why I harbor illegal immigrants

A year ago I began renting part of my house to a family recently immigrated to the U.S. Their English was sparse and my Spanish was limited. I have always loved Latinos and their culture and this was the perfect opportunity to provide housing for a young family, while benefiting from the interaction. I took a Spanish class and began a routine forcing my own immersion into their world. As usually is the case, in any cross-cultural interaction, one finds out quickly the good, the bad and the ugly of the other culture, especially when one has to share a roof. Certainly, they discovered the same in me.

Because of proximity, I was forced to struggled with the issues they face daily as immigrants. It was my intention to in whatever ways possible buffer them from the harsh society and translate some of the things I had learned about dominant culture in the U.S. When it was confirmed what I had suspected—that they were illegal—I continued helping them as before. Some would have a problem doing so, because they were “obviously” breaking the law. I have no idea what personal consequences lie in wait for those who assist illegal immigrants and I mostly don’t care. Some might say that the Bible strictly mandates that Christians obey the rulers and authority figure over them. Yet my own, not so distant history, reminds me of the faithful who paid for their faithfulness with their lives. Christ, Paul and many others have done the same in matters of faith in conflict with the government. This is where I rest my case.

As a Christian I am obligated, especially, to the stranger, the alien, the poor and the oppressed. Even the Old Testament was clear on that point. In general, the land of Israel was judged with respect to how they treated the foreigner and the alien. Read Judges 19 for a specific, vivid story. It seems proper hospitality was a gauge by which one could determine the extent to which Israel was “fallen” in their principles and ideals as a nation.
To me it is interesting today to read a motto connected with a primary symbol of our own great nation, the Statue of Liberty. Her message to the world is:

"Keep, ancient lands, your storied pomp!" cries sheWith silent lips. "Give me your tired, your poor,Your huddled masses yearning to breathe free,The wretched refuse of your teeming shore.Send these, the homeless, tempest-tost to me,I lift my lamp beside the golden door!" (Lazarus 1888, 202-3)

Yet, increasingly, for the past numerous years our golden door is persistently locked to special peoples. Our immigration system is broken. Poor and weighted foreign relations compound the problem. And individuals make the decisions they must make. Hence, illegal immigrants exist among us, hiding at the bottom of the social and economic food chain. The government hasn’t figured out how to make them exist on paper yet. So they don’t exist but to those who can use them, temporarily. They hold their existence and non-existence in the same hand. Bureaucracy has always had trouble allocating personhood to the right people. Meanwhile, while they untangle their red tape for the next decade, I think perhaps the right thing to do would be to respond to the living breathing family under my roof?

god is with those who help themselves

The conquest of Mexico occurred from 1519-22. Two lay Franciscans of Belgium accompanied Cortez in 1519. In 1524 twelve more Franciscans, arrived by the orders of the crown, lead by Martin de Valencia.[1] Cortez himself, specifically sent for Mendicants to spread the gospel to the new world. The Mendicants were conservative and pious Franciscans who had taken a strict vow of poverty, renounced proprietorship and were solely dependant on charity (in accordance with Franciscan Rule 1223). These Franciscans were of the province of Extremadura, where the Franciscans of this region had experienced extensive reform under Juan de Guadalupe. Directly influenced by this movement was Martin de Valencia, who was influenced by Fray Juan de Guadalupe, who was the chief reformer of the Franciscan houses in Extremadura. Additionally, the nation as well as the Franciscan order had been influenced by Joachimism mixed with a strong apocalyptic interpretation of their times.[2] Their Joachimism consisted of the belief that they were divinely elected by God to evangelize the world. These “twelve new apostles” to the new world embraced this call with apocalyptic zeal of mission in “the eleventh hour.” They along with Columbus and Cortez believed, the later having convinced the Spanish crown to act on its obligation to carry out this missionary work (in a marriage of the powers of church and state), with elevated urgency, preparing the way for Christ’s second coming.[3] This apocalyptic outlook of the times was folded into Spain’s understanding of its own victories against the Moors, its expulsion of the Jews, and its establishment of the Inquisition.[4] Their success was undeniable proof that God’s favor was upon them for the evangelization of the world. The Franciscans in the new world proclaimed this conquestial evangelical message boldly as evident in the pageant they directed for missional purposes in 1539 at Tlaxcala, New Spain.[5] It was entitled “The Conquest of Jerusalem.”[6] And for all practical purposes, the Amerindians believed and were converted for they too understood from their own native religion, God is with the most powerful.

[1] Catholic Encyclopedia, online edition, 2003 “Martin de Valecia.”
[2] Delno C. West "Medieval Ideas of Apocalyptic Mission and the Early Franciscans in Mexico." The Americas (Vol. XLV, January 1989, No. 3, pp. 293-313)
[3] Ibid, 297.
[4] Ibid, 300.
[5] Ibid, 293.
[6] Ibid.

the practicality of free, individual choice

In the absence of any objectifiable criteria of right and wrong, good or evil, the self and its feelings become our only moral guide….But while everyone may be entitled to his or her own private space, only those who have enough money can, in fact, afford to purchase the private property required to do their own thing.” Robert Bellah et. al. Habits fo the Heart: Individualism and Commitment in American Life.

...so maybe there are stupid questions

Do not answer fools according to their folly, or you will be a fool yourself. Answer fools according to their folly, or they will be wise in their own eyes. Proverbs 26:4, 5

land of the free, home of the alone.

Misperception #1: Brothers are brothers, no?

There was an Amish guy who had had enough of the tensions and hardships of Amish life. So he and his family left the Amish church. He bought a car. He bought a suit and tie. And he and his family started to go to the Baptist church in the local town. Some years went by as he adjusted to his new life. He stayed in touch with the Amish from his former church even though he had been excommunicated for leaving. Yet he encountered a dilemma when his ailing Amish mother could no longer care for herself. Amongst his Amish relatives it was eventually decided that he and his family would be most equipped to care for her given her special needs and that they had electricity. After a few years the mother died and the relatives again gathered to decide where to conduct the services. It was decided that it was acceptable to conduct the services at the Baptist church which the former Amish man and his family were currently attending, since the funeral was expected to be well attended. On the day of the funeral, the parking lot was filled with the buggies of relatives and friends from the Amish community everywhere. Many of the Amish were curious to see where this former Amish went to church and with whom he fellowshipped. Yet their curiosity was met with an even greater curiosity, when one Amish could contain himself no longer and asked, “Where are all the Baptists?” All the former Amish could manage, by way of response, was a motion at his suit and tie pastor who was sitting in the church office.

the fatal flaw

If you ask dominant culture America, “How are you today?”
The correct response is, “Fine.”
If you ask a Latino “Como estas hoy?”
The response is, “Allí en la lucha.”*
(I even had a co-worker correct me this morning as I was writing this—I didn’t think I could in honest conscience respond according to rote regulation as I was writing a commentary against it.)

Dominant culture possesses a fatal trait—one that ensures its own demise.

The baton is in her hand
Yet the day is coming when it will be torn out of her hand.
She does not know why she has it, nor to where she is going with it.
It only seems right, that it is in her hand.

Yet it will be ripped from her hand.
Perhaps her hand will be taken as well--still yet cluching
There will be blood.
There will be anguish.

The taste of horrendous defeat will be on her lips.
She will not have chosen this battle.
Life was only good and fair, when it was in her hand.
For with it she could simply say, “I AM.”

