Christmas thoughts in twenty-thirteen

My computer and desk area at work is scattered with post-it notes and little pieces of paper with insurance company phone numbers and abbreviations for medical billing codes. But there's also this little note on the bottom right corner of my computer screen, clipped ever so neatly by my grandmother (enclosed in one of her letters):

“Love is what we are born with. Fear is what we learn. The spiritual journey is the unlearning of fear and prejudices and the acceptance of love back in our hearts. Love is the essential reality and our purpose on earth." -- Marianne Williamson

I pondered that quote one morning as I was eating cereal, reading the book of Exodus. I was thinking about the fear the Israelites experienced as they left Egypt -- the fear of not knowing where they were going and how they were going to eat or drink...and then that lead me to thinking of the fear in the Christmas story. How many times do we hear an angel or someone say "Do not be afraid..."? I think about the fear that Mary felt when she found out she was going to be a mother, the fear the shepherds had when angels were singing in the sky, the fear Joseph had when he found out he was going to marry a pregnant virgin (say what?!), the fear Mary and Joseph experienced when they had to escape to Egypt to save Jesus from being killed by the king.

Emmanuel: God with us.

This is what Christmas is: the incarnation -- the holy God becoming human flesh, dwelling in our broken spaces, occupying the places where we hold onto fear.

I think about the stories of fear from the Israelites, all the way to Mary and Joseph and little baby Jesus, to Peter walking on water. Maybe you're reading this and are rolling your eyes at the Bible stories (I'll be honest: I do that too). Sometimes I just don't want to hear another mention of Mary or Joseph or Paul or Moses.

But I relate to their stories, and I relate to their fear.

I wonder where the manna is some days, I wonder where my guide is when trying to pursue cross-cultural relationships seems so much harder and more complicated than I had once thought. I wonder where the significant-other is, or if he exists. I wonder if I can be the kind of friend I want to be, I wonder if I can be confident enough to not worry so much about what other people think, to be satisfied with pursuing a path that is different from the rest of the crowd. I wonder about loneliness -- if there's a way to always avoid or circumvent it.

And in all of this, I know fear, and I know a deep desire to conquer it.

The thing is, this conqueror of fear, whom we call Jesus, decided to enter into our fear as a baby -- completely and utterly helpless. What I place my faith in, was once just an 8lb, squealing child, laying in a manger, completely reliant on his mother for everything.

You could look at the story and run away from it (let's be real: when you're choosing who's going to fight for you, I'd probably go for almost anyone other than a new born baby), but for some reason I'm drawn to it: drawn to this baby that casts out all fear and beckons me to come.

Maybe it's the paradox of his story: the helplessness who is the ultimate helper, the one who could conquer an empire but whose birth location was dictated by a census, a celebration crowd that could have been any kind of royalty but was instead the lowest of society, a stable instead of a palace to be welcomed into the earth he came to save.

None of it makes sense.

(and later, the paradox continues: a man whose feet were washed who ultimately washes over every part of me (and us), the one who had everything and decided to become nothing (to the point of death in the most brutal way), the one gave up comfort to become uncomfortable and do inconvenient things -- like receive the touch of a bleeding woman, heal a sick leper, teach annoying and close-minded disciples.)

The characters in the Christmas story knew fear in the deepest ways -- fear of the unkown, fear of rejection from family and society, fear of leaving their homes, fear for their very lives.

Emmanuel, God with us.

Little baby Jesus didn't parade onto earth and clear out the fear. Instead I think what he did was enter into the stories of fear and said "Look, I'm bigger than this. And with me, you too are bigger than this."

I want the unlearning of fear, to be brought back closer to what I was born with: love. At Christmastime, I'm reminded that the unlearning of fear starts in that stable, with a helpless baby, and people like Mary and Joseph who didn't let fear stop them from helping the savior come to the world.

I want that kind of fearlessness, I want to learn how to bring more of that into my life at Christmas, and into another year.

Fear and Welcoming our Immigrant Neighbors

I've been following immigration reform closely this past year...and have felt both great disappointment and hope. Immigration reform is as much of a political issue to me as a theological/sociological/personal "issue" (issue doesn't seem to be the best word, but we'll keep it there for now). Politics, by its very nature affects people, but immigration policy seems like an even more people-related political issue than others that we see in the newspaper. Immigration policy has a million stories and faces -- sometimes these are well presented in DC, and others times they are not. I'm hopeful when I see the former but angry about the latter.

It is easy to paint the derogatory comments about immigration reform or the obnoxious statements by politicians as simply ignorant or hateful, but I think the better word to describe it is fear. Fear of the unkonwn, fear of a different language, fear of a different culture that expresses itself in dynamically different ways.

As my sociology professor at Gordon told us, the root of prejudice and discrimination is fear of difference. 

Social psychologist Christena Cleveland recently published a book called "Disunity in Christ: Uncovering the Hidden Forces that Keep us Apart". Cleveland is a scholar with experience bridging divides within the church and the focus of the book is helping us to know where our divisions come from and how we can proactively seek greater unity. A lot of her research proves some basic points that we already assume (like "birds of a feather flock together" logic), but she digs deeper and helps us (me) see the divisions that exist within our communities and how they are so easily perpetuated, even unintentionally.

In one of her chapters, Cleveland addresses the tensions we often feel when we are with those of a different culture than our own:

Why do cultural threats trigger such strong reactions from us? We'll look at three causes in particular. First, cultural threats increase ambiguity, which is unfortunate because we hate ambiguity. Second, cultural threats can confuse us, especially when they are caused by people who are supposed to be members of our group. Third, cultural threats are threatening because we fear negative consequences more than we seek positive outcomes. (126-7)

Ambiguity, confusion, and potential negative consequences cause us to flee from difference or to disengage from others who may speak a different language, embody different cultural values, etc. I think I can make the jump and say that within those three causes, fear is the underlying cause: fear of ambiguity (it's nice to know what's going on), fear of confusion, and fear of the future and the risks we have to take that may not turn out.

If you know me, or have read even a couple of my blog posts, you know that fear is not absent in my life (let's be honest: I just wrote about how hard being brave is).

