Through a Glass Darkly

Country Mouse, City Mouse

2012-01-29T14:16:00.001-06:00

I grew up in the suburbs. We had just about one acre of property, which was large for our neighborhood. The extra space was for a swimming pool – my mother's condolence for moving to the Midwest and giving up hope of a career in marine biology. She really did bust out her snorkel, fins, and even scuba gear every now and then, though more for the sake of testing the equipment than finding any intriguing flora and fauna on the bottom of our pool. The pool served to divide the back yard into two yards, one of which was fenced in for the dog (later dogs) to run around, and another which was off-limits to the pets and nice for playing volleyball and badminton with guests because it was free of doggy land mines. The whole thing was surrounded by trees, so we had the illusion of being hidden from our neighbors even though they were really just a stone's throw away.

Our house was nothing special – four bedrooms for five people, a living room and dining room that were rarely used, a family room and kitchen where we spent most of our time, and a basement that I affectionately referred to as the “room of doom” due to its wall-to-wall clutter that made any excursion feel like it could be your last. We attended more-than-satisfactory public schools and had access to hundreds of activities from soccer, ballet, tennis and swimming to girl scouts, boy scouts, summer camp, and the culturally-questionable but undeniably fun “Indian Princesses”. We lived in the town with the most churches per capita of any city in America, and the worst crime I can remember happening to us was when the obnoxious neighbor kid managed to steal our stone age car phone (remember those??) by reaching through the rolled-down window. From almost every angle, the suburbs were an ideal place to grow up. But the moment I turned 18, I fled – and since then I have had no desire to go back.

I went to college in a small town in Vermont. On one side were the gently rolling and aptly named Green Mountains, and on the other were the shadowy peaks of the Adirondacks. In between were small and medium-sized farms, winding roads, and a cute New England town that didn't have every store you could ever need, but it did have one devoted to cow paintings and another that sold penny candy, plastic swords, snow shovels, and craft supplies. There were only a handful of churches, but I found one that was just right for me, and though I only went there for three years and have now been away for almost seven, I am still welcomed back as family and given a seat in my old pew whenever I stop in for a visit. You do not have to “escape to nature” when you live in Vermont; nature is the center of life. Occasionally that is a bad thing when it means hurricane rains have washed out the only road to your house or the fields that supply your livelihood, but most of the time it is humbling and awe-inspiring and life-giving. As the words engraved on the front of my college chapel declare, “The strength of the hills is His also.” And it is mine as well.

It would make sense if I left the suburbs and fell in love with the rural countryside and that was that. After all, I have also lived in a tiny farm cottage in western Belize and camped outside for six months along the Appalachian Trail. Everyone knows I am a Nature Bum, or you may even say a Dirty Hippie. But that is not the whole story. Actually, aside from my stint on the Appalachian Trail, I have spent all of the past six years living in major urban centers. Philadelphia, Chicago, Boston – I have developed a soft spot for cities, and should I have the opportunity to leave, I know there are a wide array of things I would miss.

My love for cities, unlike my love for the country, was something that was learned rather than innate. I was drawn to the city for the same reason most people are: the “o” word, opportunity. I was looking for opportunities to dance and be active in the world of dance, and there aren't many of those in rural Vermont. In the process, I ended up seeing and experiencing parts of America that neither the suburbs nor the small towns prepared me for. There was poverty. There was violence. There was racial tension. There was corruption. There was opportunity close at hand, yet many were still denied access to it. And amidst all this were the people – glorious bands of survivors whose capacity to love and celebrate and welcome the stranger in the midst of pain and struggle struck me to the core in a way that can never be unstruck. I will carry the wound, as my one pastor used to say, as long as there is healing left to happen. The hustle and grime and energy of the city – and I'm not talking about the theater district or the waterfront or the art museums here, but the “shady” parts where no one wants to live and no one comes to visit – had taken on a realness to me, an authenticity that the suburbs and the rolling hills seemed to gloss over and deny.

It's not really true of course, but that's how it felt to me. To quit the city would be to run away, escape, take the easy road. I would be far away from the daily reminders of injustice and poverty and racism. I would be too busy hiking and gardening and gallivanting about with people that looked and thought like me to remember the struggles of those who are different, those who do not have the choice to get out. Yet still, the pull is there. Who doesn't want to surround themselves with like-minded people who are easy to live with, in a place that energizes and speaks to their fundamental character? And why should I have to wait till retirement – forty years off in a hypothetical future – to live my ideal life?

Oh yes, I remember! There is one other reason I'm still here besides the soul wound of the city: jobs. I came to the city for dance and have massively neglected the majority of opportunities that are here on that front. But in the meantime, the economy crashed, and the already job-scarce small towns of New England have become entirely barren in terms of employment opportunities. Unless you know the right person, your resume is likely to be met with nothing beyond a sympathetic laugh, especially in the nonprofit sector, my field of choice. Let's say for one imaginary minute though that I did know the right person. A door opened, wide enough for me to glimpse the life that lay beyond and casting a long strip of tantalizing light across my current path. Would I take the bait? Would the city mouse cast off her subway-riding, diverse-dining, apartment-dwelling ways for those of the snow-shoveling, truck-driving, manure-scented country mouse? Would it be worth the sacrifice of being at the center, in the midst of the action, or will I always be a split personality, with one foot on the street and the other in the soil and no interest in what lies between?

The Season of Cinnamon

2011-11-28T08:39:00.009-06:00

“We’ll fill our lives with cinnamon now” - The Decemberists

Often it is said that there is a special “something in the air” during the holidays. Sometimes, if you’re lucky, that something is snow. Sometimes it’s the scent of peppermint or balsam fir or chestnuts roasting on an open fire. Occasionally, it’s an unexplained aura of brotherhood and cheer. More often, it’s haste, stress, curse words, or in the case of a California Walmart this Black Friday, pepper spray. Sometimes it’s cinnamon.

Today, I had a cup of chai. There are few pleasures in life greater than a warm mug of chai. Before I’ve even taken a single frothy sip, its delicate aromas - mixing sweet and spicy, foreign and familiar - have already transported me to a heavenly place...brought me home, so to speak. The distinct chai spices carry a bite that awakens me to the world and stimulates my senses while at the same time its smooth milk tempers the bite, softens the edges, and envelopes me in a blanket of peace. No matter how often I take a sip of chai, it never ceases to be special. I love every piece - the cardamom, cinnamon, ginger, and cloves - but perhaps the most universal and accessible of the many flavors in my cup is cinnamon.

Harvested from the inner layer of bark of a handful of trees from the genus Cinnamomum, cinnamon is literally a prehistoric spice. It was imported to Egypt as early as 2000 B.C. but was surely being used in South and East Asia long before then. In Sri Lanka, which now produces 90% of the world’s supply, cinnamon is known as kurundu, and in nearby Indonesia, it is called kayu manis, meaning “sweet wood”. I love that name for it because that’s what cinnamon is: it takes what is normal, plain, functional - and makes it something more. It is unassuming, brown, and whether rightly so or not, fairly ubiquitous. And ubiquitously loved.

Who doesn’t like cinnamon? Unlike ginger or cilantro, cinnamon is not a spice with a cult following. I don’t usually ask around to see if the dinner guests mind my adding it to the butternut squash. Like anything, it can be overdone, but that would take a pretty heavy-handed chef. Cinnamon goes well with both sweet foods - apples, yams, chocolate - and savory or tart foods - squash, curries, wine, cranberries. It evokes a sense of comfort, “making this cold harbor now home,” as The Decemberists sing. And for many, cinnamon has seasonal associations. In the TV show Community’s satire of stop-motion Christmas specials, the characters describe their imaginary holiday story land as having an “atmosphere that is seven percent cinnamon.” At a time when the world is frosting over, hours of light are short, and warm-blooded creatures retreat to the indoors and underground, we turn to cinnamon for heat and a hint of joy and rebirth.

Beyond its comforting properties, however, cinnamon remains a spice. It both symbolizes and yields a certain power. In the Hebrew Bible, Moses was instructed by the Lord to add cinnamon to the sacred oil with which he anointed the ark of the covenant, the Tent of Meeting, and all the accessories of the holy altar. God commanded him: “Do not make any other oil using the same formula. It is sacred, and you are to consider it sacred” (Exodus 30:32). This sacred spice has been a symbol of wealth and power for much of its history. Its demand alone was enough to spur the capture and colonization of Sri Lanka by first the Portuguese and then the Dutch in the sixteenth and seventeenth centuries. As with coffee, chocolate, diamonds and mahogany, the cultivation of cinnamon has cost the poor a great deal of blood and sweat and its profits have not always been theirs to share.

The potency of cinnamon has traditionally extended to romance as well. In the biblical Song of Songs, the lover says of his beloved, “You are a garden locked up, my sister, my bride; you are a spring enclosed, a sealed fountain...with choice fruits...calamus and cinnamon...and all the finest spices.” She responds, “Awake, north wind, and come, south wind! Blow on my garden, that its fragrance may spread abroad. Let my lover come into his garden and taste its choice fruits” (Song of Songs 4:14-16). In Proverbs, too, cinnamon is combined with myrrh and aloes to perfume the bed of the temptress. There is something about this spice that is irresistible - something that awakens what is dormant within us and, to put it bluntly, turns us on.

This magical “sweet wood” can also heal. Not only is cinnamon oil used as a perfume, an insecticide, and an antibiotic, but a recent study by the Indian Journal of Medical Research found that it was the most effective of 69 plants tested as an antiviral against HIV-1 and HIV-2. As someone who has spent several years working closely with those affected by HIV, I find this deeply heartening. As if that weren’t enough, apparently cinnamon also helps combat cancer. It has led to documented anti-melanoma activity in cell cultures and test mice - progress against the cancer that killed my aunt - and who knew that cinnamon “activates the Nrf2-dependent antioxidant response in human epithelial colon cells,” thereby helping to prevent colon cancer like that which robbed me of my favorite Granny. The same favorite Granny was starting to go batty and had some memory loss...she was never diagnosed, but if her family members are at risk for Alzheimers, a 2011 study found that CEppt, an extract of cinnamon bark, is a successful inhibitor of that disease in mice.

So why this obsession with the so-called sacred spice? Why “fill our lives with cinnamon now”? Because there is a draft under the door. It’s the first Sunday of Advent, and I’ve begun to deck the halls. All but the most stubborn leaves have fallen, my bike is put away, and I’m about to flip to the calendar’s last page. In the face of winter’s chill, we seek warmth. We gather close, rub our hands, bake with abandon, make soup. An atmosphere of cinnamon is a balm for a broken, frozen, half-dead world. It is the comfort we need today all tied up with the hope we hold out for tomorrow. It is both passion and patience. In almost all of us, it triggers something, no matter what that something is. So throw a little in your cocoa and meet me by the fireside for a song: ‘tis the season of cinnamon.

It's Complicated

2011-11-27T21:56:00.003-06:00

Devon P likes Dance.

Devon P is in a relationship with Dance.

July 5 at 9:45pm
Devon P added 15 new photos to the album Once Upon a Time...

July 5 at 10:15pm
Devon P was tagged in 13 of her own photos.

September 3 at 10:11pm
Devon P Donned ballet slippers for the first time in far too long and lived to tell the tale. I'm gonna feel it tomorrow.

September 4 at 11:20am
Devon P Can't walk, sit, bend over, turn my head, or laugh. Haven't felt this good in ages!

October 18 at 5:32pm
Devon P Off to see Hubbard Street Dance with Katherine and Erik! So psyched.

December 13 at 9:54pm
Devon P > Cari M Come take class with me! I swear that at this studio every mirror is a skinny mirror!

January 1 at 11:12pm
Devon P New year, new city, new job.

January 8 at 4:04pm
Devon P Never thought I'd say this, but I think I have a new love: yoga!

January 8 at 4:17pm
Devon P is now friends with Back Bay Yoga Studio.

February 2 at 7:49pm
Devon P > Hartley P My PT is awesome! She works full time and dances in a company on the side...She also gave me a list of studios to try in Boston and Cambridge.

March 10 at 8:57pm
Devon P First time in a long time anyone has asked me to do 32 fouettes...

April 29 at 10:33pm
Devon P > Hartley P I <3 Cosmin! He's the Romanian Serg-a-Lerg!

May 17 at 7:40pm
Devon P > Hartley P Haha just chatted with the pianist at ballet about Tatiana Legat! Apparently they are BFF and she used to be a ballet mistress at Boston Ballet. Left for Mother Russia though and he's super bummed.

June 1 at 9:02pm
Devon P likes Claudia T's album La Vie, Les Amis, La Danse.

June 13 at 10:05pm
Devon P Seriously??! The sub for dance class just asked if I danced professionally. I don't know whether to laugh or cry.

August 28 at 9:14pm
Devon P Ugh. How is it possible that someone who danced professionally for so many years cannot count to 8??!

August 31 at 11:07pm
Devon P added 21 new photos to the album Boston Ballet at the Hatch Shell.

September 12 at 8:25pm
Devon P > Hartley P Cosmin is gone. New teacher is tall, skinny and gorgeous. Felt the need to demonstrate her 180+ degree penchee multiple times. Gag me.

September 12 at 9:22pm
Devon P Still feeling the effects of my three month foray into running a year and a half ago. So no, I'll take a pass on that 8 mile race with 2000 feet of elevation change in a ridiculously humid tropical climate.

September 15 at 6:27pm
Devon P went from being “in a relationship” to “it’s complicated.”

October 18 at 3:04pm
Devon P Why am I paying $15 an hour to pretend to be a dancer again? I believe there are other, cheaper forms of self-torture.

October 22 at 12:01am
Devon P likes Hartley P's link Senior Capstone Performance - www.youtube.com.

October 22 at 12:09am
Devon P likes Hartley P's link Hartley P Dance Reel - www.youtube.com.

October 22 at 12:14am
Devon P commented on Hartley P's link Hartley P Dance Reel - www.youtube.com: “Love you sis! Take NYC by storm!”

October 30 12:32pm
Devon P “So to all the secret writers, late-night painters, would-be singers, lapsed and scared artists of every stripe, dig out your paintbrush, or your flute, or your dancing shoes. Pull out your camera or your computer or your pottery wheel. Today, tonight, after the kids are in bed or when your homework is done, or instead of one more video game or magazine, create something, anything. Pick up a needle and thread and stitch together something particular and honest and beautiful, because we need it. I need it. Thank you, and keep going.” - Shauna Niequist, Cold Tangerines

November 12 at 2:55pm
Devon P Can't wait to hit up Boston Ballet's Romeo and Juliet with Cara L!

November 12 at 11:11pm
Devon P “We do not judge great art. It judges us.” - Dr. Caroline Gordon

December 8 at 3:56pm
Devon P Modern class in the citay with Hartley P!

December 30 at 12:18pm
Devon P Conspiring with Hartley P to start a world-changing dance company...while stuffing our faces with cheesecake and chocolate!

January 2 at 9:58am
Devon P Packing the pointe shoes. You never know when you'll need some pink satin-covered pain-induced nostalgia, right?

January 25 at 9:31pm
Devon P Finally found an effective incentive with which to bribe myself to do my PT exercises: withholding other forms of exercise!

February 29 at 12:47am
Devon P Leaping my way into Leap Day barefoot on the beach under Caribbean stars...

March 1 at 3:23pm
Devon P “The only way we can brush against the hem of the Lord, or hope to be part of the creative process, is to have the courage, the faith, to abandon control.” - Madeleine L'Engle

[...]

Devon P went from “it’s complicated” to being “engaged”.

[...]

Devon P is married to Dance.

[...]

It’s still complicated.

The Little Things

2011-10-21T12:00:00.001-05:00

Earlier this week, I bought a bag of candy corn at the drug store and put it in a desk drawer at work.

Every morning, I forget that it is there. Then, at some point a few hours into the day, I open the drawer looking for a highlighter or some white-out or stamps, and voila! Someone has sent me a secret surprise! Delighted, I grab a handful and shut the drawer.

A minute later, this time with no pretense of needing the white-out, I open the drawer and grab another handful of artificially colored, sugary goodness (which, by the way, claims to be “made with real honey!”). Perhaps 45 seconds later, it happens again, this time unconsciously. Open, shut, chew. Open, shut, chew. I am compelled - I can’t stop - MUST HAVE CANDY CORN!

Ten or fifteen minutes into this routine, I choke on a piece of candy corn that, in my manic haste to pump corn syrup and yellow #5 into my blood stream, goes down the wrong way. I pause, take a few long sips of water, and breathe. My body has saved itself from near-death by tiny triangular confection bullet.