She will be incensed at the injustice of having it taken away.
She will demand a reason but none will be given.
Her struggle for her "I am" will begin the day it’s taken away.
On that day, she will begin to drink her daily milk from the cup of la lucha.*

On that day, all will remember--there is only one "I AM"

*la lucha--the fight, the struggle

land of the free, home of the brave

Recently, I’ve been really depressed—more than usual. There are quite a number of reasons for this. For one, it is becoming increasingly obvious that I am loosing my connections with the culture of my birth. Friends that I have had for the past 5 years aren’t friends anymore, nor have they proven to be loyal in my understanding of loyalty. I’m still processing what went wrong in an organized initiative that I helped create but then shut down after 5 years due to some unexpected, fatal issues. My family is struggling between either embracing the culture of their birth or the culture of the masses, causing great internal anxiety as some choose one or the other. Last night I watched a film on the cultural adjustment of a group of Africans who emigrated to the U.S. with dreams expectations of helping friends and family back home. I’ve entertained other provocative media that deals with inclusion and exclusion issues either theoretically or via descriptive conflict. I’ve been taking a course on Hispanic Theology which was developed in a hostile environment, continually raging against “the conquistador” and “the great westernizing machine.” Personally, I fully identify with the categories as I begin to articulate my pathetic human existence in similar terms. In fact, all of the negative things that have recently occurred are a result of my particular socio-cultural values, plans and expectations being mauled by the great westernizing machine and its freedom and progress agenda. I know a million and one people have already sung this song and dance against America. However, for me America isn’t my particular enemy. The systems of inclusion and exclusion have existed since the dawn of time. The U.S.S.R. had its privileged classes. The middle ages had its surfs and landholders. The Amish have their privileged family of leadership and their scapegoats. No matter what system exists, it will always be oppressive to some more than to others. The thing that is so depressing is that it will always be this way as long as I live. I will either create an unjust system and be fighting against the rebelling masses OR I will be one of the rebellious masses OR I could opt to be a piece of the silent masses, accepting, acquiescing recipient of whatever crumbs the systemic elite choose to toss at me. Somehow, whatever the system, I would be dependant on it for shelter and sustenance and thus, also participate in building my own systemic prison by my very existence in it. Thus, regardless of your post in life, dominant or marginalized, we have to live in the same world. I wouldn't be happy about being dominant nor am I about being marginally marginalized. Perhaps someone is willing to talk about how we are supposed to exist together.

I will continue this miserable discourse point by gruelling point in upcoming posts, using my experiences as a foil. Perhaps, as I examine the individual points of defeat something will come to me. Perhaps, the fog will break and something meaningful will emerge. I invite anyone who is reading to please put in their two cents because those to whom this monologue is available are the only one’s who understand, better than I, the values and unwritten, excessive array of idiosyncratic rules of the dominant culture. Or perhaps I have not yet mastered well enough the language and presentation of the dominant—thus, I am banished to a continuous spitting in the wind.

All in a day's work.

when everything’s made to be broken…

There is a well-known family that used to live in our neighborhood, who attracted all the attention of our “do gooder” neighbors. There was one thing that they are notorious for and that is the destruction, the loss and theft of many things. Some of us have felt sorry for them and attempted to teach (the kids) the cause and effect principles regarding how and why things get broken. One of my roommates even kept their library cards in a cubby in our house for the kids who didn’t want to have their cards subjected to their own house’s warzone. Just recently one kid got a birthday cake for his birthday. His immediate action after the candles were blown out was to destroy the cake in front of everyone’s eyes. Now that might seem strange to some but it makes perfect sense to others.

I'm sure the child learned at a very young age that everything is made to be broken. Therefore it matters only who breaks a thing first. Someone gets something new and shiny and coveted. He/she admires it and loves it and tries to keep it in a safe place where no-one will touch it. But everyone sees that and finds the hiding place, destroys the sacred object of affection and also destroys a little boy or little girl’s heart. Now after its gone that way for a few precious things that one could get attached to--the little boy or girl gets smart--everything will eventually get broken or lost around here. So if I want to survive I can't let my heart get attached to it. Instead, when I get a present, I will "enjoy it fully" so that no one else can. i.e. I will destroy it in front of everyone else's eyes before anyone can destroy it for me. That solidifies and assures my claim to the sacred object.

round pegs in square holes: individual privatized confession for communal sins

The white people I know often get upset (or keep a tense silence) when one mentions the strength of racism still present in our communities today. They often say in protest, “I’ve participated in cultural awareness in the school systems. I never say nigger. I always treat black people with respect.” etc. etc. When the attention is then drawn to the racist systems in place within society, white people breathe a sigh of relief. They feel better because it was a system that did it. They are relieved of responsibility. In the end, the whole point is lost because people take no responsibility for the system because they do not even perceive themselves as active participants in a larger community. They do not hold themselves responsible as individuals either because they did not do x, y and z or because they percieve themselves to be an individual apart from the system when the system does something bad and as a part of the system when it does something good.

I remember a time in my youth when my family had done something our faith community considered grounds for removal. We were hastily excommunicated. However, since there seemed to be no other option for fellowship and church life, we continued to attend the church from which we were excommunicated. After a year or two, the ministers of the church held a meeting in which the entire community was to discuss our case. We were not there but we had heard some of some of the things that were discussed. One member of the community argued that the community itself was responsible for the marginalization of our family in its daily behavior toward us. Others talked frankly about having excommunicated us hastily and with lack of prayerfulness. They decided to receive us back into the fellowship. When we were brought into the assembly for the first time after the meeting, nearly everyone present embraced us, there were hugs and tears, from people who are traditionally emotionless.

This afternoon I had lunch with some old friends of mine. We were once in an experimental faith community together which has since its better days been disbanded. For most of us it was our first experiment with intentional community. We’ve celebrated the countless good things that have happened and tried to talk about some of the things that could have gone better. However, Minnesota nice took over the later conversation, making it pretty shallow and insubstantial, leaving many of us dissatisfied, including myself. There were numerous ways in which we had shorted each other and fallen into sin (lack of right relationship) together and today as I spoke of my participation and suffering because of the sin/lack of right relationship. I was met with words that should have been more comforting than they were. “When ‘you’ confess ‘your’ sins, he is faithful and just to forgive ‘your’ sins and cleanse ‘you’ from all unrighteousness.”

I walked away thinking...
1 John 1:9 I think the verse uses the plural, we and our instead of you and your.
We keep confessing private, personal sins. What happens to the communal, public sins? Do those just lay unidentified and eventually tear apart our communal soul?
Why does lack of right relationship (sin) become one person's fault?
Is there such a thing as "private" sin or "secret sin"? --C.S. Lewis writes, "all secrets have one destiny--to be discovered".
Why do we not have a system of public confession and absolution?
Does any of this have anything to do with this rediculous notion that there is an inalienable human right to privacy and there exists a inconsequential barrier between public and private life?

when people cry…”do not judge”

Once, I went on vacation to a tropical country with some “friends” who were your upper middle class sort of people. I had never been on vacation to a place where the rich stayed in hotels next to the nationals who lived in shanties. The haves and the have-nots were pretty distinguished. Now, I had saved every last dime for my airfare and had very little I wanted to throw away. It was the first time I had ever gone on a “for pleasure only” vacation and my expectations were pretty particular. “The Real Cancun” wasn’t even a concept I’d encountered yet, as I packed my suitcase full of history, Greek and my pastels.

The first night I went to bed early because I had had no sleep on account of getting packed the previous night. The next morning, I heard of the imbibing and philosophizing that had taken place the night before. I thought, wow, since they are all Christians, somebody must have just gotten a little tipsy. The week wore on and I turned down the offers for alcoholic beverages and eventually had to be firm about not wanting to drink because I didn’t and that was my firm resolve. One day we went shopping and I bought a few things, always under the pressure and seductive comments of a male vendor. But as we were sitting in a café next to the vendors, I glanced over at a small family sitting in front of their shop: a woman with a child in her arms and her husband next to her. The husband noticed my interest and his gaze instantly turned seductive. I felt sick and disgusted. I didn’t want to go shopping again. We went to a bar and restaurant on the beach one evening. We stayed until 12 pm. I felt horribly uncomfortable as a particular guy would not leave me alone. My friends failed to rescue me. The next night I didn’t accompany my friends, who returned to the same place. I also declined supper one evening because the restaurant was too expensive. I enjoyed the sun, the beach, the hotel swimming pool, talking to the hotel manager and staff in Spanish, reading my books and eating in the “shack” restaurants, where they caught the chicken they were going to feed to you. I had a pretty good time apart from trying to distance myself from the odd expectations of my friends, which I didn’t understand, until I got home.