And, yet,

I am confident that this fear is something we must fight earnestly against because it keeps us away from experiencing human relationships and experiences that will shatter our preconceived notions and move us in ways that we once thought unfathomable. Yes, that's a dramatic statement, but I totally believe it. I believe it because I have seen glimpses of bridging barriers between people of different ethnic and cultural backgrounds and it feels like standing on sacred ground.

For all of these reasons, immigration reform is essential. I believe that the biggest barriers that are blocking its passage stem from fear. I won't demonize this fear: I can empathize with fear and know that there are risks that are hard to take. However, I believe that if we let this fear set us back from embracing and loving our community, we will miss out on one of the most powerful expressions of love, hospitality, reconciliation, forgiveness, hope, and peace.

We just can't miss out.

I could tell you stories: stories about me, forced out of my comfort zone, conversing in a different language, confusing past tense/imperfect tenses, playing soccer, making prestiños, eating salsa that almost set my mouth on fire... In each of those places, in each of those homes or parks or wherever, I have been blessed abundantly, been taught patiently, and been humbled -- sometimes to a point of tears.

There has been freedom for me in embracing ambiguity and confusion and fear of negative outcomes, like Cleveland discusses. I'm not inclined to the ambiguity or the confusion, but there's something that beckons me to it and I know I have to keep following that path. I have much to learn in each of those areas (I'm a first born! You can imagine how against my nature ambiguity is!), and I'm thankful that the learning curve is wide enough for me, for us.

Lament for 12 Years a Slave

There have been a lot of articles and blog posts circling the internet about "12 Years a Slave". I don't want to just be adding noise to the conversation (if interested, this article and this post are very much worth reading), but I was moved by the movie, and want to explain more of that here.

I've thought a lot about Patsy after I saw "12 Years a Slave." For those who haven't seen the movie, her story is one of the most powerful in the film and the filmmakers did not shy away from showing the intense brutality she experienced by her slaveowners.

The most difficult scene of the movie for me to watch came towards the end when Patsy, a friend of the main character, Solomon Northup, is found to be missing on the plantation. She comes back with a bar of soap in her hand and the slave owner immediately grabs her asking where she went. She explains that she felt dirty and just wanted a bar of soap to take a shower. The slave owner then forces her to take off her clothes and be whipped repeatedly and harshly until she is barely conscious. Even worse, Solomon is the one forced to issue this punishment -- at one point with a gun pointed to his head because he wasn't beating her hard enough.

Dignity is stripped from Patsy in that scene. It was stripped from her throughout the movie as she is beaten and raped, but in that scene a woman who was trying to get a bar of soap to clean herself is punished mercilessly at the hands of her own friend and confidant. It is gut-wrenching to watch.

In the next scene, we find Patsy's fellow slaves tending to her deep wounds (which seemed unlivable to me). She is moaning and crying while her friends lay clothes and soak up the blood dripping from her back. It was in that scene that I thought differently about these words:

The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; 

on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned

....

For as in the day of Midian's defeat, you have shattered 

the yoke that burdens them, the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor. 

Every warrior's boot used in battle 

and every garment rolled in blood will be destined for burning, will be fuel for the fire. 

....

For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, 

and the government will be on his shoulders and he will be called 

Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace

....

He will reign on David's throne and over his kingdom, 

establishing justice and righteousness from that time on and forever. 

((verses from Isaiah 9:2-7))

Patsy knew darkness. She knew the weight of the yoke of slavery, and the rod of the oppressor. Her wounds spoke loudly to me of this fact: that it is crucial for me to know her story in order to better understand who God is as a liberator of the oppressed. 

As a white privileged American, I realize that as hard as these stories are to watch, they are crucial to hear and to see. Even more importantly, as a person committed to following Christ, I must know these stories and my heart must break over them. As much as a I celebrate Christ-followers who were abolitionists and fought for the freedom of slaves, I must equally mourn and repent of the many Christ-followers who fought to keep the institution of slavery alive for so many years.

One of my favorite authors, Soong Chan Rah, wrote a book that has influenced my thinking on the purposes of the Church and overcoming racial divides, specifically within the U.S. One of the biggest challenges to me in his book was the task of corporate lament: what does it look like to be a community that mourns not just over individual sin, but over systems of sin? What does it look like to grieve the many lives lost in the course of my own country's history (let alone the history of the world)? The question can take us through many awful time periods of U.S. history: from the genocide of Native Americans, slavery in the 18th & 19th centuries, discrimination throughout the 20th century, and today's racial profiling and inequality (just to name a few things). I'm convicted by this question -- and compelled to pursue it because I believe in a God who loves justice and whose heart beats relentlessly for his "kingdom to come on earth as it is in heaven".

Maybe the first part of corporate lament is listening to these stories: watching the movies and reading the books. The next steps are probably life long and I will never have them figured out, but I want to pursue the questions and I want to pursue joy with lament, thanksgiving with repentance. Yes, it's a paradox, but I believe it's a paradox worth fighting for...and worth fighting to better understand.

some thoughts on crackers and wine

One Sunday, I made challah bread. I make bread all the time, but never with yeast, so this was a new experience for me.

I know yeast is tricky, that water temperature means practically everything when it comes to making bread. So I hoped the water temperature was adequate and that the yeast had enough time to foam in the water and sugar, and then I added the flour, and then kneaded the dough on a floured wooden cutting board. Stuck in the oven for an hour while I talked to Lisa and then braided and baked it.

And there, it was: bread. It only takes a few ingredients and a little time and patience, and then it somehow appears in its fluffy and tasty form.

And then I thought, shouldn't I be serving bread with OUT yeast? Isn't that more appropriate? Does it really matter? Are matzah crackers more suitable for this kind of experience?

I stood in the grocery store nervously looking at the different varieties of grape juice, thinking to myself "If it's supposed to be a representation of Jesus' blood, is it important to get organic?" "Is it sacriligeous to be looking at calorie counts on these things?" "Is it bad that I want to buy the less expensive one?" "Is Welch's okay?"

Or maybe, wine...

Yes. Wine will be better. Trader Joe's it is.

