the parable of the harvester

The harvest she worked for was hard earned. She rose with the sun and retired with the stars. Life as a harvester was hard. Sundays were the only reprieve from hard manual labor. June brought strawberries. July brought string beans and peas. In August the corn ripened and needed to be put away. The sun greeted her unwilling eyes after cleaning strawberries till well after midnight. Yet the harvest awaited, ripening in the fields. Another day of picking till the sun went down. Another evening of cleaning and preserving the harvest, till she fell asleep in her chair.

Yet all the work turned into reward throughout the year. Every meal brought with it the taste of amazingly fresh sweet corn or green string beans, peas, carrots and strawberries. With it came the memory and appreciation of the intensive labor behind all that “home grown” represented.

Worlds collide with he who comes to offer his dimes and quarters. He who knows no toil, nor aching back. It’s free, it’s free, he cries with glee. The food is free and it’s fresh out of the field: one only pays at eh supermarket. He stuffs his obesity, delights in the taste for only a moment and discards the remains. But he is the saddest of all creatures, for he has eaten and cannot be filled. He eats and is not satisfied. He tries to buy his sustenance, gets it for free but is yet not full enough. His obesity flaunts his dilemma shamefully. He fills himself off the sweat of the poor. He is by all counts the most miserable of creatures.

But the laborer, she has her reward. The satisfaction of her labor is enough.

help me wash my window

Since I have all these Mennonite mom types checking out my site, thanks to Dorcas. I thought I would give a little spring cleaning tip I learned while living in the hood. If you are like my mom, there is a spring window cleaning and a fall window cleaning. Because I was a student and a homeowner for the past 6 years, my windows didn’t get cleaned quite that often. However, this spring, it looks like the grit and the grime have won the war. So, I am contemplating a widow cleaning.

But instead of running to Wal-Mart or Target and grabbing that spray bottle of blue juice, I do it the Mennonite way. A splash of vinegar in the bottom of a big bucket and a tablespoon of ammonia, with a gallon or more of water will do the trick. Be sure to use cotton rags to wash and dry as it tends to be a better experience. One in the bucket. And one to dry. Yet the tip I am offering today is the newspaper trick, which I learned from my African-American neighbors. I saw whenever they went to wash windows, they would pull out the newspaper. It is the easy fix for an almost dry window pane, with a bit of streak and smudge on it. You just take crumpled newspaper and rub it vigorously and it comes out with the sparkle of new glass.

So, whenever I clean windows I remember my heritage, my family and my mom giving me the internal urge to clean at all. And then I remember how even though Mennonites are known for being the neat as a pin type, I can still stand to learn well from those around me. It reminds me to look, listen and be curious about others—eventually, becoming more like them in their strengths and bearing with them in their weaknesses.

Come now, help me wash my window, so that I can see more clearly. Then I will help you wash yours. The work goes so much faster when two labor together.

keeping short accounts

Everyone knows what it’s like to be wronged by someone else. Everyone knows what it’s like to realize suddenly that you have wronged, offended or hurt someone. Yet there is a world of difference between the response possibilities when in the middle of either scenario.

Recently, I “accidentally” put an end to 8 years of avoidance between two parties involved in an ancient love triangle. I invited a friend to a birthday dinner for another friend. The birthday girl invited her best friends; a couple that I had lost touch with over the years. So, the couple and the birthday girl and I were sitting in a restaurant waiting for my friend to show up. He came through the door. I watched as the couple recognized him and their eyes turned into saucers as they gripped the table with white knuckles and ashen faces. My friend sat down. Everyone maintained normalcy for the birthday dinner. However, the story came out over coffee after my friend left. Evidently, 8 years ago, the female part of the couple had been out on a date with my friend, who had joined us. Her roommate called her while she was on this date and it was conveyed to the roommate’s companion (the female’s present husband) what she was up to—to which he responded, “Oh, NO!” The female overheard this cry of distress over the phone, while on the date with my present friend. A short time later a “rescue party” (among them her present husband and then roommate) showed up to interrupt her date. Her husband recalls simply making a lame excuse, grabbing her by the arm and leading her away. In the end, evidently, she had liked her present husband all along, however, since he was sitting on his duff...er, wasn’t initiating, she had begun to accept other offers.

So, a few months after the interrupted date, the duff sitting man, now alter standing man and the woman got married, without their community’s blessing because of numerous other convoluted circumstances. But here’s the most bizarre part about the story. For the past 8 years, this couple has been avoiding this young man. If ever they happened to be at the same gathering, the couple would pick up and leave. Their feeling of guilt was apparent and the moment of culpability was just like it happened yesterday.