There, one of my friends sat me down for a talk about the judgmental attitude I had exhibited towards them on the trip, thus, ruining their vacation. I had been judgmental of their drinking habits, their carousing and partying with the boys at the nightclub and their money spending habits.

when the possibilities do more than beg the question.

There is one thing I abhor in life and that is the alienation forces that are out there. Sure, I grew up rather innocently. My parents sheltered me from a lot. Sometimes my mother would talk about despicable things she had seen and heard in hushed tones and with a look of horror on her face. Now I can flick on the TV and watch the very same things she spoke of. Heck, I can get the same education from observing the lives of my neighbors now. What happens when the fringe of possibility becomes the normative example?

Yet, what I was going to say was that I hate alienating forces. Belief systems or new ideas that put rifts between two or more people who are experiencing an enriching and mutually edifying relationship. And very often the fringes of possibility are those alienating forces.

I used to hate the mentality of my single friends who were always on the hunt to find a significant other in anything of the opposite sex that walked. I used to speak scathingly of this odd species of human singleness, until I figured out that “the couple in love” was regarded the only acceptable form of human community in this society. Even a close family is a weird and strange thing. Only couples could be close or in other words, “in community”. And by the time one was old enough to become a couple with someone else, one would be so starved for “community” or “mutual relationship of a ‘free’ and enriching type” that they would forsake all others, literally, and become two isolated, starved, pieces of humanity, sucking the life out of each other, which leaves us with the former state of affairs multiplied by 2, exerting the force of x squared upon the world (x representing the amount of children they decided to have). This state of affairs and the people caught in it seriously impeded with my opportunity to have an enriching and mutually edifying relationship with the opposite sex. I despised it. And I still do.

However, now I am discovering that even same sex friendships are becoming prey to the same sort of distorted judgment and possibility. The possibility of gay relationships introduces the same structure to all parts of society. The Christians I know protest the gay and lesbian agenda because they say it attacks the foundational principles of family. The sort of family which I described above. I say it attacks true friendship, eroding the possibility of an enriching and mutually edifying relationship with the same sex, which distributes the opposite sex complication to the entire human race, aside from consent issues with children and elderly. Resultantly, it leaves the single human being entirely isolated. We are stripped of the possibility of close or meaningful relationships of a non-sexual sort. The white male in politics or in the lime-light, knows better than to have too close of a relationship with another male, unless they are openly gay male artists or actors. Police officers, especially in my area of St. Paul, are known to stop and to question congregating men. Those of other ethnicities suffer most. Religious groups of a more communal sort are cults. Friends can only affirm each other. And therapists can only give positive, friendly advice, if I have enough money to hire one. What options do I have, if I desire to be a developing human/in community? which ironically IS the definition of being human.

quote

...preparing to die
and...preparing to live,
often require the same movement.

things that hook you unawares

I had a roommate once whose mother was an occasional prostitute. On her graduation day, my roommate was getting dressed, when she asked me (in typical female fashion) how does this work with my outfit. She modeled for me some nylon stockings that had bows on them. I frowned and said in strong disapproval, “I wouldn’t wear them.” I didn’t know why, they just looked trashy and there wasn’t anything in the design that warranted such a judgment. I felt stupid. Yet, she wore them anyway, with a decently cut skirt and fully covering blouse. On the way to the graduation, we stopped at a drugstore to get some things when an old nasty man started to follow us around, ending up behind us at the checkout. His bloodshot eyes gleefully appraised my roommate and he took the liberty to proposition her while complimenting her crudely on her “stockings”. She was completely annoyed and irritated. However, later she told me that she had borrowed the stockings from her mother, who had likely used them in her line of work.

Research has found that if a seller puts pheromones onto their product, people buy it at a higher rate than if they do not. Other “smart” companies have begun to manufacture pheromone spray for human use. Make yourself more attractive to the opposite sex appeal sprays and attractants sold by so called “romance” companies. How does this effect your average Joe’s spending? How do these con products effect my spending and hence alter my life (outside of my reasonable choice)?

Once I was at a bar with some friends (I wasn’t drinking or abusing any substance). And I began talking to a guy from Venezuela. He was old—never my type. But as the conversation progressed and I found out he was a philosophy educator and knew quite a lot about religion, I suddenly felt incredibly interested in who he was. I wished we could communicate more effectively, however, the noise level in the bar was high and I barely understood him. We had a bit of an apologetics type conversation over the noise. Yet it was outside when we had the opportunity to continue in conversation at our leisure. Yet suddenly, I felt indifferent in contrast to my earlier interest. It was as if I had been wearing a coat and then I was not: nothing in the conversation warranted my sudden disintrest.

Jesus saves...in times of weakness.

Yesterday I went to the dentist. I like going to the dentist because they get my teeth all nice and clean and white again. And now that I have insurance through my work, I get to have my teeth cleaned every 6 months! But I also loath going to the dentist too because I always get lectured by the dental assistant. However…Yesterday I had an especially lecturesome dental assistant. And I was really bothered by the time I left. It seems I can never brush my teeth right. One visit it’s, “You’re brushing too hard or too much on the upper left side and it’s making your gumline recede too much—you should get an electric toothbrush.” The next time it’s, “You aren’t brushing enough, that’s why your teeth are stained—you should get an electric toothbrush.” Every time no matter what I do to improve, it’s always, you ain’t doin it right and “you should buy an electric toothbrush.” It’s like an incessant drip—“you should buy an electric toothbrush.” “You should buy and electric toothbrush.” How is it that these dental assistants all just stepped off a billboard to “improve” the lives of their only captive audience—the sucker in the chair who can’t escape. Regardless, early on, I decided not to buy a $200 toothbrush because even as I was getting lectured, I couldn’t rid myself of images of numerous toothless people in the world who could easily use $200 on mere sustenance for a year or more. Having shiny pearly whites, after all, is not the most important thing in the world. There was once a hygienist who likely had a similar perspective. She had an accent which sounded eastern European. But they probably fired her, because she’s not there anymore and because she appreciated my teeth—likely she had seen the same toothless peasant I had seen. And sometimes she fell behind in her careful work.
But yesterday, the hygienist handed me a $10 coupon, told me about the massaging, vibrating, pulsing electric toothbrush I should get was only $70. It had so many features I was surprised it didn’t bring me my slippers as well. AND she was very lecturesome. I still had the images of toothless peasants from other countries running through my brain but I was especially bothered because despite my earlier resolve, I was almost convinced to buy another piece of expensive technology for MY house and MY hygiene. Step aside toothless peasant! I even went to the drugstore to look at the electric toothbrush and, yes, it was $70. I did not buy it but I was angry at the hygienist all evening. Then I went to help sort clothing for the neighborhood garage sale. And somehow a church had donated a whole bunch of free stuff to distribute. Amongst the products for distribution were 100s of SpongeBob and SquarePants electric toothbrushes. My anger at the hygienist was immediately alleviated.