I didn't know how to do the Eucharist "right". I'd been having too many conversations in my head to count about how I was supposed to do this, how I was supposed to lead the drinking of these grapes and the breaking of this challah bread (or the shoulda-been-matzah-crackers).

But I don't think there's one "right" way of doing it. At least that's the truth that is comforting me right now.

When we serve the Eucharist, the crackers and bread are less important than the presence of God's spirit, dwelling within us as we partake together. As we crunch together and drink together.

Together, together, together.

The Eucharist is about many things, togetherness being one of them. I'm fearful of even writing a blog post about the Eucharist because it's such sacred ground. But I also feel equally compelled to write about it because within its sacredness is also ordinary-ness where I find comfort. It's the meal that's offered to the broken and the needy, to those who are unworthy. It's a meal that is holy and mysterious but also simple.

I used to believe that the Eucharist was all about confession...and I used to dread the crackers and the juice. Dreaded drinking it and eating it, dreaded remembering what I had done wrong and who I had been unkind to. Then I stepped into an Anglican church, where the choir wore robes and we turned to face the speaker who read from Scripture. I stepped into a church where incense was burned and wine was served and liturgy was read.

The Eucharist, this church taught me, was for thanksgiving. This bread and wine was a gift.

I realize that I'm walking on choppy waters: there's hundreds of years of church history and great theological teachings and controversy regarding transubstantiation and conversations about how often and when and how and who the bread is broken, etc. etc. But I'm writing because I want to be brave and say that I have my own story with the Eucharist. It's not all written out here, but I carry it with me as I drink the wine and eat the bread. I've learned from different churches, I've seen this gift presented in various ways, and I'm continuously learning what this sacrament means.

I believe in repentance and confession -- but I also believe that the Eucharist is for so much more than this. And I believe that making the challah bread and picking out the wine or grape juice is a process of learning and growing individually and corporately.

Jesus' sacrifice is huge, and I can't fully grasp its significance. But each week I'll understand something a little more, or a little differently -- whether it's matzah, challah bread, or gluten-free rice crackers.

on being brave

Dear Hilary,

You wrote this blog post a while back and it's bringing tears to my eyes as I read it right now. It was called "Dear Hilary, Be Braver".

I've been thinking about being brave and believing the good truth about myself and who I am. I've been pondering it as I drove to a beautiful wedding on a Saturday afternoon, and as I drive to work sometimes before the sun comes up.

Hilary, I don't feel brave.

The truth is that I feel more scared than brave. Scared of my own limits and what I can and can't do. Scared of insecurity and what I say and what I should have said, scared of being alone. I've come to terms with the fear: I'm looking at it directly with both eyes fixed on it, trying to decide what I want to do with the fear. And I turned to your writing for encouragement, because I already knew I could find it there:

"Brave looks like wearing bright blue pants on a Friday night, like eating Ben & Jerry’s from the carton, like whispering to your best friend that you do not know if you can believe that you are worthy. Yes, un-vulnerable, brave is in the work of admitting all the places where you ache. This year, my year of 22, I have learned that to be brave is to walk into a room and, for just a moment, believe that all things work together for the good."

Do you remember that poem we had to read as TGC fellows? The one about courage in the small things by Anne Sexton? 

("It is in the small things we see it.

The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,

wallowing up the sidewalk....")  

I think about that poem all the time. I think about the small things: I wonder what it would be like if I encouraged myself to believe that it is in the small things that I, too, am brave.

Thank you for reminding me that bravery isn't just in the climbing Mt. Everest and acing a job interview: bravery is believing in ourselves and staring at truth that is the aching. Thank you for reminding me that it's brave to recognize our own weakness and love ourselves in spite of it, it's brave to speak a different language even when you make a hundred mistakes, it's brave to ask the hard questions, it's brave to roller blade at lunch with the dorky helmet because you just want to be reminded that exercise is fun again.

Do you think it's possible to change our outlook on being brave? I think the world needs it: we all need more encouragement in the small things, we need to be reminded that they matter. Because it's in those moments (seemingly small) that we see truth: that we are beautiful, that we are capable of more than we think we are, and that rollerblading is in its own dorky fashion, perhaps the funnest way to spend a Monday lunch break. 

It's in the small things, Hilary. Thank you for teaching me that.

Love, Alyssa

a milestone

October 12th marked one year at my job here in Santa Barbara (yikes!).

Since graduating college, I've been thinking more about how we measure time -- by school years, birthdays, new year's, anniversarys, etc. I have (for now) concluded that I want to mark time by all of these dates.

As I think about one year working after college, I'm overwhelmed with gratitude for what I have learned and the amazing people I have gotten to meet along the way. Here are a few of the things I've learned/appreciated after one year in medical billing...

1) The people you work with are just as important (maybe more important) than the job itself...I think that's self-explanatory, but I think sometimes we can get so wrapped up in what a job looks like on paper that we don't get to think about how our company/people treat each other. I've learned how important this is to me and how much I need to value it

2) Medical billing is interesting: maybe people disagree with me on that one, but I have honestly found a genuine interest in learning about insurance reimbursements, allowed amounts for CPT codes, insurance contracting, explaining how PPOs and EPOs and HMOs work, talking to doctor's, schedulers, and patients, learning the difference between ACL allografts and autografts, how much are supplies for an osteotomy or bunionectomy, etc.

3) Having a friend as your work partner is the biggest gift. I'm thankful for the email chats to one another while we're on hold with insurance companies, treating each other to americanos when we need a pick-me-up, encouraging each other to be bolder in getting to meet more people at the office, and understanding/putting up with each other (mostly me) when we're having a crappy day. One of the biggest things I enjoy about my job is working with my dear friend, Chloe (our desks are about 2 feet apart from each other :)) She's a huge gift for a hundred reasons, but working with her is one of those many reasons

4) Corporate Social Responsibility: did you know that companies that are for-profit can seek to impact their community and make a difference? Through tutoring junior highers to carpooling to work to dreaming about making an outdoor classroom at the Westside Boys & Girls Club, I've learned a lot about what corporate culture can look like and how it can be an influence beyond its office doors

5) Work can be satisfying and meaningful in unexpected ways: I didn't graduate with the hopes of working in medical billing, but I've found joy and satisfaction in my job -- from discovering new things about insurance to thinking about how to be an ethical business in how we collect money from patients, I'm really thankful for where I get to spend eight hours of my day

Excited for year #2!

a bench

A few weeks ago, Gordon College dedicated two benches for two lost loved ones: Dr. David Lumsdaine, a beloved professor of mine, and a first-year student named Monica who died in a car accident last spring. I was given the privilege of reading a passage of Scripture with two other students (friends of Monica) and the dedication also included two reflections from faculty and residence life staff, as well as a prayer recitation and word of dedication by our campus pastor.

