Hagee and his ilk have been so incredibly effective in their message, that if anyone questions their motives – or even considers the experience and plight of Palestinians themselves – they are often times labeled anti-Semitic.

So, you have Rev. Wright, who questions Israel’s treatment of their occupied people behind their separation barrier – he’s “racist,” and a “demagogue.” Then you have Hagee, who waves away any effort at peace in the Middle East like an annoying gnat. He’s not even heard of. Just another Bible-believing Christian.

Obama must deny, distance, and denounce himself from Wright (even so, that won’t stop FOX News’ Sean Hannity from calling him racist and anti-Semitic without a shred of evidence, treating his own fantastic conjectures as carved-in-stone fact).

McCain, however, can court Hagee all he wants. Even though he’s recently tried to distance himself, this still gets absolutely no coverage in the media. We'll be watching five-second clips of Jeremiah Wright every chance we get.

Umm…what?

Peanut Butter and Tetanus Shots

2008-03-24T17:27:00.007-05:00

Oh, if I could only contribute to this blog as much as I want to. Alas, there is no time.

So, I have to get on here when I get the chance, sneaking away a few moments to throw some words out into cyberspace. If only I could do this daily, as a sort of meditation. If only.

It's my mom, again. She's always right there, on the tip of my tongue, at the forefront of my mind, coming and going each and every day. It doesn't take much to bring me back to her.

Today it was peanut butter sandwiches and tetanus shots.

You see, she was the one who thought of the brilliant solution for her youngest son, who happened to dislike all flavors of jelly, to continue consuming that which he adores - peanut butter. Aside from eating it raw off the spoon (which I have done my fair share of times), she devised a way I could still eat it on bread without it sticking to the roof of my mouth.

Butter. That's right, add butter. Brilliant, I know. That was my mom. And, to this day, I slap butter on to a fresh piece of toast (well, okay, mostly half-toasted bread, at most), top it with peanut butter, and close my eyes with enjoyment. And every time I do this, I think of her.

And...tetanus shots. Yes, I need to know when my last tetanus shot was. And, of course, I don't. This question always falls into the category of information for which I called my mother. She had all of this information in her home, in her head, or some combination of both. She knew the random details of her kids' lives. She even knew things about us we would never know.

So I scramble in my room, searching long-forgotten corners for the elusive piece of paper which holds this unknown date, all the time remembering Mom. Wishing I could call her.

She's always right there, waiting to be triggered again.

I don't think I would have it any other way.

A Lenten Reflection

2008-03-07T10:57:00.002-06:00

I wait for the Lord, my soul waits,

and in God’s word I hope;

my soul waits for the Lord

more than those who watch for

the morning,

more than those who watch for

the morning.

|Psalm 130: 5-6|

I’m not a morning person. Anytime my alarm clock wakes me up, especially if it’s before 9am, I feel a certain emotion – but it’s nothing close to the hopeful anticipation that drips from the psalmist’s pen.

The psalmist stuns me with her attempts to describe how powerfully she waits for the Lord. Like those who watch for the morning. At my Ministry in Context church – Bethany Lutheran Church on the South Side of Chicago – people often thank God for “waking me up this morning.” The response is always the same: “Amen. Amen!”

But for the psalmist, it’s not just “like” those who watch; it’s more. So much more, in fact, that she has to write it – to say it, to sing it, to shout it – twice.

She asks, knowingly: You know how people watch for the morning, for the beginning whispers of the sun, for the soft rays that illuminate the sky while we are still half-asleep and swimming in dreams, for the life-giving light to shine on God’s awesome creation? My soul waits for the Lord MORE even than that. My soul waits for the Lord more even than that.

Amen. Amen!

Cells

2007-12-29T10:39:00.000-06:00

Maybe I’m easily annoyed (okay, I know I’m easily annoyed). But, in the sea of pet peeves, I think a new one has finally taken sole control of number 1: people talking on their cell phones in public places.

Like, oh, trains. Let me contextualize it for you. The woman ahead of me is talking on her phone, and not only does she seem oblivious to other people sitting next to her (and, thus, she’s talking as if her talking partner is deaf), but she is apparently catching up on conversation she’s neglected to have for several years. This person is someone in her family, someone she will see in less than an hour when she gets off the train (I know this because of the aforementioned decibel level of her voice). But, thank God for cellphones, because now she can talk to her heart’s content. I mean, I figured since we were in the nowhere border land between Arkansas and Texas, there would be no cell phone service. No such luck.

I don’t think I can imagine something more insensitive and rude than this recent pastime. Cell phones are beautiful pieces of technology (for the most part), connecting us to others instantly in ways never before imagined. It’s not enough, however, that we can talk to virtually anybody, but we must do so at any time we damn well please. On the bus, in the car, in the waiting room, wherever. Whenever. It doesn’t matter who is around us, or how loud we are, or how long we talk. The world is our phone booth.

There are calls we must take, I understand. And I love how my cell phone can connect me to so many people. But sometimes I long for the time when people had to be in a phone booth or specific room in their house in order to talk on the phone – probably with a door that closes, since many cellphone-istas seem to not care at all about privacy, and talk as if nobody can hear them.

I can hear you. And it’s annoying.

The Subtle Beauty of the Positive

2007-12-19T16:02:00.000-06:00

The amazing popularity of the “health and wealth” gospel, evidenced by the continuing appearance of books on the shelf by mega-church preachers (like Joel Osteen), is troubling, to say the least. This perverted good news is that good things will come to us, if only we have enough faith. The more we trust in God and have faith, then the more we will do well in this life. It's as simple as that. Perhaps the most heretical aspect of this sort of God-talk is that the assumption that the reverse is also true – the rich and successful people in the world are that way because God has specifically blessed them, and, thus, poor people are poor for the exact same reason.

No, I’m not a fan of the “prosperity” gospel. But, I want to give a shoutout to the people who are positive in this life. Currently, I am typing this as my train speeds through the snow-covered countryside of northwestern Illinois. The sun just set, and that glow of red is reminding us of its recent departure. I’m at a table with a huge window overlooking it all. It’s beautiful.

You wouldn’t have guessed that, however, if you were listening to the conversations of people around me. The people sitting across from me have begun the popular ritual of strangers on trains – complaining. At least, this is how it seems to me. For the past hour, they have connected on a human level by pointing out all the ways in which this train is horrible, train travel in general is horrible, the snow sucks, their life sucks, and how much it will suck when they arrive at their station late (a common feature of riding on Amtrak in the US). Now, I could easily relate to some of their complaints (especially the snow one), but I just don’t have the energy. I’m finding positivism to be much more life-giving.

A recent report in Newsweek commented on the overwhelming optimism of people in Afghanistan, six years after their country was bombed mercilessly in payment for 3,000 lives on 9/11. A recent poll found that close to 80% of people are “optimistic about their future.” Eighty percent. If that was a report of the USA, the most obscenely rich superpower in human history, I would assume it was a joke article in The Onion. There’s no way we’d be that optimistic. But here’s Afghanistan, where life has probably not gotten that much better, especially with the resurgence of the Taliban, and its people continue to believe in a better future. That is nothing short of inspiring. And it makes the grumbling I hear next to me all the more annoying.

Of course, it’s easy to go to the other end, and be naïve and blind-eyed optimists. That’s not a solution in our broken world, either. At least these people are being honest. And, I recognize my own extremely limited patience with the people next to me. I am, conveniently, complaining about people who complain. I need to practice what I preach.

But, still. Get over it, people. Let’s work on finding the good in situations, and maybe more good will come of it. It’s worth a try.

Soft Words for a Cold Season

2007-11-24T16:10:00.000-06:00

It has become clear that I cannot supply this blog with my words all of the time. So, I should make it a point to use someone else's when I find myself too swamped, too busy, etc...

As the winter falls upon us:

"Late October"

Carefully
the leaves of autumn
sprinkle down the tinny
sound of little dyings
and skies sated
of ruddy sunsets
of roseate dawns
roil ceaselessly in
cobweb greys and turn
to black
for comfort.

Only lovers
see the fall
a signal end to endings
a gruffish gesture alerting
those who will not be alarmed
that we begin to stop
in order simply
to begin
again.

|Maya Angelou|

Amen.

A Long Time

2007-10-20T10:26:00.000-05:00

Ok, yes. It has been forever. I realize this.

The last time I wrote to you, I was quoting the Sufi mystic poet Hafiz in the midst of my Clinical Pastoral Education experience in San Francisco.

Now I am back in Chicago, on the ground running through my second year in seminary. I work part-time, go to school full-time, spend at least 7 hours/week in a church, co-lead two groups on campus, and sleep...occasionally.

This time next year, I will be living and working at an actual church as an intern - this whole pastor thing is becoming more and more a reality. Crazy.

I continue to hope that this blog stays current, and is a way for me to continue connecting to people, even when I am extraordinarily busy. We'll see if that holds true...

A CPE Reflection

2007-07-04T23:19:00.000-05:00

The
Heart is right to cry

Even when the smallest drop of light,
Of love,
Is taken away.

Perhaps you may kick, moan, scream
In a dignified
Silence,

But you are so right
To do so in any fashion

Until God returns
To

You.

-Hafiz

God, our hearts cry out to you. We are faced with the depths of human suffering in this broken world, and we yearn for your presence. What can we do but kick, moan, and scream? We are witness to situations in which You seem not to be present. We are immersed in sadness. Hopelessness and despair wash over us. Our hearts cry out to you.

But you do not sit far away, watching dispassionately as we live our lives here on earth. You are radically and passionately with us in that dignified silence. Like the psalms of old, we call You and You are there. With each painful breath, within every tear, under all of the hushed and painful words spoken in an intimate corner of a waiting room, we are constantly reminded that we are not alone.

Even so, such a reminder is elusive sometimes. Amidst the reality of our complex world, we are often left with little to comfort us. Yet, our hearts continue to cry out – constantly, consistently. And our cries are so right. For we know that, at the core of our pain, deep down past the sense of our logic, we need not wait until You return.

For You, God, have always been here, with us.

Jesus, the Mexican Boy

2007-05-07T23:21:00.000-05:00

Walking into the nondescript and unassuming building on the north side of Chicago that houses the Kovler Center, I was immediately struck by the quiet of the place. In the midst of Chicago, a city where I have rarely experienced a total absence of noise, this truly felt like an oasis. It is here, near the Catholic Loyola University, in a renovated convent, where victims of human rights abuses from outside the United States are housed, given treatment, medical care, and, basically, given a home.

It was an appropriate trip to take as we end our class on spirituality, ministry, and victims of human rights abuse. We have listened to actual survivors of human rights abuse – real people who have experienced real torture at the hands of unjust systems of justice – and have been challenged as a class to create a safe space in which to have these speakers. To be willing to speak to a group of complete strangers about an experience so personal and torturous takes such extraordinary courage, and gives us as the audience such an extraordinary opportunity to listen, and – when appropriate – to engage.

The people at the Kovler Center are engaged in similar conversations with victims and survivors who come to the United States with few options left. I am reminded of a wonderful postcard hanging in my college theology professor’s office with a map of the United States and its familiar creed on it: “Land of the free.”* The * is referred to at the bottom in small print: “Some restrictions apply. Void where prohibited.” I will never know what it is like to be a refugee in the United States of America, but I know what it should be like – if we take our Statue of Liberty seriously: “Give me your tired, your weak, your huddled masses, yearning to be free…”

We walked through the rooms, going to the top of the building where one resident keeps bees and makes honey for the community; to the kitchen, where community members take turns cooking meals from their respective countries and cultures; to numerous offices, where people volunteer, work, and dedicate their lives for the mission of the center. Care is taken to ensure not only peace and quiet, but also privacy and protection: Many people come as political refugees, and some have been in real danger as elements from their home have come to Chicago looking for them.

Amidst all of this, I kept thinking of the popular slogan: “What Would Jesus Do?” It seems to be used primarily on bumper stickers and window clings, but I have a feeling that the question is rarely given much consideration. Surely Jesus would know something about being a refugee, since by law he was born a non-citizen (otherwise known, in many ways, as a ‘non-human’) under occupation in a Roman territory about 2,000 years ago. I realize, however, that some people cringe when the life of Jesus is described in political terms. He is above mere politics, some say. He would not “do” anything in light of today’s intense political situations – Jesus simply “is” Lord and Savior, and will come again to judge the living and the dead.

Okay, then. Maybe the slogan should say, “Who Is Jesus?” It is a little bit less catchy and a little bit more vague.

But I would venture a guess: Jesus is the face of the refugee who flees her country in search of peace and dignity. Jesus came to give life – and life abundantly. What is more life-giving? Murderous policies and legalized torture? The insistence on referring to people who are in this country without proper documentation as “illegals” or, simply, “aliens”? It is not a giant leap from “alien” to “cockroach” – a name given to many on the eve of the genocide in Rwanda in 1994.

Who is Jesus? He is not an alien, or a cockroach. Jesus defeated death. Jesus gives life. And Jesus would feel right at home in the Kovler Center.

Beside the Still Waters, She Will Lead...

2007-04-23T19:50:00.000-05:00

The Lord is my shepherd,
I have all I need.

I have often appreciated the sorrowful, meditative, somber aspects of the Christian faith. The memories that sustain my faith are short glimpses: incomplete thoughts that constantly float through my head. The first time I saw the altar stripped at the end of a Maundy Thursday service before Good Friday. The haunting wails of Psalms filling a synagogue during Passover. The imposition of ashes on my forehead during college, reminding me that I was from dust, and to dust I will return. And hearing Bobby McFerrin’s 23rd Psalm fill the room as I watched photos of my mother on a projector in a small chapel in south Texas.

Memories of my mom are sometimes just as fleeting, but no less powerful. The way she would touch the back of my arm when she talked to me. Her still, small voice in prayer over me when I was sick. Her absolute love of any kind of music I gave to her. And what she said in my ear at my graduation from college, struggling for words as the disease was taking full hold of her mind, “I’m so proud of you, Jason.”

In the 36 hours before the funeral, I couldn’t eat. I recognized that I was hungry, and I certainly felt weak, but I just couldn’t consume anything. I wonder if it was my body’s way of mourning.

On Thursday and Friday of last week, the Texas sun soaked my body in a warmth that had been missing from Chicago as of late. On the day of the funeral, the sun began to be dwarfed by rain clouds, and it has been overcast every day since. The life-giving sun was nowhere in sight. I wonder if it was the earth’s way of mourning the sorrow that currently consumes us.

Eventually, however, the sun will be visible once again, and I finally nourished my body with some food. But my mother is still gone, and will be forever.

She leads me in a path of good things,
And fills my heart with songs.

I wonder how long mourning is “supposed” to last. Certainly our culture does not necessarily validate or recognize this as a way of dealing with suffering. It did not end with the funeral on Saturday, just like it didn’t end with the moment when my mother first stopped realizing who I was one year ago.

It will continue until it stops, with both joy and sorrow consuming me where they may. Maybe I’m more drawn to the sorrowful moments because they point me to the beauty inherent in life.

I look to Good Friday, because I know that, through the darkness of death, Christ rises.

And I know that even though Mom is dead, she is alive. As Pastor Lori reminded us at her funeral, she can now breathe better, move better, eat better, and remember better than ever. She need not be comforted any more.

I guess it’s just us left to be comforted.

…that was always my mom’s job.

She will be missed.

Even though I walk
Through a dark and dreary land,
There is nothing that can shake me.
She has said she won’t forsake me:
I’m in her hand.

In Memoriam

2007-04-15T00:31:00.000-05:00

Dear Ones,

PREFACE - I understand two things:

[1] Some of you might not be aware of this reality - My mother had been slowly dying for the past few years, and I am never sure of who knows and who doesn't. It's always an awkward topic for dinner conversations. ;) But whether or not you knew before, it is important to me that you know now, because I care about you and appreciate you as dear friends and people in my life.

[2] I don't know if I have the energy to contact each of you lovely people personally. I wish I could. Regardless, we may not have spoken for two weeks or two years, but know that I hold you in my heart.

My mom's long journey has ended. At about 1:00 am this morning, her life finally stood completed. My thanks goes to each and every one of you as you have supported me and my family and prayed for us these past years as we have watched my mom (and dad) suffer through this surreal and horrific disease diagnosed as Alzheimer's. You have received my tears, you have witnessed my doubts, you have been with me, in every way imaginable. My cup truly overflows.

This is a gift, in many wondrous and strange ways - the time had long passed since she either recognized us, or we her. In this Easter week, as we celebrate the mystery of death and the knowledge that God is present in this world, our comfort is in Christ alone. We also take comfort and rejoice in the fact that my mom is no longer suffering, her body is now whole, and she is in the all-encompassing presence of our Lord -- I cannot even fathom what that must be like. Her memory restored, her silent gaze replaced by that confident smirk - Mom returning to who she always was.

Maryann leaves behind her loving husband of 37 years, 4 children, and 9 grandchildren. The funeral will be held on Saturday, April 21, 2007 at Eden Home Chapel in New Braunfels, Texas. For those of you that live in the area and would like to attend the service, I will be sending out additional information later in the week.