I have several reactions to this scenario. One, I in no way feel apologetic for any discomfort I caused anyone that evening, because of one uncomfortable evening around the table of celebration, the said Lord’s supper, 8 years of running away was put to an end. It was as if this was a foreshadowing of things to come in the kingdom of God for those who intend to sit down at God’s table with brothers--only to be made uncomfortable. Two, it never ceases to amaze me what folks sacrifice on the alter of Eros. This couple had sacrificed community, church and all their former friends. Three, it amazes me as to what gymnastics are performed to avoid the difficult moment in the process to resolution: a full encounter of wrongs committed and forgiveness given. Given this and other stories like it, I think someone should write a book series, the first should be entitled, “War: pacifism in a culture of violence.” And the second should be entitled, “Love: pacifism in a culture of addictive love.”

Keeping short accounts is essential to being Christian and more importantly to being a pacifist Christian. Wrongs committed would be made right quickly, so that the gospel of peace would not be defamed among Christ’s followers. The personal and social agony of unresolved tensions causes more discomfort and than the uncomfortable moments in the process to resolution. I would prefer almost anything to 8 years of running away. It seems that offenders could so quickly put an end to their own feelings of guilt by simply apologizing and asking for absolution. This is the story of the prodigal son. Or even if the “offender” is paralyzed by his offense to the other (be it however minor), could “the other” not emulate Christ to his brother by pursuing him relentlessly, proclaiming, “I forgive you!” This is the story of the Father who has pursued us while we were yet in our sins.

I think ultimately the root of the matter is: we don’t really believe in forgiveness. We fear that we are not forgiven.

All is fair in love and war—Christ rules only over my mediocrity.

when tempted—engage strategically

I’ve been contemplating strategies and spiritual disciplines when encountering temptation. I was at a stand still over two different approaches. One is on the opposite of the continuum from the other: you can either face temptation like an animal stalking its prey or run for your life. We hear of the nobility and honorableness of the later one quite often—or at least I have in the more fundamental circles. Joseph’s response to the temptation of Potiphar’s wife is their showcase story. Joseph is the hero. He resisted valiantly, leaving his coat behind in order to escape temptation and was falsely accused and thrown into jail. It was the best case scenario for the situation. Or is it?

I’ve noticed a different approach. And I think I prefer it. Two of my mentors have talked about in different ways. One says, “lean into your fear.” The other often said, “Don’t run from a temptation—look it square in the eyes and then walk toward it, purposefully.” Over come it—don’t run away.

It stands to reason. If one avoids tempting situations, one can spend their entire life walking around tempting situations. It seems a very encumbered existence to walk around things all the time. Wouldn’t it be better if that tempting thing no longer had a leash on you? How does that happen? Jesus gives us an example of how to overcome temptation, with his desert experience. He confronts it with authority and with truth (Scripture).

I’ve also read an Eldridge book recently. His advice concurs. When Satan brings a situation of temptation into our lives—that very moment is a possibility for victory. We are not to run from it, for it is our big chance, it is our possibility for victory over the temptation. It is a matter of perspective—Is the glass half full or is it half empty? Is this your opportunity to set a precedent for overcoming this temptation or is it the moment to again bow to the temptation’s power over you?

The question Eldridge answers is, how does temptation not become temptation anymore? How does that addiction dissipate? How can one suddenly give a decided, “no” to something that once held him/her over the barrel.

Healing.

It’s so simple but obscure and nonsensical to most. Healing is the answer. We are inexplicably drawn to/attached to the things that have hurt us deeply. Those incidents are written onto our souls. We grasp for salve that would heal us, but Satan stands there offering us salt for our wounds. We long for healing so much that we trick ourselves into believing that the bowl of salt is the salve. And we take it and apply it, only to come away with more pain in the same wound. The boy who broke up with me. And the boys who continue to break up with me. The friend who betrayed me. And the friends who continue to betray me. The church leader who humiliated me. And the authority figures who continue to humiliate me. If I am not healed, where healing is enabled by my forgiveness of the other, then this moment of my wounding will reoccur forever, presenting itself as a temptation to sin--forever.

Behind every temptation there is a wound. And behind every wound there is Jesus waiting to heal. Encountering the temptation involves an authentic encounter with the fears and terrors of one’s past woundings.

Therefore, lean into your fear. Grab your temptation by the horns and in the power and strength that God gives you—be an overcomer.

Gen 21:14 Early the next morning Abraham took some food and a skin of water and gave them to Hagar. He set them on her shoulders and then sent her off with the boy. She went on her way and wandered in the desert of Beersheba. 15 When the water in the skin was gone, she put the boy under one of the bushes. 16 Then she went off and sat down nearby, about a bowshot away, for she thought, "I cannot watch the boy die." And as she sat there nearby, she began to sob. 17 God heard the boy crying, and the angel of God called to Hagar from heaven and said to her, "What is the matter, Hagar? Do not be afraid; God has heard the boy crying as he lies there. 18 Lift the boy up and take him by the hand, for I will make him into a great nation." 19 Then God opened her eyes and she saw a well of water. So she went and filled the skin with water and gave the boy a drink.

pacifist does not mean passive

A while back a friend was ribbing me about not being a pacifist as I claim. He sited my not so passive manner of being as evidence.
Passive is what is expected. To a certain extent we have lived up to the label the mainstream has given us—we are passive. We are not the upsetters of the culture of violence. I ran across an article written by Albert Einstein on Pacifism. In it he calls himself a militant pacifist. And he calls others to initiate an aggressive campaign against violence.
The full article is here.

a redemptive story

Losing Teagan: A story of tragedy, forgiveness and hope. http://www.bethel.edu/alumni/Focus/Spring/03/teagan.html

kingdom action renovare

The sermon I would have given...

