the small as the big

There isn't a chapel talk that captures what we do on Sundays, or Tuesdays for that matter. The beauty, the messiness, the complicatedness, the discussions about how to organize potluck dinners and what to do about kids running around dumping bubble solution all over the paddle balls and "carritos".

I find myself immersed in a culture obsessed with big-ness and success and grandiose plans to change the world, and sometimes that makes me feel so small and insignificant.

I want to change the world, too. Believe me, I do. I want immigration reform to happen so badly, I want to be the tough lawyer fighting for human rights in Los Angeles or the history teacher who helps her students learn about the huge failures of our history and where we went wrong and what we can do to make it right. I want to be in the college alumni magazine of "50 Inspiring College Graduates Who Are Making A Difference!!"

But I'm learning that the difference isn't always from the CEOs and the executive board of directors and presidents.

The difference is the woman who paid for a mariachi band to play a mexican happy birthday party song for me at the park two weeks ago.

The difference is playing the Ellen De Generes heads up game in the park with kids who don't know the Madonna songs but give themselves the points anyway and who will always guess your age as somewhere between 45 and 52.

The difference is homemade pozole, shared together. A red velvet cake that couldn't stay glued together because I put too much cream cheese frosting. A table filled with rice, and beans, and tortillas, and homemade guacamole.

If I were to give the chapel talk about what a difference all of these small and seemingly insignificant things make, I would say this: the mariachi band showed me love in a different language, the heads up game gave me the gift of laughter and connectedness, the food shared together is a taste of the Kingdom and proximity to Jesus....and to me, it's all profound.

So, I cling to that profound-ness. As counter-cultural as it may seem -- I proclaim it as profound and meaningful even if the stories aren't told in the newspapers or chapels or newsrooms. I claim this truth that there is much sacredness in my life right now, specifically in that place called the park on the westside, and it's nothing close to being small.

none of it goes to waste

Maybe the discovery happened during the years I spent working at a senior retirement community. Maybe after the many repeated conversations, answers to questions, looks of confusion and frustration...maybe that's when I started to fear forgetting.

Or maybe it's because of Latin America -- a semester there that had such a significant impact on me, so many relationships and stories that I didn't know how to fit into a less-than-fifty-pound suitcase or in a 60 minute coffee date with a friend. I knew I was going to forget some things, and that thought was a little terrifying. I journaled constantly -- and on one occasion when walking home by myself and considering the risk of getting robbed, decided to take my journal out of my purse in case it was stolen. Money seemed frivolous compared to the thoughts and words my journal held.

I came across my Nicaragua journal the other day and remembered something I hoped for -- I don't say prayed for because I don't know if I ever did actual pray for it. I would like to think I did but I hope for a lot of things that I don't bring to God, so I'm not going to give myself the benefit of the doubt on that one. I wrote that I wanted this experience to be a part of who I am.  I didn't want it to make me act in a certain way necessarily, but that it would influence the ways I think, how I relate to people, how I see differences and commonalities in which to connect. I wanted to remember the people and what they taught me, remember their laughter, their straight faces or blank stares. I wanted to remember those conversations.

And three years later...part of the fear is realized: I have forgotten parts of Nicaragua. I don't remember all the names. I don't remember all of the emotions, or the conversations that led to the tears or to the laughter or to the smiles. I don't remember each day's activities like I had wanted to.

But three years later...I think God answered the prayer that Nicaragua would be a part of who I am. Maybe I don't remember every conversation, every song we sang in Spanish, every miscommunication. But it's because of Nicaragua that I spent time last week researching immigration reform, it's because of Nicaragua that I view the nature of immigration and deportation differently. It's because of 10 days there and three months living abroad that I want to speak Spanish and engage with a community that comes from a different culture than my own.

I'm thankful that three years later I know those conversations still matter and they're still informing the way I see the world and how I invest in the things I care about. I wish I could hold onto all of the details, but I'm realizing that's less important than letting the details do the work that they already do: shaping and paving the way ahead.

Latin America is only part of my life experiences (which is not a huge number considering I'm a twenty-something), but I hope and pray for the same result from other experiences in my life: how I grew up, my family, my education in California and Massachusetts, my work now in medical billing, the relationships I'm building here. I hope three years from now I can also reflect on how today's experiences shaped me for the future.