girl interrupted #2: infidelity

I couldn’t sleep the other night....
I did the toss and turn thing for at least half the night when normally I sleep like a stone. A few days ago a friend of mine told me she had been unfaithful early in her marriage. She’s been a Christian friend of mine since we were kids. This news was brought into the light 5 to 10 years after the affair and she and her husband have been to counseling and have a fully restored marriage today. Praise God! However, I can’t help but be shocked…disturbed.
Now, if you are a crazy sexual liberation revolutionary who is about ready to judge me for the judgment and damnation of a friend, you are missing the point. Judging my friend is not even on my radar. For her I catch a glimpse of her pain. For myself, like I said, I’m disturbed, within myself. Coming from parents who’s first kiss/sexual encounter was in the honeymoon suite and have without a doubt remained faithful to each other since, puts the thought of cheating on my husband some day into the realm of the inconceivable. I suppose it would be as conceivable to me as performing an armed bank robbery or murdering my mother. But I’m disturbed because at one time adultery and fornication existed in some distant eon. Now it resides in my back yard. I’m discovering my bosom buddies are toying with it and bedding it. I no longer have the same social support for my own commitment and beliefs. I feel a little like the last man standing. Her struggle is different. Her parents set the example she vowed not to follow on her wedding day. But overturning a dozen generations’ worth of socialization requires the stringent effort of at least three. I come out of generations’ worth of fidelity but circumstance has placed me into multiple social groups where rampant of infidelity is the norm. Sink or swim is the name of the game. However, as Lauren Winner (a writer on the subject of chastity) declares, “the contemporary church community is not strong enough to support a chaste lifestyle” (nor perhaps any other theological principle into its essential integration with lifestyle). The most the church does is to “help people adjust to the sexual marketplace with a bit less guilt.” She even says that we dare not go out and try to be chaste in a world like ours by ourselves. Great!!...I think I might go and have another sleepless night.

communion habits and eating patterns

Apart from what communion should be…In mild curiosity, I’ve been taking mental snapshots of church communion habits and eating patterns. What does, what communion has become say about our interrelationships, our faith life, our spiritual food and drink? For instance…What does it say about our faith lives that we have segregated “real eating” from church communion eating and drinking?
The bitty piece of wafer at the alter vs. the supersized double cheese option.
I eat out with a friend: I pay for my half and she for hers? In Mexico, the one who invites is the one who pays. In Sweden, there are (almost) no restaurants.
The bulimic teen.
Thanksgiving dinner in Pieces of April.
Breakfast in Cinderella Man.
Family dinner.
Getting a nutritious meal together for a sizable amount of people takes organization skill, hospitality savvy, resources, work and knowledge of nutrition. Sometimes I wonder if the backwards sense of Christ choosing the communion meal as a representative of his body and blood is so we can find a cross-section of life where-in we examine our manner of relating with the brothers and sisters in the act of distribution of sustenance/limited resources. Perhaps it is only when we succeed in this physical/spiritual act are we of any value to the kingdom.

(This post is actually a springboard idea from my friend Brandon's site...sorry Brandon, I couldn't find a place to butt into that rapid progression of comments) http://blorge.blogspot.com/

to church?

I was raised to not regard church as simply another manifestation of free economic enterprise. My parents demonstrated this by attempting to resolve the issues between themselves and the church of my childhood for 27 years. From 1976 to 2003 we attended regularly as a family. I’ve only been significantly involved in 1 or 2 churches since I went off to college in 1994. But currently, I am out of a church and church shopping has been forced upon me for the first time in my life. I’ve regarded it a necessary evil and feel even worse about it now that recently I’ve had two people chastise me for church hopping/shopping. I feel even worse as I see “the vendors” attempting to sell their church to me for whatever cause. I wish I could simply be invisible.
Regardless the situation, I’ve had to ask myself the question—what is it that I’m looking for anyway? Sincerity? Passion? Truth? Other-centeredness! Diversity. Perseverance in the faith? a faith that won’t crumble in the face of coercion or persecution? Yeah, yeah…all that! But sometimes it is as though I can’t describe the element I’m looking for. I’ve puzzled for several weeks about what it is that I’m after and almost believed my chastisers—that I’m just turning this into a shopping spree. However, I landed on it a while ago and its becoming increasingly clearer.
What I really, really want is the sweet and heavy presence of God on/within/manifesting through me as I’m in community with others. That is church. How does one find such a thing?—is the question. Do I go church shopping? Do I set up a 24/7 prayer vigil? How does one pursue the living, moving, rectifying, exciting, loving, passionate, healing, terrifying presence of God? I have memories of times in my life when that presence was nearer and I miss it terribly. To the bane of others I have always asked questions such as, where is the healing presence of God, at inopportune times in Bible studies, religious discussions etc. But with a close friend on the verge of death for the past 3 years, I DO want to know where the healing, rectifying presence of God has gone since Pentecost. Yet two things I know, which direct me. I know Pentecost did not happen to an individual. And it happened in an upper room. Thus, I will not seek it solo nor will I wait in the lower rooms of the world.

separate from the Babylonian whore

SICKE SNYDER, A. D. 1533
About the year 1533 there was another pious hero and follower of Jesus, named Sicke Snyder, who, according to the counsel of the Holy Ghost, separated from the Babylonian whore, and all her false, self-invented, imaginary worship, which was all contrary to God, and accepted Christ Jesus; seeking to follow the unblamable footsteps of this true Lawgiver (James 4:12), and to hear only His
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voice as contained in the holy Scriptures: John 10:4. Therefore he obediently submitted to the example and ordinance of Christ, and in accordance with the doctrines of His Word received Christian baptism upon his faith, as the sign of a regenerated child of God, seeking thus to live and walk in obedience toward his Creator. For this reason: he was put into bonds and in prison at Leeuwaerden, in Friesland, and had to suffer much from the enemies of the truth. I Tim. 6:20. And as he could by no tortures be induced to apostatize, he was executed with the sword at said place, enduring it with great steadfastness; thus attesting and confirming the true faith with his death and blood. Rev: 2:13; 20:4. Hence he shall, as a good soldier of Jesus Christ, together with all true conquerors, be clothed in white, shining raiment, and inherit the blessing. II Tim. 2:3; Rev. 3:5; I Pet. 3:9.
from the Martyrs Mirror

to find a wifey

Once upon a time there were 4 men who tried to find a wifey.

The first man said, I want to find a woman, whom I can call wife. So, I will find out what one does to find a wife. His informants told him that he must play a game with whatever woman catches his fancy. He must play this game with many women to find out what woman plays the game best then he will have found the best woman. So he played dominos with many women and picked the one who could play it best.

The second man also looked for a woman. He made it into a science with assured results. He and his buddies studied and analyzed until they came up with a system that would catch them any woman they chose. They called it The System: no woman could refuse. It was the system for sure but it was also a game of sorts. Yet its rules and its cards kept changing to suit the winner.

The third was like the first he played a game, except this one played cards. He played it well. He played it often. He was born with a deck in his hand, they said. Rarely, did he or anyone else know the beginning or the end of the game he was playing, for he was always shuffling cards and laying them down. He both knew and didn’t know playing the game was the means of getting a wife.

The fourth man sincere and true decided he too must find a woman and looked high and low for her till he spotted her. He watched her carefully for many days, observing her method and manner. He had heard about playing games and The System. Yet he was a reasonable man who didn’t play games so much. So he reasoned with the woman and said, come now and be my wife. I will treat you right and we can live happily ever after. She frowned at him and called him daft, for she had first met the other three men.