Over the years, our neighborhoods and churches have become less and less cohesive. Activity, affiliations, media and progress have usurped tangible community. We have become isolated. We don’t know our literal neighbors much less our spiritual neighbors.

This is not in keeping with the first and greatest commandment—to love the Lord your God with all your heart and soul and to love your neighbor as yourself.

We need to know our neighbors. We need to love them every day. They are in the check-out lines and behind the desk at the businesses we frequent. We need to know what they like, what they eat, what they drink. We need to know if they are remodeling their bathroom or kitchen—then we need to go and help them, with the expectation of becoming their family to them (not a boyfriend or a girlfriend—cummon, giggle with me, those of you who know the inside joke). We need to know if they have addictions and then we need to love them anyway. We need to know if they are sex offenders or prostitutes and then we need to love them and be their brother or sister in Christ anyway. We need to know if their children need mentoring or some odd jobs to do.

And the best way to find out about these things in the lives of your neighbors—those who God has entrusted to you—is to have a cup of tea with them. You need to know how to be friendly and how to care about people. This is basic and very simple.

Sometimes it takes a lot of effort to get to the point where you can include your neighbor into your family. Sometimes it takes years. And meetings and prayer walks are only a small but vital piece in what it takes mobilize the kingdom of God in a neighborhood.

The church would like to help you organize whatever it is you need for your particular neighborhood. But these two things we are starting with is (1) To love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul and mind and then (2) to love your neighbor as yourself. And if you are already have a grasp on these two items in your life and if your friends and neighborhood is being transformed around you—You are a leader in the kingdom of God and need to be taking us to the next level of kingdom building infiltration in the world.

choosing redemptive resistance

It is difficult to be a pacifist. I used to give talks on non-violent resistance in my friend’s ethics class. It was his particular perspective as well, however, I could be more expressive as the guest speaker than he could be as the professor in a Baptist Seminary. I prefer to call pacifism redemptive resistance which is dubbed passive by the culture of violence. Yet it is everything but passive. One thing I always brought up is that non-violence or redemptive resistance is a lifestyle, not just a stance on war.

It applies to every situation I encounter. For me, choosing redemptive resistance is difficult, because I am a fighter. I do like to assert myself and win. And I can and have “won,” in a worldly sense. There have been a handful of times when I have been "violent". In the worst of those incidents, I aggressively confronted the stranger who stole money from my overly generous and helpful sisters. I got what I demanded from him but only after we bounced off each others’ chests and exchanged some very aggressive verbage. It was likely a stupid thing for a short girl to do. Neither of us got all we wanted and nothing was ever redemptive. I have one enemy in the world because of that incident, which is one too many. I felt the power of this worldly sort of “winning,” as I saw the beads of sweat explode from the dude’s brow. But I didn’t win.

Winning is instead, knowing one has all the power to conquer the other in a situation of conflict of interest yet laying that aside—choosing instead the path of redemptive self-sacrifice and brotherhood. It is a silent power. One takes all the energy of emotion from the sense of wrong and injustice inflicted by the other and turns it inward toward the carnal self that wants to win—crucifying it alongside the image of Christ who had all the power in the world to climb off the cross and bring justice to his persecutors—yet Christ and I wait for ultimate justice and redemption, which will come later, after the body of flesh is sacrificed. Ultimate power resurrects on the third day. Ultimate justice emerges from a source outside of one’s self. Both this justice and this power redeem the perpetrator and its victim in the loving embrace of vibrant life. They again join hands and walk down the road together.

Perhaps I’ll share a story or two later, if anyone is interested.

how I got tangled up in loving the unlovable

Moving into a neighborhood for the sole purpose of transforming it through altruistic love is a habit wired into me from my Mennonite upbringing. For me, nothing is an obstacle if relentless love is a part of the equation. In my district work, I run into folks who vie for change through lawmaking, policing and education. This method improves some things. However, it often persists as dirt pushing—pushing problems around instead of resolving them or transforming the problem into an asset or redemptive act.

Hence, the following is a bit of a synopsis of the beauty, the adventure and the struggle of altruistic investment into whatever and whomever decided to become my neighbor—transforming the neat rows of dwellings into a dynamic, supportive community. After all it takes a tribe to raise the children that run through the streets of Railroad Island, unsupervised. Whoever, imagined it was a nuclear family that did it—or a single mother for that matter.