I fear forgetting, obviously. But I'm more committed to giving up that fear and allowing experiences to shape me into the kind of person I want to be. When my faith feels small, I cling to this kind of God: one who works in mysterious ways and is committed to his people and that nothing in his kingdom goes to waste -- even the little details like pick up truck rides on a starry-night and the way laughter came after stumbling through verb conjugations. I believe that none of it goes to waste.

a prayer (of sorts)

I want to live a faithful life.

I want a life of community, deep investment in relationships and people, learning new things and digging into new places and listening to stories.

Sometimes in the midst of that I get discouraged by what I am giving up in this pursuit of a faithful life. 

I'm giving up simple answers, planned itineraries, 

I'm letting go of certain expectations,

I'm hoping and trusting that desires and dreams will be answered -- but giving up the idea that they'll happen in any of the ways I have envisioned they would.

I forget, or don’t always acknowledge that there is sacrifice, and there is the constant nagging of comparison towards others’ whose faithful lives look dramatically different from my own. And sometimes I feel like I’m caught in a race going the slow and steady pace while others are on the sprint course.

The thing is, deep down I know we’re all on a similar course – even if it doesn’t feel that way.

I wonder..

What is a faithful life? What does it look like?

"Your decrees have been the theme of my songs wherever I have lived.

I reflect at night on who you are, O Lord; therefore, I obey your instructions. 

This is how I spend my life: obeying your commandments.

Lord, you are mine!

I promise to obey your words!

With all my heart I want your blessings. Be merciful as you promised.

I pondered the direction of my life, and I turned to follow your laws"

[Psalm 119:54-9]

The laws, I remember, are good. The laws are the Sermon on the Mount, the touching the bleeding woman, the resurrection that happened one Sunday morning, the breaking bread and drinking wine together. 

And I want that for my life: for resurrection to happen, for community to be fostered, for healing to transform. 

Some days I need to remind myself of that -- and remind myself that I believe in a God who knows and does all those things and got ahold of my heart with his pursuing love and kindness. I must remember that when the trusting is difficult and the questions are complex and I'm disappointed in the unmet expectations.

This is how I spend my life: obeying your commandments

I'm grateful that obedience is creative -- it's expressed in the most mundane parts of life and the most exciting. I want a faithful life of creative obedience, colorful obedience, authentic obedience -- seen in all the different parts of my world. 

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.

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

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.

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

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. 

me and baby z

my cousin lives quite a few thousand miles away and she send us periodic emails about her baby boy, whom we like to call "baby z" :) after one email she sent to family with pictures, i emailed back and said something like "i'm taking small steps...i guess baby z and i have a lot in common right now"

and i really believe that we do.

despite the 22 year age difference (that's nothing, right? ;)), we're both making small steps in life, discovering new things and people, and trying to make sense of it all.

baby z is learning how to scoot, and then crawl, and then walk.
baby z is learning how to eat new foods
baby z is going to learn how to say words

and me, well, i'm learning how to make a budget (do i keep good track of my receipts like i should? nope. but it's a work in progress!)

i'm finding community through a church

i'm slowly making new friends...and learning how to keep in touch with the ones who live far away

i'm discovering that certain conversations are worth clearing your schedule for -- because they feed you in ways you didn't know you were hungry

i'm slowly figuring out how i want my post-work evenings to look, when they seems so short before i'm back on the 101 heading to work again


i'm learning how to weave exercise into my daily routine


i'm aware that i miss discussing political philosophy, but some conversations can bring me back to the classroom...and back to the green rubber-maid storage container in the garage that holds my books and notes and binders. i dug out john rawls from that container last week and i was so excited

little by little, poco a poco

the metaphor can only go so far, really. adulthood doesn't exactly compare to childhood, but when i think about life right now, i do think about baby steps and learning how to walk -- sometimes i feel like i'm on ice skates or tripping over my shoelaces, but again, it's little by little, poco a poco. i'm not supposed to figure it all out at once.

so yes, baby z and i do have some things in common despite the age difference. we're both learning the ropes of life...and learning slowly but surely :)

Love, Adam Levine, and Valentine's Day

"I got to call BS on Valentine's Day. I've always stood behind this…there definitely is a large group of people who see Valentine's Day as this day to take the time out of your life and be romantic and tell the person you care about that you love them, and to do romantic things..."