In that instant, self control is restored. The mind is back on top; all animal appetites are at least tentatively subdued. I go on with my day. The drawer stays closed, and all traces of yellow-orange-and-white striped thought vanish from my brain.

Shedding Light on America's Dark Side

2011-07-26T21:45:00.000-05:00

Sundown Towns: A Hidden Dimension of American Racism by James W. Loewen

My rating: 5 of 5 stars

I have been meaning to read this book since Chris Lahr brought it to my attention four years ago. I finally managed to get it on inter-library loan, and I was instantly wary because it was about 500 pages long and 10 lbs - not exactly ideal for the crowded subway, where I do most of my reading. But in a way, the book's physical size is a reflection of the ideas its pages contain: this is a heavy subject. I don't blame Loewen for refusing to skimp on the details, though - these truths have been suppressed long enough. So I persevered, and made it to the end, and I entreat everyone in America to do the same.

The premise is this: many of our basic assumptions about race in America are false. For one, race relations have not followed a linear trajectory of improvement since the end of slavery. After the Civil War, things got drastically better for blacks in this country: they were given opportunities for good jobs, owning land, playing major league sports, and holding political office. Then, due to a complex combination of factors, things turned sour, and between 1890 and 1940, most of the ground gained by Lincoln, the 13th-15th amendments, and Reconstruction was lost. America plunged deeply into racism once again, and this time the tactics were a lot more subtle.

The second major assumption that Loewen cuts down is that racism in this country is rooted in the South. Almost all of the book's 500 pages are about places north of the Mason-Dixon line - places that, in the collective (white) memory have been friendly to blacks all along. Though they may not have kept slaves, these cities and towns still viewed African Americans as inferior beings, and they resolved to keep them as far away as possible. Sundown towns are towns that had policies, written or unwritten, that said blacks could not let the sun go down on them there...or else. I'll let you read the book to see the many forms that "or else" has taken as well as the varied renderings of the sundown rule, most involving the word "nigger".

And what will blow your mind is the sheer volume of these towns. Just as racism is not limited to the South, it is not confined to rural "hick" towns, either. Just for starters, Loewen suspects that Illinois, where I grew up, has 472 sundown towns. And they extend to the suburbs, too. These are towns that are, or were for a significant part of their history, all white on purpose. These are towns that all of us have lived in, or visited, or know someone from. People in these towns decided that blacks were "the problem," and they resolved to steer clear of "the problem" at all costs, and this is the reason our country looks the way it does today. If you have heard of redlining in urban neighborhoods, this is redlining on a macro scale. African Americans congregated in cities not because they wanted to be around folks with a similar taste in music and cooking, but because there is strength in numbers. The more of you there are, the harder it is to burn all your homes and drive you out of town.

I cannot begin to touch on the gravity of the truths that Loewen uncovers in his meticulous research. The statistics were too numerous to highlight, the disturbing anecdotes were crammed two or three to a page. Yes, in many ways the book was too long - only in the sense that its intimidating size will keep all but the most determined from picking it up. But I'm so glad I finally did. I will never look at society the same way again, and I will do everything in my power to reverse the century or more of damage that sundown towns and suburbs have done to American race relations. Thank you, Mr. Loewen, for lifting yet another veil from my eyes.

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Waiting Games

2010-12-05T16:06:00.000-06:00

Waiting in line. Waiting for a call from a friend. Waiting to hear from a job or school prospect. Waiting for that crush to like you back. Waiting for a grade or a score or a raise. Waiting for a plane or in traffic when you want nothing more than to be home. Waiting for a child to be born. Waiting to hear from God.

In a nutshell, waiting is not fun. Then why, if Advent is the season of waiting, do I love it so much? I decided that it's because waiting is something I can relate to. Very intimately.

Waiting, like wandering, is the story of my life. It might as well be my middle name. Or you could just put an elipses: Devon...Parish. That's me. Just one dramatic pause after another. I've also varyingly phrased it as "eternal hunger" and "holy dissatisfaction". But if you boil it down, the essence is that I'm searching, hoping, and waiting for something more to bust into my life and into this world, bringing love and joy and peace and meaning.

What's great about Advent is that it models the painful waiting and expectation, but then, magically, it ends. There is resolution. Every year, four weeks after Advent begins, Christmas Eve and Christmas Day roll around. Baby Jesus is born, bringing love and joy and peace and meaning to our world. And though it is really only a beginning, we are reminded that the waiting is worth it. Just as daybreak follows the night and spring follows the winter, His kingdom comes. Hope does not disappoint.

One of the most poignant moments I've ever had was at "Lessons and Carols" my junior year of college. The service is a holiday tradition in which Bible verses pertaining to Advent are read aloud with Christmas carols sung or performed by a choir between each passage. That year, I did the first reading from Genesis, and then I sat in the front pew of the chapel as we read and sang the whole Bible story in an hour - from Creation to the trials of Israel to the desperate cries of the prophets to the answer to those cries in the person of Jesus. Suddenly it became very clear to me that this story was Truth. I could see that all the pains of my day to day life, all the doubts and anxieties, were wasted investments. The only bet worth taking was the one that said the promises of scripture would all come true. After sobbing in the front row for the entire service, I approached the Chaplain, red-faced and weary, hoping for a hug. "What happened?" she exclaimed, "Are you okay? You had me worried!" "I'm okay," I said, "I just had an epiphany, that's all." I'd been waiting for that for a long time.

This Advent, I'm learning another lesson: that epiphanies are rare. Even when the answers finally come, they don't usually come all at once. One period of waiting yields to another as promises are fulfilled in stages. This week, I finally got a job. After nine long months of applications and interviews, after trying desperately to listen to where God was calling me, a door has opened! Now I have a chance to start anew in what looks to be a better scenario for me from every angle. But there are still a lot of question marks. Where will I live? and with whom? How long will I stay? Will I like this job? Where will I dance and go to church, and who will my new friends be? How does this fit into the one true story that Advent tells?

As I dive into another dramatic pause, hoping impatiently as the direction of my life unfurls at the speed of chilled molasses, I will try to remember what those shepherds and wise men and scholars and rabbis must have been thinking when they heard that the Savior was born in Bethlehem: "Hallelujah! He has come at last! Our messiah is...a baby?! If he can't speak or walk or feed himself, how is he going to redeem our people??! I'm going to be dead by the time he gets around to building a kingdom!"

I guess it's only human to ask "What now?" the minute something good happens. I blame our Creator. In the words of the Psalmist, "I wait for the Lord, my whole being waits..."

Consult God’s instruction and the testimony of warning. If anyone does not speak according to this word, they have no light of dawn. Distressed and hungry, they will roam through the land; when they are famished, they will become enraged and, looking upward, will curse their king and their God. Then they will look toward the earth and see only distress and darkness and fearful gloom, and they will be thrust into utter darkness. Nevertheless, there will be no more gloom for those who were in distress. In the past he humbled the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the future he will honor Galilee of the nations, by the Way of the Sea, beyond the Jordan—The people walking in darkness have seen a great light... (Isaiah 8:20-9:2)

What if...

2010-11-01T22:57:00.000-05:00

...I never again made a decision governed by fear?

I just returned from a lovely reunion of old college friends in Seattle. Among them was Kitty, my roommate of two years, who has been living with stage four kidney cancer for a year and a half now. Saturday night, as we were all seated around a cozy dining room table drinking tea and eating pie after a feast of grilled chicken and veggies, somebody asked Kitty how cancer had changed her outlook on life. She said this: "Cancer has made me realize how many of my decisions are rooted in fear. I've vowed to try not to let fear hold me back anymore."

Whoa. On the one hand, this is not all that different from what we hear on movies like The Bucket List and Last Holiday: folks with a terminal illness decide to live out their last days fearlessly by going skydiving, taking lavish vacations, and even reconnecting with estranged family members. But somehow it sounded different to me coming from a twenty-six year old and a good friend. I knew she wasn't referring to a reckless "I'm going to die anyway" attitude, but rather she had just begun to perceive with extra clarity how fear can really chip away at your everyday quality of life. Kitty's comment hit me like a brick in the face, because though I don't have cancer, the battle against fear is one I've been fighting for as long as I can remember.

Suddenly I started to imagine what my life would look like if fear had no place in it. What would be different? It wasn't too hard to spit out a relatively long list.

Money would never matter. It has taken getting older to realize that money is a big deal whether you have it or you don't. It preoccupies the minds of the rich and the poor alike, and at certain times and in certain ways I have been both. If fear about money were absent from my life, I would never work a full time job again. I might work full time, but not at the same job. I would dabble in each of the things that I love - dance, writing, the environment, social work - and avoid the things I do solely for my daily bread (and to pay off the college loans). I would live minimally, with others, but I would travel often and eat well. I would live where the land and the culture make me feel at home, and not just where the jobs are. I would still go to the library for my books and movies, but I would own every song I ever listened to and liked. I wouldn't put things off till that mythical moment when, at long last, I reach the edge of the ocean of debt and step out onto the shores of economic freedom - I'd just do them.

Loneliness would never matter. I pride myself on not being one of those girls who thinks of nothing but boys and relationships. But I suffer from my own breed of codependence. I don't feel adequate to pursue ambitious exploits on my own. If the fear of loneliness were not a factor in my life, I would be happy to hike the Pacific Crest Trail by myself. I would not feel the need to pre-cast an entire organization before starting one. I would go to the church I like rather than the one my friends go to, or even the one my friends are starting. I would not wait to be invited to be roommates with people I love; I'd get my own place and invite them to follow me. If I were not afraid of stepping out on my own, my Christian hippie commune idea would have become a reality five years ago. And when I am honest with myself, if loneliness didn't matter, I wouldn't care that most of my friends are married and that I'm a perpetual third wheel. I wouldn't secretly wonder whether every decision was taking me closer to or further from my future mate.

Failure would never matter. Perfectionism runs deep in my veins. I want to be good - I want to be the best. I am obsessed with doing right, making the right choices. The phrase "'A' for effort" basically incites a gag reflex. But as we all know, perfectionism has its drawbacks. If I were not afraid to fail, it would never have taken me a year and a half to return to dance classes after moving to Chicago. I would not be afraid of sports, or video games, or anything competitive, ever. I would write a book. I would start a dance company. I would learn an instrument. Heck, I'd at least lead that current events Bible study I've been thinking about. I'd confront my boss about being given more responsibilities. I'd try negotiating a salary for once. Who knows, maybe if I weren't such a snob, I wouldn't scare the boys away. Nobody likes to be measured against an infinite standard. And one thing is definitely true: if I were not afraid of being less than perfect, I would dance for anyone who asked.

This imaginary person is not me. At least not the earthly me. An annoying little voice in my head insists, however, that it's who I was created to be: my "Garden of Eden" existence, or my heavenly one. And that means it's my responsibility to embody this fearless heroine or at the very least die trying. Otherwise, how much of my life has been wasted on fear? When I think about it, all the people I admire the most are the ones for whom money, loneliness, and failure don't get in the way. I ogle at the uninhibited.

Knowing myself, I'm probably not going to be able to quit fear cold turkey. I have to lower my dosage though. (Do they have a fear patch? Fear gum?) I have to learn to question my motives... to ask "What if?" with Kitty in mind. And maybe, just maybe, I'll be able to slowly sap fear's power day by day by day.

"God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power, of love, and a of sound mind." -2 Timothy 1:7

Thin Places

2010-09-19T13:57:00.000-05:00

In her second memoir, Bittersweet, Shauna Niequist describes a phenomenon she calls “thin places.” Thin places are moments or spaces when the membrane that separates the earthly from the divine is especially thin, or transparent, or porous. God breaks through, and you get a pure taste or glimpse of heaven right in the midst of everyday life. It's the “kingdom come,” the “something more” - technically if we are really in tune with the Spirit we are supposed to feel this way all the time, but for most of us, it's not an everyday thing. Of course, thinking in terms of thin places does help you keep an eye out for them, maybe catch a few you might otherwise have missed...

So, thinking back over my last year in Chicago, here are a few of the thin places I remember:

In the pool, fully clothed, at Meg and Tyler's wedding. I remember hearing thunder and thinking I couldn't care less if I were struck by lightning and killed at that moment. I was surrounded by my favorite people in the world, singing and dancing and full of joy.
The Point, in Hyde Park. Last fall, I met God there while my roommates were at choir practice, and a few weeks ago, I rode my bike down and met Him again. It's beautiful!
Some amazing one-on-one conversations with wonderful people...
- Pillow talk with Nicole in Switzerland.
- Sushi and grapefruit juice and chocolate with Harts in the park.
- Catching up with A at our condo.
Moments of tragedy and fear that brought people together, forced us to trust...
- Kitty's diagnosis, sudden surgery, each tiny miracle.
- Watching the marriage of two beloved friends dissolve.
- Hearing that an old friend's younger sister took her own life.
Looking into the faces of babies and brides.
Standing on the “L” platform, feeling the air change from summer to fall. Last year I was standing at Fullerton, this year at Wellington. Closed my eyes, felt the crisp breeze, and smelled the changing of the seasons.

Called to Singleness

2010-08-24T19:22:00.002-05:00

Asking someone whether they are "called to singleness" or "called to celibacy" definitely makes my list of Top Ten Pet Peeves of Christian Culture (for a few hundred more of my pet peeves, check out the Stuff Christian Culture Likes blog). Not long ago I got into a conversation with a girl after our small group meeting that went like this:

    Girl: "So, are you dating anyone?"
    Me: "Nope."
    Girl: "So, you're not looking to date?"
    Me: "Since when are those the only options??!"

Not long afterwords, the leaders of that same small group passed out a spiritual gifts survey, which each of us was supposed to pray about, complete, and share with them. One of the gifts listed was Celibacy, defined as "the special ability that God gives to some members of the Body of Christ to remain single and enjoy it; to be unmarried and not suffer undue sexual temptations." First of all, special ability? Ha! I've had the special ability to remain single my whole life without even trying! As for enjoying it - well, it has its moments. Second of all, what qualifies as undue sexual temptation? Sure, if I looked at porn all day or thought of nothing but sex it might be a sign that I wasn't content in my singleness. But what about noticing cute boys on the subway? An affinity for Jane Austen novels? Craving a good cuddle now and then?

To my utter horror, Celibacy ranked relatively high on my list of God-given gifts once I tallied the numbers. I decided to look up the verses that were cited as evidence that singleness was, indeed, a so-called "spiritual gift". The first was Matthew 19:9-12:

I tell you that anyone who divorces his wife, except for marital unfaithfulness, and marries another woman commits adultery." The disciples said to him, "If this is the situation between a husband and wife, it is better not to marry." Jesus replied, "Not everyone can accept this word, but only those to whom it has been given. For some are eunuchs because they were born that way; others were made that way by men; and others have renounced marriage because of the kingdom of heaven. The one who can accept this should accept it.

In other words, if you can't be monogamous, don't get married. If you're already a eunuch, make the most of it. And if you have renounced marriage because God is your lover (aka the religious life), good for you - that's one less sin to worry about. The second passage from Paul is more well known (1 Corinthians 7:5-9):

Do not deprive each other except by mutual consent and for a time, so that you may devote yourselves to prayer. Then come together again so that Satan will not tempt you because of your lack of self-control. I say this as a concession, not as a command. I wish that all men were as I am. But each man has his own gift from God; one has this gift, another has that. Now to the unmarried and the widows I say: It is good for them to stay unmarried, as I am. But if they cannot control themselves, they should marry, for it is better to marry than to burn with passion.

Paul does undeniably name staying single as a "gift from God" here. He also says that Satan likes to use our lack of self control to tempt us, and that "coming together" with your spouse (sex outside of marriage is not an option) can hold the devil off. (Insert mental image of God crooning The Beatles' "Come together, right now, over me" with Paul fittingly on bass, John the Baptist with backup guitar, and Jesus on the drums.) Marriage and sex, according to Paul, are a "concession" allowed to those who would otherwise disrupt the kingdom-building effort by being perpetually twitterpated and "burning with passion".

This still leaves some of us stuck between a rock and a hard place. At this particular moment, I am not necessarily "burning with passion," per se. I can't even remember the last time a guy asked me to dinner. But if a good-looking gentleman called me tomorrow wondering if I'd be up for a boat ride on Lake Michigan followed by a picnic, dancing, and a walk under the stars, would I be obligated to turn him down because Celibacy ranked highly on my spiritual gifts survey? Heck NO (says my gut)! Thankfully some of my favorite Christian thinkers back up my gut (who is nevertheless a trusted theologian) by describing some different ways to think about singleness and calling.