I had heard mutterings of a church with a charismatic leader, who had called his congregants to move into the inner city (the Phillips Neighborhood) and bring the love of Jesus with to transform their neighborhood. I don't know if their goal was their particular goal to convert the druggies, car-burners and sex offenders into stable members of society or if it was simply to push them out and in so doing transform the neighborhood. Anyhow, I thought transformation was an excellent idea and prayed the second would not be unintended consequence. I personally was not interested in simply gentrifying my neighborhood but being a catalyst for change, so that the druggie next door could say that they are no longer a druggie rather than pushing him out into another neighborhood so he can sell drugs to someone else's kids.

So, with this thought in mind, I pulled together some like-minded people, who seemed agreeable to the outrageous plan. We started off by getting to know our neighbors. We did kids night for them and for the other Hmong in the neighborhood. We had kids crawling into every crevice of our existence, in the three houses our atheist neighbor dubbed “Revival Row”. I would often come home from a full day of work in the summer only to start over as kids would see me pull up to my house and come running, screaming my name from all corners of the four block area.

There was, in particular interest to us (because of the numerous police calls), a large house which was always rented out to a large black family. Every family that lived there generally had the same story. Yet the last family was the most challenging of all. They had moved from Chicago to avoid getting shot there. I remember I was the first to meet them and got invited over to the house for a birthday party, by the ten year old who had been wandering the neighborhood, tehn became my shadow for the day. The moment I entered the house through the kitchen, I got yelled at by the toothless grandmother as she sized me up and down while waving her spatula. Her accent was so Chicago I had no idea what she was saying other than “white” this and “black” that. I decided another room in the house was my better option. So, I sat in the dining room with the mother of the child and some other adults and was offered some stuff. I turned it down. I went to the next room to watch TV with the ten year old, which was also the front room of the house. There, four uncles took their turns bringing me plates of food, entertaining me and attempting to bribe my little shadow into leaving. The auntie came by to see what was up and commented, "Wha's yahl's problem? Neva seen a white girl ba’for?" People, all kept coming in, looking through a drawer, while my ten year old and whatever uncle yelled, “It ain’ in there. The stuff ain’ in there.” They also kept checking out the front window every time a car pulled up—likely to figure out if they should be busting out the back. Meanwhile, my little shadow snuggled into me, shuttering in terror at the scary parts of whatever movie was on.

That was how I got tangled into the daily life of my “problem” neighbors.

Eventually Uncle Phil came along. He too like the rest of the family was in and out of our house and lives. We became aware of the possibility that he was a danger to the children and called child protection for this and for a number of other reasons. I had a heated argument over the phone with the lady on the other side who insisted I was reading into the situation. Then one of the guys in our community started getting thick with the family and smoking pot with them and more secrets came out. (Actually, their secrets were generally pretty loud.) Uncle Phil's dangerous!—do not be found alone with him if you are a woman, we were told. That's about the time when one of my roommates confessed to having a crush on him. She invited him into the house. She went out with him. She watched TV with him in his house on his bed. It was his mug shot on the front pages of the paper that explained to her how lucky she had been. She was horrified, ill and left work early that day! Thank God it was a lesson well learned.

There were other close calls of such sort. We were sleeping with the enemy and it was beginning to be difficult to see if our neighbors were converting us to their vices or whether we were converting them. For the most part the later was true. This particular family is now drug and alcohol free. Several uncles and aunts have gone to rehab and they have calm evenings in the house together.

lead us out of temptation

Recently, my mind has been turned to consider the art of encouraging others to do as they are compelled, not as they desire. In this particular instance it is a delicate matter, concerning the proper relationship between a married man and a woman (single or married). The more mature talk about it and choose to do what is right. I will never forget the married woman who told me that she had had a conversation with a married male co-worker about their attraction toward each other. They acknowledged it and resolved to direct it in a way that would enhance their work together and also their commitments to their own spouses. I since then have striven for that kind of bold honesty. There’s something about it that takes the temptation to relate falsely to others right out of the equation.

In my work environment (and I have several of them), I have encountered a very married man who I’ve sensed doesn’t really want to act like he is married at times. Although I have seen nothing inappropriate, I’ve gone with my gut on this one and have decidedly been encouraging toward a comfortable, engaging and open relationship with him. I have been aware of the fact that he finds me intriguing. Many people do—men and women. However, I wish to use that intrigue that they have for me and the intrigue I have for them toward God’s intention. And it’s not that I don’t find him attractive. But more importantly I believe friendship to be a very honest and high ideal in my book, a higher goal than romance I think, given the bent of society.

A few times I’ve had to meet with this married man one-on-one. Given my sense about him, I ran a mental list of how I would contribute to the interaction. I allowed myself only one touch on the shoulder—if I needed to make a strong point. I had to watch for and avoid (like the plague) the true accidental knee bumping. I would not lean forward too much or appear too comfortable in my posture. If things were getting too cozy I was going to clip my words, straighten my back and be more brusque. I was not going to dawdle at length over chit chat conversation.

An insignificant amount of time ago my suspicions were confirmed. I happened to see him (the married man) out with a young single woman, who I also knew. They were chatting, leaning towards each other, gazing into each others eyes, her feet resting inside the circle of his legs, touching at the calves.