"My thought about it is…there should be so many Valentine's Days in your life if you're going to be in a good relationship. It kind of makes me feel almost like the people who get really into Valentine's day are usually the people who spend the other 364 days of their lives not doing what they should doing to keep it together. I'm not a hater, I don't hate Valentine's Day. To me it should just be one of many days…hopefully if they're lucky enough to have love in their life, there should be like 50 Valentine's Days per year." 

--Adam Levine from "Adam Levine Shares his Thoughts on Valentine's Day"

I am a firm believer and celebrant of Valentine's Day. I love chocolate, I love the color pink, I'm a total sucker for cheesy Valentine's cards and sweetheart messages. I think hearts are a great shape for just about anything, and the fact that I can get free candy almost anywhere on February 14th is something I truly enjoy.

But I also have a bit of a fight with Valentine's Day....in a way similar to Adam Levine. I think there "should be so many Valentine's Days in your life if you're going to be in a good relationship" -- except I would change the wording from "a relationship" to "any relationship." What bothers me about Valentine's Day is how quickly we equate love and romance, when romance is just one part of the greater expanse that is love.

Don't get me wrong -- I really like romance, I hope and dream for romance. I think it's great to have a special Valentine's Day plan with roses and carnations and chocolate hearts for that special someone.
My hesitation is that I don't want Valentine's Day to cheapen what love is -- or how big it is. I want Valentine's Day to be one day, among many others where we tell people that we love them and we show it in special ways. On Valentine's Day I want to show my friends and family that I love them by doing the cheesy things like buying Dove chocolates and cutting the peanut-butter-and-jelly sandwiches into hearts. But on all the other 364-days of the year, I want love to also be my guide and prompt me to live my life differently. I want 1 Corinthians 13 to be lived out (in as imperfect of a way as it can be).

When I read Surprised by Hope by NT Wright, I discovered that I usually heard the 1 Corinthians 13 passage talked about at weddings or in a discussion about how we're supposed to love the people that are difficult to love (i.e. siblings, coworkers, classmates, etc.). I either read the passage as:

(1) This is how I'm supposed to love so-and-so: I need to be patient, kind, gentle, and not rude. Got it. I'll pray really, really hard and God will help me to be patient, kind, gentle, and not rude.

Or:

(2) This is for committed couples and the pastor says it at the wedding and the couple stares at each other with stars in their eyes and vows to love their spouse with patience and kindness and to not be rude. (Or, Mandy Moore gazes at the ever-beautiful Shane West as he reads 1 Corinthians 13 to her from her little book of poetry and Bible verses and as the viewer all you can think is "1 CORINTHIANS 13 is SO BEAUTIFUL! and HOLY CRAPY SHANE WEST COME MEMORIZE THOSE VERSES FOR ME!" I know, I know. It's pathetic.)

But then I read NT Wright. And his words blew my mind with how he analyzes 1 Corinthians 13 and how he talks about love. Wright says this passage "isn't simply a wonderful poem stuck in to the letter at this point to change the mood. This poem, both in tone and content, is the still, quietly beating heart that makes sense of everything else" (287). I don't have the good theological summary here of the "making sense of everything else" (what Wright is referring to in the context of Paul's letter to the Corinthians), but it highlights how this passage gives witness to something bigger:

"The point of 1 Corinthians 13 is that love is not our duty; it is our destiny. It is the language Jesus spoke, and we are called to speak it so that we can converse with him. It is the food they eat in God's new world, and we must acquire the taste for it here and now. It is the music God has written for all his creatures to sing, and we are called to learn it and practice it now so as to be ready when the conductor brings down the baton. It is the resurrection life, and the resurrected Jesus calls us to begin living it with him and for him right now. Love is at the very heart of the surprise by hope: people who truly hope as the resurrection encourages us to hope will be people enabled to love in a new way" (288)

BAM.