Lauren Winner, in her fabulous book, Real Sex, which everyone must read, writes this on the subject:

Perhaps we ought not to fixate on the call to lifelong singleness. Some people, of course, are called to lifelong singleness, but more of us are called to singleness for a spell, if even a very long spell. Often, our task is to discern a call to singleness for right now, and that's not so difficult. If your are single right now, you are called, right now, to be single – called to live single life as robustly, and gospel-conformingly, as you possibly can. The problem comes when the assumption that these are lifelong callings creeps in – panicked single folks think they must discern, at some given age on some given date, whether or not they are called to singleness forever. Again, consider professional callings. We are often called to certain vocational or professional paths for periods of time – one is called to be a doctor or a teacher or a waitress, but to discern a call to go to dental school at age twenty-four is not to assume that one will be called to work as a dentist forever. Perhaps at thirty-five, one will be called to stay home with small children. Perhaps at forty, one will be called to open a stationery store. Perhaps at sixty-three, one will be called to retire. Indeed, even calls to marriage are often not lifelong – not because of divorce, but because of death. Jane may be called to be married to Peter right now, but if Peter dies, she will find herself called, for a season, to singleness – to widowhood. (139)

Aaaah. What a refreshingly sane thought. Of course callings and gifts come and go! We are dynamic individuals, responding to constantly shifting circumstances, and God made us that way. Things are rarely as black and white as some would have us believe. (DELETE any mental images of God as Michael Jackson.) Even Shane Claiborne - who wrote in The Irresistible Revolution that God was his lover and that "We can live without sex, but we can't live without love, and God is love" - later adopted Winner's language about "seasons of calling" when he found himself with a serious girlfriend. The change in his relationship status didn't render his earlier words untrue, but it definitely added some shades of gray to his understanding of 1 Corinthians 7 and Matthew 19.

Speaking on a "Singles in Ministry" panel at a conference, Claiborne also suggested asking yourself this question: What will allow me to pursue Jesus with the least distractions? This, if you ask me, is a very helpful flip-flop of questions like Do I suffer undue sexual temptations? or Is this burning passion allowing Satan to tempt me? Instead, we should be asking how we can best glorify God in our current situation. Singleness, like marriage, is not a sentence to be dreaded or endured. It is a lens through which God shows us - in part - the character of the Divine. In another delicious (albeit long) passage from her book, Lauren Winner writes:

Of course, premarital abstinence is different from fasting, because when you fast you know you will eat again. Premarital abstinence is different from keeping vigil, because during your vigil you can be confident that you will sleep again. Unmarried Christians have no guarantee that they will ever get married. They have no guarantee of licit sex. Thus to practice premarital chastity is at times to feel as if you are being forever forbidden the satisfaction of a normal appetite […] Of course, the desire for sex is normal and natural, but many spiritual disciplines center on refraining from something normal. One who keeps vigil is abstaining from sleep in order to abide with God; one who fasts is abstaining from food in order to see that one is truly hungry for God; one who spends time alone forgoes the company of others in order to deepen a conversation with God; one who practices simplicity avoids luxury in order to attend more clearly to God. And the unmarried Christian who practices chastity refrains from sex in order to remember that God desires your person, your body, more than any man or woman ever will. With all aspects of ascetic living, one does not avoid or refrain from something for the sake of rejecting it, but for the sake of something else. In this case, one refrains from sex with someone other than one's spouse for the sake of union with Christ's Body. That union is the fruit of chastity. (128-129)

So, there you have it. If "real sex" is union with Christ's Body, the chaste among us are one step ahead of the crowd. And if one more person decides that I either need prayer for a nice husband or the calling card for the local convent, I've got an answer ready for them: I'm called to singleness...until I'm not. I'm fasting from sex...for now. I'm pursuing the path of the least distraction in an attempt to follow Christ.

I believe that God will always provide the tools to carry out his will. That means if I'm meant to be single, he'll satisfy my hunger for love, and if I'm not...he'd better introduce me to Mr. Right! Mr. Right, if you are out there, I leave you with these words of a song by Alexi Murdoch:

So if I stumble, and If I fall
And if I slip now, and loose it all
And if I can't be, all that I could be
Will you? Will you wait for me?

Brain Pain

2010-08-17T15:04:00.004-05:00

Perhaps the one thing worse than having a migraine is feeling like you are alone in your pain. In the words of the ever-prophetic songwriter Don Chaffer, “the worst is my being alone.” But alas! I am not alone! Today I learned that there is a special word for those who suffer from migraines, so there must be more than one of us. And even better than this news is the word itself: migraineurs. Makes us sound classy, like connoisseurs or chauffeurs or coiffeurs. So without further ado, I shall dive into a survey of history’s most famous migraineurs, both real and imagined.

There are several artists who are believed to have suffered from migraines: Monet, Van Gogh, and Georges Seurat. Apparently what we thought was “impressionism” is really an epidemic of headaches! Pointillism is not just a creative style of painting where things are blurry close up and come into focus as you get further away; it is what Seurat was really seeing! He was suffering from the well known migraine aura, or scintillating scotoma, which interrupts your vision in all kinds of fun ways. And by fun I mean vomit-inducing, oh-crap-I’m-going-blind, get-me-to-a-dark-room-with-no-stimuli type stuff. But if you are a stronger person, you might also take advantage of this visual anomaly to paint a timeless masterpiece.

Along the same lines, it turns out that authors Miguel Cervantes, Virginia Woolf, and Lewis Carroll were also members of la Société de Migraineurs. Imagined windmills, nonsequitor streams of consciousness, and visions of rabbit holes and jabberwocks are not the products of insanity or drug-induced hallucinations, but migraines. Or perhaps the distinction between those is not so clear. What others see as Lewis’ jibberish, a fellow migraine sufferer might read as a poignant effort at describing her pain:

Beware the Jabberwock, my son!
The jaws that bite, the claws that catch!
Beware the Jubjub bird, and shun
The frumious Bandersnatch!

[…] And as in uffish thought he stood,
The Jabberwock, with eyes of flame,
Came whiffling through the tulgey wood,
And burbled as it came!

Emily Dickinson, too, is said to have tasted the scourge of the invincible headache. A large number of her poems address the dark battles being staged within the confines of her own skull. When I look back at these works after having experienced hundreds, if not thousands, of migraines myself, I cannot help but see them in a new light. Check this one out:

I felt a Funeral, in my Brain,
And Mourners to and fro
Kept treading—treading—till it seemed
That Sense was breaking through—

And when they all were seated,
A Service, like a Drum—
Kept beating—beating—till I thought
My Mind was going numb—

And then I heard them lift a Box
And creak across my Soul
With those same Boots of Lead, again,
Then Space—began to toll,

As all the Heavens were a Bell,
And Being, but an Ear,
And I, and Silence, some strange Race
Wrecked, solitary, here—

And then a Plank in Reason, broke,
And I dropped down, and down—
And hit a World, at every plunge,
And Finished knowing—then.

Monet and Seurat might have been a stretch, but Emily is certainly not. Also on the list of real world migraineurs are Caesar, Napoleon, Thomas Jefferson, both commanding generals in the Civil War: Ulysses S. Grant and Robert E. Lee, Freud, Nietzsche… and Elvis. Interpret those as you will. Of those alive today, some stars who have admitted to migraines are Whoopi Goldberg, Lisa Kudrow, the woman who plays Bree on Desperate Housewives, the guy who played Farmer Hoggett in Babe, former NBA player Kareem Abdul-Jabbar, and Terrell Davis of the Denver Broncos, who had to sit out the second quarter of Super Bowl XXXII due to a migraine.

Migraineurs can also be found in the pages of literature, though some – like my insurance company – might argue the diagnosis. Nevertheless, I find it comforting to hear my pain named, described, and shared by a character. We become kindred spirits. As a migraine sufferer, my first kindred spirit was Mrs. Tallis in Ian McEwan’s Atonement. A whole chapter is devoted to her thoughts and sensations as she lies on her bed in a dark room and waits for the “furry beast” in her brain to retreat. She is awake, occasionally hearing noises in the house and interpreting them, but her eyes are closed and you hear the dialogue in her mind between hopeful peace and raging fire. If McEwan’s details are not a product of his own experience, he definitely did his research.

Another kindred spirit from literature is the infamous Harry Potter. Though his pain is never explicitly referred to as a migraine, Harry’s lightning-shaped forehead scar often burns, giving him a hell of a headache. A few headache doctors picked up on this and actually published a study about it. Here is some of the evidence Drs. Sheftell and Steiner cite that Harry’s pain is migraine-induced:

Harry did not have headaches prior to the age of 11, a common age of onset for primary headache disorders, especially Migraine.
The onset in Harry’s case seems to be some time prior to puberty since the first evidence of headaches in the series was apparent when he was 14.
Although Harry’s headaches haven’t been frequent, they have periodically left him temporarily dysfunctional, thus significantly impacting his life and activities.
All of Harry’s attacks strike without warning.
Harry’s primary (and perhaps only) trigger is proximity to “He Who Must Not Be Named” (Lord Voldemort).

Unfortunately for Harry, his primary trigger is also the man he is called to destroy, so he can’t exactly steer clear of him. I can relate, since my triggers of coffee, red wine, stress and hormones are equally unavoidable! Even when Harry is taught the art of Occlumency, which is supposed to prevent Voldemort from invading his brain, he wrestles with whether or not to succumb to the episodes. On the one hand, his scar aches makes him miserable…

“It was pain beyond anything Harry had ever experienced...his head was surely splitting along his scar; ...he wanted it to end...to black out...to die...” (Goblet of Fire)

“His scar seared and burned...the pain of it was making his eyes stream...” (Order of the Phoenix)

“His forehead hurt terribly...it was aching fit to burst. He opened his eyes...he felt as though a whitehot poker were being applied to his forehead...He clutched his head in his hands; the pain was blinding him...he rolled right over and vomited over the edge of the mattress.” [And soon after] “The pain in his forehead was subsiding slightly...He retched again...feeling the pain recede very slowly from his scar.” (Order of the Phoenix)

…and on the other hand, his migraine aura consists of visions that help him track what his enemy is up to. Friedrich Nietzsche and author Joan Didion share this dichotomous view of their migraines; both wrote about how their headaches released deeply buried art and wisdom by interrupting their normal, distracted trains of thought:

“In the midst of the torments brought on by an uninterrupted three-day headache accompanied by the laborious vomiting of phlegm, I possessed a dialectician's clarity par excellence.” (Nietzsche in Ecce Homo, 1888)

“I'm a writer, and I've found […] I often have my best story ideas while in bed in pain. My migraine seems to occupy, or preoccupy, a part of my mind that is usually taken up with self-criticism, self-censorship, stress, etc., allowing this other authoritative voice to speak. In effect, the migraine behaves as a circuit-breaker: when all that pressure gets too heavy, it interrupts the action so that authoritative part of me can function again, uninhibited.” (Didion in “In Bed,” 1979)

So far this blog post is my greatest effort to channel my pain for good. But who knows – maybe the migraine curse will yet turn out to be a blessing. In the meantime, I will echo the closing words of Dr. Sheftell and Dr. Steiner’s paper: “We applaud the efforts of the paediatric subcommittees of both the International Headache Society and the American Headache Society to raise awareness of these issues, and appeal for assistance to the world of Magic.”

On Wandering

2010-07-22T15:44:00.002-05:00

One of the greatest rhymes ever written:

          All that is gold does not glitter,
          Not all those who wander are lost;
          The old that is strong does not wither,
          Deep roots are not reached by the frost.

          From the ashes a fire shall be woken,
          A light from the shadows shall spring;
Renewed shall be blade that was broken,
          The crownless again shall be king.

It's clear that this poem of Tolkien's is a frequent prayer of mine, because when I went to name this post "Not All Who Wander Are Lost," I realized that I already had a post by that name. What can I say - until that day when the crownless again becomes king, I will keep returning to these words of hope. Ashes, shadows, withering, brokenness, frost, and wandering are so much of reality...I need to be constantly reminded that they are not all of reality - they are not the whole picture. The whole picture - when we no longer see through a glass darkly, but clearly, face to face - rewards our patience with glittering gold, flourishing life, found souls, and justice renewed. Oh, I crave that day!

I am a wanderer. I go through much of life wondering what it would be like if I were somewhere else. Wanderers are not adventurers (though often we might like to be); we do not delight in travel or change for their own sakes, but endure them as a means to an end. The trouble is, we don't always know what that end is. Usually we set off toward some ambiguous "better": an unplottable Utopian dream. We follow clues when they are obvious, but sometimes we lose the scent of Truth. We can't help stopping to smell the roses along the path. And sometimes the path that was once so clear evaporates before our very eyes, like white blazes in a blizzard. We may very well be headed in the wrong direction, but we're afraid to stop moving.

Constant movement has its place in our society - in fact it is probably the norm in urban Chicago. Turnover is expected, and young professionals especially are allowed the leeway of being "poor bachelors" (or bachelorettes) for most of their twenties. But there comes a point when your friends and family start to wonder where your wanderings are taking you. You are haunted by the spoken or unspoken injunction to "settle down," whether that means finding a mate or just finding a place you can lease for more than 12 months and a job that gives you health insurance. Grad school might buy you some time, but it also buys you debt that sooner or later must be paid back with interest. Putting together your life is like putting together one of those torturous puzzles that has two sides, no edges, and no picture on the box to refer to. Half the time what looks like progress is all a mistake, and other times what feels utterly fruitless ends in a breakthrough.

How do we show the world - and for that matter, ourselves - that though we wander, we are not lost? What is our compass, and how can we be sure that its north is North?

Environmental Justice

2010-05-15T21:54:00.009-05:00

Watching the drama of the Deepwater Horizon Oil Spill unfold as I'm reading Narnia and the Fields of Arbol: The Environmental Vision of C.S. Lewis by Matt Dickerson and David O'Hara has brought the environment back to the forefront of my mind. I have been thinking especially about our country's need for a dramatic shift in values - a new worldview - in order to effectively solve our environmental crisis. I tried to find some old writing that addressed this issue, so here is an essay I wrote at Eastern for a class with Tony Campolo in Spring of 2008. The prompt was to provide criticism of a chapter in his book, Red Letter Christians.

************
The very first issue discussed in Red Letter Christians is the environment. As a long-time environmental advocate, I was a bit shocked to see a topic that is usually considered a secondary concern – especially among Christians, who follow the mantra “love God, love people...then love everything else” - in such a place of prominence. My second reaction was to be thrilled: everything I have seen of poverty in the U.S. and abroad indicates that the fate of the poor is closely tied to that of the earth, a fact the author recognizes and illustrates compellingly. My third reaction, upon finishing the chapter on the environment, was disappointment. While the author's observations of environmental degradation and political commentary were valid and correct, I found the biblical justifications for creation care to be relatively weak. As a student of environmental theology, I know there is more and better scriptural evidence to be had, and in a book about the specific words of the gospel, I expected more.

The topic of creation care is especially relevant in American cities today. Last year, I lived across the Delaware River from Philadelphia in the much-smaller city of Camden, New Jersey, which has a population of just over 80,000 people spread over 9 square miles (City-Data.com). In the first half of the twentieth century, Camden was a bustling industrial center. The home of Campbell's Soup, RCA Entertainment, and the New York Shipbuilding Company, the city was a hotbed of commerce between Philadelphia and New York, and it employed hundreds of thousands of low-skilled workers. With the deindustrialization that began in the years following World War II, all three of these corporations shut down their Camden operations, and over a third of the city's jobs were lost. Today, the city is a skeleton of its former self, with poverty and crime rates some of the highest per capita in the country (City-Data.com). What few people are aware of, however, is the extent to which Camden is also an ecological nightmare.

In this small city alone, there are 2 federal Superfund sites, 114 known contaminated areas, 350 polluting facilities, 400 ships at port per year emitting toxic fumes, and 328,500 diesel trucks passing through town annually (South Jersey Environmental Justice Alliance). There is a sewage plant in Camden's Waterfront South district that leaves the heavily-populated neighborhood in a year-round foul stench. The health effects of these toxins are innumerable: respiratory diseases, birth defects, heart conditions, and cancer. Hospital discharge statistics for the state of New Jersey from 1994 to 2002 indicate that blacks are four times more likely and Hispanics are three times more likely than whites to be hospitalized for asthma (SJEJA). High levels of lead in the soil and drinking water mean that 5% of children six months to two years have tested positive for poisoning, which can cause delayed growth, learning disabilities, brain damage, and behavioral problems (SJEJA). How many of the tough behavior cases in Camden schools might be traceable to exposure to lead? Volatile organic compounds (VOCs) and hexavalent chromium are also common to industrial sites, and as the movie Erin Brockovich brought to public attention, their presence in the air and ground water can have devastating health effects, most of which take years to manifest themselves. Compared to cities of a similar size, Camden has elevated levels of cancers of the lung, esophagus, stomach, liver, kidney, and pancreas (SJEJA). Though they only scratch the surface, these statistics are alarming.