But, why a bench?

I think the bench matters because if loving people is as important as it is, then remembering them (those whom we have loved, and those who have loved us back) is something we ought to pursue as well. And I can't think of a more fitting place to remember a person by than a bench: where conversations, peace, and rest, can all happen simultaneously (because all of this is exactly what he would have wanted).

The bench isn't there just to remember, although it will certainly help us to do so. The bench is also there to honor someone who loved deeply and genuinely. The bench is there so that we reflect on what that love meant to us and how we let it flow in our own lives. The bench is there because loss is real and deep -- and we need a place to gather around that loss.

I cried for the first time that afternoon for Dr. Lumsdaine.

It felt good to cry those tears there -- by that bench, with those people -- because that was his family, and they knew all the things that made him the unique man that he was.

The verses read in his honor got to me because they captured so much of his character. The reflections were moving because they showed that a community had come to love the unique and quirky sides of who he was. The prayers were comforting, as well as silencing, as we both grieved death, and rejoiced in future life together.

I'm really glad that bench is there -- sitting underneath a tree, in the middle of a busy intersection on campus that I crossed a hundred times, sometimes burdened by books and heavy thoughts, sometimes joyfully skipping with friends to get dinner. There's comfort in knowing there's a bench to return to when I go back. There's comfort knowing that I can sit on that bench in that place and know a friend or two who can share stories of who this man was, and how he was part of a college community that changed my life.

I think the bench is there for more than remembering and honoring; I think it's also there for comforting and giving peace.

And I smile as I put those thoughts together because I think that's exactly what Dr. Lumsdaine would have wanted (he always wanted to comfort, he always sought peace).

So, I'm thankful for that bench. Thankful for what it means and who it honors and the peace it brings. I didn't know a place to sit could bring all of those things.

summer according to my iphone

I'm still trying to figure out the beginning and ending points of summer since now school isn't in the picture. In terms of weather, summer is still here, but Libby is off to school next week and Kelsey the next, so in a way "summer" in school terms is ending...so I guess it's an appropriate time for a blog post reflecting on summer 2013.

My summer highlights include: my work's softball team (we played Thursday nights at Elings Park -- so. much. fun), family vacays to Washington and Lake Arrowhead, and beginning to play soccer Sunday nights on the Westside. 

Here are some pics to document!

post-running with the padre.

Trip to Washington! Perfect way to begin? BERRIES GALORE. We were in heaven with all those delicious raspberries, blueberries, and blackberries. 

Visiting with Grandma -- Dad even wore an apron. It was very cute.

Aaron's wedding! Here the cousins are -- just missing Kels. The wedding was BEAUTIFUL. One of the highlights was the long days of sunlight ..sun doesn't go down until like 9:30! The wedding was in a beautiful chapel and the reception was outside and there were lawn games, delicious BBQ dinner and lawn games, and pie too!

It was a highlight to be with my dad's family and I treasured time with my uncles, aunts, grandmas, cousins, and cousin's baby! 

Stephie is getting married! My cousin is getting married in October and we had a fun time going down to Orange County one weekend to help in celebrating the soon-to-be Mrs. Mertz!

And my other cousins, Andrea and Scott, are home from Cambodia, with their adorable son Zachary in tow! He's pretty fun to hang out with

Lake Arrowhead: we celebrated Grandpa's birthday in style with a week in the mountains. I'm so thankful for good vacation benefits and was able to take the whole week off. We enjoyed swimming, jacuzzi time, reading, sleeping in, good food (too much of it!), and just being together. And, I didn't wear make-up for a whole week! That's definitely a highlight on my list :)

And Kelsey came home. The Baker girls are back together again. I guess I'm the only one who's excited about it.

Jean Bethke Elshtain 1941-2013

photo courtesy of Chicago Tribune

Considering the fact that I have a rather small blog following (but I love the 10 of you consistent readers!! Thank you for reading!), I'm assuming that of those 10 readers, none have heard of this woman named Jean Bethke Elshtain before. She passed away earlier this week and I wanted to write about her because she had an impact on my studies in Political Science. And a year after graduating, I realize how much I miss reading her work, among others. It still blows my mind a little that I grew to love political theory (well, it's more of a love-hate relationship ...loving the class discussions, hating writing long papers), and she was one of those thinkers who helped me write papers and ask good questions in class.

She wrote about pluralism. She wrote about gender. She wrote about the common good. She wrote about politics and ethics and so many important things in a way that kept political theory sort of "grounded"...what I mean by that is you can easily make political theory something so distant from reality, or you can think about political theory in the ways it touches all aspects of our social order. Elshtain went with the latter which is probably why I liked her so much. She was also easier to read than Plato, but equally brilliant. 

One of the last papers I wrote in college was for my "Justice" class, taught by one of my favorite professors who always encouraged me to read Elshtain for my papers. In the paper I used some of her works such as Public Man Private Woman, which challenged the idolatry of reason and hte separation between the public and private spheres -- as well as men's isolation to the public and women's isolation to the private

Thinking about her work, and now her death, I realize that good thinkers pass away. That's a strange thought, but I wonder what was on her computer before she passed away -- what was she writing about that she didn't get to finish? 