Thanks, Lord, for the sight.

I write this because it is a real daily occurrence for many people. Yet we need to be real about it.

P.S. Do not assume this story happened outside of my Christian environment.

large families

Large family movies are sort of a theme, recently. The Cheaper by the Dozen Series. Mine, Yours and Ours. I found the first one amusing. Cummon, who wouldn’t find—“Good job, FedEx!”—who wouldn’t find that funny? But the second one, became a bit routine. And the third was downright ridiculous. I mean seriously. I’m sure everyone knows that big families don’t really have that much drama happening 24/7. Actually, no...you might not know that, because large families are a rarity and you’ve perhaps not seen a large family not operate that way. And even though you are intelligent, gentle reader, the big screen certainly has vivid emotional appeal—one’s brain plays tricks on you—if you see it, you believe it myoticly. So allow me to disagree with the god of this world.

First, allow me to agree with the big screen. Yes, if a parent or parents would raise their 5+ children as though they were all an only child around which the world revolves—yes, one would have a cheaper by the dozen scenario. But, thank God, most parents (and children) of large families figure it out, it’s much more productive and efficient and beautiful, actually—to work in a team, instead of each for the self as is demonstrated quite well in the mentioned films. A large brood of children, having experienced mutuality and daily life as a common goal toward a common purpose, is a distinctly powerful force in society—unless one enjoys extreme individualism. And we all do by virtue of the fact that we’re willingly and unwillingly subjected to the propaganda.

May I just say that I am grateful for the skills and experience that have been bestowed upon me by virtue of being a part of a family of 10. Do you have any idea how quickly a family of 10 can prepare food, set the table, eat, clear the table and wash the dishes. It’s beautiful and works like a well oiled machine. Over the past two holidays, I sat back and enjoyed the production, while at my post making the mashed potatoes. Sister 5 is setting the table while brother 4 is following her drippling silverware in their general spot around a large table, while playfighting with her incessantly. Mom heaps the food into bowls that magically appear on the counter, as I notice she is ready for them and find them in the cupboard above me. Sister 4 reaches for a spoon and sister 5 magically understands what she is reaching for and places it in her hand.

I wish my district meetings would work as smoothly. I wish I could organize work projects where at least half the people that showed up would have a sense of personal identity and their unique role toward the end goal. Cheaper by the Dozen, very humorously and very erroneously portrays every child is a rescue mission, an accident waiting to happen, a power out for him/herself and an unquenchable force working against the peace and harmony of the whole. Catastrophes do happen in large families. However, it is my distinct belief that just as many catastrophes happen in smaller families because in the large families each individual subconsciously monitors the health of the family system (the health of the individual depends upon it) and calculates the effect their contribution to an upheaval might bring to the family system. Smaller families have a larger allotted catastrophe contribution quota per capita.

preferential option for the poor?

Numerous friends of mine have been struggling with finances recently—actually, almost everyone I know in my age category. I too have pinched pennies almost all my life and can be very severe in my frugalness if I decide to be. My goal has been to train myself to be as Paul says in Philippians, “I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want.” So when I decided to go the Annual Meetings this year, I knew I would have to experiment with accommodations, even if only to respect the financial distress of those I live with.

My heritage taught me to do vacation differently than most—as a child my family never stayed at hotels or had vacation packages to go somewhere warm and on the ocean. Instead, we went where there were friends or family to visit. Otherwise, there was no reason to go. Realizing now, how others do vacation accommodations, I have taken the opportunity to experiment. Americans often do the hotel with a swimming pool thing. Occasionally, I’ve done that. Amish Mennonites give and receive hospitality from other Amish Mennonites. There is even this Mennonite directory out there called Mennonite Your Way which is a hospitality house list of people all across the country. In Mexico, if you are vacationing and you have a car, you sleep in your car or stay with friends. I once lived out of a VW bug with 4 other people for 3 days, as we toured Jalisco and a went to the festival of San Juan Martin, Caballero. We mingled with other travelers. And I discovered that if you don’t have a car you ride the bus and if you don’t have fare for the bus you walk. For bus riders and walkers, there are accommodations aplenty under every tree along the road or in the town square, often in the courtyard of the church. Some day, I hope to travel like this.

All this is to say that I have been considering how best and how functionally to live, when traveling and when at home. With the threat of poverty is hanging over the heads of many folks in my generational category, forcing us to rethink money expenditure and living patterns, I’ve seen many of my peers attracted to living in community, either out of need to survive financially or for expressed faith convictions. Hospitality has also become a bigger deal for them. Hospitality is a virtue amongst the poor. Hospitality is also an essential pillar in community building. (Conversely, entertainment, privacy and independence are virtues of the rich—contributing to loneliness and isolation.) Yet, one has to look at the circumstances and wonder, if we would have the financial means necessary to live alone and travel alone, would we then somehow loose the conviction to live interdependently in a community of believers. My observation has been that, largely, once one comes into a bit of financial means—enough to live alone—one then lives alone or in a circumstance of his/her individual choice. In that case, may God grant me the means to offer hospitality but also the blessing of poverty.

stranger encounters: Mohammud

Today, I was exchanging Bloomington Avenue stories with a fellow young, urban, city dweller. I thought I would share one here too. But first—a bit of context. Bloomington Avenue is the “seedy” part of Minneapolis. All those with any “sense” stay away for fear of getting hustled, shot, robbed...whatever! Five years ago, I didn’t know that. I didn’t grow up learning to make the same sorts of distinctions about people and places.