Wright points to this hope and love in a way that is so much bigger and more beautiful than the kind of love we know. And he shows us that 1 Corinthians 13 is more than an explanation of how to love the annoying people, or how to love our significant other. Instead, 1 Corinthians 13 invites us into a different kind of dialogue, a different way of living with each other as we experience God's love and try to speak it with him. We "speak" this love in the ways we engage with the world around us -- how we treat our neighbors, how we stand up for the rights of the less-fortunate, how we dialogue with those whose culture and background is so different from our own.

That love is powerful.

That love scares me.

That love comforts me.

That love invites me.

So, yes, I celebrate Valentine's Day, and I celebrate love. But I celebrate love differently because I've read NT Wright. I read 1 Corinthians 13 not just as a future love poem for Shane West -- I read it as holy words that invite a response. And Valentine's Day is a unique way to respond to that invitation -- to show people I love and care about them. But hopefully, just like Adam Levine says, it doesn't end there...it carries on for the rest of the year. I'll fail plenty of times, I won't love as I should and I will be impatient and proud and self-serving. Yet I'm thankful the invitation is always offered -- it never goes away no matter how many times I fail. That is a gift.

I hope on Valentine's Day we feel loved -- but I also hope we feel invited to love. That invitation is big and challenging -- but it is also so exciting. I am thankful for this kind of love and how big and powerful it is. And I'm thankful it lasts for every day of the year.

Becom[ing]

I loved this article published by the new provost at my alma mater, Janel Curry. The article is entitled "The Education of a Provost" and was featured in The Chronicle of Higher Education.

Some of the most encouraging stories to me are from the people who worked the most random jobs, majored in Economics, and somehow wind up becoming a midwife in the inner city of Los Angeles. That story might be a bit of an exaggeration, but really, it's amazing to me to hear from people who did things that seem like scattered puzzle pieces, but slowly some of those pieces come together. No one's life has every piece assembled perfectly together, but it's inspiring and encouraging for me to hear about another person's becoming process -- and how there are so many stories and journeys, circumstances, hardships, and joys that are a part of that process.

And that's what caught my eye about Dr. Curry's piece -- she talks about lessons learned along the journey that have led her to her position that she now holds (provost at Gordon College). She learned about patience and working with others, management, leading a team, etc. and all of those skills are going to be used in the job she now holds.

I wonder about the puzzle pieces in my life too. Or maybe, it's more than just wondering, but a sort of fear that those pieces won't matter or that they'll be forgotten. I think about Nicaragua -- I wonder what those 10 days were for -- do they matter? What is going to be made of it? I wonder about some of the tears I've cried...do those matter? Can they be used? And what about the smiles and joys, what about living in a different place and watching the snow?

They're pieces right now. Pieces that slowly come together in certain ways that I do see -- and some pieces that I'm waiting to better understand. The word "process" involves a lot of waiting and discovering -- and that requires quite a bit of patience. Yet when I hear stories like Dr. Curry's, or from an older friend or mentor, I'm inspired and encouraged by the process that we all are -- and the ways God shapes and prepares us for tasks and opportunities.

And maybe as I learn patience in this process of becoming, I can remember that God is patient with me....because let's be honest: I'm a difficult piece of clay to mold. I'm thankful he's willing to work with me anyway :)

this and that

I have been struggling at blog posting. i think of things i want to write and begin one sentence and decide to forgo the effort. i don't want that to be the standard for 2013, so i'm taking baby steps and just documenting recent activities...hopefully this will be good motivation.

so, december & early january recap

kelsey came home from europe the second weekend of december - perfect way to continue the christmas festivities :) the fam was together for christmas (yay!) 

and kels romanced us with her one direction songs on the guitar. 

and her room was messy again. i like it that way.

 i got to meet my precious cousin zachary alan at christmas. he was such a joy to be around and let all of us cousins/aunts/great-grandparents/uncles/grandparents take turns holding him throughout the day. 

We also went to the Rose Parade and had a picnic in the park afterwards.

 

and i've made it to three months at my job! i know three months is pretty minimal, but it's a small milestone that i'm excited about. 

three things i've learned from three months in a full-time job:

1) learning looks different when you're working than when you're in school. the learning is different, and can at times feel a little more boring than sociology/political science/spanish syllabi...but this learning is good and valuable. 