Thinking about her death also makes me nostalgic for college days. But in reflecting on some of what I learned from Dr. Elshtain, I am encouraged to keep thinking, to keep asking the questions and writing the papers, and challenging the assumptions of society. It means I must always be a student in some capacity, and I really like that. 

it's more than just a game

Five years ago this happened:

I was in Guatemala, playing soccer on some random field surrounded by gorgeous mountains and trees and shouts of Spanish and English as a ball was passed around. I wrote in my journal, July 10, 2008 that I had one of the best days of my life playing soccer with Guatemalans. I remember when they suggested we play "gringos vs. Guatemalans"...and we did. And I'm sure we lost miserably.

I remember that day because it was in those moments, with sweat dripping down my face, and my cheeks turning crazy red, that no one had to worry about language differences. Or cultural backgrounds. Or income disparities. It was just a bunch of people playing the beautiful game of fútbol, laughing and running hard together.

I've had more of those moments since Guatemala. I had them in Costa Rica as we played a game with my friend's host family, in San Diego when we played soccer with a group from the Hispanic church we worked with, and most recently on a Sunday in Bohnett Park on the Westside of Santa Barbara.

It's funny that I titled this post "it's more than just a game", because my sports knowledge is minimal and I'm not a sports enthusiast in the least. I do NOT like being aggressive and prefer to do sports where I don't have to touch anyone (hence, cross country and swimming were the perfect athletic endeavors for me in high school). But on that field in Guatemala, and on the fields I've played since then, I have learned that this is more than a game, it's community. It's one of the most beautiful forms of community I have ever seen take place.

On the soccer field I am white, I am la gringa. I stand out and I am much too vocal (don't take the ball from me! no, I didn't mean to pass it to you! I'm sorry! I'm sorry! I hit you in the face! Are you okay? Ah the ball is coming to me-what-do-I-do-with-it?!? ..just snippets of my soccer ramblings). While there are many times where I do feel insecure by my white-ness, on the soccer field, that insecurity fades a little. I have been met by gracious hospitality -- by Latin Americans and Mexican-Americans and my own peers who play patiently with me, and smile and laugh with me, and (for some reason I'm still not sure of) pass the ball to me.

So, that Sunday as I was passing the soccer ball on a small field, surrounded by Latino families celebrating birthdays with piñatas and watching their kids on the playground, I was made more aware of Alyssa la gringa. The Alyssa who doesn't fit in exactly in this setting. Yet it's sort of a paradox because it is within this exact setting that I experience great joy and peace, and oddly enough, confidence.

On the soccer field I hear

mano! mano!
I got it!

pásele!
over here!

aquí!

Spanish, English, Spanish, English. In some way the two languages sort of blend together seamlessly and we know what the other is saying. The words give me peace and rest for some reason. They fill me with joy, and even though I'm playing in the midst of white people and not-white people, 6 year olds and 23 year olds, high school educated and PhD accredited, I feel like we're this family, laughing and sweating and running together. Our differences no longer seem so apparent.

I remember one semester Gordon's chapel theme was "The Kingdom of God is like..." We looked at the gospels and what Jesus taught about his kingdom and all the metaphors and stories he used to describe it. 

I think I saw a piece of the Kingdom on Sunday on that soccer field. I think passing that fútbol was a tangible illustration of shalom, flourishing, peace. And I think it's only the beginning of building relationships and love and trust with people who have been put on the margins within my city. We have a long way to go in being a part of this Kingdom work, but I believe I saw a glimpse of it on Sunday. And I'm eager to go back for more.

receiving

I've been a part of an exciting conversation about community, church, love, hospitality, giving, and receiving. These conversations have stirred some thoughts that I wanted to explore a little bit more. 

"Our humanity comes to its fullest bloom in giving. We become beautiful people when we give whatever we can give: a smile, a handshake, a kiss, an embrace, a word of love, a present, a part of our life...all of our life" -- Henri J.M. Nouwen "Life of the Beloved"

If I'm tracking with Nouwen, and our humanity comes to its fullest bloom in giving, then we also come to our fullest bloom by receiving this from others. We are a part of others' expression of humanity as we live in relationship and receive the blessing that they are. If we are only givers, then we are not engaging in others' expressing their humanity, who they are created to be.

I think we always want to be the givers -- and this is a very good thing. We are called to give, certainly - to give in ways that we are uniquely capable to do. We have talents and experiences that beckon us to serve and care for others. My point isn't to not give - my point is rather to see that if we believe giving is integral to the framework of our lives, then receiving others' gifts is equally important.

And I'm learning that receiving others' gifts is at times overwhelming and leads me to vulnerable places. Let me explain...

Perhaps the biggest example of receiving is in the arena of hospitality. And what better story to tell then Latin America - where hospitality was extended to me in every way possible. I was given a multitude of gifts, many in the form of food or housing or friendship. At times the accepting of these gifts was tiring and I wanted to lock myself in my room and just be myself reading a book or watching a movie. I was exhausted because this process of receiving was not at all passive, but active: I realized (and realize more now), how important my reception of their (my host families and other friends) gifts was and how it communicated love to them (at least I wanted to communicate love -- I know that was not always the case!). I also realized that receiving these gifts was at times uncomfortable: I ate food that I wasn't too excited about. I slept in the house of a family who had very little money and resources. A man whose country has been severely oppressed by my country washed my hands as part of a communion service in Cuba. These were the times where receiving the gifts felt uncomfortable because I knew I either didn't deserve it (hand washing, housing), or didn't want it (food I wasn't used to).

One of the hardest parts about saying goodbye in Latin America was that I couldn't find a way to give enough back. No amount of "gracias" or "a mi me gusta" was enough for what they gave to me. I received with hands that were not worthy or were uncomfortable. I received with eyes filled with tears because of anxiety and fear, I received with a complete inability to repay in any way close to the love extended to me. All those gifts flooded my heart and I didn't know what to do with it all...and at times now I see those gifts flooding me and I feel the same sort of panic ("what do I give in return?! how do I say thank you? Did I do enough to deserve this?!")

In Latin America, I wasn't a giver primarily, but a receiver. And I can't tell you the thousand lessons I learned (and continue to learn) from that. Yes, I believe that I did give in Latin America and I know my host family loved me and appreciated me and what I gave to their family. But it was so small in comparison to the gifts they gave to me.