To each of you, friends of my heart; for those of you I have known for such a beautifully long time, and for you that I have had the pleasure of meeting fairly recently in my life,
God's peace, in every place, in every time, in every situation,

-jason

Maryann Chesnut
September 5, 1947 - April 14, 2007

A Hesitant Easter

2007-04-11T21:40:00.000-05:00

In the wake of Easter Sunday, this week has been imbued with constant reminders of our baptism, grandiose banners hanging from the ceiling, and passionate shouts from everywhere, proclaiming that “Christ is risen!” Christ is risen, indeed. Alleluia.

My friend Elisabeth mentioned today that sometimes she finds it hard to say, “Alleluia.” Even as Easter comes and we celebrate Christ’s resurrection and victory over death, there are some who cannot so easily utter “Alleluia!” We are compelled to do so after the 40 days of Lent, but there is something to say about the hesitation to scream it out come Easter morning. There are some situations that make it difficult to get past Good Friday.

My mother went on oxygen last Sunday night (as Easter sunrise had declined into darkness), breathing irregularly and not responding. She herself has declined beyond what most would consider, on a fundamental level, life. Hovering around 65 pounds, rarely eating, drinking, or reacting to outside stimuli, she is literally a ghost.

I can imagine the shock of Mary when she found the tomb empty, and the shock when she recognized the gardener as Jesus. I’m not sure which shock was greater. But I do know that what this first (literal) apostle experienced next – that there is nowhere where God is not – has formed the bedrock of Christian faith.

And, sometimes, when what you see is death, it’s hard to proclaim the risen Christ. But that’s precisely what we believe – that there is no place that is God-forsaken. Jesus’ unbelievable resurrection conquers the all-too-real death so many see and experience. Let us remember them in the midst of our Easter celebration.

Good Friday Walk for Justice

2007-04-07T17:49:00.000-05:00

Walking through downtown Chicago’s financial district on Good Friday, I was struck by two things – the mind-numbing, bone-chilling cold wind that blew unceasingly during the three-hour walk, and the striking similarities so easily drawn between Jesus’ march to Golgotha and our Good Friday Walk for Justice. We walked for numerous marginalized people – both near to us in Chicago, and far away across the world – and, in doing so, took the brutal journey of a lone criminal to a cross two thousand years ago and made it powerfully relevant to us, here and now.

Besides my brief forays into the Catholic world, sneaking away from my Protestant upbringing to attend Mass with my grandpa whenever he came to visit our family, I know very little about the Catholic faith. However, since my recent whirlwind spiritual journey, beginning with my study abroad experience in Africa four years ago, to my confirmation as a Lutheran Christian in 2004, and finally to actively studying to become a servant-leader in the Lutheran church, I am interacting more and more with our sister denomination. The Stations of the Cross are part of that continuing education.

My stereotypical view of pious monks shuffling from one station to another was quickly challenged on this Good Friday, however, as I joined a huge conglomeration of people who somberly gathered on a workday at noon in the midst of the bustling financial center of Chicago. We sang in the shadow of the Chicago Board of Trade, affirming that we heard “the calls of our brothers and sisters” who work under unjust labor conditions. We cried out in response to the myth of redemptive violence that permeates our culture in the Federal Plaza, as police calmly stood by. We walked the counter-cultural walk of mourning injustice and corporate greed in a land of magnificent consumerism.

It was helpful for me to immerse myself in the meaning of Good Friday, since the very act of doing a walk on Good Friday is somewhat controversial. To connect the suffering and death of Jesus with the suffering and death of people on the margins of society doesn’t play too well in the “land of opportunity.” The “health and wealth” gospels spouted in mega-churches across the country spell this philosophy out loud and clear: If you only have enough faith in God, you will achieve all the prosperity and happiness you could ever want.

Unfortunately for many people, however, all the faith in the world won’t stop the harsh economic foot from crushing them. The working-poor often live paycheck-to-paycheck, and the unemployed (and underemployed) – not to mention those without homes – are straining to simply get by. Walking with “the least of these” in Chicago as we remembered Jesus’ excruciating walk to the “Place of the Skull,” we explicitly connected the exploitation of God in Jesus the Christ to the exploitation of God’s own children. Thus, to live into Good Friday (and all the sorrow it entails) means to consciously deny Easter – for the moment. In a positively sick country addicted to satisfying our own expensive way of life – often at the expense of developing nations – remembering Jesus’ death at the hands of unjust systems is controversial, indeed.

I do not mean to say that Easter isn’t the culmination of our hope in the risen Christ – this it is and so much more. We will rejoice on Sunday that Christ has conquered death and given us life through his own journey. But this journey is more than its celebratory ending on Easter – it is the silence of Good Friday, with the rich getting richer and the poor poorer, and the darkness of Easter Saturday, with the hopelessness of so many struggling to live a life of dignity. Their cry is Jesus’ cry.

Selective Torture

2007-03-14T22:48:00.000-05:00

Lately, it has become difficult for me to find things to say, topics on which to write. It’s not that I can’t think of anything, but rather that I can’t pinpoint just one.

It is with this in mind that I will begin to write on the first thing that hits me – tonight, I can’t stop thinking about the movie I watched last night in class. It was an HBO documentary called Ghosts of Abu Ghraib. I had seen the more notorious pictures from that prison before, but it didn’t strike me with the force it did when watching this film. Here were interviews with the soldiers who had committed these torture tactics, talking about their situation with an almost detached sense of calm. They held photos that have since been released to the world, especially damaging to the Arab world. And they kept repeating their shared mantra: I had to do it. I was told to do it.

A Jewish woman is a part of my small group in this class, and she expressed anger at this capitulation of responsibility. “It’s not enough,” she said quietly to our group of five, “for the Nazis to say, ‘I was told to do it.’ They still did it. That’s just not enough for me.” I definitely sympathize. These seemingly well-mannered soldiers, no matter what their specific situation or extenuating circumstance, still committed horrible acts. They tortured fellow human beings. That is, consequently, the theme of the class - Spirituality, Ministry, and Survivors of Human Rights Abuse. We have met survivors of torture. We have heard their stories. And I have no words.

But it can’t just be put on the American soldiers. A chilling moment came when one of the soldiers reflected, with noticeable regret, that “if it wasn’t for those photos, there would be no Abu Ghraib.” Indeed. The documentary held no punches in its claim that our current administration mostly expressed regret that the pictures were ever released, instead of explicitly condemning the ferocious torture of people held on no charges (in the very prison that witnessed the sadism of Saddam Hussein, no less). It’s not that Arab men were being chained hand and foot, naked, being forced into sexually explicit postures, all the while American soldiers stood over them, exercising total and complete domination. No, no. It’s the fact that someone had a camera, and that those damn pics got out!

Our administration, especially George W. Bush, has prided itself on being strong decision-makers – “deciders,” even. Our cowboy president has repeated numerous times that it’s him who makes the decisions, and he will be the one to take responsibility for those decisions. He has based his entire Texan, grassroots, “aw-shucks” image on this powerful idea. But when it comes to actively finding holes in the Geneva Conventions in order to stretch the limits of “legal” torture; when it comes to continuing sanctioned torture at Guantanamo Bay; when it comes to questions concerning the ground situation in Iraq, our president, VP, and others act as though they can’t possibly be held responsible. They talk in circles, dodge questions, and – that old standard – accuse anyone of pushing further of being somehow anti-patriotic and downright haters of men and women in uniform.

Allow me to talk in the informal speak of Mr. Bush: What a bunch of cowards. That’s the only word I can come up with. They have embarrassed America, at home and abroad. Buck up. Take some responsibility. Be a leader. Grow up.

An Idea

2007-03-07T22:05:00.000-06:00

In the Holy Land, come Friday, Muslim shops and businesses close down tight in preparation for the holy day of Islam. This fantastic idea seems incredibly foreign in America, the “land of the free,” where few could imagine stores closing on any specific day.

To preface this, I fully realize that America isn’t – and never has been – a Christian country. (Contrary to popular belief in the current moral degradation of the US, which presupposes a totally fictitious golden age of yester-year in which our forebears were devoutly Christian [which they weren’t], and people were super-godly, pious, and virtually Christ-like in every way [which isn’t possible].) Ours is a country of many different religions and faiths, and to have a holy day celebrated by, for instance, the three faiths of Abraham, then Friday, Saturday, and Sunday are pretty much out of the question. It’s not going to happen.

But just look, for the moment, at the counter-cultural ramifications of closing shop on one day a week – all of the sudden, there is one day a week where we are forced to intentionally set out to experience the holy. We are limited in what we can do: No running to the store for a quick snack; no going out to eat for brunch; no ability to spend money or be consumers in any respect whatsoever. We would need to get creative in how we spend our time. We would not be able to get whatever we want, whenever we wanted it. We would have to do things that (gasp!) don’t require money.

That sounds like a holy day to me.

This will not happen in America, obviously. But it won’t be in the name of religious freedom or tolerance: It will be defended in the name of fervent capitalism – our national religion. There is simply no way any company will close its doors for a day. Imagine the money lost! (Plus, if every other store closed…well…I hear Wal-mart calling…)

Yet I still find this idea to be compelling, however it might be envisioned.

My vote’s for Monday.

I Think...

2007-02-20T03:10:00.000-06:00

Archbishop Elias Chacour speaks with a fierce simplicity and an uncompromising passion. A modern-day prophet and our very first speaker on the trip, Chacour had me riveted from the minute he walked into the room. This man lost everything during the Israeli War of Independence in 1948 – again, a symbol of differing histories and perspectives: Palestinians refer to this event as naqbah (the “Catastrophe”) – and is now the founder and leader of an interfaith Christian school that provides kids with otherwise few opportunities the opportunity to succeed. He is an Arab Israeli, gaining citizenship in the State of Israel, yet has a marker on his ID to identify him as completely separate from a Jewish Israeli. When asked if the current situation is, as Jimmy Carter described it, a system of apartheid, he responded simply, “If it’s not apartheid, what is it?”

I haven’t yet read Carter’s book, but I have heard enough of what others think of him. “Anti-Semitic” is always a fun one, and normally the most common. Yet just as many around the world can differentiate Americans from our government (thank God), can’t people do the same with Israel? When Carter attacks the Israeli government, he is not attacking Israeli citizens – and he is certainly not attacking the Jewish people as a whole.

Here we come to the trickiest part of the whole Palestine-Israel equation: Anytime you criticize Israel, you are often called anti-Semitic, as if your critique is just a well-concealed, deep-seated hatred for Jewish people. (For many people, my words so far could be enough to indict me on the same charges.)

Why is this? Is the State of Israel the fulfillment of prophecy, and thus must be defended at all costs? Christian fundamentalists would certainly say so – many cheered during the Six-Day War in 1967, convinced that once Israel took the Temple Mount, they would destroy the Dome of the Rock (so predominant in modern pictures of Jerusalem) and replace it with the Third Temple, thus ushering in the long-awaited-for second coming of Christ. This, in turn, would begin a seven year-long reign of the Antichrist (take your pick on this one – the solid theologians of the Left Behind series would say it’s the leader of the UN…but, of course, that is Biblically-based and not a political statement in the least) a period of time during which, incidentally, many Jews would either be killed or converted.

That doesn’t sound very pro-Semite to me. But, when it comes to the Rapture, I guess moral values and hypocrisy take a backseat to the prophecy spelled out in that wonderfully clear and transparent Book of Revelation.

The question is this: Can we, as Christians, love and affirm our Jewish brothers and sisters without compromising our compassion for Palestinian Christian sisters and brothers?

I would say absolutely. And I think the first thing to do is separate Judaism from the State of Israel. When you criticize the actions of a country, you are not fundamentally questioning the value of their citizens. I think Americans are all-too-familiar with this concept.

Initial Feelings

2007-02-10T18:29:00.000-06:00

My Holy Land trip and subsequent jet lag combined with extreme laziness – and the advent of the new spring semester – notwithstanding, I have not taken care to update this thing. Given my love for writing, rest assured that I have sufficiently reprimanded myself.

So, the Holy Land. Right. Some call it Palestine, some Israel. Perspectives on geography bring about an interesting dynamic in this region, with many Israeli maps showing a vast empty space in the region of the Palestinian West Bank – “Samaria” in the ancient world – as if there is nothing there but a vast desert. Conversely, some Palestinian maps name Israel “Unoccupied Palestinian Territories.” Who’s right, who’s wrong? As much as I want to say “both, in some ways,” it just doesn’t work that way.

I must confess that I had an obvious leaning before I went on this trip, and my opinion was only confirmed and strengthened after seventeen days in this volatile region. But that, in many ways, matters not. Some experiences are visceral and leave little to interpretation. They are what they are.

When you enter Bethlehem, the city of our Savior’s birth, you must pass from Jerusalem through a 25-foot wall that will soon surround the entire city. A modern and perverted twist on an ancient idea promises security to the people outside the city walls, while choking the people within. This Wall, Barrier – whatever you want to call it – separates much of Israel from its occupied land, in many instances crossing into the West Bank itself, sometimes separating people from their neighbors, their land, etc…

Crossing the Jordan river from the Kingdom of Jordan to the State of Israel, I had the sense that I was crossing from Mexico to the United States. A developing nation, Jordan has all the signs of countries in the 2/3 world – main roads in rough shape, visible, endemic poverty – and it is bordered by other countries that are in similar economic situations, and are similarly, predominantly Arab. Israel, on the other hand, is a solid member of the developed, industrialized world, and it shows. The highways are paved, signs of poverty well-hidden.

Bordering many Palestinian villages in the dry climate are Israeli settlements – “Oases in the Desert”, as one billboard proclaimed – that feature spacious swimming pools and ornate water fountains. They resemble upscale suburban gated communities, except that one needs only drive five minutes out of the heavily-guarded gate to encounter extremely poor (and dry) communities.

I guess it’s hard to hide my sentiments with respect to the “Israeli-Palestinian conflict.” I don’t pretend to be objective. All I know is what I have seen and experienced, and I will continue to relate that in future postings (with more regularity, I promise!). So, understanding that this is a sensitive topic, I will try to be fair-handed with my observations (especially sobering when many of my conclusions pointed me to inequities all-too-present in the United States). But I can only be honest.

The “Holy” Land proved too many times to be anything but. Yet it is a land in which many people place their dreams, hopes, and futures. Praying for “peace” takes on a whole new meaning, especially when so much pain and devastation rarely stops: http://news.bbc.co.uk/2/hi/middle_east/6346093.stm

Rethinking

2007-01-14T12:37:00.000-06:00

So, upon considering that paying for internet is not something I want to figure into my budget for this trip, I don't think I will be updating on my current trip in the Holy Land.

I will, hopefully, gather together my dizzying cluster of thoughts when I return, and post them on this blog. Until then, I beg for your patience. (I know many of you wait for these words with bated breath and all...)

But, before I go, two quick notes:

[1] The Holy Land is far more complex than I could have ever imagined. Suffice to say, there is a wall that will eventually enclose the birthplace of our Savior and Lord in the Christian church. A barrier to separate Bethlehem from Jerusalem. How can this be right?

[2] I experienced something more beautiful than I could ever hope to relate in an online journal. It was the Church of the Nativity in Bethlehem. And it was Greek Orthodox. Ben, I wish you could have been there for the service. It was truly out of this world.

I am blessed. I have a whole new concept of what 'peace' could mean, and how elusive it truly is.

What a beautiful and overwhelming place.

Holy, Holy, Holy

2007-01-08T12:27:00.000-06:00

I have arrived here in the Holy Land, and instead of writing once when I get back, when I don't have words for the experience, I shall write once now, while I still don't have any words. I'm not sure how many more opportunities I'll have for internet access, so a small computer in the corner of a Jordanian hotel sounds perfect to me.

We are, as noted, in Jordan, and we will cross over the border into the West Bank in a few days. The schedule is absolutely packed, which works well with my lingering jet lag. Tomorrow we ride camels across the desert and explore Petra, where the famous ruins into the side of a massive cliff were made even more famous in Indiana Jones and the Last Crusade.

This is such a phenomenal place, and I will never understand or comprehend it fully, but I will continue to try.

So much of this place reminds me of Africa - so beautiful, so dry, so poor. It is good to be here. I am blessed for the opportunity.

Holy Land, Round 1. Completed.

All Dogs MUST Go To Heaven

2006-12-27T16:00:00.000-06:00

The two dogs I look after are funny creatures.

I don’t particularly like dogs – if I had to choose, I would pick a feline any day of the week. They are more independent – they don’t beg for your attention, they don’t wag their tail like an animal addicted to speed, they are content lying in your lap without needing constant attention.

But these dogs, well, color me hypocritical. They have won my heart. They spend the whole day laying around and have the ability to continually be stroked and/or petted, without pause, for what I’m sure would be several days. Their high-pierced and horrible noises – what I’ve been told are commonly referred to as “barks” – routinely wake me up way before my body had been planning on rustling out of bed. When they come in out of the rain, they stink, carrying an odor that is somewhat akin to “wet dog”. Gus, in particular, has breath that could take the paint right off a Mack truck.

In short, they’re dogs.

And I love them. I don’t know why, but I’ll miss them, too, when I get on the plane back to Chicago.

Maybe that’s what I’m missing. Someone who will always be excited to see me, and always be ready to show me some love. It’s like a relationship without all that extra stuff, those annoying and unnecessary aspects, like sharing the same species and having to talk to each other.

Sign me up!