Now the first man was sincere and true and most likely so also were his friends. They likely learned their game from others and the others from yet others until one does not know where it began. Yet he had not yet considered the women who did not play the game. Perhaps they too were sincere and true but somehow knew not the game. Such was the case with Sally who wrinkled her brow when the first domino was placed. Yet the second man and his cronies liked to play games and win, so they devised a game where they always won. Dear Sally wasn’t daft. She saw their weighted game. So when she was invited to play she turned up her nose and walked away. She met the third man. I see you would like to play a game with me, she said. You are wrong, said he. I’m just shuffling my cards. The fourth man too had a game, it was simply one you can’t see because no-one does not have a game with rules and methods, except of course your own kin and kind. Yet the game has nothing to do with life and in the end you still gotta live with your wife.

where's your line

I just saw “The Fog of War.” The one judgment/position that amazed me most made by McNamara was the one he made about where he drew his line between authorizing excessive unreasonable amounts of killing and necessary killing. He seemed to think that one in his position would have to authorize 10,000 to even 100,000 people’s deaths. However, to wipe out an entire people/country/nation was absolutely unacceptable. I suppose Hitler even passes the test with respect to the criteria here. He didn’t succeed in wiping out the Jews. I suppose wiping out Luxembourg would be over the top in comparison.
I was also amazed (now I'm beyond my one point) that he accepted the position of Secretary of State without consulting with his wife. Obviously, it wasn’t the first time he had “come home” with a “honey, guess what I did today.” I think I would have died early too, if I were her.

literal and subliminal #1: sending mixed messages

I did it again today.
Now you must first understand that I am a get it done, there’s nothing that one can’t learn how to do, spurn the ideals of the red tape route where there is an appropriate procedure for every activity on earth sort of mentality. I lived on a farm for half my life which is a location where one cannot have a “can’t do” attitude about anything. The quickest way to the finish line is to start the task right away if you are able and soon enough someone will notice and most likely come to help. There was none of this lengthy discussion on how to do something outside of the lengthy orations my brother gave my dad on why we should switch fertilizer brands and why we should switch to an automated feeding system.
With pragmatic default turned on, I tackled the boxes of paper that came in the delivery this morning. However, delivery guy hadn’t left yet when I showed up to haul the boxes upstairs. He had been asking the receptionist if there was an elevator and it was beginning to sound like he wasn’t authorized to bring them upstairs. Interestingly enough, his attitude changed completely when I picked up a box and started walking up the stairs. He came behind me quite rapidly with the other two and I was left to ponder the strange interaction.
I realized later, with a chuckle, that I was sending him subliminals that I never intended to send when I started hauling a box he wasn’t going to haul. I suppose the effect was intensified by the fact that I was a young woman in a slim skirt and heeled sandals.
I ran into the same scenario two months ago when I went to get my oil changed. They couldn’t get my hood open via the lever inside the car. They called me up to the desk, to tell me so. I began to explain to them that all you do is just reach up behind the front bumper and pull on the thin cable. The young guy began to stammer something that sounded like he was refusing me service when I, in genuine helpfulness, offered to open it for him. The supervisor overheard and immediately told me there was no problem and they would figure it out. Again, I was a little confused but remembered that I was a woman when I looked down at the skirt I had on. Wouldn’t that have been a sight to behold: a girl in a skirt under her car in their shop? It happened on my parents’ farm a lot, but this isn’t Mom and Pop’s farm. And I am sure the supervisor was simply trying to maintain the shop as a shop, not a peep show.

when literal and subliminal clash

In the Fundamentalist response to Liberalism a number of conservative evangelical groups became even more literal in their interpretation of scripture and consequently their interpretation of all written and spoken words and manner of living. It seems to me that the Anabaptist traditions who maintained their literal/actual interpretation of scripture throughout the years had even more incentive to remain as they were, in this respect, perhaps even step it up a notch.
When we were younger, my mother used to scold us severely when we used any metaphors. “It’s an oven in here.” “She’s so fat, she’s a pig.” We never learned—“It’s raining cats and dogs.” We were rebuked for lying if we happened to use any metaphor in her presence. There was an old guy in my church Sunday School who interpreted the Proverbs literally every time it said, “My son…” I don’t recall what they did with, “Isaac have I loved and Esau have I hated.” Hence, I never learned how to read subliminal messages very well. Sometimes I overcompensate. Sometimes I miss it entirely. My poor mother doesn’t get half the e-mail forwards I send her. Subliminals are usually the culprit. Acting was even a sin because you were pretending to be someone you were not and that was too close to lying. It wasn’t until eighth grade English that I learned what a metaphor was and how to use it. I learned much later in life that people often said one thing but meant another. Along these crazy lines of literal and subliminal, there have at times been funny clashes. I’ve come a long way in my understanding of the subliminals someone might send. But am often lost and confused as well. At other times, I would just as soon rip out all my hair and scream in frustration at the circular games folks play with each other.

Here’s a story from good ol’ Menno Simons himself, using the truth quite literally, such that, it seems, the spirit of the truth was altered quite radically.
Menno is on his way from one town to another via carriage. These are the days of Anabaptist persecution and there are some folks hot on his path attempting to arrest him and ultimately burn him at the stake. A group of such vigilantes pulled abreast the carriage Menno is on and ask if one named Menno Simons is in the carriage. Incidentally, Menno had been riding on top of the carriage with the driver. Instead of turning himself in, he bent down to poke his head into the carriage asking all inside, “they want to know if there is one by the name of Menno Simons in the carriage.” To which those inside responded, “No, there is none by such a name here.” Menno in turn responded to those who sought him, “They say that there is none by the name of Menno Simons inside the carriage.” The vigilantes rode off swiftly, attempting to catch him further up the rode. Thus, Menno is saved yet again from lying and from death, in the strange crag between the spirit of the truth and the literal truth.

girl interrupted #1: lies

(The girl interrupted series will be about innocence lost to the knowledge of good and evil. I thought I’d be past this “stage” by now but it keeps happening. It’s like the sex education (informal) I received in fifth grade at a public school. I knew nothing, literally! But my peers kept on talking about this something I didn’t know about and occasionally they harassed me with their new-found knowledge. I responded as I had always responded to anything they presented to me—“my religion opposes it” I would say. It worked and was true for nearly every other subject in the book. But for some reason they mocked me all the more in this instance. I decided I needed to educate myself. After a bit of research, I knew as much as they did or enough to get the general picture. Since then I’ve had numerous other such encounters with the knowledge of good and evil. Always, I’ve been able to confirm my realizations with a little research. We are the most self-analyzed people I know.)

Recently, I’ve been contemplating the numerous “lies” I have run into. Some have simply puzzled me. Others have been devastating. I’ve been trying to make sense of them…racking my brain, trying to look at them from another angle, other than that I've simply encountered people turned evil spewing out intentional twisted deceptions. Here are some “lies” I’ve run into…
He’s my friend but we make-out sometimes.
He’s my mentor but I’ve only chatted with him briefly once in the past 3 months and I never take his advice.
She was fired but the remaining employees in the company were instructed to say, “she left” when asked why she was no longer working.
It wasn’t a church split: it was a church plant.
How are you?—Fine.
I always have time to hang out with you—but when I’m with you I am so distracted I can’t remember a thing you’ve said.
In the heart of Minnesota nice I suppose it makes sense that it would be fairly common to run into those who alter their rendition of the truth so they and everyone else can live in a thinly lined utopia. Among the Mexican circles I’ve come in to, I’ve also learned that at all costs one must make their guests feel comfortable. It’s common to have people ask, “Ya sientes major?” My pragmatic reaction, backed up by my tradition’s 3-5 century’s worth of literal truth-telling causes me to respond, “It has nothing to do with how I feel!” (Yet if you are lying or I am lying, my conscience will bother me and then I will ultimately feel badly.) Basically, I realize between Mexican culture and Minnesota nice I am often told what the other person believes I want to hear (which to me is a lie) (which to them is something that would make THEM feel good if it were true).