Camden, like the example from Senegal in Red Letter Christians, is a prime illustration of what is known as an environmental justice issue. For Christians who have trouble putting the wellbeing of a forest, mountain or reef on the same plane as lives lost to abortion, undernourishment or war, environmental justice proves that the two are intimately tied. In addition to industrial wastelands, heavily polluted areas, zones of habitat destruction, and toxic dump sites, global climate change is a major example of this phenomenon. As quoted in the book, a spokesperson for the U.N. Climate Change Impact Report said, “It is the poorest of the poor in the world, and this includes poor people even in prosperous societies, who are going to be the worst hit” (Campolo). Overseas, this may refer to the farmers in Senegal who are forced to abandon their farms and move to the city due to desertification, the coastal dwellers in Bangladesh whose towns will be underwater with the slightest rise of sea level, or the fishermen in Indonesia whose source of livelihood is vanishing with the bleaching of the coral reefs. It wasn't until Hurricane Katrina, though, that the present effects of climate change really hit home. Many are still skeptical that a single weather event can be traced to a very large scale, slow moving global trend, but causes aside, Katrina was an environmental injustice. The breach of the substandard levees left many in the lower ninth ward homeless or dead, while the wealthier parishes, built on higher ground, were relatively untouched. Whole papers could be written – and have been – on this topic, but suffice it to say that our treatment of the environment and our treatment of the poor are essentially the same, and are equally important to God.

In order to make political waves on the issue of the environment – to convince U.S. leadership to sign onto G8 proposals and Kyoto treaties, to shift from oil to alternative energies, to preserve wilderness areas and promote local and organic food, to cut down on the American demand for beef – people will need to be convicted deeply and spiritually about the gravity of the ecological situation. For Christians – and especially Red Letter Christians – this conviction is most likely to come from their faith and from the words of the scriptures they espouse. The book names Genesis 1:26-28 as the “most commonly cited passage” for making the case of creation care, and claims that it is in these verses that God “gives us the obligation to be stewards” (Campolo). Fundamentally defined, it is true that this is the biblical moment when God appoints Adam and Eve (and implicitly, their descendants) to be the caretakers of the earth in his temporary physical absence. The word “stewardship” is not explicitly biblical, though, and I would argue that this verse is in fact more often cited as evidence against the Judeo-Christian case for creation care. In his famous 1967 essay, Lynn White used that passage to blame the Christian religion for the ethic behind the ecological crisis, and his sentiment is picked up by novelist Wallace Stegner, who writes, “Our sanction to be a weed species living at the expense of every other species and of the Earth itself can be found in the injunction God gave to the newly created Adam and Eve in Genesis 1:28: ‘Be fruitful and multiply, and replenish the earth, and subdue it'” (Bouma-Prediger).

I think it is important to acknowledge that like the Medieval crusades or American slavery, the environmental crisis is a clear case of Christian complicity and misuse of scripture to justify hateful and damaging actions. Before using their faith to diagnose solutions, Red Letter Christians must confess and apologize for their long history of taking “rule over” and “subdue” to mean “exploit by any means necessary.” That said, I am convinced that in the broader picture of the biblical narrative, loving, caring, stewardship was indeed what God intended for humanity's relationship with the earth. In Genesis 1, God proclaimed “It was good” at every stage of creation – seven times in all. In Genesis 2:15, the Lord placed Adam and Eve in the garden to work it (abad) and take care of it (shamar). Adam's name even comes from the word for soil, adamah, just as “human” and “humus” have the same derivative. Later the apostle Paul declares, “From him and through him and to him are all things” (Romans 11:36). In other words, the birds, trees, slugs and sloths are as important to the gospel story as Abraham, Moses, you or me.

Humans, in their infinite wisdom, didn't waste any time in perverting both the gift of creation and their instructions for its care. In the story of the Fall in Genesis 3, the Lord curses the ground because of the poor choice made by Adam and Eve. At their hands, creation too will suffer – it will “wait in eager expectation for the sons of God to be revealed” (Romans 8:19). King Solomon is just one example of a powerful politician who is a terrible steward: his exorbitant number of horses and wives and ridiculous volume of riches and food are all forcibly taken at the expense of the common people and the the land itself (1 Kings 4:22-28, 10:14-11:6). The destruction of the forests of Lebanon for his cedar palace is the subject of the prophets' mourning again and again. Just as creation is cursed by the Fall, however, it is blessed by Christ's redeeming sacrifice. Jesus reverses the economy of empire and proclaims the year of the Lord's favor – the Jubilee. Jubilee brings with it the promise from Moses' law of rest for the land and redistribution of resources equally among all (Leviticus 25). The New Testament also speaks of creation's liberation from bondage (Romans 8: 21) and reconciliation, through Christ's blood, between all things in heaven and on earth (Colossians 1:19-20).

In conclusion, the discussion of the environment in Red Letter Christians is for the most part very valuable. As brevity was likely an issue, the author did an excellent job of using statistics and anecdotes to draw the reader into the main elements of the ecological debate. The realm in which I was left hungry for more, however, was that of scripture, of the “red letters” themselves. As it is so often argued that the environment is sparsely mentioned in the Bible and is thus a small concern for God and for Christians, I believe that anyone wishing to argue otherwise must present a healthy dose of creation care passages, exegeted in context. As the case study of Camden illustrates, a disregard for creation is a disregard for the children of God; it deeply wounds a Lord from whom, through whom, and to whom all things are made.

Works Cited

Bouma-Prediger, Steven. For the Beauty of the Earth: A Christian Vision for Creation Care. Grand Rapids, MI: Baker Academic, 1998.

Campolo, Tony. Red Letter Christians: A Citizen's Guide to Faith and Politics. Ventura, CA: Regal, 2008.

City-Data.com. Camden, NJ database. Advameg, Inc.: 2003-2007.

Holy Bible. New International Version. International Bible Society, 1984.

“SJEJA Toxic Tour Factsheet.” South Jersey Environmental Justice Alliance, 2006.

**All photos taken in Camden, New Jersey. Photo credits: Me and Brent P.**

Pathetic Attempts

2010-05-02T18:06:00.003-05:00

Though my name - Devon - means "poet", I usually stick to prose. But perhaps I was inspired by Eva (see previous post) to try my hand at a few verses. Or maybe I was just procrastinating...

In times of stress
I find it is best
to stop
and listen
and be thankful.

No migraines – five days
it's small, but it's big
I close my eyes
and it's clear
and that absence
sweet emptiness
is precious.

Warm weather – for now
tomorrow may change
but today is today and just right
inside, outside
in perfect equilibrium
and a breeze
(well, a wind)
ties knots in my hair.

My health – while not perfect
is mostly in tact
been running
too much – not enough?
it's rough
but the soreness is good
and my insurance is not!

My roommates – not here
but I love them to death
I'm blessed
eternally blessed
by this home
our community
of three.

Lightning.
People-watching.
Bikes, hoards of bikes. “Critical Mass.”
A taxi, stopped in its tracks.
Friend dates. BLTs. Reggae music.
Laughter. Prayer. Wholeness. Peace.
DJEMBE!

Pathetic attempts
answered by drumbeats of thunder
and loud, warm, unapologetic rain
typing away on the window.
Thanks.

65 Red Roses

2010-04-27T15:11:00.000-05:00

I'm not that plugged into the blogosphere (it's hard enough to keep up with my own circle of friends!) but I just saw this article on CNN and found my way to the blog of Vancouver native Eva Markvoort who died last month at 25 after a lifelong battle with cystic fibrosis. It will totally have you bawling, but she's an amazing writer, and she is full of life and love, even as she looks death in the face. Here is a tiny taste...

making the effort this evening to sit up in a chair
good to change positions
stretch different muscles
sending air to different pockets
mum asked what i miss?

i miss walking in and out of buildings
the feeling of air pressure change when you enter or exit a building
i miss getting in and out of cars
how your view changes when you sit at a different height
change really
i miss change
now, it is all the same
seven weeks....
there are no transitions
i miss transitions
from one place to another
which is strange really
because now i hate change
i can't stand change and yet i miss the transitions

i hold onto who ever is near
since when am i clingy?
i grasp onto
annie in the morning
jackie and robin in the afternoon
dad in the evening
maman all the time
episodes of projectile vomiting
hours of gasping for breath
waves of nausea lulling out into
hours of sleepiness once the meds have hit
leaving me daydreaming about stepping out of this room
just getting up
free of tubes and plugs
and walking out the door
pushing open doorways
skipping down the street
breathing free
free

Why I Serve

2010-04-23T12:57:00.000-05:00

Last year, when I was applying for Americorps, they asked me to write about "Why I Serve," and I told them the story of a few of the people I had met during my year in Camden, NJ. A year later, I am confident that I would answer that question the same way. Why do I do what I do? Because of David, Shermere, Tim, Angel...now I can add Cynthia, Jerome, Sydney, Reggie...

***************

David is your average bum. He looks bedraggled, he's out of work, and he sometimes has to beg for food. One day we decided to invite him into our house for a chat. His story told of a cycle of hardship: he couldn’t pay some tickets he'd received for loitering, so he spent time in jail. While in jail, he lost his job. In general, he has trouble getting work because he has a disability. He gets welfare for his disability, but it stipulates that he cannot work for more than 2 hours a day. The welfare and a 2-hour-a-day job are not enough to support his wife and kids, so he actually has to pretend to be separated from his wife and live in a separate house so she can get single parent welfare, too. David forced me to ask myself to ask some hard questions, and I was faced with the words of Martin Luther King: “Give a man a fish and you’ll feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime. Eventually, though, you’ll want to start asking yourself who owns the pond.”

I had the pleasure of sponsoring Shermere, one of the fifth graders from my after school class, in Urban Promise's annual Martin Luther King, Jr. Speech Contest. Shermere tended to be one of my more difficult disciplinary cases. Helping her to write and rehearse her speech, which required quite a bit of one on one time, worked miracles on our relationship, though. Granted, it wasn’t always fun – getting her to put her thoughts on paper was often like pulling teeth. But she accepted my advice, respected my opinion, and trusted me enough to share with me something she was passionate about. In the end, I was incredibly impressed with her final speech. She talked about the courage of Harriet Tubman to fight for the freedom of others, and her delivery was spot on. She was an imposing presence behind that podium, and I wonder if someday she might not be speaking on behalf of justice in front of a far more influential crowd.

When Pastor Tim preaches, people listen. Because he's spent time both on the street and in the Ivory Tower, Pastor Tim can speak effectively to Ivy League academics and Hip Hop gangsters alike. His sermons are provocative: whether the issue is slavery, sacrifice, or environmental destruction, it is impossible to walk away without being challenged to the core. More importantly, however, his sermons take on life outside the sanctuary walls. When an outspoken community organizer disparaged him in the local paper, Pastor Tim met the man for lunch. Soon the two were partnering to start an alternative school for high school drop-outs, and I was invited to help as a tutor. A few months later, we all exchanged teary hugs when several of our drop-outs were accepted into college! Pastor Tim has shown me the beauty that comes from practicing what you preach.

Cynthia has had the cards stacked against her since she was a little girl. Both of her parents were alcoholics, and she was essentially left to parent herself. As a child, she had trouble fitting in, and she was sometimes destructive for no reason. She began drinking at age 10 and using drugs at 16. When she was 12 years old, Cynthia became pregnant by rape. She had to raise a child while still a child herself. Not surprisingly, these pressures drove her further into addiction and violence. Before long, she had six children and found herself in jail, unfit to care for any of her kids. Thus the cycle of poverty bulldozed ahead. On the day she was released from prison, Cynthia was told she was HIV positive. Devastated, desperate, and tired, she checked into rehabilitative housing. She laid her dignity aside and asked for help. That tiny act of courage was Cynthia's saving grace, and now she is almost two years clean, has an undetectable viral load, and is on her way to earning her GED. Anyone privileged enough to look into Cynthia's kind eyes and be greeted by her soft-spoken "hello" today would never guess that underneath them was a shocking resilience, a woman broken and rebuilt, and a share of burdens and blessings well beyond her years.

Dear Mr. President

2010-03-27T20:18:00.001-05:00

This is a letter I wrote to President Obama on February 18, 2010:

Dear Mr. President,

First of all, I want to thank you for making the cause of Health Care Reform a national priority from the moment you took office. I am confident that your dedication and perseverance toward this end will soon be rewarded. There are plenty of stories I could tell about my own struggles with our current health care system, but they all pale in comparison to the story of my college roommate, Kitty. I hope you will take a moment to hear Kitty’s story, because, well, you of all people might have the audacity to hope.

Kitty and I know each other from Middlebury College in Vermont, where I studied Religion and she studied French and Spanish, and we both graduated in 2005. Middlebury is a fantastic but expensive liberal arts school, and both of us were only able to attend thanks to hefty financial aid packages. After moving back home to San Antonio for a year to work and raise some money, Kitty was accepted into the University of Geneva’s graduate program in Translation. She moved to Switzerland in hope of earning a degree that would equip her with the tools to work in the field of international diplomacy.

Three years into her graduate program, as she finished up her thesis while working a job at the International Organization for Standardization, Kitty wrote me an email with the subject line, “When Life Throws You Curve Balls.” The curve ball was this: after doing some heavy lifting one day while moving into a new apartment, Kitty noticed a lump in her abdomen and went to see a doctor. The doctor found a tumor in her kidney that was ten centimeters in diameter, and the tumor was cancerous. At age 25 (30 years younger than the average), Kitty was diagnosed with stage four kidney cancer that had already spread to her lungs and her brain.

Since she learned of her diagnosis last July, Kitty has undergone kidney surgery, emergency brain surgery, chemo treatment, and radiation. She has received top notch health care with one kink: she's stuck in Switzerland. Because of her pre-existing condition, Kitty would not be insurable by any private company in the U.S. In her home state of Texas, she is not eligible for Medicaid without applying first for Social Security Disability, but the state's denial rate for disability is 61% and the average processing time is 544 days – longer than most people with Kitty's type and stage of cancer live. With no insurance options available, she would have to walk into a hospital and hope the taxpayers would absorb the burden, or lie at home without access to medication or care.

Kitty, for the moment, is unwilling to take that risk. As a result, her mother has been forced to resign from her job and move to Geneva to care for her daughter. Imagine caring for your terminally ill daughter in a country where you have no car, no job, no friends and family, and don't speak the language. While some of her friends have scraped together enough money to make the trek to see her, Kitty's own father and ailing grandmother have not been able to make the journey. Whether they will be able to do so before the cancer claims her life is yet to be seen.

I am not normally a pessimistic person, but I have been forced to face the facts about Kitty's illness. Less than 5% of people with her type and stage of cancer live for five years; most survive only a year. She is nearing the point where the only kind of treatment left to pursue is palliative care: keeping her out of pain and helping her to die with dignity. But even that costs money, and Kitty is being shut out of her home country by her inability to pay. The U.S. is exercising its own form of rationed care, while the Swiss healthcare system – which strikes a public-private balance and has compulsory coverage – has welcomed this foreign citizen with open arms.

Mr. President, I'm not sure if there is anything you can do to help Kitty and her family. It would honor her struggle, though, if you continued to fight relentlessly for the establishment of a healthcare system that makes “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” a realistic possibility for United States citizens. I'm not asking for free, but I'm asking for fair. Let us work to redeem a country which has become like the words of Isaiah 59, where “justice is far from us” and “truth has stumbled in the streets.” Please join me in this mission. I love my friend dearly, and I want to bring her home.

With hope and gratitude,
Devon

Commuter Community

2010-01-22T16:27:00.009-06:00

Every weekday morning, between 8:15 and 8:25, I step out of my apartment into the blue-walled, blue-carpeted hallway and press the “down” button on the elevator. Sometimes as I wait, I check my reflection in the glass of some stale modern art on the wall just to see exactly how corpse-like I look this morning. On the ground floor, I greet the doorman and the maintenance woman as I tiptoe across the freshly-mopped lobby. Then I thrust my entire body weight against the door in an attempt to plow into the wind vortex that is South Wells Street in winter. Commence the walk.