I believe we have a false perception of giving and receiving - we see one as dominant and the other as passive, yet I am learning that both are equally important in shaping us and guiding the kind of love we want to express in relationships. I'm learning that receiving the gifts often puts me out of my comfort zone and forces me to recognize that their are parts of myself that are prideful and that I must let go. Receiving forces me to give up organization and control in order to see the beauty of living each day open to the gifts that are waiting. Receiving allows me to see another person expressing his/her humanity in the gifts he or she is uniquely able to give.

I'm learning more about what I have to give, too. The little things like a smile or post-it-note, or maybe speaking Spanish -- all are important gifts that must be given with open hands. These gifts express a part of who I am and I want people to receive them openly too, just as I receive their gifts.

Maybe life is more than just thinking about what our gifts are and how we can use them, but also about how we can be better receivers, and see the beauty in others as they express their gifts.

what a birthday taught me about being loved

I turned 23 a few weeks ago.

I was showered with love in so many ways...text messages, phone calls, a breakfast date, facebook posts, flowers on my desk, lovely wine date with my coworkers, instagram pictures, a surprise lunch with church friends and work friends together, delicious family dinner and dessert, and a night at the movies.

I was so touched. So overwhelmed by the love and generosity of friends and family.

But you know what I learned on this April 12th? I learned that I have to let go of deserving love, I have to open my hands and my heart to the gifts God has given not because of my own doing, but because of his extravagant love for me...and how he expresses that love through friends and family.

It overwhelms me that I had bouquets of flowers on my desk. That friends surprised me for lunch, that I got gift cards for lattes and acai bowls, and that my mom made me chocolate cake...because those are all things I love. My friends and family know me, and know what I love and care about (coffee, friends, surprises...and chocolate of course!! among many other things :)). That is so special to me.

I forget that God knows me and hears me. I forget that he loves me for who I am, not because of my personality, or how many emails I respond to at work. I forget that he has given me friends not because I am trying to be a good friend, but because he wants to teach me what it looks like to be loved and cared for.

Throughout my faith journey, I've always been taught that God's love is a free gift. I'm realizing now that accepting this love is a life-long journey. And he has brought some beautiful people into my life to show me how.

Thank you, friends, family, for loving me.

justice // justicia

Justice is a complex word for me. It feels sacred and seeing it all over Facebook and online news sources these past few days has left me feeling a little bit empty and sad...and I'm still trying to understand why.

I was first rocked by this word in Costa Rica, when I learned that the Spanish translation of righteousness and justice is the same - justicia. While in English we have both "righteousness" and "justice"; in Spanish, there is only "justicia." That was huge for me. I believe righteousness and justice are both holy and important words, but I usually associated righteousness in a more individual sense, and justice was more all-encompassing.

Justice got bigger for me, right then and there, with that big 'ole Spanish/English Bible in the beautiful country of Costa Rica.

And the questions? They got bigger too. What does justice require of me? Who am I in the midst of a very unjust and broken world? How do I perpetuate systems of injustice? How do I participate in the pursuit of justice?

The word justice was imbedded in my Poli Sci major, actually it's probably one of the reasons my mind was drawn to that department as a freshman. I learned that the task of the state, the task of government is to do justice. I had never thought of politics that way before, that government serves a very important purpose in every person's life (the questions and controversies over limited government versus larger government can stay at bay for right now). Like all parts of life, government is a broken institution, but is in the process of being redeemed. My professors taught me to study government with a hopeful mind searching for justice and truth within political systems. Maybe that seems impossible at times, (I certainly went through periods of disillusionment with the idea that political systems could be effective participants in the pursuit of justice) but I still hold to that important truth and don't want to lose sight of it.

My last semester in college I took a class specifically called "Justice." We read excerpts from John Stuart Mill and Karl Marx, John Rawls and Reinhold Niebuhr. We had conversations about justice and the public good, about liberation theology and utilitarianism, about how fairness and equality relate to justice. I loved that class and learned so much in it. I learned that understanding and pursuing justice requires our minds and hearts. It was a class where the experiences I had in Costa Rica came to life through philosophical writings, and where philosophers' work seemed so relevant to the issues of everyday life.

I will spend the rest of my life trying to understand what justice is, and what it means to me and to the communities I am a part of. Justice is complex, it is deep, it requires all of us. This is what I know to be true.

Because this word carries much weight with me, I am saddened by headlines that say: "Justice for Boston!" when a man who killed and injured many innocent people is caught. I certainly believe in fair trials and the judiciary system where evil is destroyed and the good wins.

But justice is so much bigger than this, bigger than what happened when a man was captured in Boston. Justice is shalom -- flourishing. The state is a part of this, communities and churches are a part of this, we are a part of this. If I pray for justice for the city of Boston, I don't want it to look like what I see on the news. I want it to encompass more than capturing one person who committed an evil and horrific act. I want it to encompass healing the broken neighborhoods, feeding the starving communities, giving hope to the hopeless individuals on the T every morning, freeing women caught in sex trafficking, exhibiting mercy to the immigrants who lack legal status and are abused every day in their workplaces.

I want justicia, the word that first shocked me with how big and unfamiliar it was, that transformed the way I thought about Jesus and the gospel, that changed the way I see the world. I want justice for the city of Boston, for my home city of Santa Barbara, for the whole world. And I am so grateful that justice can't be captured in news headlines or Facebook statuses, because it is a thousand times greater than what the media can capture.

¡Ya se te ha declarado lo que es bueno!

Ya se te ha dicho lo que de ti espera el Señor: 

Practicar la justicia, amar la misericordia, y humillarte ante tu Dios

Miqueas 6:8

//

He has showed you, O man, what is good. And what does the Lord require of you? 

To act justly and to love mercy and to walk humbly with your God

Micah 6:8

oh spring, you are good to me

Did I move back to the west coast?

yes

Does that mean I will stop taking pictures of pretty flowers and blooming trees?

nope!