2) working with good people is a HUGE blessing. i have so many stories that demonstrate how blessed i am!!

3) in college, i sometimes craved the consistency/stability of an office job where you could close the books at 5 and leave work in the office on a friday afternoon. and now that i'm working, i sometimes wish for the flexibility of college life, with "work" being reading and having a varied schedule with tuesday afternoon off for coffee dates and long afternoon runs. i said goodbye to three-week to three month extended breaks and hello to something called "vacation time". 

i'm really thankful for where i'm at now, but i'm learning that there are pro's and con's with work and school and different routines and schedules. it is a process :)

and, to finish, these are pics from the AM commute to work and from my office. are pretty incredible. i am blessed.

blessings in words

These words blessed me this week:

from my friend Hilary -- about making room for our own stories instead of trying to make them reflect another's:

"It must be that this is part of the way we learn about ourselves: that we release the dreams of who we might be, free ourselves of the clinging hope of someone else’s beautiful self. We let the character we wanted to play float out the window under a Colorado sky, and we buy a cowboy hat and hug our brothers, and let our sister braid our non-effortless hair in two French braids when she asks."

from NT Wright -- about the women-as-bishops controversy, gender reconciliation, and the power of the resurrection:

"All Christian ministry begins with the announcement that Jesus has been raised from the dead. And Jesus entrusted that task, first of all, not to Peter, James, or John, but to Mary Magdalene. Part of the point of the new creation launched at Easter was the transformation of roles and vocations: from Jews-only to worldwide, from monoglot to multilingual (think of Pentecost), and from male-only leadership to male and female together."

from Isaiah 9:2-7, NLT -- about darkness and light, hope, and release from oppression:

"The people who walk in darkness will see a great light. For those who live in a land of deep darkness, a light will shine. You will enlarge the nation of Israel, and its people will rejoice. The will rejoice before you as people rejoice at the harvest and like warriors dividing the plunder. For you will break the yoke of their slavery and lift the heavy burden from their shoulders. You will break the oppressor's rod, just as you did when you destroyed the army of Midian. The boots of the warrior and the uniforms bloodstained by war will all be burned. They will be fuel for the fire. For a child is born to us, a son is given to us. The government will rest on his shoulders. And he will be called: Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace. His government wand its peace will never end. he will rule with fairness and justice from the throne of his ancestor David for all eternity."

from "I heard the Bells on Christmas Day" performed by Casting Crowns -- about peace on earth, God's dwelling on earth, and "right prevailing":

Then rang the bells more loud and deep

God is not dead, nor doth He sleep 

(Peace on earth, peace on earth) 

The wrong shall fail, the right prevail 

With peace on earth, goodwill to men 

Then ringing singing on its way 

The world revolved from night to day 

A voice, a chime, a chant sublime 

Of peace on earth, goodwill to men  

And the bells, they're ringing 

Like a choir they're singing 

And with our hearts we'll hear them 

Peace on earth, goodwill to men

Happy December!

[Boston, MA]

Goodbye Election Shenanigans (for now)

November 4th came...and went. And I am so thankful for that fact.

I have had some really good conversations about the election, the issues most commonly discussed, and the candidates themselves. I have also read many disheartening commentaries and comments from people that have made me frustrated and sad. Unfortunately I think election season can bring out the worst in us...but hopefully the future will prove that wrong (I'm really, really hoping).

I graduated from college with a degree in Political Science. It's funny the reaction many people (and for good reason) give me when they hear this. They think I must be super excited about the election, about American political dynamics, what the candidates said in the debates, etc. etc. And all of this is somewhat true -- I did watch the debates (and live tweeted too!), I am interested in political dynamics and what candidates are saying and doing. However, being a political science major made me want more from political discussion -- and that "something more" continues to be absent in the political discussions I read about in the newspapers and on BBC.com.

In my Poli Sci classes we talked about the state and society -- what is the purpose of government? of social structures? of communities, organizations, families, schools? How do these different entities fit together? How do they support each other/relate to one another? We talked about the public good, about justice -- and how the the state, organizations, and families should seek to pursue justice in their respective capacities (and those pursuits will look different from one another).