Then, I ran across an article in a Yale news release entitled, Children Develop Cynicism at an Early Age. It basically says that “by the time children are in second grade, they know to take what people say with a grain of salt, particularly when the statement supports the speaker's self-interest.” I think I was standing behind the door the day they handed those grains of salt. I can’t believe it! I’m certainly the most daft person in the world! Or perhaps the most sheltered. Now like a child who has just learned to write her name, I’m applying this grain of salt EVERYWHERE! Never-the-less, it’s a second grade developmental piece that I am learning at 30. On one hand I feel stupid. On the other, I feel sad that my world’s balance is changing. The knowledge of good and evil—gotta live with it.

commentary: concerning the kingdom

It seems a lot of these parabolic dreams are about the church and how I relate to it. I’m the Martha in the Way to the New Jerusalem—and not a very good one at that. I’m the non-participant in the Beauty School. Obviously, the preparatory phase in the Christian life should not be an endeavor to secure outward beauty and I recognize that. However, non-participation usually is not the most effective counter-action. Perhaps, my most positive move is to go eat at the banquet where no one else seems to want to eat. The food theme seems to reoccur frequently. In one—there is no food, in another—no one is eating it, in another—there is only cake (served on the floor) and parties, and yet another—I’m damaging the only nutritious food that appears but even so nobody—else seemed to know how to prepare it. What does this suggest about the spiritual diet of the church?

the death of a believer

I was in my high school setting attempting to do some work. Yet I went to my Jr. College’s bookstore to buy appropriate, bargain cards to send off to people—which were of a pressing nature. I didn’t find what I was looking for exactly. The cards were expensive but I decided to buy them anyway and went back to my high school homeroom, the choir room. In the room, there were enough chairs set up for a choir to sit in but few if anyone was sitting in them. They actually were having some sort of a party because there was cake everywhere but all the cakes were set on the floor and people were eating them off the floor as well. It comes to mind that they were eating cake in like manner of the soldiers of Gideon, who drank with their faces in the river and were sent home. I sat on the floor as well intending to help myself to some cake after I was finished preparing the letters. I set the envelopes on the floor beside me as I worked, yet had to move them later because people were stepping on them and getting them dirty.
Suddenly, I was translated into another place. It was a rustic, historic, trading post building but had the atmosphere of a coffee house. Numerous people were there milling about and meeting with each other but there didn’t seem to be any buying and selling or eating going on. I met with some close friends, Amy and Jill along with other unidentified people. We were conversing about life. We talked about Jill’s new relationship. Yet I was utterly horrified when she announced to all of us with glee that she was pregnant. “We (me and my boyfriend) chose to do it this way,” she announced. I hid my horror but was even more disturbed when the unified response of all but me was a, “Good for you, Jill. We are so happy for you. We support you in your choice.”
I was translated to another scene where I was then talking to Jill and she in much earnest was telling me that I was out of line. Evidently, I had expressed my disapproval of her choices and she was telling me I was out of line in expressing my disapproval. I was confused. And Jill didn’t seem to be making any sense. I was trying to understand where she was coming from but we didn’t seem to be able to break through the cloud of confusion over us. The conversation was too brief to resolve anything. In the end, Jill simply said, “I’ve written a letter detailing my thoughts and I’ll get that to you.” I reluctantly agreed to address it in this manner.
A short time passage took place and I am again at the trading post, still distressed and crying when a close associate of Jill’s entered with a letter for me. I spoke with him for a little while, asking him to represent her and answer my questions. He could see my distress and knew about our confused altercation but was proportionally dispassionate to the situation. He was kind but condescending as he explained in all sincerity, as one would to a child, that Jill had made her choices and that we must accept them. I begged him to mediate for us but he said he didn’t think that was possible because she had made some other choices that were of further consequence to our situation. Very gently and with calm acceptance, he told me that Jill had chosen to commit suicide and that he funeral procession would be by presently. He told me that Jill had explained it all in the letter. He left me as fell to my knees doubled over in wrenching sobs.
Soon, Jill’s casket came by. I went out to follow in the procession weeping as I went. The casket was bourn on an old two-wheel style Mexican wagon/cart. Mexican nuns in their habits bour it away. All were in solemn acceptance including the nuns which seemed the very picture of evil dressed in religion to me. I looked into the faces of the nuns and to my utter dismay I saw the face of our other good friend Amy. My pain and distress turned into despondent grief as I continued following the procession.

the way to the New Jerusalem

There were numerous visitors at my parents’ house and we were all preparing to attend a service at the church of my childhood. These visitors had just recently converted to the faith, however, in retrospect they didn’t look anything like people who converted to my particular denomination. Regardless, without a second thought I accepted them as converts and we hosted them for the night. There was much discussion about the next day and the things that needed to be prepared. They had brought corn which they didn’t know how to prepare. I offered to get up early the next day to prepare it for them. The next morning was busy as a hive as people were getting up and about. I was preparing the corn but because I was doing all sorts of other things in the meantime, I burnt it and nearly half of it had to be tossed out. I was still not “ready” (whatever ready was) when it was time to leave for the service but went with the group anyway, planning to return to finish up later. We left on foot and met a large group of people also on foot journeying toward the meeting house, the church of my childhood. There were many more people than I had expected. There were Mennonites from my old church as well as all sorts of other people I didn’t recognize. But one thing I noticed was that the crowd that journeyed with us was very colorful. When we got to the church building, I made my excuses and began the journey back to my house but I ran into some trouble a short distance away from the church along with other meeting goers. There was a busy railway system with multiple tracks blocking my path. The trains and the people on them were as colorful if not more colorful than the crowd that we had come to church with. Some beings on the trains weren’t necessarily people either. One creature looked like a wookie, except that their coats were of brightly colored plums. It was certain that nobody on the trains was going to church. They were traveling elsewhere and this remote location was only a leg in their journey. There wasn’t even a crossing or a stop through which I could pass safely. I conversed briefly with the others attempting to cross. They acknowledged the danger, advising me to be careful. They even yelled at me to stop as I attempted to dodge across the tracks. I avoided getting run over by a train passing at a very rapid speed.

salvation—a migratory journey

There is a place down south where the sun rises and sets and the nights are cool and the days are warm. Here the geese find plenty to eat and are satisfied as they continually call out to each other and to the God who created and sustains them.
From the very beginning of creation, in the life of every human being there is a longing to be in a place of harmony and peace with fellow human beings, the rest of the created world and the Being that sustains them.
Yet before the geese ever arrive in that place down south, they lived in the north woods, where the days suddenly grew colder and the nights longer. At times it was so cold at night there was nothing to sustain them when morning dawned.
In the lives of people everywhere many have become aware of the encroaching darkness in the world about them. Relationships are empty. Life seems meaningless. Hopelessness gnaws on the spirit of humanity as they die a bit, every time they doubt the possibility of a life of peace and harmony.
When the geese begin to feel the cold they instinctively know they must respond. Thus, they take their migratory journey southward, filling the autumn sky with arrow formations pointing continually to their destiny as they migrate together.
There is within the spirit of every person, recognition of the sustaining power of peace and harmony. When the hopelessness and despair rage, and the sustaining Spirit of God speaks into spirit of every person. One by one they respond to the call to believe in the glorious destiny. Many join together in faith with other’s who hope after the promise.
While many geese respond to the encroaching winter and together begin their journey south, there are others who seem to have forgotten to listen to their instinct. They choose instead to stay behind by themselves, in the place they know best, the north woods.
Many people who encounter the darkness and hopelessness, respond to the invitation God speaks to their spirit and begin their journey with others to the place of experiencing more and more fully the peace, love and unity with God, humanity and the world. Others succumb to the darkness in despair and despondency.
As the geese journey south together, they call to each other; they call out to God and the rest of creation. They call to other geese who have not yet begun their journey south, calling upon them to join in the journey. At all times in their journey, they point to their destination, in distinct arrows across the sky. Nobody is left in doubt to the direction of their destiny.
As men and women turn from despair to faith, they begin their journey with others toward the destination of eternal peace and harmony, with God humanity, and all of creation. While they praise God and speak life and encouragement to each other, they call out to others, who have not yet begun the journey, to come and join them. Nobody is left in doubt to the destiny of this community.
The geese flying formation is both a sign and an essential formation to the success of the journey, which requires all to contribute to the direction and leading of the skyne. Their v-formation is both other centered and unified as each bird breaks the air for the other.
Men and women of faith recognize God’s call for them to give of themselves to others who are participating in the journey of faith. Each gives of him/herself according to his/her gifts and talents. The participation of all is essential to the success of the journey.

are you an ugly color?