Having crossed two normal streets and one eight-lane highway, I take the shortcut through the courtyard of the Chicago Stock Exchange. Depending how early I’ve left that morning, the courtyard is either packed with colorfully-vested traders double-fisting their coffee and cigarettes, or it is completely deserted because the morning bell has already sounded. I trot past the newspaper man, imagining how cold and claustrophobic he must be, wondering how early he gets up for this gig, and how long he’s been doing it. Before long, I climb the stairs to the el train – always every other step – flash my CTA card at the turnstile, and step onto the platform. It’s now between 8:23 and 8:37.

The single greatest thing about taking public transportation to work every day is the people-watching. In a city this large, you are bound to see some pretty unique and eclectic things – like two elderly men kissing on the lips, a young man headed to work in a fedora and a waistcoat, or a woman who lives on the train and freely undresses in front of anyone dense enough to trespass on her “personal space.” These cases interest me less, however, than the people I see almost daily – the people who take the northbound Purple Line from LaSalle and VanBuren weekdays around 8:30 AM. These people, though I know none of their names and haven’t spoken more than three words to any of them ever, are my community.

Our cohort is small, since it’s against the grain to travel outbound from the Loop at rush hour. We’ve never had to share a seat on the train, and most of the time we don’t even get onto the same car. Nevertheless, we know each other well. There is Miss Mullet-hawk, whose dyed platinum hair is cut in a mullet, with the short part teased into a mohawk and the long part trailing straight down her back. She is always in a hurry. There is Nancy Nose, who is a young, well-dressed businesswoman with a unique combination of features. Her skin indicates African heritage, but her schnozz is long and pointy like mine (a burden we share). I muse about the various possible scenarios by which our ancestors happened to mate.

There are others, but perhaps most fascinating to me is Elf Boy. We are not talking one of Santa’s elves here, or Keebler’s elves, either. Think Lord of the Rings - specifically, Orlando Bloom’s rendition of Legolas. Tall, wispy, long blonde hair, and other-worldly brilliant blue eyes. Every day I see this kid (he’s probably around my age), and every day I find it near-impossible to avoid staring. To mix literary references, he seems like a refugee from Middle Earth, struggling in vain to blend in to the Muggle world. His misfit image is compounded by the wardrobe: every morning he’s got his 12-foot beanpole legs clad in a pair of tapered jeans from the 1980’s. I tried to justify them for awhile as the skinny Euro cut, or maybe just too small, but this is not the case; they’re unquestionably tapered. I am in love with a Nerd-Elf.

And no, I’m not actually in love with him. We’ve never spoken. I’m not even sure he speaks English (and I definitely don’t speak Elvish). But I like to imagine that we’re friends. If the Purple Line ever burst into flames, or veered off the tracks, I’m sure Elf Boy and I would band together to save our fellow passengers. We would toss each other knowing glances as he carried Miss Mullet-hawk to safety and I calmly reassured Nancy Nose that we were all gonna be okay. Afterwards, we would go out for coffee, dab our wounds with damp towels, and laugh about all those days of silent camaraderie. But until that day comes, we are forced to keep up the ruse. He’ll keep wearing his headphones, pretending to be interested in his iPhone instead of counting the Orcs he’s killed in battle, and I’ll keep burying my nose in a book, looking like a half-asleep corpse when inside I’m ablaze with curiosity.

Fullerton, Diversey, Wellington. Transfer to Brown Line trains at Wellington. Disembark. Doors are closing. 8:52 AM. Time for work.

The German's Silly Sermon

2009-10-31T14:19:00.001-05:00

Palm Sunday by Kurt Vonnegut

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
I love Kurt Vonnegut!!

I got this from the library not realizing that it was non-fiction and a sort of autobiographical collage (kind of like a blog before they existed). So it wasn't a tight, neat, clever story like Cat's Cradle, but I couldn't help totally loving this guy's writing, and much of his perspective on the world.

Some theological highlights:

-"I don't think anybody ever dreaded hell as much as most of us dread the contempt of our fellowmen. Under our new and heartfelt moral code, we might be able to horrify would-be evildoers with just that: the contempt of their fellowmen. For that contempt to be effective, though, we would need cohesive communities, which are about as common as bald eagles these days."

-"The nuclear family doesn't provide nearly enough companionship."

-"Be warned: if you allow yourself to see dignity in someone, you have doomed yourself to wanting to understand and help whoever it is."

-"It seems to me that the most universal revolutionary wish now or ever is a wish for heaven, a wish by a human being to be honored by angels for something other than beauty or usefulness."

For someone who calls himself at various times an atheist, a Unitarian,a skeptical Free Thinker, and a Christ-loving agnostic, Vonnegut is pretty spot-on with much that I love in Christianity. He named his book "Palm Sunday" and finished it with a sermon. He quotes Bertrand Russell and Jesus in the same breath. And it's a really, really refreshing breath that I find myself never able to get enough of.

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Guilty Pleasures

2009-10-11T12:26:00.003-05:00

I'm home alone for the weekend, so it's Risky Business time! I haven't hired any prostitutes or danced around in my underwear (I live in a glass house!), but I have indulged myself Devon-style with:

Apple Cider - I'm working on my third gallon in as many weeks. Hot, cold, sometimes with a dash of caramel sauce. Has single-handedly put an end to my coffee addiction.

NPR - It's pledge drive week, and I still listened for like four hours straight.

Dancing in the kitchen, singing in the shower - One of the only drawbacks of living in community is the lack of opportunity to dance in the kitchen and sing in the shower audience-free. When I spot a chance to do either one, I seize it.

Baking - I'm kind of disturbed by my own increasingly-visible domestic streak. This one hasn't manifest itself yet this weekend; I'm biding my time before busting out an apple pie.

Shopping - Despite regularly touting my disgust with consumerism, I think a small part of me still inherited the joy-of-shopping gene. It only works when I buy stuff because I CAN and not because I need to, and when it's really CHEAP. Yesterday I got a bike lock on sale and four articles of clothing for $30. It felt good.

Convenient Store Cappuccino - I don't like it because it's all that good, or remotely resembles coffee, but because it's comfortable. In Camden, we girls used to trudge over to 7-11 whenever we were feeling down and drug up on French Vanilla. Still makes me smile.

Puzzles & Games - I've wasted a lot of my life on Scrabulous, Farkle, Word Twist, Scramble, Sudoku, and crosswords. And I probably won't stop anytime soon.

Chick Flicks - Most of the time I'm not wallowing in loneliness - I just genuinely like them. The vast majority are horribly written and completely unrealistic, but I guess I like the assurance of a happy ending. Usually after a weekend-full, I'm done for a few months, though.

Christmas Music - Perhaps the guiltiest pleasure of all: I busted out the Christmas music today! Granted, it was in the 30's when I woke up, so it definitely feels cold enough. I'll try to take a break for a few weeks, but honestly nothing beats the blues (or just makes me feel at home) like a good dose of "Silent Night" or "O Come all ye Faithful." **sigh**

A Generous Orthodoxy

2009-09-30T21:18:00.002-05:00

A book "review" pasted from Goodreads...

A Generous Orthodoxy: Why I am a missional, evangelical, post/protestant, liberal/conservative, mystical/poetic, biblical, charismatic/contemplative, fundamentalist/calvinist, ... anabaptist/anglican, metho by Brian D. McLaren

My rating: 4 of 5 stars
All the concepts are good. I think I'm with him on about 95% of his theology. But sometimes this book was a little tedious to read. The first chapter of disclaimers is annoying - most people know they can put down a book if they don't like it. I forced myself to persevere till the end, though, and I have several really profound points tagged...

-(Quoting a mentor) "In a pluralistic world, a religion is valued on the benefits it brings to its nonadherents." (111)

-"When Scripture talks about itself, it doesn't use the language we often use in our explanations of its value...authority, inerrancy, infallibility, revelation, objective, absolute, literal...hardly anyone notices the irony of resorting to the authority of extrabiblical words and concepts to justify one's belief in the Bible's ultimate authority...I've never heard of a church that asked people to affirm a doctrinal statement like 'The purpose of Scripture is to equip God's people for good works' (from 2 Timothy)." (164)

-"The Bible is a story, and just because it recounts (by standards of accuracy acceptable to its original audience) what happened, that doesn't mean it tells what should always happen or even what should have happened." (167)

-"As so many species slide closer to extinction, the rare species known variously as 'Christianus environmentalis' or 'Disciplos verde' is making a comeback." (233) HA! I heart puns.

-"For pop-Evangelical eschatology to proliferate...prophetic visions of reconciliation and shalom within history...had to be pushed beyond history, either into a spiritualized heaven or a millennial middle ground...they also had to marginalize Jesus with all his talk of the kingdom of God coming on earth, being among us now, and being accessible today." (238)

-(quoting Chesterton) "Any man who preaches real love is bound to beget hate...real love has always ended in bloodshed." (143)

-"So here's the tension (referencing a Chesterton quote): we must always be discontented with our portraits of orthodoxy, but we must never, in frustration, throw the Subject of our portrait out the window." (297) This meets me right where I am...thanks Brian!

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Your Love is Like 10,000 Mosquito Bites

2009-09-11T13:16:00.000-05:00

**an oldie but a goodie from the Trail**

July 16, 2008
Day 16, Mile 155.2 (2021 to Springer)
Pierce Pond Lean-to

During my sophomore year at Middlebury, one fateful night probably somewhere near 2 AM, my roommate Renee and I decided to spontaneously pray together before bed. At some point I must have dozed off – still speaking – and uttered the senseless praise, “Your love is like 10,000 mosquito bites.” I don’t remember who noticed first, but it was a good indication that our bed time was long overdue, and it has gone down in history as one of the dumbest things I’ve done.

If I may take the liberty, though – I think there may be an ounce or two of truth to be taken from my sleep-deprived babbling. True, perhaps God’s love deserves a better metaphor than mosquito bites, though I’m the first to admit that his is a tough love. But I think the phrase is even better suited to this thing – this idea – known as the Appalachian Trail.

As we were starting out, Default passed on some wisdom she’d heard from her brother Music Man, who hiked SOBO last year: “Hiking the AT is like hitting yourself in the head with a hammer – it feels so good when you stop!” Who knows how we will feel in 500 miles or so, but that has definitely been the case so far. Here are a few of the pains we have endured 150 miles in: sore knees, hips, calves, quads, feet, backs, shoulders and necks, blisters, ingrown toenails, strained achilles and ankles, poison ivy, headaches, period cramps, stomach aches, black fly bites, at least 10,000 mosquito bites, sunburn, broken shoes, lost packs, dirt-caked clothes, sopping clothes and gear, falling in rivers, stepping thigh-high in mud, getting caught on a mountain-top in a thunderstorm, extreme hunger, thirst, water flavored like iodine, bleach, or with floating dirt, sleeping on uneven boards, roots, rocks, or puddles, innumerable cuts, scrapes and bruises, slugs on our packs and in our shoes, missing shelters and hiking 4 miles after 4 mountains to the next one, sharing a shelter in the rain with lots of obnoxious boys, smelling your own B.O. day in and day out, waking up to mice scurrying all around you, having flies attack your bare bum in the privy, and stepping in your own crap.

It’s hard not to get bogged down in the bad stuff and remember why it is that we’re doing this. We’ve been reading a copy of Into the Wild together that we found in one of the shelters. Like the protagonist, Chris McCandless, we must each be endowed with a little bit of masochism to choose to undertake an expedition like this one. But also like Chris, I think we want to be reminded of the things that matter most in this world, and we know that Nature is a good place to go for that reminder. It puts you in a place of forced humility, where you have no choice but to relinquish control and accept that the world is a heck of a lot bigger than you and your needs and desires. I think this hit me first when I found myself praying – after a long, wet, gross night – that it wouldn’t rain again. NO, I realized, no, God isn’t going to stop the rain just because it makes me uncomfortable. It’s not too small a request – it’s just too selfish.

Unlike Chris McCandless in Into the Wild, though, this group of gals is not trying to escape human contact. We are not attempting to live off the land, and we’re not trying to prove something. I am just as convinced 150 miles in as I was 15 miles in that this is where I’m supposed to be and I made the right decision coming out here. We are fostering a love for the AT that only 10,000 mosquito bites can bring – one built on sacrifice – literal blood, sweat and tears. Here are just a few of the ways in which the AT has given back to us so far: summiting mountains, unloading your pack when you finally make it to camp, napping on rocks, swimming in lakes and streams, befriending fellow hikers, arising with the sun, learning to appreciate the finest contours of the ground on which we walk, taking note of animal and plant life, eating 1 lb cheeseburgers, taking a long shower after weeks of grime and having a new appreciation for what it means to be clean, stopping for a snickers, reading out loud together, a cool mountain breeze, a cold, delicious spring, a warm meal after a long day, a brilliant view, a silent ponder of the landscape, a well-timed yard sale, some generous Mainers, Bluegrass at the general store, all-you-can-eat breakfast, a short day of miles, a moment – like this one – looking out on a pond and knowing there’s nowhere else I’d rather be.

So yes, there is a lot to be jealous of, but there’s also a lot that’s not worth your envy. It’s not always fun and games out here, but that’s precisely why we love it. If you don’t keep hitting yourself with that hammer, you’ll never know the true joy of letting up.

Ciao, and love to all,

Flamebo

Saying Goodbye to Granny

2009-02-06T14:04:00.003-06:00

This was written for my grandma's memorial service in August of 2007.

Sooo…Granny…where to begin? I think Granny and I were kindred spirits. She just understood me and loved me in a way that was far below the surface. Now this is not to say that we always wanted the same things. I remember once when I talked about going on a mission trip and she exclaimed, “You know what the worst job in the world would be? To be a missionary’s wife!” First of all, I think I can safely say that my career aspirations go beyond being somebody’s wife, and second of all, I’m not sure it would even be all that bad to be a missionary... But that’s beside the point. The point is that Granny would be there for me no matter what I chose. She was an unconditional lover. Sometimes she would give not-so-subtle hints, like a birthday present of a pile of postcards stamped and addressed to her, but she’d forgive me if I forgot to send any of them or just wrote “I love you” on all of them and mailed them a week before I came home. Anytime you’d tell her “I’m sorry, Granny,” you’d hear back, “You’re the sorriest creature I’ve ever met!” It’s basically true.

Now that I think about it, her one gripe with Christianity was always that she didn’t like thinking about herself as a sinner. I don’t think she thought she never did anything wrong – Granny is probably to blame for 95% of my rule-breaking genes – she just didn’t believe in condemning people. In actuality, she was probably more in step with Jesus than most of us on this point. Flaws weren’t important to her; grace was. True, it’s part of a grandmother’s job to tell her granddaughter that she’s beautiful and amazing and the best dancer the world has ever seen…but as far as I can tell, she meant it. She made me feel like a princess all the time. I wear the title GDG – Granny’s Darling Girl – like a crown. I think that’s how Jesus sees me, too, as his darling girl.

Just like Jesus’ crown, sometimes Granny’s crown was hard to wear in public, though. I’ll just name the first embarrassing examples that come to mind, but they’re innumerable…there was the time I walked with her into a very crowded, very tense doctor’s office the day before Christmas Eve, and she broke the silence by picking up a parenting magazine and asking me very loudly and indignantly, “When are YOU going to start having BABIES??!” Another favorite was Christmas Eve (maybe the same year?) when we were visiting a friend’s church, and Granny leaned over to me during the service and said in NOTHING like a whisper, “I’m so glad YOUR DAD still has all his hair,” referencing the poor man sitting in front of us. And you can’t forget the entire weekend of my graduation from Middlebury, where the highlight was perhaps at the Religion Department luncheon. Two of my professors – a nun and a rabbi – almost spit out their food when Granny told the story of how she wished the “Japs had won” because her hangover was so bad after all the V-J day partying. At least the story had a good moral – never, ever, get drunk. Once was enough.

Well, I don’t feel like I’ve touched much on who my Granny was – someone who loved a lot and spread a lot of joy – but she was so much more. One Christmas, I gave each of my family members a “personal Bible verse” that I embroidered haphazardly on little ornaments. Granny’s was Joshua 1:5: “As I was with Moses, so I will be with you; I will never leave you nor forsake you.” I know that God kept his promise for her – especially in the hardest part of her final battle – and now my prayer is that as we fight all our own present battles and those yet to come, Granny will be standing at the side of the Lord, holding our hands, reminding us that we’re loved in spite of being “sorry creatures,” and never, ever leaving or forsaking us.

Self-motivation

2009-01-22T22:40:00.004-06:00

Look what I just found on the RASA website...once upon a time, I was a real dancer!