I Know, I Know

2006-12-26T09:13:00.000-06:00

Whoa! It’s been way too long. But I will not let this thing die…

But, let’s be honest. It’s the day after Christmas; I’m back in Texas after finals, Pastor Lori’s installation, and service after service after service.

What is there to say?

I leave for the Holy Land on January 5th. I’m sure THAT will get me to write.

Peace to you and yours…

Rushing to Peace

2006-12-09T00:37:00.001-06:00

Why do we fight? I’ve just watched a documentary of the same name. I have heard many answers in my life, sometimes from members of my family who have been – and continue to be – part of our country’s military.

“We fight to preserve our freedom.” That, or things like that, are said. Over and over and over again. When we bombed houses in Afghanistan and Iraq, this is what was said. We didn’t fight for oil, or for American interests and defense contracts, or for what Dwight Eisenhower called “the military-industrial complex.” We continue to fight for freedom.

If this is questioned, in any way, it becomes a matter of pride – an emotional attack. I still cannot argue with my dad about Iraq War II today because of the inevitable emotional tie-ins to Vietnam, where he served in the Navy. He will not have his struggle, the death of friends and those close to him, be in vain. It all must have been for SOMETHING.

I am not talking about our motives in this current war, or for the lies that have been passed down from this current administration regarding that war. I’m not even talking about the effectiveness of war, or the theological basis for it.

I would just say this: War has become such a part of our culture that it is never even questioned. When it is – when one million people flood the streets to protest war – it’s seen as a nuisance at best, inappropriate and treasonous at worst. Anti-American. Subversive. If you protest war, you are showing disdain for the millions who support their family through military jobs.

I can honestly say I do no such thing. I just think that the taking of human life should be scrutinized much more, and that any action which could lead to this outcome has to be questioned. Again and again and again. Why can’t peace be the default?

How can we call ourselves Christians unless it is?

Emmanuel - God With Us

2006-11-29T14:24:00.000-06:00

For Christians, the book of Job doesn’t fall under the “good news” contained in the New Testament Gospels, and therefore it rarely receives much attention from the pulpit. Christians, however, need not find specifically Christian concepts in the book of Job for it to speak to their suffering.

Job’s friends are quick to provide resources to end his suffering, employing traditional reasoning: If you are good, God rewards you. If not, God takes away. Thus, Job must have done something to incur the wrath of God, and all he need do is repent. Job fires back, saying that if God would only hear him out, he would be vindicated. His friends, then, fall back on another hallmark of divine theology – the unknowable God. God’s ways are not human ways; thus, who are mere mortals to question the ways of the divine? Both responses are easily seen in the Christian community and in its theology.

Job’s approach, however, is overwhelmingly one of complete defiance against his circumstances. Job’s willingness to argue so passionately with his maker – for chapter after chapter – illustrates another resource for dealing with suffering: getting angry.

For Christians, this approach is less common – God is often seen as both untouchable and unapproachable. To argue with such a God is, therefore, seen as extremely inappropriate and sacrilegious. Yet, for Job, a deep sense of respect can be seen in his venting. If he truly did not care for God, why would he spend so much energy crying out? Why not give up and walk away? No, he is determined to hold God accountable. In a sense, he doesn’t give up on God.

Finally, the lack of any satisfactory answer in the book of Job itself – when God finally does show up, God’s “answer” to Job addresses none of the issues raised in the preceding chapters – gives hope to those who have no answer themselves. Here again the Christian can find solace in the fact that no answer is given, mirroring real life with all its grey areas, its trials and seeming randomness.

What I do not find in these texts – one important omission that is crucial to my own theology – is the idea of God suffering with us. In Job, God eventually responds to Job (and even restores him), but there is absolutely no sense that God is present amid Job’s suffering. And when God does finally show up, God comes across as a taunting bully, telling Job to “gird up your loins like a man” (38:3).

In a world where suffering is systemic and without mercy, the two traditional approaches discussed above are, I believe, completely inappropriate. The latter two, especially the permission to hold God accountable, can be extremely powerful to empower those who intimately know the suffering that Job experiences. The idea that God suffers with God’s creation, however, can be a comfort beyond all words.

The idea that God is with my mother, whose dementia at age 59 has taken away her beautiful mind while cruelly leaving her withered body, is beyond all intelligent rationale – yet I must believe it to be true. For the 24,000 people who die per day simply because they have no food, does an immanent God who starves with the wretched of this world provide more comfort than a God whose ways we can never hope to discern? I strongly think so. This God is the One I have come to know in my life.

This God is present in the world – a world that, like Job, passionately yearns for justice. God may not have addressed this lack of justice in the book of Job, but perhaps this shows the intent for us, as humans, to share some of the responsibility for our own broken world. When we are confronted with ferocious and sickening examples of a world already beautiful but not yet whole, we are challenged to dispense with our normal response of “Where was God in this?” – I would propose that God is there, in the thick of it, holding back the water yet admittedly unable to stop the carnage – and ask, instead, “Where were we?”

A Thousand Oaths of Silence

2006-11-26T22:20:00.000-06:00

I will let Hafiz speak for me tonight:

The
Real love
I always keep a secret.

All my words
Are sung outside Her window,

For when She lets me in
I take a thousand oaths of silence.

But,
Then She says,

O, then God says,

“What the hell, Hafiz,
Why not give the whole world
My
Address.”

Thanksgiving Tomorrow

2006-11-22T22:16:00.000-06:00

"If the only prayer you ever say in your whole life is 'thank you', that would suffice."

|Meister Eckhart|

Praying Nicely with Others

2006-11-19T18:49:00.000-06:00

We were practicing for our worship class, running through the communion liturgy in the upstairs prayer chapel, when Izzet politely knocked. One of the few Muslim students present at our overwhelmingly Lutheran seminary, Izzet is a soft-spoken and extremely polite and genteel man. I often wish I could do him the honor of speaking his native tongue when I engage him in conversation, as the frustration of the language barrier is one of my ultimate shortcomings.

It was then that I realized my classmate and I were in the prayer chapel during a scheduled prayer time for our Muslim students. We quickly apologized and started to gather our things. Izzet, however, was the one who apologized. He asked if we would mind if he prayed while we stayed and worshipped. I asked, again, if we should go, but he wouldn’t have it.

So he pulled out his prayer carpet, pointed towards Mecca, and began to pray. We went back to reciting our communion prayer. There we were, engaged in something so interesting that it could have easily descended into kitsch, especially with a picture being taken with the caption saying, “Only at LSTC.”

But it wasn’t. It was a powerful Christian liturgy, taking place in an interfaith and intercultural context, sharing space with a prayer to the One God. How similar were our prayers, our words, our reverence?

Was it a metaphor? Either way, it was beautiful.

Novel Ideas

2006-11-07T00:55:00.000-06:00

If there is one thing that threatens to tear the (Lutheran) church apart in today’s time, it is centered on questions of human sexuality. Both sides can argue until their face turns blue – and they often do. While most conversation quickly morphs into heated debates, with each side trying desperately to convince the other without regard for personal feelings, or – to put it bluntly – common decency, it is crucial to enter into this discussion practicing the Christian values of openness, respect, and love for one another. A novel idea, for sure.

Yet such an opportunity recently presented itself at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago, a seminary of the Evangelical Lutheran Church in America and the school at which I currently attend. The Board of Directors met this past weekend, and one of the issues on the docket was a discussion of becoming a publicly welcoming institution to people of all sexual orientations and gender identities (or lesbian, gay, bisexual, and transgender people [LGBT]). In order to facilitate such a conversation, the entire seminary community was invited to dinner with the board members.

Opinions aside (which is admittedly not the author’s strong point), the overwhelming feeling of the community discussion was one of relief. Finally, a conversation had taken place over a controversial issue, and – surprisingly enough – the church had not exploded. Imagine that. It is actually hard to do so, and that – I believe – is rooted in the use of Scripture for extraordinarily inappropriate purposes.

The popular belief that, for instance, only one person (i.e. Moses) wrote the entire first five books of the Bible has long since given way to the notion that the Bible was written by many different voices – from many different eras – and eventually edited into the format we have today. Thus, we have two completely different stories of how the Creation came to be in the first chapters of Genesis, four similar – but also widely variant – accounts of the ministry of Jesus, etc…This is continued throughout the Biblical narrative.

How, then, does this relate to the study of sexuality? If the editors of the Bible wanted a nice, clean narrative – one that didn’t contradict other parts of the Bible – they could have easily done so. Yet the Bible as we know it today contains more contradictions than days in the year. It follows, therefore, that it was more important to the editors to keep wholly different traditions (and the stories that came from them) side-by-side, no matter how much they may have disagreed with each other.

Therefore, It is relatively easy, in this wealth of information called Holy Scripture, to find a passage that fits your particular cup of tea. This diversity frequently leads to a sad irony that rears its ugly head repeatedly in the controversies of today: the Bible, a rich array of differing sources compiled into one extraordinarily diverse book, is often used as an uncomplicatedly blunt theological weapon – an instrument that is life-destroying, rather than life-giving. A symbol of hate rather than love.

And it produces sad results. Christians demonizing Christians. People all-too-certain that their perspective is the correct one – the “Biblical” one. The debate over sexuality, regardless of your specific stand, is one that challenges the very foundation of what it means to be a Christian in today’s society.

As for the people caught in the middle of this debate, I am certain that taking the time to put down one’s Bible and engaging in truthful and compassionate conversation with them – as opposed to about them – might be the most Christian act one could perform. For, as the Biblical writers have shown us, disagreement is not the problem. It is how one acts amidst such disagreement that is the real test of faith.

Do You Have The Time?

2006-10-25T18:28:00.000-05:00

What rules us? The desert mothers and fathers asked this question at the dawn of the Christian religion. They felt that the current society was a “shipwreck”, and they wanted to get out as quickly as possible in order to worship God, in order to be true to themselves – in short, in order to preserve their sanity.

The culture of today is one of instant gratification – of email (or, if you’re like me, and that sometimes isn’t quick enough for you, of instant messaging) and cellphones, of having the world at your fingertips at any time, day or night.

I sometimes I have to remind myself that before all of these modern inventions, people survived – even thrived – and stayed connected to people, even after having to wait three weeks for a letter to arrive by a pony. I sometimes fret when certain emails aren’t answered after three hours.

I know it’s easy to mourn for some sort of golden age in the past, when things were simpler. But I truly think this hits at the heart of Christianity today. How do we spend our time? I ask again, what rules us? I wonder if we can truly get out of this fast-paced Mc-Culture, or if all I can do is complain about it. Have we backed ourselves into a corner out of which there is no escape? I, for one, cannot imagine fasting from something truly necessary – email. What would I do when I came back to my computer and saw all of those emails of substance that had been left unanswered?

Everyone loves to get real mail. The thought of it just makes me smile. But that takes way too much time…getting the card, writing the words, buying the stamps, and then waiting for the blasted thing to arrive, not even knowing for sure if it ever gets there (unless we get a reply, which would take doubly long to return to us).

I don’t want to romanticize the world behind us, but I don’t want to get caught up in the world that surrounds us, one that demands all of our time. That being said, I’ve spent too much time writing this entry. I need to go eat. I don’t have any time…

Prophetic Rumblings

2006-10-21T00:24:00.000-05:00

Seminary has been more than I could have ever asked for. In the midst of studying last night, after a particularly grueling stretch, my roommate popped his head into my room and exclaimed, “Hey, we are studying God!” His infectious optimism aside, I truly believe I have found a niche here, pursuing a graduate degree that will earn me a Masters of Divinity.
My classes never fail to bring me the same “holy crap” feeling that overcame my roomie – oftentimes I sit in class, overwhelmed that I am here, in this place, at this time, learning this amazing stuff and hearing these amazing stories from these unbelievable professors. I am blessed. I truly am.

On any given day, I hear the rich stories of the Hebrew people – stories in which they radically put their trust in Yahweh: a God that, during the time of the Exodus, tells Moses that the divine name is “I Am who I Am”, refusing to be specific and, in doing so, reminding the Israelites (and us) that God’s name refers to what God does and how God acts in the powerful history of God’s people – from a professor who tells these ancient stories as if they come from his own personal history. Then I learn the history of the Christian liturgy, educating me on why we do what we do today (and practicing what we do today, over and over and over again), and giving me a deep reservoir of appreciation for the rituals and rites we perform as Christians to remind ourselves of who we are, and whose we are. I may dive into Greek, learning the language of our own sacred texts – and subsequently realizing why Jews and Muslims are so insistent on knowing their own texts in the original tongue (and often by heart). And I end the day with a crash course on the history of our Church, with 16 centuries covered in just over three months.

I was knee-deep in an interpretation of the Exodus on the train tonight when a woman came on board, and it was obvious she had a story to tell. And, make no mistake, there were many on my particular section of the train that wanted to hear that story. The woman spoke of the moral degredation of our culture, plagued with racism, domestic violence, materialism, and a general selfishness that did not reflect her understanding of the gospel. I know what she preached was gospel, for – even though she made points with which I disagreed, even vehemently so – her words spoke to the good news that was present in her life because of Jesus Christ. For the entire trip home, she rarely took a breath in the midst of her sermon.

I could easily descend into a nice little pastoral tie-in to my own spiritual journey here at seminary in Chicago. But the truth is, I cannot help but do that very thing. For I can learn all I want in the nice confines of the intellectual paradise called “Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago” (and trust me, I will), but to listen to that passionate woman of faith on the L tonight was anything but comfortable.

It was jarring, and it pushed me to places I’d rather not go most of the time. She espoused a theology I could not wholly embrace, but she was a witness. The film director Tim Burton recently bemoaned the American ideal, saying, “…in America, when you’re passionate about something, people think you’re crazy. I just think you know who you are…”

This woman knew who she was, and she reminded me of who (and whose) I was. I thank God for being here, and I'll especially give thanks when I remember this night.

"I Forgive You"

2006-10-09T11:13:00.000-05:00

I think we forget the power of the stories in the Bible, and I think we forget them primarily because we forget our own stories, and how they are deeply intertwined. Joseph, having been sold into slavery by his brothers, runs into them again – this time as the second-in-command for all of Egypt, the destination of his previous slave-traders. There are many things he could have done, ways he could have gotten back at his brothers.

But he chooses to be reconciled. He reveals himself to his brothers, because he cannot contain his love for them. Ralph Klein, my Old Testament professor, spent today telling his own stories, unabashedly drawing parallels between them and the Joseph narrative, powerfully reminding us that the stories in the Holy Scriptures are our stories.

In our world, stories of reconciliation over and against vengeance don’t play too well. For if we forgave those who sin against us (consequently a very Christian idea…), who could we attack? [Not to mention understanding that we ask God to forgive our sins as well.] Esau accepted his brother with open arms, the brother who stole his birthright and his blessing without giving it a second thought. Jesus finds his disciples in the Upper Room after his death, and greets them with a blessing: “Peace be with you.”

We are a people whose history is of a God who loves us – a God who reconciles us to one another. To understand this love is to, like Joseph, be unable to contain ourselves. We can only weep as we forgive one another. Joseph’s story is our story.

After telling his own stories, Dr. Klein left the classroom – and all of us – as silent and reverent as a monastery. He had told us his stories, and we sat in awe.

What amazing stories we have – those given us in the Scriptures, and those continually shared with us now, as we create our own stories of forgiveness.

What a gift. How can we not forgive each other?

Running Out of Time

2006-09-29T23:22:00.000-05:00

In our last worship class, we talked about the connection between the offering and Holy Communion. As we bring the gifts to the front of the sanctuary, we are offering so much more than merely money. Our gifts extend to include, as we profess audibly just seconds later, “our selves, our time, and our possessions: signs of your gracious love.” These things are not ours in the first place – they are not objects that we must fiercely protect lest we lose them. They are “what God has first given us”, and thus are freely given back to God. Not because we “should”, but because we are able and willing to do so.

What a concept. We give our possessions – including the ever-elusive notion of time – back to God. As the offering plate goes around on Sunday, I’ve often felt a sting of guilt for not putting in money – guilt that is no doubt a remnant of the fear-soaked religion in which I was raised. Yet to think of my offering as the time I have taken to be there, in that service, communing with God, is something else entirely. My time is something that has become a precious resource lately, and to give up any of it feels like a monumental sacrifice some days.

Because, make no mistake, some change is not what we profess to offer up to God during worship. We freely admit that our time, our possessions, and our entire beings only exist because of God. Everything that we are, everything that we have, is merely a small window into the beauty that is the One whom we love.

And how good it feels to give that back! What relief!

Divine Silence

2006-09-20T20:19:00.000-05:00

A renowned professor called it “the most powerful silence in literary history.” Abraham had just responded to his son Isaac’s question as to what exactly they would be sacrificing once they made it up the mountain. The answer:

“The Lord will provide.”

Nothing more is said until Abraham’s son, his “only son, the one whom [he] loved”, is tied and bound on the altar.

As in a lot of the narratives in the Hebrew Scriptures, there is so much in between the lines – so much we are not told. It is, as my Old Testament professor said, “a story that DEMANDS interpretation.” We cannot be satisfied with the gaps. What did Abraham and Isaac talk about during the three-day trip? The small exchange above can’t be the only topic of discussion that came up. What did Abraham tell Sarah they were doing as they left? Perhaps more importantly, what did he tell her when they got back? What did Isaac say to his father after the angel intervened to save his life? What did Isaac say when his father began tying him up? When Abraham pulled the knife?