I’m not naturally a very docile person but one has to choose into that manner of being when getting to know a new person or a completely new situation in a new context. One has to be open, comfortable, and keen on following the flow wherever it is going but then be quick and agile enough to shimmy out of exploitative situations. I like to go on these adventures, where I have to practice being as bendable as Gumby. The adventures are incredibly fun. One meets the most interesting sorts of people, goes to the most interesting sorts of places. It can get a bit addicting. It all started out quite unintentionally.

I worked as a night security guard at the Exel Energy building in downtown Minneapolis. The first night on the job was quite a shock to me, as all other male security guards drooled all over themselves because there was a woman working. But Mohammed was different. He was basically kind and very respectful to me. He gave half of his Subway sandwich to me and insisted that in his culture everyone shares. He was young. He was a devout Muslim. I felt an affinity to him because he was different and I was different. The other security guards would taunt him and say terrible atheistic things about God to him, just to see him respond as he always did. He would plead with them, terror and sorrow written all over his face, asking them to stop saying such things about Allah. Then he would kneel in the dirty grimy, city, alley and kiss the ground, pleading with Allah for forgiveness.

We would hang out, outside of work. I would occasionally help him navigate the city or go to the MCTC for an application. He would sometimes be fearful of odd things. For instance, he always paid for everything in cash. But when paying his bills at the bank one day, I suggested that I could simply write out a check and he could deposit his cash into my account. He refused because, he explained, they would be able to associate his name with me and my address. I would go over to the house in which he and his sister rented a room from an older Muslim couple, who lived on Bloomington Avenue. Both women wore the hijab. Mohammud and his sister’s room was plain and bare. They slept on the floor. But we would all eat together in the livingroom off of the most expensive, posh furniture I had ever seen, in front of a giant TV screen, where the American soap operas mesmerized everyone. They reminded me of Amish children newly exposed to the TV.

Sometimes he would take time out to pray in front of me. Kneeling and kissing the ground and reciting. He told me the story of their escape from their home in Somalia. His last name was the same name as a political leaders’ and one day the authorities came to their door. My Muslim missionary friends were terrified for me when they found out I was hanging out with a Muslim man. I didn’t know what the “rules” were for hanging out with a Muslim man but Mohammed seemed quite harmless to me. Once we went to the place in West Bank where he wired money to his family in Ethiopia. The man behind the desk spoke with Mohammed and there was much joking, laughing and knee slapping. Later, I asked Mohammed what they were joking about, and he wouldn’t tell me. Soon after that, I decided to be more open and descriptive with him about boundaries and what my present interpretation of what American boundaries were. He could never remember to call them boundaries—he always referred to them as crossing borders. He once read a personal letter I was writing a friend. I told him he had crossed my borders. When I told him I was moving to Wisconsin to finish my schooling, he insisted that he and his sister would come with and live with me. I told him we couldn’t do that because it would be crossing borders.

And crossing borders it was! It was an unusual friendship. It was completely platonic (at least from what I could tell) and entirely accidental.

strengthen your body’s tie to your spirit through fasting

We often live very compartmentalized lives. We go to church to do spiritual things. We go to school to learn. We work at work. We work out at the gym. We sit on the couch to watch TV. We sit at coffee to chat with a friend. Sometimes my body does it while my mind and my spirit are not engaged. Often my mind does stuff while my spirit and body do nothing. But perhaps the situation that happens least is when my spirit is engaged and my body and mind are either quiet or in compliance.

There are some hazards to living with one’s being all diced apart like that. The body does stuff the mind and spirit never gave it permission to do. The mind thinks things disconnected from the spirit etc. Yet when one fasts, there are ways of fasting that cause your body to listen to your spirit. And it’s not through fighting with the image of a cheeseburger in your head. Instead, as the hunger-pangs hit you, it is as though your body is a desert of dry bones longing, longing, longing... longing for the spirit to fill the wind and bring nourishment to your soul. The hungrier one gets the deeper your spirit longs—as though your entire being is buried in longing—longing for God. Being hungry is only a symptom of lack of sustainance. Perhaps we should all be hungry with longing until the sustenance arrives. Yet what sort of sustainance are we talking about.

