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.