We are not given any of these answers. We do know that Isaac and Abraham do not speak again after this incident, and the next chapter sees Sarah die.

What kind of God do we have in this story? “Mysterious” would be putting it nicely. “Sadistic” sounds a bit more accurate at times. Sure, God stops Abraham, but Abraham was willing to kill (the Hebrew word is closer to “slaughter”) his own flesh and blood. What is celebrated here? Abraham’s “obedience”? If anything, I would celebrate the fact that Isaac has any faith whatsoever after being untied. What a phenomenally disturbing scene.

This story brings up so many questions, as do many things today: Why do some people starve, while others throw away food daily? Why is the Holy Land the place where violence makes its home on a regular basis? Where is God in the sickness of domestic violence, rape, and homelessness that infects the world’s richest country?

I don’t know why, as I’m sure Isaac didn’t know why his father’s God would act in the way that God did.

Maybe we’ll never know. Maybe God messed up, and Isaac showed God the way, by continuing to hold on to faith, even when things made no sense, when things seemed God-forsaken.

Maybe we need to forgive God sometimes.

I don’t know. Maybe Phyllis Trible said it best:

"To tell and hear tales of terror is to wrestle demons in the night, without a compassionate God to save us. In combat we wonder about the names of the demons. Our own names, however, we all too frightfully recognize. The fight itself is solitary and intense. We struggle mightily, only to be wounded. But yet we hold on, seeking a blessing: the healing of wounds and the restoration of health. If the blessing comes – and we dare not claim assurance – it does not come on our terms. Indeed, as we leave the land of terror, we limp.”

Little Realizations

2006-09-16T17:27:00.000-05:00

What in the world am I doing again? Oh, that’s right. I’m attending seminary.

During worship on Thursday (what a great combination of words), we sang a hymn from the LBW celebrating the lives of great women in the faith. I was a bit surprised, pleasantly so, until my eyes were directed to the upper-right hand corner of the page, where the hymn is put into its specific category in the hymnal (i.e. “Holy Communion” or “Easter”). This particular song was under the heading of “Lesser Hymns”. I laughed, finding humor and sadness on many levels.

During our Worship class, we digressed into a full-blown, down-and-dirty discussion on the nature and merit of praying to God, particularly as it pertains to God’s answering (or lack thereof) of our petitions. Voices were raised, emotions were stirred, and a few tears were shed. Our professor politely reminded us that the conversation was better suited for a Pastoral Care class, but the bigger point did not escape me – what a beautiful privilege to be able to discuss and debate such faith-based notions in an academic setting. I know - I’m kind of a dork.

I love that I’m being challenged to respond responsibly and theologically to the things I have encountered so far in this unique city. I’m so happy with my decision to attend, here and now. I am blessed.

I'm Back

2006-09-10T23:27:00.000-05:00

And I finally have internet again, in the comfort of my Chicago apartment. Yay.

You may celebrate for an appropriate amount of time, and then return to your lives.

I will write something of substance soon.

(I guarantee the "soon" promise; the "substance" part is a bit more tricky.)

Late-Night Theology

2006-08-29T23:33:00.000-05:00

I have, once again, entered into a situation where I am confronted with the realities of this world. Only this time, I have begun to deal with it in the context of attending seminary.

Two gentlemen asked for money tonight, one for the bus, the other for some sort of medical treatment. The second man followed us down the street, his plea remaining the same, “Please…please help me.” What do I do? I had some change, which I gave. I had some dollar bills, which I didn’t.

Immersion in a theological framework is the background to my newest foray into the world of the rich and the poor living side-by-side. I must ask myself how my interactions affect me theologically, and what sort of statement they make.

Which leads me to a very simple question: What kind of theological statement am I making when I turn down someone who asks me for money? What does it mean for me to lie about having money, currency that jingles in my pocket as I walk home to the roof over my head? I don’t know.

All I know, besides the fact that I have limited amounts of money during this year of working, entering into graduate study, and paying my bills, is that the person on the street could be Jesus. It’s probably not, but it could be. And that’s all I can think about as I attempt to sleep tonight.

The Windy City

2006-08-26T17:43:00.000-05:00

Why I'm Glad I Don't Have a Car, Reason #41: (see above),

I would LOVE to see how the driver gets out of that space...

Rationale

2006-08-22T16:04:00.000-05:00

My mom ate in silence, once looking up and taking stock of my dad. Her eyes widened, and the faintest smile crossed her lips before she went back to staring at the spoon. Later my dad told me that such a moment was “a ghost of Mom’s former self, but it’s enough to make me think she recognized me.” Well, absolutely. My rational side tells me that any facial tick that could barely be interpreted as recognition is probably just nerve endings firing randomly, some sort of side effect connected to the wretched state in which her brain resides. But my dad believes it to be my mother reaching across an impossible void, even for just a second, and touching him.

Come to think of it, it’s just as improbable that a guy was killed and came back to life three days later.

2006-08-22T12:20:00.000-05:00

i’m hungry

Many of you have read my incoherent ramblings concerning my mother, as I try to somehow deal with what it means and how it can be understood in a somewhat rational way. As was likely, I have failed miserably. But I have kept on.

I saw my mother again with my dad, with the entire visit lasting barely five minutes. Just like in April, she didn’t recognize me. Yet somehow the shock truly registered this time. She doesn’t know me. Wow. I had, in the course of reflecting on my previous visit, underestimated the power of not remembering. I wholly recognized it that day.

As is usual for odd workings of chance (i.e. the Holy Spirit), I ended up at a service later in the evening at Texas State, where I heard a sermon about the physicality of the body and blood of Jesus. In the assigned lesson, Jesus tells his disciples that unless they “eat my body and drink my blood”, they have no part in him. Interesting words. Pastor Lou mentioned the beauty in this charge, namely that those who do not have the mental capacity to contemplate the majesty and wonder of Christ can still receive him. All they have to do is eat and drink. This is especially compelling with those that can do little but.

When we arrived at the nursing home, Mom was eating heartily, her chapped lips opening and closing seemingly at random, waiting for the spoon to arrive. Her mind is done grasping the mundane details of life – she is concerned with nourishing her body. I guess when the mind is all but gone, the need to pay attention to its physical partner is all the more necessary.

Ours is not a faith that requires anything but the grace of God. I think that word takes on new meaning when applied to someone who, in all probability, has no idea about the importance placed on the sacrament of communion in the first place. She must simply eat and drink, fulfilling the most basic of human needs.

And what a beautiful example of God’s love for us. It crosses all the physical and illusory boundaries that we create to separate and divide us, yes. But it also crosses the seemingly impassable fortress of the mind in order to fill us. Stripped of our intellectual capacity, we can still receive the body and blood.

Pastor Lou ended his sermon by asking us to ponder the age-old phrase, “You are what you eat.” I would like to think that my mother illustrates this perfectly. She, although crippled by a monstrously invisible disease, can, in a subtle but powerful way, become that which she eats: a beautiful and loved child of God.

2006-08-19T23:20:00.000-05:00

what was i saying?

Recently I have been struggling with what to say, but I don’t want to let my blog falter. It feels like a discipline in many ways to keep this up, to keep my words going, to keep spitting out these thoughts.

I woke up this morning in somewhat of a cloudy haze. I couldn’t understand where I was, and all I wanted to do was go back to sleep. Once I realized that I, in fact, could go back to sleep, I was so indescribably happy that I couldn’t stop grinning. Such is vacation, some will say. But, believe it or not, I felt like I was simply finding contentment in the richness of my ordinary, day-to-day life.

So many thoughts run through my head in the course of the day, but once I sit down to write in this thing, they have all but disappeared, with only shards of the remaining ideas floating around…somewhere…just out of reach.

I have done very little this time around in Texas. I have seen people, unpacked, repacked, packed again, and slept, but most of my thoughts have been geared towards the elusive idea of seminary – what it will mean, how it will be, what will come of it.

I always remember the ubiquitous send-off prayer read to many an idealistic volunteer before their service begins – I can’t recall the exact words right now, but it mostly reminds us that wherever we go, God will be with us. I don’t know how many times I’ve prayed for that exact thing, only to forget it the minute I start imagining any new phase in my life.

Perhaps I should pray for patience, to remember that God is always with us, no matter where we go. But I’m much too busy to remember to do that.

2006-08-11T14:41:00.000-05:00

don't say it

Wow, I haven't updated in a long time.

Sure, I've been packing, re-packing, saying goodbye, saying "see ya later", and doing all the horrible detail shit that characterizes my fear of moving, but this is no excuse.

Karlyn's in the corner, mouthing "I told you so," with a sneer while giving me the finger. I'm not gonna let this go, K! As far as blog's go, third time's a charm, right?

I haven't kept up with people, and the next whirlwind tour of Texas, Des Moines, and finally Chicago will prove no better. So, I'll just apologize now and promise to write again when I'm freaking out in between orientation classes at seminary.

Goodbye, LVC. Goodbye, LC/NA. Goodbye Brett, Jerry, and Emily. Goodbye Cat, Cole, Ben, and Mitsy. Goodbye weird guy in the corner pushing buttons trying to act like you're working.

2006-08-02T23:35:00.000-05:00

take to the skies

We are in a holding pattern hundreds of miles from our destination (my own personal hell), and I am understanding less and less of how, exactly, an airplane stays in the air. Perhaps I shouldn’t be spending so much time considering this at the same time that I am sitting in one, you might say, but for some reason this is calming me down.

And so I will go ahead and highlight another thing I just don’t understand concerning airplanes:

Out of sight, out of mind.

For some reason, a few people feel inclined to act like complete assholes on planes. My best guess is that since they stand little chance of seeing another person ever again, they figure they can dive into their own personal, self-obsessed, others-obliterating universe whenever they damn well please.

I just returned from the bathroom in the back of the plane, and when I was done, I forgot to shut the door. Honest mistake, I tell myself, as I realize the error and turn back to correct it. Lest my abrupt halt and about turn was misunderstood, the gentleman next to the door – less than 10 inches from the toilet – is pointing at the door with his eyebrows raised, as if to say, “Forget something, dumbshit?” I raise my hand and nod my head, again recognizing the lack of judgment. But he’s not done. He watches me close the door, shaking his head and turning to his neighbors to make sure they understand the severity of what I’ve done. He was truly inconvenienced, I’d say. If he was so inclined, he could have reached over with his hand and closed the door – a monstrous task that would have taken a full two seconds to accomplish. Or he could have, when I turned around, smiled politely, acknowledging what I had already acknowledged – my “oops” moment. But, no. His flight was on the verge of being ruined, and he was not going to let me get away with my senseless act of violence against his sensibilities.

I’m sorry. I really am. Now stop trying to shame me, and show a little empathy.

That’s really it, I guess. I was going to go into some other rant, but we are approaching Atlanta. This is my favorite part of the flight: the end.

2006-07-27T00:12:00.000-05:00

a moment

To the moment created in a time set apart, I give my humble reflections:

Perhaps you didn’t take too much notice of me, perhaps our shared glance was one of many you received that evening. But I could not keep my eyes off you. A simple exchange was offered – I gave you our reservation name; you led us to the table. Once we arrived, I once again thanked you, thankful for the last look you permitted me. It was true gratitude, knowing that I could share in the memory of your evening. I just had to let you know of your beauty, because for you to go through that day without hearing it would truly have been a tragedy.

I couldn’t help but let my mind wander through the magical hypotheticals that always seem to accompany those small moments experienced throughout my life. My life intersected with yours in a way both phenomenal and all too ordinary. In all likelihood, we will never see each other again. You’ll keep working at the restaurant, I’ll leave the country in a few days. You’ll keep seeing your current significant other, and I’ll stay being single. Yet for a brief and spiritual moment, I saw all that could have been.

Your hair was in a light and relaxed ponytail that betrayed some of your calmness and your ability to put people at ease. You struck me as a complete charmer, someone whose smile takes the edge off a customer’s day, a smile that softens the bitter cold of winter. I’ll bet you like to drink black tea with a hint of sugar, and you enjoy dates that take you only mildly by surprise, perhaps including a subtle addition – going for a walk on the lake after dinner, or being cooked food instead of going out. You tend to smile when you’re nervous, which has the opposite effect, even on you. Your eyes are a deep well of emotion, and you offer to share that with whoever is lucky enough to catch them in a glance. You are a sucker for moods, and you spend days listening to CDs that your beloved made for you. After 30 years of being together, you continue to love your partner with a fierceness that is matched by few. You both spend holidays in a simple cabin in the woods, reading each other’s poetry. You share in all of life, the wretched and the rejoicing.

And then I open my eyes. You were there with me, as a barrage of life’s snapshots zoomed past, leaving me breathless. You were my sanctuary. I remembered an event never to happen, as we walked along a snowy path with the chilly air enclosing around our bodies, meshed together. You kissed me on the ear, reminding me of the day we met, in that restaurant, so many years ago. What a crazy, random way to meet, you said. I agreed. How crazy life is. You turned away with that half-smile and pulled me closer.

All I wanted to do was thank you, thank you for being you in this world, for sharing your beauty with me. Our paths crossed for an extraordinarily short breath of time, a mere blink on the radar of our lives.

I look back, catching one more quasi-glimpse of your figure through the revolving doors.

What was I doing? Do all people spend this much time thinking about encounters that lasted no more than a few minutes, seconds? Are we so starved for connection that we look at this world in amazement, thankful for every person that enters our life, either for two minutes or two decades? I think so. We are so tied to others that we have to remind ourselves of the beauty that surrounds us.

We long for a sanctuary, no matter how cynical the world becomes. We pray for wholeness, for extravagant ways to be authentic.

I’ll remember your eyes, I thought to myself. No words describe the encounter, except maybe two: Thank you.

2006-07-25T13:52:00.000-05:00

how am i not myself?

I awoke in my bed today in that early morning quiet, a silence that pervades one’s consciousness and playfully confuses one’s senses. Am I asleep? Am I awake? I wish I could stay in that quasi-trance a bit longer, but I always end up falling right back asleep again. It’s almost as if the world for which we long, the one that is already here but not yet fully realized, becomes so close you can taste it for one precious moment. You want to hold on to it, but the real world beckons, coming at you all too soon, bringing you back from your sanctuary.

I crawled to the window, realizing that my room has become imprinted in my self, a place I could draw (if I were an artist, that is) in my sleep, guided only by my senses, accompanied only by my memories. It’ll be gone before I know it, the room and my roommates, leaving me with a year of my life, spent well.

I leave for Toronto in an hour, and then I go to Atlanta. Then, the final week of LVC. See you in a few weeks.

2006-07-22T18:15:00.000-05:00

quietly understanding

It's late in the day, the sun disappearing behind some slow-moving clouds, giving a much-needed break from the unrelenting heat. I've been on the phone with my dad for about a half-hour, mulling over the mundane details that now characterize my mom's day-to-day life: Has she eaten? Does she respond to touch, to sound? Has she left the bed at all the last few days?

His voice cracks; he assures me that he has many fond memories of their life together, tucked away in his mind like a coveted family relic. Last night's phone call brought bad news, but the news has rarely been anything but, so "bad" is merely a formality. She has stopped eating, she is not responding. He went in to see her, by now the contours of the nursing home known to him with the same degree of accuracy as her numerous quirks, the contours of their shared world. He was clear to them - she is not to experience pain, she is not to receive "outside assistance" to help her life to continue beyond natural means.

His thick Texan drawl is comforting to me, as it has always been. He begins important sentences in the same way he always has, with a soft yet determined "My boy," launching into what can only prove to be something he does not want me to miss. Our conversations have always gone back and forth like this, my mile-a-minute speech tempered by his stroll-in-the-park thoughts spoken aloud, taking their time.

It is in this phone conversation that I feel the farthest from Texas, from my family (both of blood and of choice), from the place from which I, as a person, come. The place in which I was formed – all of me, my faults and my strengths. I often think about the fact that my mother made me, for nine months she formed me. Everything I have, everything I am, is because of her. Now that she is wasting away, it seems counter-intuitive that I should still be alive. I am connected to her more than I am, or ever will be, to any other person in this world.

Yet my dad continues on, speaking of the phases he is experiencing, of the transitions he has felt between being angry and being accepting of this horrific situation. He doesn’t speak of God; he speaks of my mother, his beloved. I nod in agreement, wishing I could be sitting in a chair next to him, soaking up the late Texas summer with a Corona and a clove. I don’t bring up God, this presence so strong in my life, so present in my thoughts and deliberations over the past months, so pivotal in my decisions for the next phase of my life. It doesn’t make sense to. I learned about God from my dad, and I will continue to learn, happy and privileged to be a perpetual student of his unique wisdom. His accent disqualifies him from sounding intelligent and learned (in the view of contemporary society), but his life-experience gives him more authority than I will ever know in my time in academia. God to him is merely different now, a quiet presence, coloring his days in a subtle way, painting his new picture of life beyond my mother with small, gentle strokes. I silently thank God for my dad.