I’ve been noticing the food and hunger themes in my life. In my dreams, I often find myself at banquets and church picnics where there is no food. I am hunting for food in dangerous places. I am often hungry for something but I can't discern what it is. I go to the grocery store and look at everything and I don’t want any of it. I planted a garden this summer but was too busy to harvest it. I am thirsty and I drink water but it never seems to satisfy completely. I come home to an empty house. I make dinner. I sit down to eat it at the kitchen table and I don’t feel like eating it because I am alone. Conversely, I go to my parents’ house and immediately head to the kitchen to talk to my mom as I open the refrigerator. There I eat at the kitchen table with my family and I am satisfied.

the best of both worlds

I am grateful for the position the Lord has put me in. I would call it the best of both worlds. The platform of my childhood provided me with a strong frame of dedication and discipline for my faith. The current evangelical circles I run in provided for me a more emotional, expressive and also an intellectual influence. I’ve found pieces of the contemplative in both circles. And as I allow the two influences to speak to each other and embrace the other, my life becomes much more interesting and dynamic. The best way I know to demonstrate the best of both is through songs that express each culture’s sentiments.

Did You Think to Pray

Ere’ you left your room this morning
Did you think to pray?
In the name of Christ our Savior
Did you sooth for loving favour
As a shield today

When you’ve met with great temptation
Did you think to pray?
By his dying love and merit
Did you claim the Holy Spirit
As your guide today?

When your heart was filled with anger
Did you think to pray?
Did you plead for grace my brother
That you might forgive another
Who had crossed your way.

Oh how praying rests the weary
Prayer will change the night to day
So when life seems dark and dreary
Don’t forget to pray

The song turns one's mind to devotional regularity in response to life, as it happens. It prods one to maintain a relationship with God which bears on interpersonal relationships with others and those stray feelings that crop up. It’s very practical. And if the lyrics float through your mind during the day—one is instructed by its words.

How Great is Our God

The splendor of the King,
Clothed in majesty
Let all the earth rejoice,
All the earth rejoice
He wraps himself in light,
And darkness tries to hide
And trembles at his voice,
And trembles at his voice

How great is our God,
Sing with me
How great is our God,
and all will see
How great, How great
Is our God

Age to age he stands
And time is in His Hands
Beginning and the End,
Beginning and the End
The Godhead, Three in one
Father, Spirit, Son
The Lion and the Lamb,
The Lion and the Lamb

Name above all names
Worthy of our praise
My heart will sing how great
Is our God

This song is more along the line of romance language. It’s like those cute little nothings one would whisper to their spouse or a proclamation to one’s friends about someone that grabs your fancy in a gossip session over coffee—“He’s so amazing.” “My Heart will sing.” “Clothed in majesty.” What does that mean? Well, mostly it means you’re in love.

But like any marriage, one becomes cynical about the words spoken when all one hears is sweet little nothings. Likewise, if the everyday practical and routine relationship duties elbow out the sweet little nothings, life in relationship is a bore.

the true service of innocence

The symbolic action of the Amish in their most recent splash across the media is mostly sensational to those who watch from the outside. It is a shock to almost everyone—particularly the image of innocence which these young girls represent, meeting such a violent outburst of revenge—to the death. Everything within a person cries out—this is unjust! For innocent young lives that were intended to suffer only as told by the perpetrator’s own story and by another story in Colorado. For the most vulnerable of professing non-violent people to be the subject of such brutal bloodshed. It comes as a slap in the face to a nation that prides itself on a particular standard of justice. Our standards insist that innocence should be protected and punishment measured out in accordance with crime committed. No one should ever suffer for another’s wrong. Each should suffer for their own crimes. Right?

Actually, no! Only the innocent can exact justice by suffering for the sins of the other. And only the innocent can redeem the world in their enactment of forgiveness to those who do them wrong. This is the highest service of innocence and peaceful blessing and good will—to be exploited. For peacemakers to be slaughtered in the hands of the violent. In this crux of injustice…Herein is found our opportunity for redemption. The gospel never asserted anything else. Prophesied by Isaiah “led like a lamb to the slaughter…” and fulfilled by the innocent Christ as he was dieing, “Father, forgive them…”

Can we live with any cheaper version of Christianity? Can we satisfy ourselves with our own justice.

Those who wish to argue with me on the logic of this—forget it! There is no arguing for it. It’s not logical. It is pure insanity. But somehow…it is true.

a lamb to the slaughter

A prayer for those who have seen the love of the Creator for his Christ, that they may be indwelt by the Spirit of Christ, who was glorified in his selfless love.

Vater, ich will, daß, wo ich bin, auch die bei mir seien, die du mir gegeben hast, damit sie meine Herrlichkeit sehen, die du mir gegeben hast; denn du hast mich geliebt, ehe der Grund der Welt gelegt war.

Gerechter Vater, die Welt kennt dich nicht; ich aber kenne dich, und diese haben erkannt, daß du mich gesandt hast.