The season of spring...there are too many things I like about it. I love having more light and how the day feels differently with each morning dawn breaking a little earlier and the sun setting a few minutes later. I love the smell of orange blossoms where my car is parked and jasmine over the neighbors' fences. Trees are indeed blooming and flowers popping up from the ground. I notice the birds chirping louder and I find myself walking around the house more often with bare feet.

I certainly miss the east coast season changes. In college I practically dug up the crocuses and tulips from the ground when I saw them starting to peak and I sometimes went on bud-searching runs where I specifically tried to find trees who were making the most progress getting their buds a'ready for spring time. And when those crocuses did bloom, when I could hear the crickets chirping loudly at night with my window open, when those tulips and daffodils came up in their full glory, MAN OH MAN was I in heaven. Like almost tears in my eyes, gotta-run-all-over-the-neighborhood-to-see-every-flower-in-the-city-of-Wenham-type excitement. I'm telling you, flowers and seasons became a new passion of mine.

And I think that excitement has given me more observant eyes to see that spring happens here too. It happens differently, much less dramatically, and it's not as vivid of a change from white snow to purple crocuses, but spring does come to Santa Barbara. And spring still makes my heart happy and thankful. 

the brave things

Courage
by Anne Sexton

It is in the small things we see it.
The child's first step,
as awesome as an earthquake.
The first time you rode a bike,
wallowing up the sidewalk.
The first spanking when your heart
went on a journey all alone.
When they called you crybaby
or poor or fatty or crazy
and made you into an alien,
you drank their acid
and concealed it.

Later,
if you faced the death of bombs and bullets
you did not do it with a banner,
you did it with only a hat to
cover your heart.
You did not fondle the weakness inside you
though it was there.
Your courage was a small coal
that you kept swallowing.
If your buddy saved you
and died himself in so doing,
then his courage was not courage,
it was love; love as simple as shaving soap.

Later,
if you have endured a great despair,
then you did it alone,
getting a transfusion from the fire,
picking the scabs off your heart,
then wringing it out like a sock.
Next, my kinsman, you powdered your sorrow,
you gave it a back rub
and then you covered it with a blanket
and after it had slept a while
it woke to the wings of the roses
and was transformed.

Later,
when you face old age and its natural conclusion
your courage will still be shown in the little ways,
each spring will be a sword you'll sharpen,
those you love will live in a fever of love,
and you'll bargain with the calendar
and at the last moment
when death opens the back door
you'll put on your carpet slippers
and stride out.

I wrote an email recently to a friend, reminding her as she once did to me that we are brave. I think as young-out-of-college-confused-twenty-somethings, we have to name the brave things. 

My brave things are somewhat embarrassing. My brave things are starting new health insurance, making a doctor's appointment, and then showing up at the wrong doctor's office, getting to the right doctor's office ten minutes late with confidential paperwork flying freely for all to see as I run into the office. And then getting lost en route to the waiting room after being specifically instructed by a nurse (who later had to come and get me down the hall and practically hold my hand to get me to the right place).

After that embarrassing episode I texted my friend in the doctor's office waiting room and said "sometimes I just suck at being an adult" ...and some days that is 100% the truth.

My brave thing is working out at lunch with my coworkers, my muscles shaking uncontrollably because I just can't hold a 1 minute plank gosh darn it! But I try anyway, even when it means falling to the floor when everyone else is holding those abs in perfect position. (to those who know me and my love for rap and hip hop music, i think i take "get low" to a whole new meaning, because I find myself on the floor way too often. but we're supposed to get low, right? ;)).

My brave thing is tutoring a woman in English on Wednesdays even though I have no idea how to teach English as a second language

I don't say any of these brave things to make me sound high and mighty (because really, I shouldn't receive a high five for getting lost in my hometown and reading an address wrong), but rather I write it to say that bravery is in the small things. And I think sometimes we're so wrapped up in the big picture, that we forget about the day to day, about how God is providing for us as we make our way through the frustrating Tuesdays and confusing thoughts we think about as we drive to work on Thursday morning. Sometimes I forget that it is in the small things that we see it, as Anne Sexton writes (It is in the small things we see it // The child's first step,

as awesome as an earthquake // The first time you rode a bike, wallowing up the sidewalk.)

But we're doing brave things, you know? We're working and dreaming, applying to a jobs in the hopes of finding a good one, putting ourselves out there as we try to make friends, doing stupid things and falling on our faces (at least I am!!). We're connecting some of the dots, and others we're just watching and waiting for them to come together and connect themselves.

But we are brave, in the littlest of things, and the bigger ones too. Thanks be to God who guides us through the big and smallest of moments. 

A Sunday Morning Story

On Sunday morning I stood up in church to say something, a small comment, a small expression during our time of sharing.

I said, "Today I am sad, but another week I might be happy. Thank you for being church -- a place where I can come in both. I don't know another place like it."

I confess that church is not the easiest thing for me...it's not always on my top priority list, and there have been seasons of life where it's felt painful or lonely or scary to go.

But as I drove to church on Sunday morning last week, I realized that it was the only place I wanted to be that morning. The only place that encompassed my sadness and joy in life after death, the only place where hugs would be freely given and received and smiles and tears could be shared.

I go to church because I don't know a better place to be in sickness and health, in sorrow and joy, in pain and in gladness, in rich blessing and deep heartache. I don't know another story that encompasses death and life, reality and miracle, healing and brokenness.  When I think about Jesus's life, I'm amazed by his presence -- the way he was truly in-step with what what going on around him and who the people were who were placed in his path. He wasn't too stressed out to pay attention, he didn't have to look hard to see the opportunities standing in front of him.

In times of joy and celebration, he participated in the party. He went to the wedding, he feasted with the guests. In times of mourning and sadness, he wept and held his friends' tears. In times of injustice, he called it out for what it was, even when it broke the status quo. In times when the most vulnerable were brought before him, he opened his arms and accepted them. He found joy in the littlest children sitting at his feet, at the woman pouring perfume on his feet, on the captain who believed his servant could be healed.