The conversation is coming to an end. I’ve mostly listened, as is common to our talks now. He tells me he’ll call me tomorrow after visiting my mom, giving me an update. Ever since junior year in college, when her condition took a severe turn for the worse, the appearance of my dad or my sister in my caller ID has brought with it a deadening drop in my throat, traveling throughout my body. This could be the call, I think, excusing myself into a corner, preparing for the worst. Tomorrow will bring a similar moment.

He ends the discussion like he always does. “I love you, my boy.” I’ll never tire of it, of this claiming of his youngest son. After twenty-three years of life, I still unabashedly yearn to be claimed, as I was in my baptism, performed by my dad in Canyon Lake, Texas, when I was 18. My mom was there, grinning from ear to ear, her disease yet to claim her mind. What a thing, she later told me, to see her son being claimed by God, assisted in this process by her own beloved. “It was”, she continued, “one of the proudest days of my life.” She doesn’t remember that moment, but I always will. I’ll remember it for the both of us. She won’t be there for any other milestone in my life, but her fierce love of her children, of her beloved, will persist.

Maybe that’s what it means when we proclaim that the Holy Spirit is present in our worship. That Jesus is present in the bread and in the wine. That we are claimed by our baptism. Many people don’t remember that moment, when they were mere babies. But God does, keeping that memory alive simply by existing. The moment, lost to many, persists in the witness of others, in the love of God. Hopefully my family can do the same for my mother, long after she exits from this world.

2006-07-21T16:05:00.000-05:00

for my austin friends*

*may include San Antonio/South Texas, though not necessarily

From the recent issue of Newsweek, in the cover article entitled "Going Green" and the tagline
"With windmills, low-energy homes, new forms of recycling and fuel-efficient cars, Americans are taking conservation into their own hands.":

...But among cities, few are as sustainable as Austin, Texas, which recycles its trash so assiduously that residents generated only 0.79 tons of garbage per househould last year, down from 1.14 tons in 1992. Austin's city-owned electric company estimates that "renewable" power, mostly from West Texas wind farms, will account for 6 percent of its capacity this year, nearly doubling to 11 percent by 2008. Beginning in 2001, customers were allowed to purchase wind power at a price guaranteed for 10 years.

...590 million kilowatt-hours per year come from renewable energy sources like windmills. That's enough to power more than 49,000 Austin homes for a year. The copper skin on [Austin's] City Hall is mostly recycled material.

Way to be, Blue Center of an Overwhelmingly Red State!

2006-07-17T16:14:00.000-05:00

dante

I pray for a day when no person must get up at the God-awful hour of 5:30 in the morning to endure a brutal check-up in a place that does not so closely resemble hell:

The Dentist's Office.

Go back to your work, slackers.

2006-07-15T15:31:00.000-05:00

taking my time

My thought for today was simple: Why in God's good green earth do I have to be at work? True, I need to make up a day I took off, and true, I have tons of stuff to do in preparation for a big once-every-two-years organizational suaree. But, still. It's Saturday.

Right now it's 100 degrees outside, plus humidity. As a non-native to this region, I have to say it: Chill, people. Get over it. It's triple digits, even in the shade. Wow. Forgive me as I cry with overwhelming awe.

I'm sorry, but it's sort of true. Minnesotans need to thaw after dealing with -20 degree days, consistent days, mind you. Texas rarely hits below 50 on the thermometer. At any point in the calendar year. Period.

Today will be spent working, attending possibly my last Orthodox Vespers with Ben, and watching one of my top five movies of all time with another LVCer in Minneapolis, Julie. Life is good.

And, forgive me, but I just spent a blog entry typing about absolutely NOTHING that is in the least way interesting. But I felt like writing. Whoopee.

2006-07-14T09:32:00.000-05:00

in the beginning...was the drum

A small chapter of my life ended last night. Eight beautiful people treated me to a beer at Sweeney's, a local patio bar in St. Paul. They have taught me much in the last months, composing the better part of a drum circle that I have led ever since Robin Bragge died.

She was the drumming icon at St. Paul-Reformation Lutheran Church ("SPR", the one which I attend, easily enough considering I work in the same building), and when she died, grieving surrounded the congregation and community. I had met her a few times, always enjoying her HUGE djembe with which she filled the sanctuary with joyful rhythms. The first time I met her, I was in town during a road trip last summer, and Lulu and I had visited SPR because, well, it was SPR, for crying out loud. I mean, let's be honest.

On a whim, I told her I had my djembe in the back of our car, and she should come see it. She became giddy with excitement, asking me to show her. Wow, I thought. I'm supposed to be the one that's giddy. She admired my drum as I had admired hers from afar. She was all smiles that day. I thanked her for her time, and she headed out, massive drum in hand.

Robin played with passion. Her spirit has guided - and will continue to guide - the drums that sound from SPR.

I inherited both the drum circle and the chance to play with the choir from Robin. I have always been wary of this fact, this sad twist: The only reason I have played as much as I have is because Robin is gone.

Yet her spirit lives on, and what better instrument to honor someone whose life has ended? Drums have a physicality that lends them a wonderfully visceral aspect. They speak when they play. You know when a drum is being used. You can hear it from blocks away.

And so our drum circle, from its humble beginnings in the basement, let out a joyful Hallelujah! at the July 9 service. We ushered in the gospel with rockin' beats that forced the mostly Scandinavian crowd to get up and dance!

We shared the good news. We played our hearts out. Thanks be to God! Thanks be to Robin.

Thanks be...to our drum circle, now and always.

2006-07-13T09:18:00.000-05:00

a small thought

Feeling the slightly cool morning breeze as I step out of the house this morning, a breeze that ever-so-slightly steps in front of the sun as it begins a new day in our hemisphere. It's a subtle reminder that the temperature will never again be this moderate, at least for today.

I soak it up, feeling my sweat accumulate as I walk to work.

And only one thought occupies my mind, gently pushing its way into my consciousness and embedding itself there:

I really miss Texas.

2006-07-12T14:12:00.000-05:00

not for the kiddies

I was asked to contribute to a random collection of poems, stories, and whatnot about a given topic. The topic in question? You guessed it (or maybe you didn't):

Masturbation.

Here's my humble entry:

----------------------------------------------------

Masturbation. The physicality of the word itself strikes fear in the heart of sensitive people everywhere.

Masturbation. A guaranteed way to end an otherwise pleasant conversation; elicit embarrassed looks and raised eyebrows; and command the attention of all in the room, regardless of the level of their professed interest in the subject.

Masturbation. The TRUE significant other?

Perhaps no other act requires so many diverse euphemisms to describe it. If you're not sayin' hello to my one-eyed monster, then you might very well be engaged in double-clicking the mouse or exploring the cavernous depths of your ninja boot. You can whack, smack, or flock it; beat, kick, or stroke it; you can surmise the vastness that IS your hairy clam; or you can tongue-bathe the Willy Wonka. Whatever you prefer (or, more appropriately, whatever equipment you happen to possess). But you certainly do not masturbate.

Masturbation. The most versatile and self-contained act one can do. The ultimate biological equalizer: Do you feel like taking a quick power nap? How about an effective wake-up-call - stronger than coffee - in order to tackle the world's problems? Just want to totally and completely crash? Whatever your pleasure (pun intended?), whackin' it is for you.

Some shy away from the discussion of this activity; others proclaim it from the rooftops. Some, this author included, feel like it would be impossible to function without it. Others fiercely disagree. Love it or hate it, masturbation is like the deceased animal on the side of the road: Act grossed out all you want - you're still drawn to it in some inexplicable way.

The visceral nature of this "hush-hush" pasttime can't prevent this humble narrator from becoming aroused simply by writing about it.

Now, if you'll excuse said author, it's time for a nap. A power nap. :)

2006-07-12T09:41:00.000-05:00

Thanks to everyone who had such wonderful alternatives! I will use some of those with no reservations.

Lulu, you said "Cad", which was already in my blog entry. C'mon now.

...you son of a sea-cook. Sweet Monkey-Fingers!

2006-07-10T15:15:00.000-05:00

swearing on a monday

After the best worship service and drumming experience of MY LIFE, I went out to eat with some people from my church.

We got on the subject of swearing. Now, I swear like a sailor most times, and I have failed to see the inherent evil in it (assuming it is used in entirely appropriate situations, i.e. NOT in front of kids, with a person you have just met, or when receiving communion [let your imaginations run wild with that one]). However, since I was discussing this with a table that was majority-clergy, they sort of carried the day.

So NOW, since apparently not eating meat for Lent wasn't good enough for this BBQ-raised Texan boy, I was asked to struggle with the issue of swearing for this next year.

Here's some ideas, taking into account the need for a strong physicality of the word and/or phrase itself:

1. shut the front door

2. oh my dear sweet fig-eating frenzied fish forks

3. may your ancestors give birth to camels

4. you insignificant cad

5. puny pigglesticks!

6. you suck (okay, that was my only comeback, alright??)

I welcome your ideas. Let us find some good and wholesome ways to insult ourselves and each other!

...you sultry sandbaggers, you.

2006-07-06T09:17:00.000-05:00

ATTENTION: RATHER LONG AND RAMBLING THOUGHT PROCESS AHEAD. TAKE CAUTION.

My thoughts have turned to poverty as of late. (I guess some would say my mind has never left this topic.) Being in New York, a city so compact that the rich and poor are required to live right next to each other (or, more appropriately, right on top of each other), it is hard to ignore the real-life suffering that exists outside your very doorstep. Virtually anytime you walk anywhere, even for a few blocks, you are confronted with your neighbors without a home.

They might be waking up from a night of concrete-filled sleep, or perhaps they are setting up shop on their corner of choice for the day – complete with a crowd-pleasing instrument or a small sign requesting help of any sort – and their presence immediately fills some with the ever-present dread of having to interact with face of poverty.

Some of us turn up the music on our iPods ever so slightly, while others develop a certain fascination with the cracks on the sidewalk. For people whose eyes connect with those of the street dwellers, an uncomfortable barrier has been breached. Normally the pleas center around the request for “some spare change”, and the answers vary from complete silence to a small “I’m sorry” movement of the lips to an acquiescence of small amounts of change drawn from the pocket.

I have been this person, and I have responded in all the ways mentioned above. I’m searching for a way to open up conversation about this dilemma, not to present an answer or to explain my way out of this exchange. I’m not an enlightened person, nor am I a cynical one. Six weeks in New York brought me to a craving to speak more on this issue, and to never let it drop from my conscience.

My good friend Jeremy, whom I visited this past week in NYC, eagerly engaged me on this topic. His experience attending a seminary in the heart of the city for the past three weeks has given him some insight that I feel is relevant and helpful. (It doesn’t hurt that he has a solid theological education with which to apply to this discussion.) I’ve listed a few points that I have been pondering since our conversation.

[1] First and foremost, in my mind, is the distinction between the poverty we saw all around us and the global wretchedness that exists in so many parts of the world. The fact that a vast amount of human beings live on less than $1/day is nothing to shy away from, but it does not excuse us from ONLY concentrating on that abstract kind of compassion. How easy it is to quote places such as the Sudan, Palestine, and Somalia. (And, truth be told, people in these places lead a struggle for a decent life in such a way to be virtually unfathomable to most of us in the developed world.) But to do so and then pass people by on the street seems to be a grievous anomaly.

[2] On the other hand (the phrase of choice when I try and collect my thoughts on this topic), I hardly have the resources to help every single person I come across asking for help. What is the use of bankrupting myself? What good can I do then? Which brings me directly to

[3] The difference between justice and charity. It is a completely fair critique, according to William Sloane Coffin, to look at the ways in which the Church contributes to the social inequalities that themselves create the situations in which to be charitable to those that are less fortunate in the first place. This is no small thing. As we pass by those people on the street, we could be pushed to ask ourselves, “What am I doing, in whatever capacity, to work for the systemic change necessary to eliminate situations in which humans are forced to feel inhuman after repeated requests for basic human rights that never should have been taken from them in the first place?” That is real change. Giving to those on the street is important, but it pales in comparison to what really needs to happen at the centers of power in our society. The fact that so many people die of hunger, especially in a country whose leaders profess to “love freedom”, is nothing short of embarrassing. It evokes in me an emotion that is nothing short of rage, which brings us to point #4:

[4] Giving out of guilt can’t be good. I haven’t really the concise and articulate response as to why it’s not good – it’s simply a gut reaction from the depths of my being. If I give because I feel guilty that I am walking to a restaurant where my stomach will be filled on wonderful foods while they haven’t tasted food in several days, then what kind of statement am I making? If I’m motivated by guilt to give simply so I can relieve my guilt and feel like a better person, then I feel like I’ve defined the so-called “liberal guilt.” And it makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t want to do things in this way – I might as well bring out a scorecard and keep tabs on my current status of holiness.

So, what’s the nice conclusion that ties everything together? Well, I’m not at graduate school YET. I will not wrap this up in a very intellectual manner. I will leave it as is, because that’s how this topic makes me feel. No resolution. Only more questions.

But that’s the point.

2006-06-21T12:24:00.000-05:00

A Lesson In Grace

I must say, I've known the insult "spoiled" in a very personal way. For a long time (and it hasn't stopped just because I'm 23 years old), my sisters have seen the help I receive from my grandpa - be that financial, moral, or logical - and have responded, almost always, in the same way:

"You are so spoiled, Jason."

I was always angered when I heard it, and that just fed into the well-known stereotype of the youngest in any family: "First he's spoiled, then he throws a tantrum. All he wants is attention."

But I appreciated - and still do - the help from my grandfather, and although I never thought I deserved it, I accepted it without question. Maybe that's the reason my sisters still drop that accusing word in my presence. (Lord knows I provide enough of a reaction that it makes sense for them to say it, even if the situation hardly calls for it.) I never turned down help, which goes against the West Texas grain by which we were all raised. Make it on your own, we were told. Don't put anybody out. Don't be a burden. Stand alone.

Good advice in certain circumstances, sure. But on the whole it stinks of the overwhelming need in America to 'go it alone' and achieve some super-independence from the rest of the human community. I never got that. I was - and still am - a "Momma's boy", and whenever I received help, I took it. Of course, I still had an incurable urge to pay them back, and I still - subconsciously - keep miniscule tabs on favors done and favors received.

But that's the crazy thing about grace. It is given to us, no strings attached, and the hardest thing we have to do is accept it. Nothing is needed in return. We are loved simply because we are. What a wonderful thing it is to be loved! Surely we don't need to 'pay someone back' for loving us. It's so grace-filled of an action that it's against our nature to understand it.

Yesterday, I was informed by the co-chair of the organization for which I work, Jeannine Janson, that she wanted to purchase a new laptop for my coming excursions in the world of graduate school. My jaw dropped. I cannot POSSIBLY accept this, can I? How can...what...there's no way that....oh, man.

But that's the crazy thing - as much as I feel I don't deserve this uncontainable kindness that IS Jeannine, it is so exciting and liberating to just say YES. Can I ever repay her? No. But that's not the point. To look to repay is to look in the wrong place. Can I ever rejoice enough? No, but I will definitely try.

Am I spoiled? I think I'm just open to receiving grace in this imperfect world. I wait for the time when I am in the position to give someone a gift like the one I have been given. I wait for the moments in life when I experience grace so wonderfully as in the limitless generosity of my friend Jeannine.

Thank you. That's really all you have to say. It's not being spoiled; it's being loved.

Grace be upon us all!

2006-06-20T09:23:00.000-05:00

The Unforgiving Mother of a Morning,

OR How I Learned to Never Judge Anyone Getting On A Bus

-------------------

After paying $2 for a rush-hour ride on the Twin Cities Metro Transit, I got off my first bus to catch the second bus on the way to work. As I step off the No. 65, I see the No. 21 speeding by in the opposite direction.

"No way," I say (or something similar to it) calmly (relatively speaking), and I start to book it. I'm not paying $2 for a trip that gets me halfway to work.

I ran, folks, for FIVE blocks (and not the short ones), and then the bus was in my sights. It was stopped at a red light. And yes, you guessed it, the minute I was at the back of the vehicle, the light turned green. After this massive marathon, I wasn't about to give up my rights to that ride.

I stopped the bus in mid-intersection. From the amount of screaming that later occurred, I almost wish the bus driver decided not to stop. But I wasn't so lucky.

"You are lucky, son, because I'm NEVER gonna do that again."

I nodded my head, mostly too tired to speak, and fumbled for my ticket.

"I'm sorry," I panted.

"'Sorry' won't help you when you're dead."

Damn! A little bit melodramatic, perhaps? But the people in the front seat were backing her up, heaping moral insults on me, asking themselves - aloud - why such dumbass kids exist in this world. Plenty of time to think it over, I had an ample assortment of ideas to say back to this group of lecturers. But I didn't. I mumbled, "I feel bad enough already, okay?" and went to the back of the bus.

In my mind, I was angry enough that I had JUST RAN FIVE BLOCKS and barely missed the bus in the first place. As they were vocally molesting me, I am sure my ears flamed, my face became red hot, and I started to fume. It was seconds before a flat-out tantrum would take place.

And, then I remembered: Weren't there times when I was sitting on the bus when someone got in, fuming, and began to yell at nobody in particular? Or perhaps a young kid had caught up with the bus and got the same talking-to that I just received? I am sure I was tempted to do the same presumptuous moral bashing that happened today.

But, I guess you never know what someone is dealing with. They may have just RAN FIVE BLOCKS in nice shoes. Maybe.