Und ich habe ihnen deinen Namen kundgetan und werde ihn kundtun, damit die Liebe, mit der du mich liebst, in ihnen sei und ich in ihnen.

the benefit of meeting strangers

Four years ago, while I was sitting and reading in a coffee shop in uptown, a young man approached me. He asked me if I had ever modeled for anyone and wondered if I’d be interested in modeling for him. Since he was more polite than your average person, I gave him the time of day. I asked if he had a website with some examples of his work, which I could review. I took his number and website. After considering it a while, praying over it, I got the distinct sense that this guy was harmless and generally respectable. I looked his website over. He did great portraits. Somehow he captured expression and personality on his subjects’ faces. And he took pictures of guns and ammo. I had an ulterior motive—I wanted to break into a new circle of friends. Somehow I sensed this was a step in that direction. I called him up. We set up a time for the shoot at his apartment. I called a trusted friend and told her where I’d be at, because I knew my roommates would simply freak out.

I got to the apartment. He set up the equipment and started the shoot. About a half hour into it, we’re both getting a bit bored. He suggested pulling out some props. He goes to his living room closet, rummages around, and then emerges with the biggest gun I have ever seen. I freak out in my head as he approaches me with it. But in an instant, I switch into a mental clarity that I get, only when in a crisis that requires action. The closest exits leaped out at me—the door behind him and the patio behind me. I note what I am standing on—bare apartment carpet and the backdrop (no plastic, with which one could roll-up a body into). If I got shot, it would be very messy. I was instantly aware of myself him and God as I took a read of my new friend’s body language and general vibe. Everything seemed calm and nonchalant. My blood pressure dropped back to normal and I modeled the gun for him.

This guy is now the hub of the largest network of friends that I have. He has introduced me to quite a number of intelligent geeks and quality peers. One of the friends he introduced me to won my trust immediately. After only a couple conversations, he asked me candidly, so are you interested a friendship or some other relationship. I told him I was interested in the friendship. Anything else was out of the question. He also introduced me to a lady who is a well-spoken, competent leader and a plethora of other artistic and unusual people as well as those of foreign decent. I’ve also met a conservative, home-schooled, evangelical airplane mechanic, who is quite involved in politics and defending his freedom.

wheel chair stranger

I was sitting next to the curb in downtown Minneapolis, listening to some music in the CD player of my car, with a friend—windows open, hot breeze blowin. When I saw sorriest sight I’ve ever seen. A shirtless, wheelchair bound, old guy, with his leg in a brace, sticking strait out the front. He tried to shout at us above the music to get our attention. He asked if we could help him and if we had change. I told him I had car wash tokens and gum. He took the gum, and asked for change again. I asked him if he took a credit card. That cracked him up and he went on his way. Next time I should try the “rise and walk” healing evangelist routine.

we all OR us and them

A few years ago I showed up for a neighborhood meeting, which happened to be the annual elections for the district council. I got elected and now, recently I was nominated to chair the neighborhood action committee. Which means it is my responsibility to see that we engage at least some of the 31,000 very diverse people in crime prevention or community building programs. Now this wasn’t because I distinguished myself in any amazing way—rather, I was accidentally at a key meeting. Yet, by far it’s the best opportunity I’ve had to try out my leadership wings.

Mostly, it means I got to sit through boring and convoluted meetings in which I didn’t understand half the acronyms, nor the process for about a year and now that I’m sort of catching on, I’m in charge. Those who know me know I am never involved in politics—and this community volunteer thing is like the first step in the running for office direction. Being born and raised without any politics on the radar at all—I knew nearly nothing of city governance by strangers, having in its place communal governance and guidance by family and elders. So, I often run into realizations about how different of a concept of neighborhood I hold.

Tonight, I was at a meeting where this difference was very stark. We were being instructed about the procedures of citizen’s arrest. Good information. Yet I was a bit taken aback. My prima fascia reaction to a possible crime is not 911, it is inserting yourself into the situation and taking personal responsibility for its resolution. Developing a relationship with the “possible” perpetrator or neighborhood problem. Social pressure to do the “right” thing, based on relationships.

I live this out even in my neighborhood. Likely, the most “scary” story was of our neighborhood sex offender—that was before we knew he was a sex offender. He was the “uncle” to the “problem family” in our neighborhood. Because we were on very familiar terms with the neighbors, he came with the family. And the family was in and out of our house all the time. He too came over sometimes. He was flirtatious--and nothing gets my goat faster. I tried to piss him off so he wouldn't like me too much. My roommate went out with him a few times. I didn’t approve but I didn't want to deal with the drama of a confrontation. That’s all easy to say, now that we know: he was apprehended for kidnapping and raping a woman about two years ago. Later, our roommate told us she had been at his house and watched TV with him, on his bed. Yikes! The Lord was with her!

While, I believe in taking responsibility for the social and moral well-being of one’s neighbor. I have put myself and others in danger—those in my intentional community who bought into my vision. As I have demonstrated, I didn’t follow through on my own vision. I didn’t warn my roomate. I cowered under the pressure of her most probable response. In this crazy world of mix between seeing the other as one of us OR them the bad guys and us the good guys: I suppose we could lock all the doors, turned on the air and let our cars take us to the social circles of our choices. But would we be any safer with the results of our own choices?