I listened to a podcast a few weeks ago by Soong Chan Rah, a theology professor at Northpark University. In his lecture, he talked about the importance of a "theology of suffering" and a "theology of celebration" and how many churches in the States lack a theology of suffering. To me, Jesus's life embodied the theology of suffering and the theology of celebration -- suffering through trials and injustice, being treated unfairly, being tempted and tried, and ultimately dying on our behalf. But his life embodied celebration too: joyfully loving others and feeding them, celebrating life around him and giving meaning to those who were told their lives didn't matter, and ultimately rising from the dead.

I'm going to make a bold statement: I think our churches and our relationships are often missing one theology, or over-emphasizing one over the other. Sometimes we party too hard, we ignore the brokenness and hurt around us, we give quick answers instead of sitting in the stillness and sadness. And then sometimes we focus too much on the bad and ugly, the awful statistics, we forget about a greater hope and we remain in black attire.

And that's why Jesus's story is so powerful to me: because it embraces both. It doesn't ignore the hurt and the ache. It doesn't just say to "get over" the death of a loved one or another cancer diagnosis, or that simple answers will suffice. It doesn't ignore the cries of the hungry or the tears of the ignored and vulnerable. It embraces all of that. It weeps, it mourns, it stands in silence, it cries for help.

But it doesn't stay in that darkness, either. It breaks the darkness, it declares hope and truth, justice and peace. It announces that we can cry and then laugh again, maybe within the same hour. It proclaims that death is real, but that resurrection happened.

And on Sunday, I think I realized that church is where I can see and experience both. The Church is broken, of course, but it stands as a reminder to the beauty of Jesus' story -- of his love and presence with us, his experiences living in grief and standing in triumph. And I realize that that is a story I love, and can follow with tears in my eyes or with smiles wide across my mouth. I'm thankful for this story.

You are dearly missed, Dr. Lumsdaine

I love words. But right now I'm sitting and wishing for words to express all that I want them to -- words to express thanks, words to express sadness, and words to express how wonderful a person was -- and will always be.

My beloved professor, Dr. Lumsdaine, passed away this morning. I remember Dr. Lumsdaine for many things -- he was quirky and funny in class, he often came in to the classroom looking a bit disheveled and about 5 minutes after class was supposed to start. His lectures often went way over my head (because he was perhaps one of the most brilliant people I have ever met. Studying math, then economics, then international affairs is part of that reason). But Dr. Lumsdaine's head wasn't just in the books, his head and heart were given freely to his students. Every syllabus invited student conversation beyond the classroom for his office hours. Dr. Lumsdaine's office hours were different than most professors. He invited students to come to Gillies (a lounge in our student center) and would be there often times way beyond his time slot (I know he was sometimes there until midnight talking with a student). He looked at me in the eyes and told me that he cared about me and was always willing to talk more -- about anything from Latin American politics and American foreign policy to his life and faith. He asked students to call him "Dr. D" and to think of him as more than just a professor, but a brother in Christ. I remember him telling me that he felt he had a unique gift to be a mentor to students -- I know he lived that out in every way.


His death came too soon. There are too many more students who needed to hear his voice, who needed to hear the way he said "welllllll..." and "mmmmhmmmmmmmm", who would have learned about international relations and diplomacy and a God who loves and works amidst these broken systems. There are too many more students who needed his listening ears and his compassion and generosity. There are many more seniors who needed to hear him humming a song or hymn as he walked with the faculty out of our Baccalaureate service. More people who needed to read excerpts from his book Moral Vision in International Politics and tell them that the book mattered to them personally, like it did to me.

When I was given the opportunity to speak at our Baccalaureate service, it was a gift to me because it gave me the opportunity to express (although inadequately) the impact of my college experience. Professors were one of the biggest impacts, and Dr. D was one of them:

I fell in love with a process of learning where I am able to ask the hard questions to people who don’t run away from me, but embrace me in their office with an open chair, a crowded bookshelf, piles of papers, and sincere ears to listen.

Dr. D was one of these professors who eagerly listened to the hard questions, embraced a stressed-out and confused 21 year old who was trying to connect the dots after a semester abroad. And he again listened to her during her last semester of college, and again as she prepared to go home to California.

I regret that I didn't get to send him the proper thank you he deserved. The best thank you I think I gave him (surely insufficient, but nonetheless, something to show that his work was meaningful to me), was a reflection I wrote in the room I shared with my host sister Barbara in San Jose de la Montaña, Costa Rica during my study abroad experience as I was processing books and conversations and a hundred questions spinning in my head. The reason I wrote this reflection was because I was thinking about an excerpt from Dr. D's book on international politics, specifically foreign aid. I was pretty depressed thinking about world affairs and country interactions and felt pretty hopeless. Then I came across these words Dr. D wrote in the conclusion of his book:

It is by a life of love, of community, of reaching out to others whether we find them useful or attractive or not, that we come to open our hearts to what it truly means for us to be human. We are not very good at doing it; but, as with every task which requires inspiration, we can but work away at what we can do while we wait and hope. We cannot command our human destiny, but perhaps events will turn out graciously for us if, aware of our weakness and limitations, we set our sights on what is good” (293)

This excerpt deserves more context, and I apologize that I can't flesh that out better here, but I can tell you what I took away from this, and why I thanked him for these words. I wrote:

I’m a Political Science major – and maybe that will at times come in conflict with Christian principles as my host father told me in Nicaragua. But I’m hoping that Dr. Lumsdaine is right: that politics doesn’t have to be all lies and corruption – that moral vision does make a difference and doing what is right can actually be in the “best interest” of a nation. Getting that passed in the house of congress or the Supreme Court might be a different story and a high task, but it’s worth fighting for. It may be idealist, opportunistic, romantic – but if it’s what is right, I need to fight for it, no matter what the cost. 

I was encouraged when I read his words and they gave me a glimmer of hope as I was sitting in a foreign country wondering if seeking the good of others didn't have to be trumped by power and greed. I was encouraged by a political scientist and expert in international diplomacy who believed in the Good, who believed in a God who is The ultimate good and that this goodness can impact the world around us.

Dr. D, you are missed. I look forward to the day when I hear you sing again and read your brilliant writing and hear your stories and political ideas. Until then, I know I'm blessed to have been your student and I hope to live out, however small or big, your compassion and love for politics and people.