2006-06-15T09:19:00.000-05:00

wit·ness

1. One who can give a firsthand account of something seen, heard, or experienced: a witness to the accident.
2. One who publicly affirms religious faith.

Last Saturday, I spent about 45 minutes with two Jehovah's Witnesses, who came to my house upon my invitation. I had wanted to direct the conversation, since the interest I expressed was solely of an intellectual curiosity of mine - I had never had an extended conversation with a Witness before, and I wanted to know how they came to this specific point in their faith journey. I was also none-too-shy about exploring their unique theological perspective.

It was, however, somewhat difficult to differentiate between being supremely curious and appearing to want - somewhere deep inside - to convert to the Jehovah's Witnesses. This difference was crucial, and something I believe was lost on the two people who sat across from me in my living room.

The woman I met on the street and with whom I struck up a conversation was engaging, especially when she directly asked, "Have you thought of the Kingdom of Heaven?" At this point - reviews of that sorely disappointing film by Ridley Scott notwithstanding - I knew this was no ordinary exchange. I dove into it, however, realizing she was a Witness - and before I knew it, I had made a date for her to meet me a week later.

Luckily, a good friend and fellow LVCer - Julie - was hanging out at Beth Shalom (our LVC house) from the night before, and stayed for the conversation. You see, this woman had brought someone else, and I could not expect to direct any conversation when I was outnumbered 2-1. Even so, after 20 minutes of these people opening themselves up to my somewhat pointed questions, the game eventually ran out of steam. They took control, and began to open up the Bible. And here's when the party started.

In my Intro to Theology class during my freshman year of college, we did an exercise where we had to come up with positives and negatives for each of the following categories of religious people (with respect to other faiths not their own):

[Forgive the less-than-academic definitions - thanks David]

1. Exclusivist (My way is the only way.) *Jehovah's Witnesses
2. Inclusivist (My way is the only way, but deep down it's possible that your way is actually my way.)
3. Dialogue (I'm going my way, you're going yours. Let's talk to each other and learn more.)
4. Relativist (We're all different paths up the same mountain, all going the same way.)

Now, for me, the downsides to exclusivism were easy. But since we had to come up with positives, the one that stood out to me was a single word: passion. You have to hand it to people that are so zealously dedicated to something. You may not agree (and I don't) with the Jehovah's Witnesses, but they are definitely authentic and driven.

But there's the rub, when it comes to fundamental interpretations of religion. These people were looking at me and thinking, "You poor thing." And I was looking right back and thinking, "You poor things..." They weren't going to convince or convert me, but their passion was so fierce that I felt inappropriate saying, "I'm just not interested."

So, there you have it. No shouting matches, no drama. I didn't argue a single theological principle with them. I listened, as they listened to me.

In the end, did I get what I wanted? They opened up to me, exposing a side of themselves I don't think I would have been comfortable doing. Did they get what they wanted? Well, that's the thing. I didn't convert, and I'm pretty sure that's a failure in their book.

What an amazing array of different paths that have been born from a single person and his message of peace!

2006-06-13T16:30:00.000-05:00

Okay.

So, I was sort of kidding with the previous post on the claim that "nobody reads my blog." I realize this is a falsehood, but I was trying to get my point across about my question.

And, after the 5 posts so far, I must say one thing:

Very Bad Things was full of...very bad things.

That's all I'm saying. Maybe the "very bad" part of it was what it meant to be, thus being very good for being so very, very bad.

Maybe?

Either way, I promise a post on something other than that damn movie or my devastating choice for showing it that fateful night so very long ago.

2006-06-12T15:45:00.000-05:00

Ok, so I've had not-so-few comments on the movie I once picked to show people called Very Bad Things.

I'm not going to try and argue the finer points of this film, mostly because I am tired, it's a Monday, and I know David would tear me a new one...electronically-speaking, that is.

I WILL say this, though: I only received three REAL suggestions for a first-date movie, and that's kinda sad. I thought people read my blog. Shit, even KARLYN posted something. (Of course, she posted so she could rip on me and make me cry, but still...)

Coming tomorrow (work-willing): The report of the Witnesses of Jehovah that came to my house on Saturday, per my invitation.

2006-06-07T11:47:00.000-05:00

I need to stop taking things personally. I think I may go insane.

Okay, fun little event for today:

Tell me...the best movie to take a first date to see, in your opinion, and why.

2006-06-02T11:36:00.000-05:00

The Dalai Lama draped a silk scarf around the archbishop's neck and presented him with a Tibetan butter lamp: the Light of Truth Award from the International Campaign for Tibet.

In his speech, Archbishop Tutu paid tribute to his friend.

"I give great thanks to God that he has created a Dalai Lama," he said. "Do you really think, as some have argued, that God will be saying: 'You know, that guy, the Dalai Lama, is not bad. What a pity he's not a Christian'?"

A preacher with the timing of a stand-up comic, the archbishop continued: "I don't think that is the case - because, you see, God is not a Christian."

-from here.

Amen, Archbishop Tutu! Amen.

2006-06-01T10:45:00.000-05:00

And here it is, your moment of zen...

On the subject of fundamental and radical religious sects,
let us gaze inward for once.

Over 20,000 people practice polygamy in these United States.

For further exploration, read Under the Banner of Heaven by Jon Krakauer.

Now, back to your daily lives.

2006-05-31T14:01:00.000-05:00

"We cannot achieve peace when one side refuses to acknowledge the other's existence."

Israeli Prime Minister Ehud Olmert, to the US Congress

Oh, how wonderful it is to hear these words. Perhaps the Israeli-American juggernaut is truly practicing self-reflection, and looking back on their foreign policy! No...no. Olmert was, of course, referring to the stance of the Palestinians and their democratically-elected political party - the Hamas.

And, thus, we have one of the greatest tools of the current administration. Using the God-rhetoric to please the religious right, the Bush team (and the Israelis right along with them) has consistently pointed out - with an amount of precision, admittedly - the speck in the eyes of many other governments, while simply ignoring the massive log in their own.

Israel complaining about the unwillingness of the Palestinian Authority to recognize them is like a professor accusing a student of forcing the professor have sex with him/her: No matter how you slice it, it's rape. The power differential makes all the difference in the world. So, too, is the undeniably absurd claim that Israel needn't make any concessions to Palestine simply because they will not "accept" Israel.

NEWS FLASH: Israel exists, Palestine doesn't. Stop bitching, Israel. I thought you were supposed to be the big, bad, tough bully that has the ultimate older brother: The United States of America.

Yet you seem to be threatened by these people whom you are occupying. Hmm...that's odd. You point the finger at them (more correctly, Hamas), and say, "But...but...but you don't recognize us!" What is a Palestinian supposed to say to that? Nothing needs to be said. The absolute stupidity of such a statement coming from an occupying force - directed towards the victims of its occupation - makes the point vividly enough.

Now, some people may feel that my previous characterization of Israel - that of a self-conscious bully - is downright unfair. But I am simply using the frame given to us in this 21st century of world politics (and expounded upon beautifully by George Lakoff in his book, Don't Think of an Elephant!) Nation-states are not vast, complex communities of peoples, leaders, and everything in-between. They are, in the eyes of our government, singular and rational beings. Now, in this frame, you are either - as Bush so eloquently put - "with us or against us." No grey areas of policies and their effect on the ground level exist in this over-simplified approach. We are left with the lovely black-and-white language of the GOP:

Nations are either good (i.e. "developed", unless they are just plain mean, like China), or they are bad (you know these fuckers - Iran, Iraq, etc...). We are assuming nations are 'adults', but many aren't, and so don't fit into this nice little model. A vast majority are 'children' (aka "developing" nations - many are located in Asia and Africa), and thus need 'supervision' and a few spankings every now and then. Enter the World Bank and others that lend money only with the assurance that the country receiving it will use it, not as the country itself wishes (because they are just children!), but as the money-lenders decide.

This characterization isn't an exaggeration. Look at Iraq War II. Nobody from Iraq was involved in 9/11. But that hardly matters. Saddam was an evil person, and thus Iraq was guilty by association. This 'bad boy' club, in the months following 9/11, included Afghanistan, North Korea, and Iraq (the terrorists came from Saudi Arabia, which wasn't even mentioned). Few ties exist between them, but they were - in the eyes of the frame - all part of the sinister hoodlum group that exists in the alleyways and the streets and wreaks havoc on the other, well-meaning people. Thus, perpetual wars were born. Even now, North Korea and Iran are not allowed to have nuclear weapons because they are 'bad'. We are good, so we're good to go.

Iran calls for Israel's destruction. We rally to Israel's defense. Israel, implicitly and subtly, calls for Palestine's destruction - in their policies, border checks, and fences. We back them up in the street and refuse to hear the other side.

Why do we do this? Because Israel's our friend. And DAMN YOU if you challenge our friend.

Now, is it more complicated than this brief sketch? Absolutely. Is Iran dangerous with nukes? Could be. Was Saddam a bad man? No doubts there.

But that's the point. The Bush administration (and their "friends") blind their eyes to the complexities and embrace the simplicity. Our friends will be taken care of, and our bullies will get what's coming to them. They will be "smoked out of their holes." Iran will (eventually) be bombed because of the fact that they "harbor terrorists." Do innocent Iranians figure into this? Of course not. That's too "complex." Would a diplomatic course work better? What's the point? asks our administration.

They are evil people. They don't reason.

Oh, if only countries were so simple. Then maybe people could continue to denounce the 'Great Satan' and dismiss the average, compassionate, and decent American. But, around the world, people are distinguishing between the mass of people and their singular government.

If only Bush and Co. could do the same. But that would be way too complex an idea to consider.

2006-05-26T11:43:00.000-05:00

RE: my story from yesterday, and David's blog:

I steal from the rich, and give to the poor...!ES LA VERDAD!

(I mean, I DO look good dancing to Spanish music. I rest my case.)

You scored as El Zorro. Zorro is the bane of the corrupt officials of Old California, a Spanish Robin Hood, a cavalier caballero who robs from the rich, gives to the poor, and always leaves his trademark "Z" behind as a reminder that when the people need him, he will always appear on his black stallion.

El Zorro

83%

Captain Jack Sparrow

75%

Lara Croft

67%

The Amazing Spider-Man

67%

Maximus

63%

Indiana Jones

58%

Neo, the "One"

54%

William Wallace

50%

Batman, the Dark Knight

46%

James Bond, Agent 007

46%

The Terminator

38%

Which Action Hero Would You Be? v. 2.0
created with QuizFarm.com

2006-05-25T13:00:00.000-05:00

An Open Letter to the three kids that robbed me on University Avenue yesterday:

Okay. I get it. I was walking, footloose and fancy-free down the sunny side of the street, jammin' to my iPod. I didn't take as much care as I should have when the tall one of your group saddled up next to me, constantly looking behind his shoulder. Normally I look back when that happens, but I never like to pre-judge, and yesterday I was feeling pretty mellow. I mean, let's be honest - I was listening to a damn good song.

Y'all must have known this - the white earphones kinda give it away - but you had the balls to corner me in broad daylight on the busiest street in St. Paul. Nice. I give that to you. The little punk who came up behind me, I wanted to give you a special shout-out: "Don't fucking move; I have a gun," you said under your breath. Now, if I was a betting man (and I am), I'd say it was just your finger pushed through your sweatshirt. Even if you DID have a gun, pulling it out and using it on such a public street is the definition of stupid.

Once the iPod was in your hands, your 'armed' cohort who took my wallet proved himself to be not-so-harsh. I know it must have freaked you out that this tiny white boy started walking with your trio, screaming (even with my obvious loss of voice due to a head cold) obscenities mixed with pleadings: "I don't fucking believe this," I kept repeating. But you, Mr. I-Have-A-Gun, you finally listened to my ranting and took out my wallet for a closer inspection. You saw that I only had a single dollar bill and the rest fell under the "meaningless to you, but important to me" category. You took the dollar bill and then threw the wallet back to me. For this, I thank you. You could have easily kept it, making the day that much worse for me. But, you didn't. (Of course, you DID take the dollar. If you used it like I had planned on, then I hope you enjoyed the sweet taste of a Mountain Dew on that hot summer's eve. Bastard.)

Now, of course, with the iPod safely in your possession, I have to say you didn't make the wisest decision. I back this statement up with three main points:

1. I'm a volunteer. I make $100/month. If you had robbed a rich person, maybe you could have kept that whole "Robin Hood" mentality going. But what you took, took me four months of wages to buy.

2. There are more than 8 days of music on that mother of a machine, and I'll bet it takes you twice that long just to find some that you would actually enjoy. I have a quirky musical ear; enjoy it, assholes.

3. You don't have any way to charge that baby up. So, after 8 hours of continuous play (or 4, if you watch that Coldplay video over and over again), you are SOL. Go ahead and buy an AC adapter - that's at least $40. Joke's on you!

Now, of course, I was hit with other implications once you three had taken off into the residential areas of Midtown. Am I ever going to get this back? Probably not.

The cops were after y'all for a while, bringing out the dogs to follow your trail of discarded clothing. They spent a while with me, driving around the area, looking for you. Would they have done that if I were black and you three were white? Unfortunately, I don't think that question is extremely off-base.

At least 4 other people in the neighborhood through which you ran after your successful deed called the cops and gave loose descriptions. I'll never be able to thank them; I just hope I could do the same if put in their situation.

It was, I kept thinking, "just an iPod." But, even so, was that enough to threaten me at "gunpoint"? (By the way, I still think that was an absolutely bogus claim. I did, however, hear about people being shot and killed for their iPods when I was in New York. So, I decided not to call your bluff.)

Now, it's at this point in the open letter that I give my take on the whole thing. I could be constrained by the normal liberal/conservative viewpoints. Or I could become that classic conservative who thinks that way because I was a "liberal who was mugged." But I will do neither. I'll just say this: I was extremely lucky yesterday. You could have beaten me up (remember telling me that if I came too near, you'd "fuck me up"? No shit, Sherlock. I'm 5'6'', 140 lbs. If you three COULDN'T take me, then maybe you need go back to the drawing board, and take candy from unsuspecting babies). You could have taken everything I had (my cellphone, my bag full of purchased DVDs, my check from my grandpa, my $10 bus pass). You could have dragged me into the alleyway and raped me. You could have killed me. But you barely touched me. I got off very lucky.

At the same time, I feel like a tool. Once you pulled off the heist, and I was walking behind you, you shrugged my rants off, laughing amongst yourselves. I felt like I was trying to get a book back from my annoying nephews. I also felt like I was the easiest target you've had in a while. So be it. Hindsight's 20-20. But, damn, I wish I had been more aware.

It felt very surreal, this whole thing. Was it the same for you?

Finally, I addressed this letter to you three, calling you "kids". It's not deragatory, it's simply fact. You're what, 17 or 18? I wanted to admonish you, and then immediately I felt like I was being condescending.

There's your funny moment for today: That guy you robbed yesterday had no idea how to respond, and will probably remember the moment - for all its emotional, economic, and socio-political impact - for a very long time.

Peace,
Jason

2006-05-22T09:36:00.000-05:00

I attended a peace rally in north Minneapolis on Friday. This is the section of town that needs constant clarification by people who live near it: "No, I live in the GOOD part of Minneapolis." (be that northeast, Uptown, whatever) They CERTAINLY don't live in north Minneapolis, where people are shot weekly and the headlines are almost never positive.

In the anticipation of more crime as the summer months are upon them, people decided to get together and form a chain stretching 12 blocks in the heart of "Northside", as the neighborhood is known. One of the LVC houses resides here, and I went to join them. This last winter was described by most as a "mild" one - both weather-wise and crime-wise. Normally the colder weather deters crime, since most people are indoors. Unfortunately this time around, the mild weather produced a crime rate that corresponded.

There were drum corps playing, people milling about, candy being given away - it felt like any parade day I've been to, except for the not-so-obvious location. After we linked up, we settled in for more festivities: phenomenal dancing, haunting slam poetry and spoken word, and some rockin' beats. People's talents were on display: heartbreaking words coming from inside a deep well of pain and sadness, a product of living in a place roundly forgotten - or flat-out rejected - by mainstream society.

When a certain song began to play, the excitement kicked up a notch. The crowd of people near the front started a quasi-mosh pit, and pretty soon water bottles were flying. Before I knew what was happening, there was a huge exodus of people, going (thankfully) somewhere else to continue this fight. Later that night, a youth was found shot in the back. Last I heard, he was in stable condition in the hospital.

Of course, the irony of this situation drips from the tongue like honey, easily descending into a careless joke told at a party. As the news vultures...err...helicopters began circling overhead, I could just imagine the front-page news the next day - a birds-eye view of numerous flashing lights from police and emergency vehicles, while the headline cried out, "PEACE?"

Peace?, indeed. While I recognized the utter stupidity of the scenario - can't these guys refrain from fighting for ONE DAY?? - part of me cried out with the same anger as the slam poets mere moments before. Why? I'm sure many people in the neighborhood were both frustrated and saddened to see - and hear - cop cars invade their space on the one night they were hoping to be left in peace. But to ask for peace is one thing; to live in a place utterly dismissed by society is something else altogether.