Some Biblical Economics

2009-01-22T11:55:00.008-06:00

An informal essay for my Intro to Microfinance class at Eastern University, composed 6/9/08.
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What does the Bible have to say about interest rates? Though this specific question is not one I've spent much time pondering, it falls within the broader inquiry, What are biblical economics? The answer – if there is indeed an answer – is fodder for a dissertation and hardly a three-page essay. Nevertheless, I will attempt to quickly sketch my views and wherever possible, apply them to what I know of work in the microfinance industry. My first instinct, as a student of the digital age, was to begin by doing a word search of the Bible for the word “interest”. Though this turned up some intriguing passages, I was also reminded of the dangers of “proof-texting” - using short Bible texts out of context to justify a particular opinion. Instead, I prefer to read the Bible as metanarrative – a unified story that conveys a set of themes that apply to life. Thus, the passages cited represent a semi-random sampling of references to Bible-wide themes like shabat (sabbath) and charis(grace) that in turn have implications for the use of interest rates in microfinance institutions.

Biblical scholar, Ched Myers, asserts that one of the first major economic lessons of the Bible comes when the Israelites, under the leadership of Moses, have escaped the Egyptian empire and are preparing to enter their own promised land. The story of the manna in Exodus 16 contains at least three major injunctions for the new covenental society, frameworks that are later applied throughout the Bible (e.g., by the apostle Paul in 2 Corinthians 8:14-15). The first of these comes in verses 16-18, when the Lord gives Moses the command, “Each one is to gather as much as he needs.” “As much,” or “enough,” is a complicated concept, but there is a clear relativity to it. More surprisingly, the relativity of God's provision is based on need, not achievement, inheritance, or faith. Myers responds to this first injunction with the comment:

The Bible recognizes that inequalities will inevitably arise in "fallen" society—a realism it shares with the worldview of modern capitalism. Unlike the social Darwinism of the latter, however, the biblical vision refuses to stipulate that injustice is therefore a permanent condition. Instead, God's people are instructed to dismantle, on a regular basis, the fundamental patterns and structures of stratified wealth and power, so that there is "enough for everyone." (Myers₁24)

The second principle of the manna story comes in verses 19-20, when the Israelites are told not to store up any of God's miracle food for the next day. When compared to the normal practices of today's society, this lesson appears ludicrous. Yet it is repeated throughout scriptural law and parable, for manna – like mammon – is not ours to hoard. If we do, it crawls with maggots and rots! Finally, Exodus 16 addresses a concept begun in Genesis 1 – that of sabbath discipline. In verses 22-30, God instructs the desert-wanderers to take an extra days' shares on the sixth day so that they can rest from the work of gathering on the seventh. Together, these three principles outline what Myers terms “sabbath economics,” and they can be seen applied specifically to the concept of interest as the Hebrew Bible continues.

Passages of Mosaic law referring directly to the charging of interest include Exodus 22:25, Leviticus 25:36-37, and Deuteronomy 23:19-20. In summary, they all say, “charge no interest.” They do qualify this statement by suggesting that it only applies to “countrymen” or fellow Israelites, which makes sense in the Hebrew Bible context of God focusing blessings and rebukes on a chosen group of people. It is notable, however, that none of the passages says “excessive interest” or “usurious interest” - just “interest.” The children of God are induced to differentiate themselves from the moneylenders, who presumably use interest rates to exploit the poor. The instructions to not charge interest come amidst warnings to not mistreat foreigners, not take advantage of widows and orphans (the helpless), and not blaspheme God. The best contextual justification given for this command – aside from its alignment with the sabbath principles stated above – is the statement, “I am the Lord your God, who brought you out of Egypt to give you the land of Canaan and to be your God” (Leviticus 25:38). In other words, charging interest is like selling a birthday present for profit – it's the ultimate insult you can pay to the gift-giver.

References to interest rates also appear in the Hebrew Bible's poetic and prophetic books. Proverbs 28:8 reads, “He who increases his wealth by exorbitant interest amasses it for another, who will be kind to the poor.” Like many of the proverbs, this is a bit of a paradoxical riddle; the essence is that wealth belongs to the righteous, not the hoarder. It is not much different than the manna of Exodus, which gets to be infested with maggots if too much is gathered. In Ezekiel 18 and 22, these concepts are echoed once again. The prophet explains God's picture of a man who is righteous and just, saying:

He does not oppress anyone, but returns what he took in pledge for a loan. He does not commit robbery but gives his food to the hungry and provides clothing for the naked. He does not lend at usury or take excessive interest. He withholds his hand from doing wrong and judges fairly between man and man (Ezekiel 18:7-8)

An NIV note remarks that “excessive interest” is an extrapolation; it could also be translated “interest.” The righteous man does not oppress with interest, but simply takes and returns some piece of collateral with a loan. This has deep implications if taken at face value in the microfinance industry.

Jumping ahead to the New Testament, there are a couple of Jesus' parables that are often used to juxtapose the Hebrew laws cited above and legitimate interest and other investments. As a caveat, I acknowledge that my interpretation of these parables is rare, so it may be wrong, but I will present it nonetheless and welcome scrutiny. The first of these parables is that of the master who gives some of his servants each a quantity of money. In Matthew 25, the money is in talents, and in Luke 19, it is in minas; both amount to at least several months worth of wages. Several of the servants “put their money to work” (Matthew 25:17) and double their returns, but the one who doesn't is chastised by the master for being wicked and lazy. Usually, the parable is interpreted allegorically, with the master equaling God, who tells the finance-savvy, “Well done, my good and faithful servant[s]” (Matthew 25:21,23).

Ched Myers suggests, however, that this popular interpretation is backwards. Instead, this parable is about what not to do in the kingdom economy. What is his evidence? Item 1: “'Master,' he said, 'I knew that you are a hard man, harvesting where you have not sown and gathering where you have not scattered seed” (Matthew 25:24). Does this scoundrel sound like God? Item 2: “You should have put my money on deposit with the bankers, so that when I returned I would have received it back with interest” (Matthew 25:27). Does this fit with the Hebrew Bible's injunctions about interest and storing up treasures? Item 3: “Everyone who has will be given more, and he will have an abundance. Whoever does not have, even what he has will be taken from him” (Matthew 25:29). Does this sound like the God we know from Jewish history – a God of the underdog, who loves justice and mercy? Another important clue for interpreting this passage is its context. In Matthew, this story comes amidst the parable of the virgins and the metaphor of the sheep and the goats – stories about being prepared for the kingdom of God by taking care of the least among us. In Luke, the story is sandwiched between the account of Zaccheus, a tax collector who gave half his possessions away to the poor, and Jesus' triumphal entry into Jerusalem, another symbolic reference to the ushering in of God's reign on earth. All in all, Myers' interpretation just makes more sense in the metanarrative. He sums it up, saying, “This reading understands the servant who refused to play the greedy master's money-market games as the hero who pays a high price for speaking truth to power (Matthew 25:24-30)—just as Jesus himself did” (Myers₂38).

Luke 16's parable of the shrewd steward offers a similar dilemma. This story, too, is usually taken as an allegory with the master being God. This time, I suggest turning it inside-out without Myers' help. My evidence? Item 1: “There was a rich man whose manager was accused of wasting his possessions” (16:1). Again, does this manager (the steward) sound like a righteous, godly fellow? Item 2: “The master commended the dishonest manager because he had acted shrewdly” (16:8). Not only is he being commended for acting shrewdly (which might have its place in the kingdom), but the steward is again referred to as dishonest. This is hardly a case of someone redeeming themselves in God's eyes. Item 3 (which is not exactly subtle):

"Whoever can be trusted with very little can also be trusted with much, and whoever is dishonest with very little will also be dishonest with much. So if you have not been trustworthy in handling worldly wealth, who will trust you with true riches? And if you have not been trustworthy with someone else's property, who will give you property of your own? No servant can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money.” The Pharisees, who loved money, heard all this and were sneering at Jesus. He said to them, “You are the ones who justify yourselves in the eyes of men, but God knows your hearts. What is highly valued among men is detestable in God's sight." (Luke 16:10-15)

This passage that follows the parable implies with utter clarity that Jesus does not want the disciples to imitate the ways of the world when it comes to financial matters, including interest rates. Luke even offers the commentary that the Pharisees “loved money” so that his readers will be perfectly clear who the parable was meant for. In addition, the context of this story is amidst those of the prodigal son and the rich man and Lazarus, which offer messages about reckless, wasteful love and one's place in heaven being dependent on one's service to the poor. The frequency with which these parables are used to justify the hallmark tenets of our modern capitalist economy is frankly a bit disturbing.

In conclusion, the Bible doesn't spend whole books detailing how interest should be dealt with in microfinance institutions, but it leaves an abundance of clues, both big and small. On the small end, one-line injunctions in Hebrew law, the Proverbs, and the teaching of the prophets all say that interest of any kind is forbidden, at least within the Israelite community. On the big end, principles woven throughout scripture such as sabbath, grace, forgiveness, justice, and faith hint that the needs of the poor should be a priority, earthly treasures stand in the way of heaven, and the best form of stewardship is faithfulness and honesty. What, then, is the bottom line about interest rates? Should microfinance institutions take donor subsidies so that they can charge 15% or less, or should they ask for 30% so that they can survive without outside help? Or should we forget microfinance entirely and just focus on charity, because interest in any form is sinful? From the evidence presented above, it is hard to see anything good about interest at all. It is thanks to an interest-bearing loan, though, that I am even able to attend Eastern University and learn about this important topic! So I want to believe that God speaks in parables for a reason, and that scripture is best applied according to its big-picture themes. Perhaps rather than proposing a development plan and then asking whether the Bible fits into it, we should be starting with biblical concepts like sabbath, grace, forgiveness, justice, and faith and letting the ultimate Sculptor mold us accordingly.

Works Cited

Holy Bible. New International Version. International Bible Society, 1984.

Myers_1,Ched. “God Speed the Year of Jubilee!” Sojourners Magazine. Vol. 27, No. 3. May-June 1998, pp. 24-28.

Myers_2,Ched. “Jesus' New Economy of Grace.” Sojourners Magazine. Vol. 27, No. 4, July-Aug 1998, pp. 36-39.

Spiritual Smog and The City on a Hill

2009-01-22T11:31:00.002-06:00

An essay for my Urban Economics class at Eastern University, composed 4/29/08.
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I have heard several of the places I have lived in or visited over the years referred to as “godforsaken” or “a place of darkness.” Whether it was my undergraduate college – a wealthy but non-Christian campus, or one of the three cities in which I've invested much time and energy – Juarez, Mexico, Camden, New Jersey, or (West) Philadelphia, Pennsylvania, I simply haven't seen the evidence that would give weight to these pronouncements. Undoubtedly, the comments refer to visible poverty, violence, broken governments, non-mainstream cultures, prevalent immorality, or anti-Christian sentiments. As Robert Linthicum notes, however, in his book, City of God, City of Satan, many people are suffering from a theology gap when it comes to these places –and specifically, the city (20). The greatest indicators of this gap are a failure to distinguish between corporate and individual sin and a failure to comprehend God's heart for “the least, the last, and the lost.” As Christians, we cannot afford to write off huge segments of the world population as dwelling in “godforsaken” or “dark” places. Instead, we must learn to bridge the theological gap to the city and see through the spiritual smog that has settled there. Jesus proclaimed that “You are the light of the world. A city on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matthew 5:14), so surely he did not intend for our urban areas to be abandoned to the darkness.

The surface signs of a city's disinvestment were examined previously from a purely economic standpoint. In that study, it was determined that most people fall into one of two camps with regard to explaining poverty: they either blame flawed character – individuals not putting forth the effort to better themselves, or flawed systems – social institutions and practices that limit peoples' opportunities to succeed. More specifically, those presently in power cite the flawed character argument, while those at the bottom of the economic ladder cite flawed systems. Everyone is biased by their own experience and social positioning. The research literature confirms that more than individual choices have been at stake in creating the conditions of poverty in many of America's cities. Ethnic, racial, and gender-based discrimination – both historical and present – affects the labor force participation rate, access to education, access to affordable housing, the quality and availability of healthcare and other social services, the justness of the justice system, and average levels of income, wealth, and access to capital. Together, these systemic factors compound into a self-perpetuating cycle of poverty within which violence, drugs, prostitution, and out-of-wedlock births start to look like rational choices. Taking these conclusions a step further, Linthicum asks how this state of affairs might be explained spiritually.

The Bible, from Genesis to Revelation, paints cities into two ideal types: Jerusalem – the city of God, and Babylon – the city of Satan. In reality, every earthly city is a combination of the two: a city of light trying to shine through the ever-forming layers of smog. This “smog” is essentially sin, and from a flawed character perspective, a city grows to look more like Babylon when the individual sins of its inhabitants are rampant and detestable. According to Linthicum, though, “the city's evil is far greater than the sum of the sin of its individuals” (46). Sin, in his experience and mine, is corporate as well as individual. Society as a whole has turned against God and ceased to live according to God's commandments and precepts. Corporate sin pervades the economic, political and religious systems of the city. Linthicum highlights King Solomon's reign as an example of economic sin: Solomon fails to be a good steward of his land and resources, and instead greed and exploitation are the hallmarks of his kingdom (51-53). King Ahab's rule is a prime example of a politics infused with sin: he insists on maintaining power to the degree that it undermines even Yahweh (57). The boy king Josiah facilitates the opposite extreme, which is equally problematic: he creates a legalistic theocracy in which the religious and political systems are one and the same, and belief ceases to be a freewill act (59). Though it can be argued that these kings were acting as individuals, their positions of power meant that their choices were reflected in most, if not all, of the social institutions at the time. These corrupt institutions, in turn, affected the ability of the city's individuals to make choices that would draw them back into the favor of God. And even beyond corporate sins that are economic, political, and religious, the city's greatest sin is one of idolatry. Jerusalem, the chosen city of the Lord, described in Ezekiel 16 as His one great love, collectively turns its worship elsewhere. Infuriated, God tells his people their sins are worse than those of Sodom and Samaria, and He pronounces His punishment:

Then I will hand you over to your lovers, and they will tear down your mounds and destroy your lofty shrines. They will strip you of your clothes and take your fine jewelry and leave you naked and bare. They will bring a mob against you, who will stone you and hack you to pieces with their swords. They will burn down your houses and inflict punishment on you in the sight of many women. I will put a stop to your prostitution, and you will no longer pay your lovers. (Ezekiel 16:39-41)

The smog that envelopes a city can thus be attributed in large part to the sin that has infected its systems and structures.

A phrase that appears throughout the Bible in reference to cities is “principalities and powers.” According to Linthicum, “'Principalities and powers' may be celestial (1 Peter 3:22), [...] solely terrestrial and earthly (Ps. 8), or both celestial and terrestrial at the same time (Ps. 103:13-22, Col. 1:15-20)” (68). In other words, they may on the one hand refer to the structures mentioned above as vehicles of corporate human sin, or on the other hand they may represent the influence of spiritual forces beyond human control. Linthicum remarks that every city has a “brooding angel.” This angel is the spirit that infuses the city's people and institutions and – for better or for worse – makes it unique (75). The city's spirit and its individuals mutually impact one another, which is why it is essential that both remain centered on Christ. A failure to acknowledge this interplay can be damaging, Linthicum argues:

This naivete is due to the difficulty Christians have in understanding the spiritual dynamism of a system. We essentially see systems as static, humanly conceived, and humanly driven machines. In reality they have a life of their own, a living spiritual dimension that, like a human, can resist, seduce, marginalize, or isolate those whom the system perceives as a threat to them and their power. (78)

The principalities and powers must be confronted, then, on both an earthly and a celestial level. Satan and the corporate sin of a city feed off one another to create atmospheric conditions that are ideal for smog.

Obviously, sin, smog, and the desires of Satan are outside the will of God. Let us take a minute to look at what God's vision for the city entails. There is Psalm 48, wherein the city's praises are sung: “It is beautiful in its loftiness, the joy of the whole earth. Like the utmost heights of Zaphon is Mount Zion, the city of the Great King” (Ps. 48:2). The Lord describes his rescue of and preference for Jerusalem again in Ezekiel 16:6-8:

Then I passed by and saw you kicking about in your blood, and as you lay there in your blood I said to you, "Live!" I made you grow like a plant of the field. You grew up and developed and became the most beautiful of jewels. Your breasts were formed and your hair grew, you who were naked and bare. Later I passed by, and when I looked at you and saw that you were old enough for love, I spread the corner of my garment over you and covered your nakedness. I gave you my solemn oath and entered into a covenant with you, declares the Sovereign LORD, and you became mine.