My newest sister-in-law used to live with me. Now she lives with my brother. But I don’t think she much appreciated the way I decorated. She was often after me to paint this or that—the fence, the living room, the ceiling. I gave in to her occasionally. But the point is—somehow I was seeing something she wasn’t seeing. My kitchen walls were peach. I imagined them to be white, because after all, that was what they were going to be. I even bought red, blue, and yellow dishtowels to match because that’s what color my kitchen was going to be. One day I came home from the Re-Use It Center with a cupboard that was painted yellow and I hung it onto the peach wall in my kitchen. As I stood back admiring it, my brother and my future sister-in-law commented. “Wow! That is so cool!”—my brother said as he opened the doors, to determine if everything functioned. “Isn’t it the ugliest thing you’ve ever seen.” my sister-in-law commented. “I’ll have to get some stripper for that paint,” I said, “the wood underneath will look amazing.”
I often see people like I see this cupboard. I’ll see the good wood underneath. I’ll appreciate its good function. I’ll even bring it into my house and install it in a place of honor. I’ll nod my head and agree with my sister-in-law—that it is really ugly. And I’ll talk about what to do about it. And as I use the cupboard, it’s not yellow to me, it’s the color I want it to be.

Please don't be offended if you need work.
The other day someone told me I had gained weight. I was offended. But I had to decide that being offended was a good thing. I was tremendously greatful. It helped me say no to the cookie I was offered today.

banqueting in the Kingdom of God

The setting was a beauty school; I have no idea why I was there. If you know me, learning beauty techniques is not even on my list of things to do. However, there I was dilly-dallying in my chair, in a classroom that looked much like my high school English classroom. Everybody but me was either fixing their hair, fixing their face, or fretting about what to wear. They were getting ready for a banquet. I was dilly-dallying in my chair. At one point someone asked me if I’m going to get ready or not. I responded, I don’t know. Maybe I’ll go maybe I won’t. But one thing was for sure…I wasn’t going to be doing all this primping and painting.
[…]
I was seated at a table at the banquet. Again, I was dilly-dallying around in my chair like a kid. The lights were low. There was candlelight and everything was richly decorated and beautiful. Conversation was at a low hum while everyone was waiting for the food. The food was in the next room: buffet style. We waited and waited…then we waited some more! I grew tired of the waiting and asked my dinner companions when we were going to eat. Nobody responded. They simply continued to wait. Finally, I grew tired of waiting and got up to help myself to the buffet. I was handed a plastic bag with which to gather my food. The food was artistically arranged but it was all in the raw: onions pulled up by the stalks and laid on the table, potatoes with dirt still on them, celery with root and stalk. I was to gather my food then give it to the cook so he could cook it.

when nobody does anything wrong.

I ran into something that quite took me by surprise the other day.
I did something wrong. I did something I shouldn't have done. I took my axe and chopped down somebody else’s tree on somebody else’s property. I wasn’t supposed to do that, especially without asking the owner.
Now why would I do such a thing? Certainly there were many perfectly good reasons for which I could excuse myself the blame. Such as, the tree was once a weed in a fence line and then became a tree that was now pushing the fence over. Or I was doing my citizen’s duty and helping the property owner, which is the city, maintain its property. Regardless, somebody saw me chopping down a tree and mentioned, in front of the wrong person, that he could come help me with his chain saw and I was left holding the axe, in a manner of speaking. There was a flurry of e-mails about protocol and tree chopping (I am a tree hugger…really! I do love trees.) and who’s property it was and how the PED and urban forestry and the City of St. Paul needed to come out and look at this tree/weed the size of my forearm.
Okay now I’m beginning to excuse myself again in those little side comments. However, I’m still holding the axe and I did what I shouldn’t have done. But here is what I’m surprised by. I couldn’t believe the tone in an e-mail I got from that “wrong person” person who was all about protocol etc. I had said I was sorry and I apologized profusely. I also told her why I did it, but made sure I apologized in humility. In her response to me she seemed almost embarrassed. And she said, and I quote, “nobody did anything wrong…let’s all just forget about it.” Maybe she was embarrassed because she looked like the bad cop but a contributing factor is the “nobody did anything wrong” thing.
Why, I think I have landed on some words I could use as manipulation in the future, if I should choose to sink to that level of interpersonal relationship. I could say, “I’m sorry,” in feigned humility, causing the other party to feel embarrassed because those very words suggest he/she has accused me of wrongdoing. Now, this person must certainly be a bit more leftist and have a “there is no such thing as sin” worldview. However, since I have made a commitment to not participate in such manipulation, I won’t! BUT I find the dynamic, surprising! odd! interesting! and somewhat delightful. It’s also a little sad because a person of this worldview can’t repent and be forgiven of anything. One must instead alleviate guilt by being very good and by rationalizing everything they do which they are not proud of. Then you have to find a place for the Hitlers and try to figure out the lines between the sort-of-bad and the really-bad other. I’ve even seen Christians, try to live like that.
On the other side of manipulation, in genuine sincerity…I believe I’ve seen a little picture of how meekness wins. Certainly, I would have never perceived it had I not been abraded upon by my “heathen neighbors”. But I can just imagine my Amish relatives in a situation as such—there is nobody in the world as humble and ready to say sorry as some of those I find in the Amish-Mennonite circles (mind you, there are also the arrogant and proud). But what a picture of how meekness inherits the earth. And I guess I have inherited that tree/weed, not in meekness but with my axe.

concerning critical commentary

Am I vain to allow myself to indulge in long discourses, long critiques of the world around me, its people and its ideologies? about my troubles and feelings? How should my thoughts and my spiritual feelings be recorded? How should I most appropriately give them to the Lord? I wish to occasionally write an account of the traps the enemy of my soul has set for me and those around me, so as to remember to avoid them at a later date in case my sight goes cloudy or my brain goes fuzzy.
However, the spiritual dangers are so numerous and the pitfalls so many, I could concentrate my whole life to not falling into them. I cannot be the Frodo who should be seeing the path ahead but instead gazes into the eyes of the swamp and gets sucked in. Ultimately, I need somewhere else to look--something else to look at. It is in the face of Christ that I find my answer. My efforts to pursue God become futile as they are distracted by the dangers of the path before and behind me. I imagine the desired ideal to be…It is only as I see the Lord and I concentrate on his presence, that I am virtually unaware of the traps in the road and all but dance over them as a child in a minefield when she sees the open arms of her parent biding her to come. With this image in mind as the primary focus of the Christian life, I also consider it necessary to venture occasionally to the weapon factory of the enemy to discover the method of a particular arsenal. This is the intent and weight of my critical commentary…just to remind myself.

Quote--how old are you?