I go back to those moments, in polite conversation over cocktails, when I've overheard people quickly - with an almost embarrassed wave of the hand - clarify where they really live. "No, no, no. I don't live in the bad part, thank God." Are we thanking God for not having to live there, or are we really thanking God that such places exist far enough away from us that we can pretend like they don't exist?

God's peace be with you, and especially with those that seem to never have a chance to truly experience this elusive concept...of peace.

2006-05-18T09:33:00.000-05:00

I just got done with an exercise in crap.

For reasons unknown to me, I was apparently involved in a relationship with the designation of "It's Complicated", in the lingo of Facebook. This was a while back, and I, of course, was unable to get over this person. (See: EVERY PERSON I'VE EVER REALLY LIKED.) Well, like any normal person, I would have moved on (like she did), but I have yet to achieve this important feat.

There's a question that may be brewing in some of your heads - What if she's reading this right now? Well, fear not. I don't think she's read any of my entries. Plus, this is real, from the gut, and I need to get it out. I could talk more about abstract concepts and theological certainties (or lack thereof), but this is MY BLOG. What else should I write about, except that about which I am moved to write? Yes, my thoughts exactly. Glad you're with me on this one.

(CAVEAT: If she IS reading this right now, I should probably apologize for...oh, fuck it. I've given enough caveats in the past 24 hours to satisfy a lifetime of 'State of the Union' addresses.)

I'm just tired, mostly. Why do we do this to ourselves? Sure, it's the whole risk-reward thing, but why would we knowingly enter into a situation where our heart is taken for a ride? I am clueless on this point.

I know, I know. This is the guy who has railed on 'love' many a time, not just in his blog. For those of you who are tired of hearing me rant, just ignore this and wait until my next post. For those of you that are either in a relationship where you like them more than they you, or vice-versa, then welcome to the club. How could two people be truly mutual in their love for one another? My roommate Cole said it could only be in that first moment when they meet each other. I agree with that. And only IF both are currently single, open to dating (i.e. not still hung up on some past person), and genuinely interested in the other person. AFTER ALL THAT, they still must be attracted to each other, both mentally and physically.

I mean, I might as well start playing the lottery.

None of the relationships I admire are perfect, and I understand this. But I almost want to believe, unequivocally, that there MUST be a reason for these things to occur. "Better to have loved and lost than to never have loved at all?" Maybe when I'm in another relationship. It's all about perspective. If I was involved with someone right now, I wouldn't even be writing this post. I would be able to be friends with this person for whom I had deep, deep feelings, no sweat. Yes, I'd say. Absolutely better to have loved and lost! What's life without love? And then I'd get ready to spend an evening with my partner.

But, man oh man, when you're single, things look so much different. Especially if you're single by circumstance instead of choice. It's like when you're drunk and you - all of the sudden - want to call those people from your past that you haven't spoken to in years (or, at least since your last drunken outing). It's almost as if I should physically be UNABLE to talk about lost love until I am at a place where I can do so somewhat intelligently.

But, alas, I am single. I thought this post was gonna be a rip on this person from my past. But, the truth is, I can't rip on her. She's an amazing person. It just didn't work out that way. I wish I could still be friends with her. But I have to be honest with myself at least ONCE during the day.

Hey, it's Thursday! I love you all. I mean, not in the way that sucks. Love in that wholesome, non-awkward, simple way. You know.

2006-05-13T16:01:00.000-05:00

I've been asked to give an "artist's perspective" on Africa for the adult forum (i.e. Sunday School) at St. Paul-Ref tomorrow. I'm not really sure what I'll say; I have many photographs from my time there to show people what I mean when I say, "I can't really explain it." Hopefully the pictures can, in some sense, speak for themselves.

When I dig down deep to wonder from where my love for Africa comes, I go as deep as possible without ever grasping the words that would do it justice. Africa changed my life, and I could easily divide said life into two camps: what came before, and what has come since my trip to that continent.

It's not that I could have died a happy man once I went - my journey was not somehow magnificently 'complete' once I had returned to America. If anything, the trip awoke in me passions I never knew existed. This place, with its rich history that all humans could, in effect, trace their ancestral history back to, was not necessarily a brand-new experience. It was like, in the words of Che Guevara in his Motorcycle Diaries, "...being homesick for a place I had never been."

Africa was a part of me before I ever embarked on my 10-hour flight to get there. It had a deep spiritual hold on me in ways I wasn't even aware of until much later.

And now I have to TALK ABOUT IT? Well, I did that in different classrooms when I got back, but mostly to impress upon budding freshmen the need to get out of TLU at least once in their four (ish) years of attending college. But now, I'm supposed to fill an hour with discussion about Africa. An hour? Easy. An focused hour? Ha.

It is a great irony to me that the place in which the fantastic and complex beginnings of modern human life took place is now the witness to some of the worst humanitarian crises the world has ever seen. Thousands upon thousands of years ago, humans began to move from their birthplace in Africa, looking for fertile grazing lands and sustenance in whatever form they could find it. After a while, civilizations began to spring up in places of which the original African societies did not dream.

...and many, many years later, those distant societies came into contact with, once again, their true 'motherland' - the place that had nurtured their precarious beginnings in life with the gentle touch of a devoted parent. And these societies tore the inhabitants - their true brothers and sisters, infinitely removed - from their land, enslaved them, and used them to better their own life in places across the seas. If they restrained from this course, they settled for raping the land and enslaving the peoples in their own backyard, content with destroying the land and its inhabitants from the inside out.

The human family had been reunited in their homeland, and what a sickening display of reunion it was.

This is part of the sadness I feel when I think of Africa. By far the most diverse place in this world in so many ways, it has been divinely shit upon for hundreds upon hundreds of years.

Sure, there is hope, and it is that hope that we all must cling to. Yet, in the words of a good friend, "hope is good, but there must be anger too." A sense of pure frustration must accompany our assessment of Africa today. Ravaged by war, poverty, AIDS, and the residue of colonial imperialism, it is not the best place to be.

But there's something that keeps drawing me back, and I cannot explain it. Perhaps I don't need to. Maybe if our collective consciousness could remember that it exists because of our common ties to Africa, we would be quicker to help in the midst of so many overwhelming problems.

Maybe. Let's hope to God it's sooner rather than later.

2006-05-06T10:55:00.000-05:00

I walk down the sun-drenched streets of El Paso. The mountains rise to the west, and the winds from the east cool me off in the dry air. It's probably 95, but it feels more like 75. Soon, it's evening. I kick back with a beer in the driveway of Susan and Miguel's house, on the corner of Moonlight and Ecstasy (coolest address EVER). To the south, past the limits of El Paso, the lights of Ciudad Juarez stretch for a far as the eye can see. The mountains cut a subtle line in the night sky, separating varying degrees of black and moonlight blue. Stars overwhelm; I close my eyes and I can imagine existing forever in this place.

I'm not sure what the last paragraph means, but I do know that I feel at home in Texas (yes, even WEST Texas) in ways I cannot understand. I struggle to even think of words to describe this place that I'm in. Sure, I'm just here for a 'Reconciling in Christ' training run by my organization. Yet I have jumped in headfirst this year - into the Lutheran Volunteer Corps, into intentional community, away from the beauty (and less-than-beautiful aspects) of college. I feel like I belong to no place. It's not just because I have moved more places in the first 23 years of life than many people do in their entire lifetimes - or even generations of people.

I have a growing wariness of my place in this world. I'm not afraid, because I know I'm not alone. But I continually see so many different places and scenarios as 100% viable that it's almost overwhelming. Sure, I can go to seminary and be a parish pastor. Or I could continue on for my PhD. Or I could become ordained and work abroad. I am intensely aware of the privilege itself to HAVE so many choices in the first place. How horrible life is, you would say.

Perhaps, however, this is more scary than at first glance. What can I do in this world that will be textbook-Frederick Buechner? ("Vocation is where the world's deep need and your deep gladness meet.") The question is not just, "What shall I do?", but also "What shall I say?" I have been told - and have felt myself - that I could make a good pastor. Ministry may be my key to doing good while being good.

What if, on the other hand, I am not a leader? (Go with me on this - it's not a silent fishing expedition for compliments, I assure you. It's a simple hypothetical.) If I fail at this, I do not just damage myself, I put others at risk. The admissions director at LSTC (Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago) talked about this universal fear that, at some point, we would be uncovered for what we truly are. People will see that we really have no idea what we're doing and, Lord willing, we will continue this charade without being discovered as failures. It was amazing for me to hear Brian, an ordained pastor himself, recognized this fear and voiced it. I think, especially in vocation-geared academia, we aren't just trying to learn skills. We are trying to find our voice in the universal choral arrangement. (CAVEAT: Everyone is attempting to do this in whatever their job may be, but I feel like there are different expectations for those in ordained ministry.)

If I'm not a leader, and if people whom I trust are simply wrong (and if I am desperately trying to successfully hide my inevitable failure), then what do I do? I could go forward in a sort of 'courage', and trust that the aspects of myself that need improvement do, indeed, improve. I mean, I want to be GREAT at what I do, as I want EVERYONE to be magnificent at what they do, no matter what that is. In this way, I am sure, we would create a much better and more humane world.

I'm not exactly sure what I set out to write in this entry. I have concentrated - probably ad nauseum - on money (or lack thereof) in my choice of seminary. Money is still important, but once that aspect is taken care of, so many more important aspects come to the forefront. And of those aspects, I think, existing authentically in this world is one of the most crucial.

At least for me.

I want to do good, but I also want to be good at what I do, so that my good is truly good, both for me and for others. Are you good?

2006-05-01T12:05:00.000-05:00

Happy May Day!

Today's moment of Zen: Most common words from a book by the Sufi mystical poet Hafiz.

again against always attar beautiful beauty beloved birds body come dance day dear divine does earth even ever everyone existence eyes feet friend get gift give god golden got great hafiz hands hear heart himself holy inside keep know let life light listen look love lover man master might mind moon mouth music near need new night now often once ones open own perfect poems poetry sacred say secret see sing sky someone something sometimes soul sounds speak spiritual start still sun sweet take teacher though thought thousand time tonight true truth turn two upon want words work world years

Okay. Back to Monday work.

2006-04-27T09:41:00.000-05:00

Starting this fall, I will be working for a Masters of Divinity at the Lutheran School of Theology at Chicago.

Whew. It's done. For now.

Thanks everyone. I would write more words, but I can't.

As they say at Pilgrim Lutheran Church here in St. Paul,

"Jesus came to be the Word, because our words weren't enough."

Peace, peace, peace.

2006-04-26T07:15:00.000-05:00

I just finished reading my previous entry, and it strikes me as extremely funny. Over the last 6 days, I have received information from the three seminaries to which I applied, and the time for decisions is, quite amazingly, right now.

I could use this time to talk over my decisions, to mull over my prospects. But I have done this for the past 36 hours, in my head and in conversations with many different wonderful people in my life. They all listened, gently offered advice, softly asked questions, and drew out the information from inside of me.

This still doesn't mean a decision has been made, but progress has been made.

-------

I just finished with a long, heart-to-heart, get-it-all-out conversation with friends for whom I would do anything, and the realization that that sentiment is reciprocated is a source of great joy for me. And it reminded me of something:

In the end, I may look back on these days as "not that big of a deal". But there is NO shame in jumping head first into these situations and treating them with the weight they deserve. This is my life, and it's not trivial.

That basically goes for everyone.

By Friday, I will know where it is I am headed next year for seminary. That is no small thing.

Peace. Peace, such as the world cannot give. Peace.

2006-04-20T08:38:00.000-05:00

I'm just tired.

I'm tired of not knowing anything. I haven't made decisions; I don't have the information necessary to make those decisions. Everything is in this potent "blah" state. I haven't decided on which seminary to attend, or even if I WILL attend seminary this coming fall. We haven't decided (aka 'been told') when we will be moving out of our LVC house - this year is the last year Beth Shalom will be in the Frogtown section of St. Paul. I have no idea what's going on with my mom. She's already gone, but how long will she stay here?

Today the weather has decided to stay in step with me: the warmth, though extremely welcoming, has backslid to the 50s. It's escaping into a hole, mirroring my own desires. (There IS a chance of thunderstorms today, however, which admittedly cheers me back up.)

It's all relative. These aren't horrible things going on in my life - they are just unknowns.

I spent the last year of college admist a mode of thinking that emphasized the 'unknown.' If you knew anything for sure, you weren't fully opening yourself up to the world around you, and letting it all "soak in." Sure, the world was one big black-and-white picture for some, but if you truly understood yourself, you would personally overwhelm that picture with a million shades of grey. You must do other things, too, like "open yourself up", "take your time", and the ever-present demand to "live in the questions."

I am almost positive that a lot of my questions at this time in my life are the reason I have gone through periods of stress, depression, and downright angst. I don't want to live in them, I want to answer them.

Foolish optimism, you may say. I would agree, in part. We can't answer all the questions. But there is a point where you need to sit up, open your eyes, and start living your life. I spent college covered with a huge metaphorical poncho drenched with droplets of the unknown. It never stopped raining, but I stubbornly kept wearing that damn poncho. And now, fresh out of college, I find myself half-wanting that poncho back, and half-wanting to just step out in the rain and throw my hands up in a liberating, quasi-Shawshank Redemption fashion.

This is the point where I would politely give a caveat for my previous words. I would say that I understand the viewpoint that embraces the grey. And I do, don't get me wrong.

But living in the unknown in college is one thing. Trying to do it beyond college is something altogether different.

I can't capitulate and go back on my words. I DON'T think that living in the grey is this glorious and wonderful thing. At some point, (and I shudder to type this) we have to grow up. I can't continue to ski in the liberating sea of the unknown, especially when I have loans to pay, details to work out, vocations to choose, and sanity to keep.

Dear God, I just sounded like my father. Well, I'm not advocating a conservative political viewpoint, nor am I bashing those still in college. I will cherish that time in my life like no other. It's just a whole lot different out in the rain without the poncho. It's both freeing and scary as shit.

I will go forward in this time of unknowing, confident that the One who created me will always be with me.

Earlier in this post, I may have made it seem like there are only two choices - the black-and-white picture, or the grey one. Well, I am sure there is a beautiful third option. And I am sure that option...must include...color! Yes, a huge, interwoven, inter-dependent mosaic of colors that adorn a massively warm quilt. It's a feast for the eyes, but also scary at the same time. How can we ingest all of those colors?

As if I haven't butchered enough metophors in this entry, allow me to say this: We don't ingest, we don't complain, we don't protest its lack of grey-ness. We just cover up in it, feel its warmth, and say softly, "It's all gonna be okay."

And then we sleep.

2006-04-17T09:33:00.000-05:00

So I'm realizing that I don't have a lot of time. For anything.

This realization has partly come about because of other people. Some have told me, "You always seem so busy", "Why are you always in a hurry", and "I hate you, Jason Chesnut. I hate you." Okay, maybe not the last one.

But the sentiment is still there. And although I am not going to necessarily defend myself against these charges, I promise to...wait, wait a second. This is my blog, for God's sakes. What else am I going to write about?

This accusation concerning a lack of time mostly comes from my school days, when most times you could find me walking rather briskly down the sidewalk. There are many possible reasons for this:

1. I'm late for class.
2. I might be just in time for class, which means I might not get my coveted seat in the back middle row (or right next to David Booher, so I could watch flash movies on his laptop).
3. I'm early for class, but I need the time to
a) study for a test
b) do the homework that is due
c) read a PHENOMENAL book
d) eat the food that's clearly occupying my hands
4. I just look damn sexy when I walk fast. So...so there.

This brings me to another point of mine - when do we NOT want more time to do something else? I'll admit, when I started LVC, I thought the whole 9-5 gig, without classes (or, consequently, anything to do on the weekends) I would have LOADS of time, so much time - in fact - that I would walk slowly wherever I went. So slow, I would look...well, like the tortoise. A sexy tortoise.

But, no. I normally get home at about 5.30pm, and we are eating by 6.30pm (if I have cooking duties, work starts right away). If I don't, I may clean up afterwards, which lasts until about 7:15-7:30. It is at this point that I spend the requisite amount of time sacrificing the necessary chicken to the Sun god Ra. (It's only fair.) Either way, before you blink, it's 8:00pm. I have been (trying) to go work out with my roomie every morning at the Y. We wake up at 5.30am in order to do that. Thus, I start getting tired right around the ripe old time of 9 in the evening.

As you might be able to see, my time is mostly limited. The above description only happens on the days when I don't have anything else going on, like choir/drum practice at church on Wednesday night, women's drum circle on some Thursday nights, and community nights interspersed throughout.

When is there time to do things I want to do? I can't even write in this blog unless I'm spending time at work (covert time, obviously). I don't call people on my phone, since most free time starts after 9pm - at which point I am near comatose. I don't hang out unless it's on the weekend, and even then there are things that are going on.

Why do I walk fast everywhere I go? Because I want more time to spend wherever it is that I'm going. Yes, I realize that the journey is half the beauty, and I try very hard to intentionally slow down.

But, sometimes, I go fast SO THAT I can slow down somewhere else. We work and earn money SO THAT we can have time to play and relax. Do the means justify the ends?

Discuss. I'll be back later.

2006-04-10T11:47:00.000-05:00

Today, it will reach into the 70s. This is more than a miracle: this is, I guess, the reason people stay true to places like Minnesota.