And always side by side with the prophets' condemnations of the city's idolatries are promises of renewal and restoration: “For Zion's sake I will not keep silent, for Jerusalem's sake I will not remain quiet, till her righteousness shines out like the dawn, her salvation like a blazing torch [...] No longer will they call you Deserted, or name your land Desolate. But you will be called Hephzibah [my delight is in her]” (Isaiah 62:1,4). Perhaps nothing brings more hope than the description of the New Jerusalem – the city made new – in Revelation, which begins,

I saw a new heaven and a new earth, for the first heaven and the first earth had passed away, and there was no longer any sea. I saw the Holy City, the new Jerusalem, coming down out of heaven from God, prepared as a bride beautifully dressed for her husband. And I heard a loud voice from the throne saying, "Now the dwelling of God is with men, and he will live with them. They will be his people, and God himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain, for the old order of things has passed away.” (Revelation 21:1-4)

Of course, these passages just scratch the surface of scripture that is available to describe God's heart for the city. Another name that is given for the New Jerusalem is the kingdom of God. Basic characteristics of this kingdom include liberation from oppression, economic equality and provision for the poor, and peace and wholeness (the concept of shalom). Like the principalities and powers with which God's children must contend, the kingdom of God is also both terrestrial and celestial. While its celestial component is what many people refer to as heaven, its terrestrial component is described by Luke: “The kingdom of God does not come with your careful observation, nor will people say 'Here it is,' or 'There it is,' because the kingdom of God is within you” (Luke 17:20-21). The city made new is here and now!

This begs the question, if the kingdom of God is within us, how can we let it out to make life “on earth as it is in heaven”? What needs to be done so that the city on a hill can be seen through the smog? Linthicum finds that for the most part, the church is usually so focused on ministry to individuals and congregations that it ignores the systems of the city and ends up leaving them vulnerable to Satan's influence (77). Instead, “the task of the church, Paul declares, is to make known the 'manifold witness of God' both to the principalities and powers and to the rulers and authorities of the systems they inhabit” (72). How can this be done? Linthicum suggests the biblical template of Jesus' healing of blind man in John chapter 9. First, we must expose peoples' blindness by revealing the unjust systems of the city for what they really are. Then, we must help them see an alternative scenario in the transformed city of God. Put differently, “The vocation of the church in the city is to be the dreamer and the advocate for a city given over to God” (144).

In terms of daily actions, this can mean a lot of things, all of which are rooted in scriptural passages and principles. First and foremost is personal spiritual formation, which includes praying for the city (see Ps. 122:6-9). We must also be present in the city, which may mean moving for some (see Jer. 29:5-6). We must be better stewards of the resources of the city (see Ex. 16, Lev. 25). We must build networks and organize people (see Nehemiah 2-3). We must deal creatively with conflict (see Matt. 5:38-42). When our work is done, we must celebrate with our city (see Nehemiah 8). All in all, we must keep in mind two warnings: practice proclamation only alongside compassion, and be sure that our actions are contextualized. Not every community development project is going to perfectly parallel the story of Nehemiah. Finally, we must strive to embody the biblical vision of true community. Linthicum describes this vision well: “For these Christians, community was more than the sum of their relationships together. It was the base upon which they build their church life, their worship, and their willingness to serve each other and the hurting around their neighborhoods and cities” (256).

So, it looks like all we have to do is start living according to the Bible and the smog of the city will start to clear up. No problem, right? Ha. It is impossible for humans to make a godly city, because sin brings corruption into every system we create, most of which were initially intended for good. According to Linthicum, “[The church] will always fall back into a divided, fighting, barrier-building, prideful conglomerate of individuals. That is why the church needs the Holy Spirit” (273). Ultimately, it is God who redeems, God who reconciles, God who rebuilds. “From Him, through Him, and to Him are all things” (Romans 11:36). There is almost a note of mockery when the Lord declares through Ezekiel, “When I make atonement for you for all you have done, you will remember and be ashamed and never again open your mouth because of your humiliation” (Ezekiel 16:63). Our failures are complete – both individually and corporately. Linthicum sums it up well, saying, “We see that in Romans [8:18-23], Paul is teaching that there is no dichotomy between the individual and his corporate environment (whether social or physical). It is all of one cloth. It is all corrupted by sin. And God has provided for the redemption of it all. That, by inference, would include the city” (118). The best we can do, then, is to step aside and make room for the King's triumphal entry into the city. “Jesus came to the city to die for the city, its systems, and its people” (127). We can do no better than to pick up our own crosses and follow him in.

Let us return quickly to the cities I have heard deemed “godforsaken” and “places of darkness.” My undergraduate college has an active, unified Christian Fellowship that transformed my life and those of many others. The “ecumenical” chapel is engraved with the words, “The strength of the hills is his also.” Juarez, Mexico is filled with smiling children that I have seen grow into mature teens and inspirational leaders. Camden, NJ, denoted by Walt Whitman as the “city invincible,” is home to the most transformational community church that I have ever been a part of. West Philadelphia embodies the words of the Lord in Revelation to the biblical church in Philadelphia: “See, I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut. I know that you have little strength, yet you have kept my word and have not denied my name [...] I am coming soon. Hold on to what you have, so that no one will take your crown” (Rev. 3:8,11). These are places of hope. They are surrounded in spiritual smog, but deep down, they are all “cities invincible,” cities of light. God's message for the renewal of the city is not tangential; it is the heart of the gospel, woven into every facet of the metanarrative. The task is far from easy, but we are all called to “seek the peace and prosperity of the city to which I have carried you into exile” (Jer. 29:7).

Works Cited

Holy Bible. New International Version. International Bible Society, 1984.

Linthicum, Robert. City of God, City of Satan: A Biblical Theology of the Urban Church. Grand
Rapids, MI: Zondervan Publishing House, 1991.

American Apartheid

2009-01-22T11:18:00.002-06:00

An essay for my Urban Politics class at Eastern University, composed 12/13/07.
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Though “apartheid” is an Afrikaans term usually associated with South Africa and Nelson Mandela, it has taken on new meaning in recent years. Social scientists are beginning to refer to the United States' entrenched system of institutional racism as the “American Apartheid.” This institutional racism is defined as the actions prescribed by an organization or social network of the dominant racial group that by intention have a negative impact on members of subordinate racial groups (Bullard et al.). Though systematic in nature, American Apartheid is enacted by individuals. And while the term may be relatively new, the individual decisions and actions that shaped the current condition are part of a centuries-old metanarrative of oppression. This oppression began, and is often driven, by race-based prejudice, but it is intimately tied to class as well. A dictionary definition of apartheid deems it “any system or practice that separates people according to race, caste, etc.” (Dictionary.com). Examined in the context of its more recent history, American Apartheid, not unlike South African Apartheid, has robbed millions of people of their human dignity and social voice based solely on their race or economic class.

American Apartheid spans the entire spectrum of social systems; it will be examined here in terms of its residential, economic, educational, and socio-political impacts. Almost universally, the racism discussed here is legal – not punishable by the current laws. The Residential Apartheid that is evident in most large U.S. cities today took shape in the era just before and just after World War II. Two vast movements occurred in close sequence – the Great Migration of African-Americans into northern cities from the South, and the deindustrialization of America's urban centers. These phenomena were prompted, at least in part, by two major federal acts – the National Housing Act of 1934 and the Interstate Highway Act of 1956. The National Housing Act created the Federal Housing Administration (FHA), who would enable home mortgages to be issued with low down payments and long-term fixed interest rates. The FHA had its desired effect – home ownership increased by 22% - but African-Americans were completely excluded from these benefits through a process called “redlining.” As the minorities were denied access to new homes and nice neighborhoods, segregated ghettos began to form. This process was catalyzed by the Interstate Highway Act, in which the federal government subsidized 90% of the cost of building new highways, which enabled those with cars to move further and further from the city center and left those without to become increasingly “quarantined” (Fishman).

As a result, Philadelphia, Chester, Camden, and Norristown house 77% of this region's minority population, while the vast majority of the suburbs are over 90% White (Metropolitan Philadelphia Policy Center). Whereas residential segregation decreases for most racial and ethnic groups with additional education, income, and occupational status, American Apartheid has ensured that this does not hold true for African-Americans (Bullard et al.). Because for generations they were not eligible for mortgages, most African-American households have been forced to rent (Philadelphia Affordable Housing Coalition). The federal government defines housing as “affordable” that costs no more than 30% of a household's income, which means that more than one in five Philadelphians cannot afford their current housing. This is not to mention the city's homeless, for whom the government pays $67 million per year in shelter costs and other services (PAHC). It is clear that the inner city, and especially the African-American population, are in the midst of a residential crisis.

The Civil Rights Movement did prompt some legislative efforts to curb this crisis, including the Fair Housing Act of 1968 and the Community Reinvestment Act of 1977. These initiatives, however, and even their more recent revisions, have been ineffective and poorly enforced (Bullard et al.). Housing discrimination still occurs in a plethora of forms: absentee landlords, subjective lending, stereotyping about neighborhoods, discrimination in terms and conditions, refusals to deal, discriminatory advertising, falsely represented availability, and denials of real estate services. How has nothing been done to stop this blatant institutional racism? Because those with the power to change it are blind to its existence: 75% of U.S. Whites surveyed do not believe that housing discrimination even exists (Bullard et al.).

Deeply connected to the U.S.'s Residential Apartheid is its Economic Apartheid. Racial minorities and those with low incomes have been systematically prevented from participating in the “American Dream” of economic success or even stability. Industrial and other low-wage jobs have moved out of the city and even out of the country, and in their place is a rising high-skilled “knowledge sector.” Access to the knowledge sector comes only through higher education, which as the next section will demonstrate, has also been denied to non-Whites and the lower class. As a result, these apartheid victims have no stepping stone out of poverty. According to the Philadelphia Workforce Investment Board (PWIB), 45% of Philadelphia's working age adults are neither working nor looking for work, placing the city in 96^th place for labor force participation among the U.S.'s 100 largest cities. Even among those who do work, one out of three households in Philadelphia makes less than $20,000 per year (PAHC). Wages for low-skilled labor have also become less-than-livable, dropping 30% from 1970 to 1989 (Wilson). As if that weren't enough, Economic Apartheid has also left low-income residents paying higher prices for all their basic necessities:

Car purchases: Low-income customers can pay over $500 more for the same car.
Car loans: 50% of low-income customers pay above average, compared to only 25% of high-income customers.
Car insurance: High-income customers pay a minimum of $400 less per year.
Grocery prices: Bigger, cheaper stores don't exist in low-income neighborhoods.
Cashing checks: Using check cashers instead of banks costs $450-900 in charges per year.
Short-term loans: Predatory lenders such as payday lenders, tax preparation services that provide rapid refunds, pawnbrokers, and title lenders charge interest rates of up to 400%.
Gas prices: Prices are higher in the city, where more low-income households are located.
Home loans: 52% of low-income customers pay above average, compared to only 32% of high-income customers.
Home insurance: High-income customers pay a minimum of $50-150 less every 6 months.
Home appliances and furnishing: Low-income customers are more likely to use rent-to-own stores, which mark up items 90% above their retail prices.
Real estate taxes: Low-income households have an error rate (difference between taxes paid and actual home value) 35% higher than the city average, while the high-income rate is 3% lower than the city average. (Brookings Institution Metropolitan Policy Program)

These price differences can be attributed to any number of causes: real and perceived higher risks, a lack of information about markets and options, weak regulation and enforcement, and public sector control over goods and services (BIMPP). But realistically, they reflect a long-standing perception by the dominant class that poverty is a disease, contracted by laziness and cured with ambition and hard work. Until the White middle-class can perceive themselves, rather than their lower class neighbors, as historically infected, no one's plight has hope of improvement.

Another facet of the U.S. story's oppressive regime is its Educational Apartheid. Technically speaking, the segregation of public schools has been banned since the ruling in Brown v. The Board of Education of Topeka, Kansas in 1954. In actuality, however, academic segregation is still a ubiquitous reality in U.S. cities. High school dropout rates hover around 50%, and only 20% of Philadelphians have college degrees. The quality of education is also dismal; over 60% of adults in Philadelphia are considered low-literate (PWIB). The reasons for this are numerous, but a primary cause is inadequate resources and funding. Only four states in the country have educational funding more unequal than in Pennsylvania (MPPC). In most areas, school funding is directly linked to property taxes, so it is no wonder that rich neighborhoods have better schools. State support is also disproportionately poured into the predominantly White, middle-class suburbs rather than the struggling inner city schools. When school districts demonstrate a consistent failure to educate their students, there has been a growing trend for the state government to usurp control of urban education. Oftentimes, this means that power is taken out of the hands of the racial minority in one of the few sectors where they have been able to gain control (Hill). This top-down management of education, as history has proven, is the lifeblood of oppression. In his Pedagogy of the Oppressed, Paulo Freire contrasts “bank education,” in which knowledge is deposited in a unilateral transaction, with “problem-posing education,” which promotes the emergence of critical consciousness through dialogue. He argues that banking education perpetuates myths among the oppressed that they are inferior, incapable of influencing society, know nothing, and are a disease to be purged (Freire). Thus, while the Residential and Economic forms of American Apartheid affect what the racial minorities in the U.S. are able to do, Educational Apartheid goes as far as to corrupt how they think.

This “marred identity” of the racially and economically oppressed is reflected and reinforced in what will here be termed Socio-Political Apartheid. Caught in the grip of centuries of institutional racism, minorities have been driven to remain in “survival mode.” As they have struggled for a competitive economic advantage and a political voice, they have been thwarted by internal problems: broken families, violence, and drug abuse. For families who cannot find work or a living wage due to Economic Apartheid, public welfare becomes an incentive not to get married, because single parents are eligible for more aid (Wilson). Violence is a plague for all; one in four Philadelphians would move because of crime if they had the resources (MPPC). Racial profiling means minorities spend more time behind bars than their White criminal counterparts, and they are thus prevented from furthering their educations and entering the productive workforce. The drug trade, realistically speaking, is a more cost-effective livelihood for Apartheid victims who have been otherwise excluded from the legitimate job market. All these social hurdles, however, appear to the oppressor as symptoms of poverty's disease, prompting them only to fortify the walls of their Socio-Political Apartheid.

In response to the clear evidence of a historically pervasive American Apartheid, journalist Michael Katz asks, Why aren't the U.S. cities burning? Where are the protests – outcries for justice? He answers his question in part with a theory termed the “management of marginalization.” Part of the tactics of the dominant race and class have been to allow for selective incorporation of minorities in the controlling regime, mimetic, ineffective reform policies, and indirect or incomplete minority authority. They have also perpetuated scare tactics and encouraged minorities to be enveloped into the culture of the Consumer Republic (Katz). These practices have fooled masses of Americans into believing that, for the most part, racism is dead. Until this myth is unmasked, the wheels of oppression will spin on unhindered. Just as Robert Kennedy concluded in the face of South African Apartheid, people must open their eyes and act: “Each time a person stands up for an ideal, or acts to improve the lot of others, or strikes out against injustice, he sends forth a tiny ripple of hope, and crossing each other from a million different centers of energy and daring, these ripples build a current that can sweep down the mightiest walls of oppression and resistance.”

Works Cited

“A Call to Action: Philadelphia's Affordable Housing Crisis and What We Can Do About It.” Philadelphia Affordable Housing Coalition (PAHC), 2003.

“Apartheid.” Dictionary.com. Random House, Inc., 2006.

“A Tale of Two Cities.” Philadelphia Workforce Investment Board (PWIB), 2007.

Bullard, Robert D., J. Eugene Grigsby III and Charles Lee, Eds. Residential Apartheid: The American Legacy. Los Angeles: University of California, 1994.

Fishman, Robert. “The American Metropolis at Century's End: Past and Future Influences.” Housing Policy Debate. Fannie Mae Foundation, 2000.

“Flight (or) Fight: Metropolitan Philadelphia and its Future.” The Metropolitan Philadelphia Policy Center (MPPC), 2001.

Freire, Paulo. Pedagogy of the Oppressed. New York: Continuum International, 1970.

Hill, Michael. “Editorial: Race, Politics, and the Schools.” The Baltimore Sun. 28 May 2006.

Katz, Michael B. “Why Aren't U.S. Cities Burning?” Dissent. Summer 2007.

“The Price is Wrong: Getting the Market Right for Working Families in Philadelphia.” The Brookings Institution Metropolitan Policy Program (BIMPP), 2005.

Wilson, William J. When Work Disappears: The World of the New Urban Poor. New York: Vintage Books, 1996.

Flamebo Searches for the Rainbow

2009-01-22T11:01:00.001-06:00

Published on our Appalachian Trail blog on 8/17/2008.