The old believe everything
the middle-aged suspect everything
the young know everything

going from this I must be middle aged

great and terrible day

i saw before me a barren desert landscape, with a gigantic red sun rising in the east…the sun and sky were so red they cast a red glow onto the entire landscape…the sparse shrubs and bits of stubble and rock were red…the shadows were purple black and deep tones of red. i shuttered in horror at the terror of the redness only to see the sky break into huge, craggy, black cracks…and a hollow eerie moan of desolation sounded in the scene as the words “great and terrible day of the Lord” were wafted near my ear…I continued to shutter as I saw a dark figure of a human facing the dawn caught my eye. he trembled in terror as he observed the redness of the dawning sun…he raised his hands to shield his eyes and ward off the terror...he was caught in the middle of crumbling to his knees and instead was falling backwards in horror of the fiery day that was dawning.
(march 14, 2001)

Zephaniah 2:3
Malichi 4:1-6
Zephaniah 1:14-17
Joel 2:1-3; 2:30-32

salvation is walking with Christ

I think I may have walked down an aisle once to assent to some truth claim...err, I mean pray the sinner’s prayer. But I think being saved was spelled out a little differently in my life—more like—living along-side Jesus in a life exampled in God himself, as he divested himself of his divinity in deference to those he loved with skin on. He became a helpless babe in Bethlehem at the mercy of his own creation. This is the incarnational life. This is the crux of the gospel. And here is how I encountered it and truly became saved.

In October of 1996, I was beginning my senior year at a BGC affiliate college. I was majoring in chemistry because I couldn’t hack the math for the physics tract I had begun four years earlier. It was an incredibly difficult major for me because I was attempting to force my artistic mind into a scientific determinism, for the high ideal of Amish-Mennonite practicality and determination. After all, art came too easy for me—so, why not go to college and have someone help me learn the most difficult and useful thing I could think of.

So, there I was, an Amish-Mennonite (in a covering and skirt) living in the dorms on campus, where it is almost certain, everyone knew of me. People still talk about how I used to rollerblade in my skirt. For them, it was unusual. For me it was the norm. My college year where some of the most formative and transformative times of my life. I made some radical decisions and invested into significant relationships. One of the moments of decision occurred on a night in October of 1996. My struggle of existing between two cultures was threatening to tear me in two. I believed it was my call to return to the Mennonite community after college to become an instigator of reform, and I would have nothing to do with that which compromised that position. Yet on the other hand, there were others who tried to get me to leave my community to join their ranks. The battle was relentless. As I tried falling asleep, I suddenly saw a picture in my mind. The closest thing I could liken it to was the vision that Paul had of the sheet of unclean animals but I didn’t believe in visions back then. However, I was too tired and bothered consider it odd, so, I asked the Lord what it meant. God showed me that this was a representation of my life in 20 years. I was appalled. I had not met my goals. I had pursued them but because I had pursued them selfishly I had become the very image of the legalism I was in a battle against. I was appalled and terrified. I saw the consummation of my despair in my death at the age of 40, leaving behind a husband and three small children.

I cried, “Lord no, this can’t happen!”

Then the Lord showed me another vision of my funeral. This time I was in the coffin in a week. At the funeral service I saw my two mentorees. I saw them take up my cause, my mission in life. My headstone would have said: birth 7/7/74, death 10/7/96. I would have been 22. But I begged the Lord for my life. “Lord, no, this can’t be it! What will my sister Joanna do?” I cried. She was the closest person in the world to me. She was my protégé, my best friend, my confidante. All my discipleship and love was poured straight into her. I heard the Lord say to me, “Either, you will die or she will die.” I responded by saying, “Okay, Lord, then let her die if she is willing, I would rather bear the pain of her death for the rest of my life than to have her bear the pain of mine.” It is easy to die and enter quickly into God’s rest. But it is difficult to remain behind when someone takes a piece of your heart to the other side.

A third choice came to me. I took it. To follow wherever he would lead. I signed the blank check and currently the Lord is filling in the amount. I knew it wouldn’t be easy but I knew it would be worth it. I took on a new name to signify my change of allegiance. I didn’t know what my new name meant at the time but like Abram to Abraham and Sari to Sarah, my destiny was in the hands of my creator.

Within a week I had dropped out of college. I was moving into an apartment in the inner city with a friend. I was repenting of the sin of indifference, sectism and superiority of my people. I was being called to live incarnationally among those I encountered in every day, trying to love them, serve them, listen to them and becoming one of them. Now, those of you who know me know I do nothing half way: I dove into living the incarnational life as best as I could conceive of it with all my being. My companion in this leap of faith was Abraham on his way to Mt. Mariah to sacrifice his only son. The particular narrator of meaning for my journey with Abraham was Kierkegaard in his Fear and Trembling.

Over the next 10 years, I befriended Somalis and Mexicans and Asians and Africans. I felt a special connection to immigrants because, like them, I was an alien too. I hung out with addicts, ravers and Goths and witches and pagans. I’ve inserted myself into the situation next door where I befriended several addicts, a sex-offender and alcoholics. I live in the home of a former prostitute and drug addict. I did finish my degree at Carthage and while there hung out with the publicans and sinners too: there was Molly the self-absorbed dream interpreter, Russ the alcoholic, Peter the preacher’s son, Ursula the atheist and career mom.

In the Summer of 98, I moved back to the Twin Cities to live with my sister for the last 3 months of her life. After arguing with God profusely about her impending death, she died suddenly in a car accident. Her headstone says: birth 9/4/76, death 11/4/98. She was 22. I was a mess for the next few years at least and friends helped me find a job where I could be in a healing environment. That is where I worked, studied theology and poked at the small church movement. My scientific determinism became tempered by a more artistic mysticism. Reason, facts and rules became more contextual and relational.

I have felt at times like I was walking through the valley of the shadow of death. Relinquishing the protection of the structures in which one is raised has its consequences. Trusting God is was and is absolutely essential. I have learned to hurt with people and for people. I have had to learn forgiveness and grace and humility and have needed it in return. I have been over whelmed and I have overwhelmed others in return. I challenge and am challenged. Most importantly, I have learned to love the people into whose faces I once looked past.

On the night in 1996, I didn’t want to give up my dreams, ideals—that which I understood to be my identity (a self-created identity). I was strong-willed and determined. However, God in his faithfulness has done what he promised in the words of Christ. Whoever, finds his life shall lose it: and he that loses his life for my sake shall find it.10:39. I’ve certainly been sent as a sheep among wolves (10:16) and sometimes I feel like it would be a good idea to work some porcupine quills into by wool. But the subversive success of the kingdom is dependent upon weakness, humility, harmlessness and wisdom. When Jesus sent out his disciples in Matt 10, he tells them what to do and how to do it (v. 5-15), then he tells them what to expect and how to think about it (v. 16-42). Jesus isn’t just giving a brilliant oration here. It was that too but it also became the living, breathing reality of the first followers of Christ. Why should I expect anything different for my life?

Impending Storm

I was at home visiting my parents, yet we were sitting out on our church lawn: my mother, father, and I. We were picnicking but there was no picnic food. There was no food at all: we were sitting at an empty table. We all knew this huge storm was coming from the north and we were all talking about it--we were anticipating an awful rainstorm that was going to last for days. Everyone was preparing to stay inside. As we were discussing the events, we heard three planes fly overhead from the north. They were old WWII planes with the three propellers in front. They were painted black and white. We watched them and knew they were trying to fly out of the impending storm by going south. Then one broke away from the others and came and landed on the road in front of the Mennonite church, where we were. An attractive woman got out of the plane and walked toward us. She was dark (India Indian dark) with long straight black hair that reached to her waist. She was wearing slacks but no top. Her bosom wasn't covered at all. And she proudly displayed her large brown breasts as nonchalantly as a nudist. I got up quickly as she approached us to offer her my own cardigan sweater since she was quite underdressed for the occasion and the setting. Yet she refused it. Then, was when I noticed she already had one on—yet it had a of life of its own and never wanted to cover her breasts.
[…]
The storm hit our old shanty-like house. Water came through the walls and the ceiling. Yet we stayed inside.
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(January 21, 2003)