Absence makes the heart grow fonder, and I have missed the sun and its warm rays for a long time. I am definitely fond of this new development. I don't want to fall back into the trap of romanticizing the wintry past (although, by all accounts, the intrepid long-time Minnesota citizens have assured me that this past winter was "weak" and "disappointing"), but after spending so long in darkness and frigid winds that whipped past my face with brutal and bone-numbing laughs, I welcome the sun with open arms like a father welcomes home his prodigal son. Yes, the sun wasn't the greatest companion - even when she showed up, she shooed away all the clouds in the sky, thus preparing room for the wind to kick up such suicide-inducing temperatures as 20 degrees below zero. But, dammit, she's back now. And as Ben says, we have to forgive her absence.

On another note, it is Holy Week. There are, coming up, some of my favorite worship services in the Lutheran tradition - especially Maundy Thursday, Good Friday, and the Easter Vigil Saturday night...and, of course, Easter morning...okay, basically every single service is going to rock, and I'm looking forward to them with great anticipation.

The excitement is NOT about the fact that Lent is coming to a close, which means my edict to my stomach to refrain from consuming meat is soon coming to an end.

But I cannot wait for the services, especially Good Friday, which ends with (at LCR in Wimberley, Texas, at least) a complete stripping of the altar and the deep purple that characterizes Lent. Jesus is dead, and he will not appear until we shout on Easter morning, "Christ is risen!" Now, we know how this story ends, and we know that God will not let us live our lives without the hope and love that Christ brings. But, as we wait for God to BREAK out into the world, as the curtain of the temple is torn in two, we celebrate the stories of God's people at the Easter Vigil Saturday night.

So many stories adorn the Bible, reminding us that God does not let us - God's people - down. In fact, we have the promises that God loves us, and will be with us always FOREVER, eternally at our fingertips in that sacred document. The stories push themselves out of the last 2000 years, however, and appear today - as 30,000 people marched from St. Paul's cathedral to the Capitol building yesterday in Saint Paul to protest and call attention to the xenophobic, defensive, and downright racist legislation that has been proposed in the House of Representatives. "Si, se puede!", we shouted in unison, a huge throng of people moving together down the street, gyrating to the rhythms of multiple, diverse voices, becoming like a heartbeat of humanity.

But, we do not have to walk in that darkness after Good Friday for long. Soon, we shout, "Christ is risen! Christ is risen, indeed!" "Si, se puede!" We are empowered to be a force for positive change in this world; in God's world. We are given hope over cynicism, life over death.

Thanks be to God. Thanks, indeed!

2006-04-06T08:16:00.000-05:00

Here's a news flash for all those who know me: I don't like to work.

Actually, I should preface that statement. I like to work, all right. But I don't have this freakishly strong work ethic, where I work 70 hours/week without breaking a sweat. 40 hours is enough for me, and even that is a bit too much. Maybe 6 hours a day TOPS, and four days a week. And that might be a little too much.

Here's the rub: The people with whom I work love what they do, and they are damn good at it. I don't want to rag on them. I admire their strength, especially considering the mission of the organization. But as much as I want to be a positive force in the world of social change - and I find the Lutheran Volunteer Corps to be a great experience for a year - I do not have this incredible need to work all the time.

There is much to do, I agree with that. But when it hits 5pm, I am out of this door, and done working. This has absolutely nothing to do with my love for what we are doing. I'm just pretty sure that work is not something I can do at all hours of the day.

When people talk about a 'work ethic', I interpret that to mean a willingness to be at work on time and to not slack off. I do this with vigor - I can't stand to be late to anything, and I try and not become too bored with my serene office job. There are always things to be done at work, but it's hard for me to not wander online to BBC.com, facebook, or - of course - my precious blog. But does this mean I have a crap work ethic? Or simply that I cannot force myself to work consistently from 8-5?

I remember college (oh, so looooong ago), when I felt like I 'worked' almost all day, with some naps and movies in between. I was up for class at 8 or 9am, and I got back to bed at maybe 1 or 2am, if I was lucky. There was always so much to do, to be involved in, and to enjoy. This new world (ironically, a "volunteer" world) is simply exhausting, and I - on the outside - seem to be doing nothing but work.

It's an interesting dynamic. I feel like a bum because I work with workaholics. I'm always afraid I'm not working enough, but on the other hand, I feel like I am a solid volunteer who is never late and always "works hard" (whatever that means).

All of this is to say:

30 hours/week. Maximum. Europe gets shit for not working as long as American and Japanese workers, but is that so bad? Is our only measure of happiness the GDP? I imagine working 30 hours, and I get pretty damn happy.

But that's me. And maybe this is our generation. Or maybe it's post-college blues.

Back to 'work'. :)

2006-04-04T14:50:00.000-05:00

The hallway smells of urine. I really can't stand it, so I breathe out of my mouth. We go through two doors that require a 4-digit code. We step into a small room with 10 tables full of people waiting to be fed. The nurse on duty shuffles back and forth. The people mosey, saunter, or generally wander aimlessly. Some are talking to themselves; some are running into the walls; some are sleeping or staring straight ahead. There's a lot of things going on, but it's still sleepily quiet.

I look around the room, but I can't find her. Then it dawns on me: I'm looking for her, for my mother. I'm not looking for the person who sits directly in front of me, but there she is. Sitting in a wheelchair, she resembles a Nazi war camp survivor. Bruises adorn her arms and hands. I touch her right arm, and I can barely feel any skin that is still hanging on to the bone. I can fit my index finger and thumb all the way around her upper arm.

No solid hello will be in this greeting. She doesn't look at me, instead proceeding to get out of her wheelchair, dust off an invisible particle from the table, and then sit back down. She doesn't smile. During one of the 14 different conversations she's having out loud to people who exist only in her mind, she mentions men who are in the room and are actively trying to kill her. It's as if she is fighting a constant battle, and doesn't have the luxury to take a break.

I try to calm her down, but I can't get in a word edgewise. She will not stop talking. I try to make any sort of eye contact, and I say,

"Mom, it's okay. I'm here."

She makes a face, squinting her eyes. This was not the right thing to say. She starts shaking her head, looking as if she's about to cry. I put my hand on her shoulder. She immediately grabs my hand.

This woman of barely 80 lbs. is displaying a death grip I NEVER saw or experienced in 23 years of knowing her. I'm losing the blood to my fingers. I struggle - a pure, unadulterated attempt - to pry my hand loose. She's not having any of it. For five minutes, I can't get free. In the midst of complete sorrow, I almost laugh. This is phenomenal!

After 5 minutes, my hand tastes freedom. My mother, however, is far from it. The untold number of imaginary stories and scenarios are playing over and over in her head, and she tries to give them voice. She struggles with her words, sputtering them out like a 5-year old who's learning to use big words. She screams to nobody in particular, and cries to no avail.

I try to prevent the onslaught of raw emotion, but it hits me before I even know what's going on. I fall into complete idiocy, naively believing that, any minute now, Mom will snap out of it. She gave me birth, gave me life, raised me. Surely this is not how I will remember her. She'll snap out of it any second.

Another 5 minutes. No pure, person-to-person conversation ever happens. It's time to go. I long for the real and romanticized goodbyes that are shown in Hollywood movies and recounted by real people with real sorrow the world over. No such luck. My goodbye doesn't even phase her, and she continues to mutter under her breath and wipe the table clean again, and again, and again.

"Bye, Mom. I love you."

Again, the "mom" title doesn't help the situation. She frowns, still staring straight ahead.

"No, no. I don't have a baby. I promise, doctor. I promise."

I have no idea when this scene took place within the expanse of her shattered memory - or if it did at all - and I turn the other way, wishing I was anywhere but there. I don't look back. There will be no realization, no recognition. My mom is dead. Why must she still live?

I was asked by my candidacy committee, after telling of my mother's illness, where grace was in that situation. I answered that God was present in our suffering, and that we can be assured that our tears are colored with the presence of the divine. We are not alone, I said.

Of course, I'm sure my (almost) initial response, the first thing that came to my mind, is just as real and true and valid:

"Where is grace in this? I have no fucking clue."

I would hope and pray that God exists even when we say - and mean - things like that.

2006-03-31T10:49:00.000-06:00

I am headed to Texas tonight to meet with a group of people who decide whether or not I can attend seminary and eventually become an ordained minister.

Freaky!

On another note, I saw the trailer for an independent movie made by three Californians when they traveled to Uganda. Check out the trailer: http://www.invisiblechildren.com/theMovie/trailers/index.php?video=medium

I really resonate with Ben when he talked about how he can't think of anything more to say. The idea that, as time goes on during this LVC year, he has less and less to say. I agree.

What is there to say?

I'll be back on Monday.

2006-03-30T09:03:00.000-06:00

A note in remembrance this morning of my dear djembe:

After almost a year of being valiant in the face of total crap, you, my dearest percussion instrument - made in West Africa, purchased in South Africa - have been laid to rest. I will not get rid of you, but your playing days are over.

Last summer, a flower pot fell on your head, tearing you. The very next day, however, I played you for almost 7 hours straight in a New York City Street Fair. You are one tough bastard, a tribute to African ingenuity. (If you were a Remo, you would have been done that very second.)

So, to all you who knew you, I hope they rejoice in your life. And for those who knew me previous to this year, remember with fondness the day I thought I lost you, skipped my classes, and finally had a teary-eye reunion with you in the living room of Townhouse 12. I think you were crying, too.

You were much more than a thing. You were - you are - Africa to me.

You will be missed.

2006-03-29T08:54:00.000-06:00

A slam poem on the third anniversary of the war in Iraq.

Take care, the cynics say...
We definitely don't want to share;
we certainly don't want to dare
trying peace.

For, you see, peace is a foregone conclusion.
It is unattainable, unreachable, unreliable;
a glorious, wondrous, holy and immortal utopia
that we will never reach.

Oh, sure, we'll talk about it.
We'll flow on it like a seasoned slam poet,
faking our conscience,
taking no prisoners,
making no friends,
forsaking our identity, our values, our morals, our very being.

Peace, peace, peace.
Peace be with you. And also with you?

IN FACT, we are told that this elusive idea
can only be achieved through another,
let us say "concrete" idea: war.

Like anything else,
war is in the eye of the beholder:

Front Page News:
War In Pakistan
Genocide in the Sudan
'Peace' in the Middle East (?)
BUT NO AMERICANS WERE HURT.

"For whoever is not against you is for you." -Luke 9:50
"If you're not for us, you're against us." -President George W. Bush

Where does this come from?
This need to create
fear and injustice?

Words are our vessel:

There aren't deaths;
there are operations.

People aren't slaughtered or raped;
targets are eliminated or contained.

There isn't starvation and malnutrition;
military presences are strategically placed in terror-ridden areas in order to facilitate growth and security.

THERE ISN'T WAR!
There are merely failed diplomatic relations that unfortunately have led to the limited use of force on a dangerous minority, employing the epitome of an oxymoron: smart bombs.

NOT TO WORRY!

It's an education, really.
We teach it in our schools, our homes, our libraries, hospitals, churches, recreation halls, bowling alleys, community homes, in our very lives...
We are taught to believe that we are in mortal danger -
our selves,
our time,
and our possessions
are at risk.

It is a cheap education:
For once in our country's history,
all are welcome
to this fantastically fanatic feast
of ignorance and intolerance.

Soon enough,
the true message will shout from the rooftops,
loud and clear:
Those people over there,
aren't really people at all.

One day,
when all the world's wars have been fought;
when all the people in cardboard boxes have died off while the rich get richer and the poor get hardly the scraps from the Lord's table;
when there is barely a table left in the world on which to eat;
maybe - just maybe -
we will realize that war does not bring peace:

It never has,
and it never will.

2006-03-24T21:42:00.000-06:00

Holden Village. "An ecumenical [wilderness] retreat center in the Lutheran tradition." Paradise? No. Beautiful people in a beautiful place surrounded by the unalderated wild and authentically living out their lives in this chaotic world? A most resounding yes.

I just got back to the "real world" after five days in this place, far beyond the reach of a normal gas-powered automobile. It takes a flight to Seattle, a four-hour drive to Chelan, a two-hour boat ride up Lake Chelan, and a 45-minute trek in an intrepid bus through the majestic Cascade Mountians before one can set foot in Holden Village. It was well worth the wait. In less than a week, I met phenomenal people who intentionally engage themselves and one another in a community rooted in a fantastic message: We are lucky to be alive.

Indeed, we are, but the community of Holden - which varies anywhere from about 60 people in the winter to over 450 in the summer - takes that idea to heart. Everything, from the way food is consumed to the way garbage is produced, takes on a whole new meaning in this remote area of the world. Electricity is limited, internet connection is virtually absent, and breathtaking views literally stop you in your tracks when you so much as look out your window.

But the views are just the beginning. Recognizing that they are simply one of the infinite number of communities in the world, the people of Holden minimize their impact on the environment, with a fully-functional 'garbology' team that painstakingly attempts to recycle, reuse, and renew as much of the generated waste as possible. They celebrate the act of eating together, while making specific choices about their food - where it comes from, what its impact is, and how much is really "necessary" - and act upon those choices in a very genuine way.

I would be the first to doubt the social relevance of a retreat center that has to wait for its up-to-date newspapers and contact with the outside world, but Holden Village's attraction lies in its simplicity. The world is not being forever altered in southeast Washington - but a number of dedicated people are truly attempting to understand what it means to live with, in, and as a part of this world.

It isn't a five-star hotel, and there aren't lowly staff workers to cater to your every need. But there is intense community; there are most definitely people who are more than willing to enter into beautiful and lively discussion about anything under the sun; and there is, without a doubt, a people who live out their own spirituality in such an astonishingly generous and gentle way that one can't help but find the holy in everyday activities.

I don't mean to romanticize the simple life, or say that Holden is some sort of utopia that has been hidden away from the rest of the world. But within their simplicity, Holden has become a community whose effect is anything but simple to those lucky people who get a chance to visit. I mean, I just came for a break from my job. But I left with so much more.

This is a shout-out to those who may never read this, but are deserving of praise nonetheless: Jack, Michael, Ben, Kelly, Emily, Jami, Tom, Jesse, Dan, Jill, April, and everyone else nestled up there in the mountains. Mine is a experience I won't soon forget, and the opportunity to be validated and affirmed - instead of merely tolerated - as a unique child of God who happens to have no idea what the hell to do with their life is something I will always carry with me.

The intentionality, the simplicity, the effort to connect ordinary life with the extraordinary problems of this world - Lutheran Volunteer Corps, take a look at Holden Village. There's a community far from perfect, but completely present in the world today - even with all its problems, frustrations, and grey areas. Not in spite of, but because of.

Thank you.

2006-03-15T12:56:00.000-06:00

I am going to be at a training and then Holden Village until Saturday, March 25th.

I love you all.

I hope you prosper in my absence.

j

2006-03-10T09:20:00.000-06:00

Thoughts from this Friday, the 10th of March:

1. I leave for a Seattle training and then Holden Village next Wednesday, and I can't wait!

2. I wish Brokeback Mountain had won best picture, but I'm not really sure why I wish that. Is it more of me wanting it to win because of the subject matter, and thus wanting it to win to make a statement? Or is it more of what it should be - i.e., that it was the best film of the past year? Well, I don't know the answer. But I will say that the five films up for best picture must be the best collection of films nominated for the Academy Award that I've seen in many, many years. I highly recommend you see all of them (okay, yes, even I haven't seen all of them, but I will):

-Brokeback Mountain
-Capote
-Munich
-Good Night and Good Luck
-Crash

With, of course, the final one taking home the Oscar.

I will say, however, that I feel Heath Ledger deserved the Best Actor Oscar, and it has nothing to do with my very biased love for the film. If it is an award for "acting", and we have an straight educated man from Australia acting like a gay roughneck from the country whose accent is thicker than the refried beans he ate every day, then we have a winner, hands down. Yes, the Academy looks at more than simply the vast difference between the character and the actor him or herself, but what knocked my socks off about Heath's performance was the lack of dialogue.

Ennis Del Mar (Heath's character) is a man of very few words, but not few emotions. In order to convey the inner-workings of this complicated ranchhand, Heath became the awkwardness, socially-repressed love, and intensity that was Ennis. There were certain moments in the movie when I was sure he would burst - I mean, you could literally feel the emotions radiating from his body. Damn! I get shivers just thinking about it.

I should start working. But there is much more I could say about the Oscars. For instance,

3. Jon Stewart. I've read some reports that have ripped into him. Give the guy a break! You're the host for the Oscars, for God's sakes! That is pretty much the worst audience ever, as you have actors who have dragged themselves out of bed at the ungodly hour of 3 pm in order to get their $50,000 suit on and bravely battle the Hollywood traffic from the backseat of their limo, and they aren't in the mood to be made fun of! (except, of course, George "Sexiest Man Alive" Clooney) I think the Oscar crowd is the coldest crowd you could ask for, and still Jon Stewart stuck it out! I thought he was damn funny, but then again I'm in love with The Daily Show, and he was the same wonderful presence: self-effacing, quippy, and sharp as a tack.

4. Okay, I'm really going to go now. My new diet of no meat for Lent is challenging, indeed, and I'm just trying to find every food possible that isn't meat. Wish me luck!