I used to love rain. Freshman year of college, I remember making a “Rain Songs” playlist on my big Dell desktop that included (among other fab tunes) “Let it Rain” by Michael W. Smith, “When the Rain Comes” by Third Day, and “Bring on the Rain” by Jo Dee Messina (these say a lot about who I was freshman year). At Middlebury, I often went outside when it rained. I loved how rain was God’s way of sympathizing with tears, and the more drenched I was, the better I felt. I had happy rain memories from my summer at Camp Greystone, too, where evening downpours would beat on the tin cabin roof so hard that we’d have to shout over it to be heard giving the devotion and saying goodnight to the girls. Then during my Mission Year in Camden, I took advantage of the rain to go puddle-jumping or just sit on the porch with a cup of tea and talk or think. On the Fourth of July that year, we went to a big outdoor concert without our rain gear and got dumped on for hours. We stayed through the fireworks, though, and then trekked the two miles home singing all the way, the rain never letting up.

This isn’t to say that I never encountered the proverbial “rainy day” in a negative sense. At Camp Illini, a day camp I attended around the age of 8 or 9, the end-of-session campout was the most-anticipated night of the summer. After a long, wet and sleepless night, I remember being shuffled out of our tents and into a picnic shelter, where the counselors held up soggy lost and found items: a lone sock, a pair of underwear, a Barbie…another rough rain moment for me was during my semester in Belize. Though I was there during the dry season, we did have a week or two of rain in which I first experienced the sensation of never really being totally warm or dry. Buildings are not sealed off to the elements, there are no hot showers, and if you walk to work in the rain, you are wet all day. Rain in Juarez, Mexico, another place I’ve felt a connection to over the years, is rare and dangerous. Even the smallest amount of rain floods out streets and homes, and people are often killed. So my love for rain was always framed by a great respect: it was beautiful but powerful, and certainly outside of my control.

Little did I realize, however, that it’s easy to find affection for rain when you are able to escape it. During the last 35 of our 44 days on the trail, I have not been so lucky, and I now have an entirely new understanding of what it means to be wet. On July 8^th, the day we hiked Whitecap Mountain in Maine, my journal entry reads, “Rain! First experience…not too fun.” Ha! What did I know??! Over a month later, the freak weather system that has settled in has never granted us a full day without rain since I wrote those words. We have been stranded twice due to high water making rivers impassable and once due to the risk of hypothermia in the freezing rain. Our clothes and shoes are never dry, and each morning we wake up and are forced to don them, cold and dank. Everything smells like mildew – pack, clothes, tent – and everything is caked in mud. Our packs don’t just feel heavier – the sogginess of our belongings probably adds a good five pounds. We probably risk dehydration, because some days the thought of water just makes you rage. We often walk with frozen fingers and toes, and our constantly running noses must be blown on soaking wet handkerchiefs. When we take off our shoes and socks at night, we (Laura especially) have been known to frighten small children with our “Cling-on feet,” eerily wrinkled and gray. Lizzie can’t see out of her fogged glasses half the time, and there’s never a dry ounce of fabric to be found on which to wipe them. Stopping for lunch loses its charm when it means squeezing grape jelly onto a soggy bagel while sitting in a puddle. Sometimes the AT is an ankle-deep stream, though it’s true that that’s better than the sections of waist-deep mud pits. On cold days, we can’t stop or we’ll freeze, and I’ve never been so desperate for a floor and four walls. Mountaintop views are a treat so rare that the slightest hint of a break in the clouds has everyone stopping, shouting for joy, and madly snapping pictures before the moment passes. Gore-tex is little more than a joke.

A caretaker at one campsite introduced us to the phrase, “No rain, no pain, no Maine,” but even crossing the border into New Hampshire couldn’t put an end to the deluge. Many others have told us, “Well it can’t rain forever, right?” to which we respond with a shrug and return to ringing out our socks. I can think of a number of explanations for the relentlessness of the rain we have faced. The first is Divine Punishment. Perhaps because of their religious skepticism, cold manners, or aggressive driving, God decided to wipe out all of New England in a flood, and he forgot to instruct The Vermont Mafia on how to build an ark. Another possible explanation is Character Building. What doesn’t kill us is said to make us stronger, so my comrades and I are being tested to the extreme. The only problem is that instead of making us tougher, this rain is softening up all our callouses and causing us to get blisters again. Of course another logical justification for 35 straight days of record precipitation is GLOBAL WARMING. This brings us full circle to Divine Punishment (we brought it upon ourselves), so I’m going to settle on some combination of all three reasons as ultimately responsible for the onslaught.

Now I am told that every cloud has a silver lining. Let me then attempt to mine the skies of western Maine and eastern New Hampshire for all they are worth. For one, we have re-learned the beauty of music. When we walked out of the rain into our first White Mountain Hut, Carter Notch, to smell baking pies and hear the banjo twangs of Alison Krauss, I felt comfort warm my soul as it hadn’t in weeks. When we climbed through the window of the Wildcat Mountain Ski Patrol hut to escape the storm and wait out the night, thru-hikers Grizz and Earthworm serenaded us on the ukulele with tunes by Phish and Bob Marley. When we were visited on the trail by Lizzie’s cousin Russ and aunt Jude, Jude’s rendition of “Climb Every Mountain” from The Sound of Music made the thunder we were hearing sound pitifully weak. In addition to music, I have also learned to appreciate the silver linings of flexibility and faith. As if walking everywhere weren’t enough, the rain has forced us to slow down even more. Doing less miles and not making planned destinations has – in spite of my initial groans – meant extra time with friends and family and more good stories to tell. Finally, every small blessing has taken on greater meaning – the sun, a patch of blue sky, a pair of dry socks, a four-walled structure, a warm drink. Hopefully I won’t take them for granted anytime soon. So, as I sit here taking a respite in my air conditioned kitchen in Illinois as the sun beats down outside, I must admit that one thing can definitely be said for rain: it makes for memories!

Farewell to Camden

2009-01-22T11:00:00.000-06:00

This was the final update from my time in Camden, NJ, composed in July 2007.
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God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power, of love, and of a sound mind.
–2 Timothy 1:7

This is the theme verse for Camp Spirit, the Urban Promise summer camp for 5th through 8th graders where I work. I’ve found it fitting that I should end my year reciting a verse each day that sums up so perfectly what this year has meant for me. Fear is one of my greatest struggles. Part of it comes from being naturally shy, and part of it, as I have learned, comes from a lack of faith in who God tells me I am and what He tells me I should be capable of. So in my final newsletter of the year, I hope to pick apart this verse in light of how God has used Camden to chip away at my spirit of fear.

Not a spirit of fear, but of power

Looking back, it’s pretty obvious that over the last 11 months, I didn’t change Camden. If anything, things have gotten worse. Camden did, however, change me. In the words of Che Guevara, “Let the world change you, and you can change the world.” Maybe I wasn’t able to reduce the murder rate or the drug trafficking, but I was able to see the affects of these problems. I learned on the macro level about the systems of oppression that perpetuate poverty and crime, and I learned on the micro level about individuals and families that yearn for a better world. Just this week, Camden’s murder count for the year hit 23 (last year at this time there were 16), and the latest victim was the mother of my camp kids’ classmate and friend – beaten to death by her husband who was drunk and high. The best I can do is to join with the people of Camden in their pain – to share their wounds. This is the spirit of power that the Lord has given me. Because I was not afraid to take this risk, to live amongst and work alongside these people, I have gained more insight than reading books or watching 20/20 alone could ever give me. My eyes have also been opened to the blessings I have: my education, support network, and most importantly my faith empower me to work for change – to build God’s kingdom and establish the peace, justice, and abundant life of shalom.

Not a spirit of fear, but of love

Just as I didn’t do much good affecting a social revolution in Camden, I wasn’t that good at loving people, either. The most I can say is that I was present, and that I did my best to care in the little time that I had. Archbishop Oscar Romero once said, “So you say you love the poor…name them.” That I can do: there’s Kelley, Shermere, Pastor Tim, David Collins, Angel, Scott, Eddie, Beltran, Tina…I could go on for pages. In the last month, these people have spoiled us to death. We’ve been taken to New York and Atlantic City and attended all sorts of lunches, barbecues, and ceremonies in our honor. I guess my presence made some sort of impact. Even if I couldn’t right all the wrongs of their education system or get a single homeless person off the street, they noticed the sacrifices that I made to come and live and work in a foreign and sometimes hostile environment for a year for no pay and with no T.V. (God forbid!). While I came to Camden touting a pretty prideful kind of love – crusading on behalf of justice and God’s-heart-for-the-poor – I will be leaving cloaked in a humbler love – begging my friends here not to forget me, and praying that God will not let me forget them. Love, I think, is the aspect of God’s spirit that is most violently attacked by fear. Love requires us to be vulnerable, to make sacrifices, and to let go of all that makes us comfortable to make room for the comfort of others.

Not a spirit of fear, but of a sound mind

Coming to Camden, I think I was unaware how much Mission Year would change my mind. I was so excited to live and work with “likeminded” people that I didn’t anticipate the drastic shifts in perspective that soon confronted me. Through books, movies, speakers, and innumerable practical experiences, my mind was flooded with new ideas about poverty, race, education, development, community, and most of all God. I’m now realizing that I want this to be my life. I never want to stop being a sponge for Truth. I don’t want to work a job where I’m not constantly challenged by new ideas, and I don’t want to pursue learning that I can’t live out practically. This desire is what has led me to choose the newly created Mission Year/Eastern University graduate partnership for my next adventure. I’ll be doing a full time Masters program at Eastern in Urban Development while living in inner city Philadelphia (probably the west side) and practicing a simple community lifestyle and neighborhood ministry very similar to what I did this year. It’s basically Mission Year again with education substituted for community service. I am planning, however, to volunteer a few hours a week with an organization that runs dance (and other art-based) classes for youth in homeless shelters. I am really, really excited to further this year’s growth – I’m going back to school, but not back to the bubble. I pray that next year, like this one, will be a time of cramming my mind so full of the age-old yet revolutionary wisdom of God that there’s no room left for a spirit of fear!

In the words of one of my favorite 90’s tunes, “Every new beginning comes from some other beginning’s end.” Thanks for sticking with me, friends!

Faithfully fearless,
Devon

Not All Who Wander Are Lost

2009-01-22T10:00:00.000-06:00

Written for the May 2007 update from my time in Camden, NJ.
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Not all who wander are lost.
-J.R.R. Tolkien, The Lord of the Rings: The Fellowship of the Ring

This little statement has been the theme of my month. Each day seems to bring with it a new degree of randomness, but I’ve long believed that in God’s world, there are no coincidences. Let me explain…

For one, there’s Phillip. Phillip is a crazy Kenyan that used to be an intern for Urban Promise and now divides his time between working in a nursing home and with a church youth group. We first met him when he showed up at our door after 10:00 on a Saturday night back in March. He asked if he might come in and talk to us, and as weird as it was, we welcomed him in. For the next half hour, Phillip shared with us stories of his time at Urban Promise, borrowed a Bible and read us an encouraging verse, borrowed a guitar and played for us a song he’d written, and prayed for us. We were pretty impressed for never having met the guy before.

Since then, Phillip has been a regular – though still unpredictable – part of our lives. He has a knack for showing up right when we’re putting food on the table; he’s been here three times now when we’ve had other guests for dinner. The thing about Phillip is he’s not ashamed. He’s not ashamed to knock on our door and crash a party, and he’s not ashamed of the gospel. When we had the crew from the community development firm where Brent works over one night, Phillip was uncharacteristically quiet for much of the meal. Then, just at the critical juncture, he courteously asked, “Where do you think poverty in Camden comes from?” Bam! Before we knew what’d happened, untold testimonies were being poured out, fears and faiths were being revealed, and the conversation had become beautifully centered on God.

There have been other examples, though I don’t have space to mention them here, of strange events that have led me to find spiritual wisdom in the most unexpected places and people. Camden is a living example of Tolkien’s adage – I am no longer surprised to find God among the weak, the wanderers, and the outcasts. Heck, I myself am one of them! I have spent much of this month pacing back and forth between plans for next year: Should I stay? Should I go home? Should I dance? How much? I feel confused and unguided. I’m growing to understand, though, that the Holy Spirit likes to work this way. As long as we leave a back door open, he’ll walk right in, uninvited, and turn everything we thought we knew completely upside-down. Our flexibility gives him room to work. I’ve also started to see that a lot of people who think they have it all
figured out don’t. God prefers those who doubt, seek, wait and wander to those who sit and gloat that they’ve found the answers and have everything they need. He says, “Blessed are the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven.” In the end, he wants to be the one to satisfy us, to fill us up – he needs us to wander so that he can lead us home.

The World According to Noah

2009-01-22T09:45:00.000-06:00

Written for the April 2007 update from my time in Camden, NJ.
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“In the six hundredth year of Noah’s life, on the seventeenth day of the second month – on that day all the springs of the great deep burst forth, and the floodgates of the heavens were opened. And rain fell on the earth for forty days and forty nights.”

The day I returned from Russia, Camden and much of the Northeast were hit with a remarkably heavy rainstorm. My plane did a few figure eights before landing, but we made it okay. Two of my trains were detoured on buses because of downed trees on the tracks. At 11pm, I finally made it home to discover that our basement had a good three inches of puke-colored water from wall to wall. We decided to shut the door and wait till morning.

Dealing with the aftermath of the “springs of the great deep bursting forth” ended up being the story of the week. I enjoyed the challenge of playing amateur plumber and rigging sump pump hoses out basement windows, but the thrill died when it got to carrying boxes full of wet books and later 20-gallon shop vacs full of water up stairs when our worksite flooded for a second time. Things like this are always great for giving me a little perspective, though – occasionally I need a reminder that life here was never supposed to be easy. Some added perspective came when Brent’s bike was stolen (they broke the U-lock) out of our back shed. How can I complain about three inches of water and some wet books when Hurricane Katrina’s recovery will take decades? How can we complain about stolen possessions when poverty has robbed the people of Camden of their safety, educations, freedoms, and futures? I will always have it good. I will always be blessed – solely because of circumstances out of my control like where I was born, who my parents are, and the color of my skin.

Like Noah, though, somehow I have to believe that I was chosen for this task for a reason. I’m more than lucky, but I can’t let my privilege drive me into guilt or apathy. I’m here to do what I can – to weather the storm – because through it I think God has a lot of beauty to reveal.

May the floodgates of heaven open up on you all,
Devon

A Thanksgiving Story

2009-01-22T09:30:00.001-06:00

Written in the December 2006 update from my time in Camden, NJ.
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It was the day before Thanksgiving, and Brent (my housemate) was busy working at his morning site, a housing and community development organization. In the course of the morning, a bedraggled looking man came to the door looking to speak with someone who wasn’t there. In an effort to help in any way he could, Brent struck up a conversation with the man, and before
long, he had offered him a spare turkey that we happened to know was available in the Urban Promise fridge. When Brent asked the man his name, he was surprised to hear that he was David Collins – the same guy who had come to our house several times back in September asking for food and whose medical card we were holding as collateral for $5 that he never returned to repay! Even more determined to give David another chance, Brent agreed to meet him when he got off work so they could walk together to pick up the turkey.

David never showed up. Brent came home by himself, and just when we had resolved that the turkey would never have a home, David appeared on our doorstep, and we invited him inside. A self-proclaimed “bum,” he proceeded to explain to us why he had never returned for his medical card two months before. He’d been in and out of jail several times for failing to pay tickets he’d received: one for loitering, one for drinking in public (he claims his beer can was unopened), and one for walking through a drug zone (what part of Camden isn’t a drug zone?!!).

It’s an interesting cycle: he couldn’t pay the tickets, so he spent time in jail. While in jail, he was unable to work and thus lost his job. In general, he has trouble getting work because he has a disability and cannot stand for long periods. He gets welfare for his disability, but it stipulates that he cannot work for more than about 2 hours a day. The welfare and a 2-hour-a-day job are not enough to support his wife and kids, so he actually has to pretend to be separated from his wife and live in a seperate house so she can get single parent welfare, too.

David is a man of faith. He is honest, trusting, authentic, talented, educated, athletic, and caring. He is doing his best not only to get by, but to live a life that is glorifying to God. Sure, he has made his share of mistakes. But he forced me to ask myself, how much is his sad situation a result of his decisions and character, and how much of it is the result of being trapped in an injust system? In the words of Martin Luther King, “Give a man a fish and you’ll feed him for a day. Teach a man to fish and you’ll feed him for a lifetime. Eventually, though, you’ll want to start asking yourself who owns the pond.”

After a long and enlightening talk, Brent, Megan and I walked David and his turkey home to his house. He had told us the truth. Let’s just say I was feeling pretty blessed this Thanksgiving by a so-called bum!