When my aunt visited my family after my sophomore year in college, she asked me what I had learned in college so far and I said something along the lines of "life is complex" -- and studying politics was one of the most vivid example of that to me. I have taken classes emphasizing the importance of free trade, listened to Latin Americas who have been abused by unfair fair-trade policies, and interned at a think tank that strongly emphasized private markets in the healthcare sector. And I see truth in these varying view points: truth in the purpose of the market, but truth in its abuse and the heartbreaking reality that people do suffer when the market is abused or misused.

But when I open the newspaper to read about political discussions happening, we're avoiding the complexity -- we're not talking about justice and fairness, but instead individualism versus conservatism. It's pro-market or pro-government, which is robbing both the government and the market of their important role in society. When we talk about complex issues like immigration, taxes, education reform, health care policy, the solutions involve more than a "left" or "right" answer. When we talk about fiscal responsibility, we have to move beyond simply taxes and welfare programs and look at the broader purposes of government and social structures -- and how the two ought to interact. When we talk about winning the women vote, we cannot just focus on abortion rights but must consider gender discrimination and the public sector which still does not adequately reflect women voices (but yay for the now 20 women senators voted into office! we're getting there!). When we talk about welfare programs, we have to think about the individual, social, and global causes of poverty and what role government and other social structures should play. When we talk about immigration, we have to move beyond the "legal versus illegal" categories.

Those are the conversations I want to be having. Those are the conversations I want to read about and engage with people who disagree and agree with my thoughts. And perhaps if our conversations were about justice and fairness in the political arena, more people would engage instead of labeling politics as "so above their head." Politics is about people -- and while I know it's complex and difficult to understand, our shared humanity should prompt all of us to engage in political conversations -- and hopefully elevate them to a higher level instead of the right versus left that plagues the newspaper pages.

I chose to study political science because I was fascinated by the dynamic of government, social insititutions, and individuals -- and how this can function together under God's sovereignty. I didn't choose to study politics because I love politicians or have the Constitution memorized. I chose to study politics because political systems have profound implications in all areas of life -- in a very, very complicated way :) I hope that more people will join that conversation with me -- more business-minded people who can talk about economic justice and business practices that are fair and right. I hope more social workers join the conversation and talk about poverty and how welfare programs can be supported by government effectively. I hope more teachers enter the conversation and voice their ideas about education funding, wages, and access to resources.

And I hope we're willing to listen -- really listen -- to what they have to say. It's easy for me to jump on someone whom I know I won't agree with (especially when it comes to an issue I'm particularly passionate about) and then I stop listening to their argument. But I hope that if we elevate the conversation to talk about the complexity of these issues -- and listen to each other tell the other about the complicated and messy problems they find themselves facing in their fields -- hopefully we can listen better and work towards comprehensive solutions. I definitely need help in this listening arena.

I'm hoping for those conversations to come sooner rather than later (And there are some AWESOME blogs out there that do host these conversations and I'm really, really grateful for them! Check these articles out to know what I'm talking about: "Establish Justice: Reflections on the 2012 Election" by Hilary Sherratt, "When Issues Don't Fit Into Labels" by Melissa Steffan, "Immigration Debated, Not Much Said" by Danielle Huntley, "Questions on Christians and Politics" by Stephanie Summers)

life-long learning

i walked up to her office door on the third floor of frost, clutching the computer where i had just typed quotes that shook me, and the book (whose quotes i had typed furiously) sitting on top. i walked into her office and i just started to talk -- i don't ever seem to have hesitancy in that arena. when i'm that invested in something words just seem to pour out.

"dr. george, i don't know what to think about this. this is changing the way i think! the way i think about singleness and marriage and femininity and masculinity and my value as a woman and who i am and what society thinks of me and, and, and ..." the words bubble over.

and she looked at me in her chair and said words to me in her beautiful British accent. she nodded and told me stories and lessons about culture and society and this thing called paradigm shifts.

i'm scared of losing the love for books, for ideas that make me stay up late at night, for conversations that make me smile wide.

but i guess i shouldn't be fearing that. you see, i found that book (the one i took up to my professor's office) at a small bookstore in boston. my friend and i were purusing the book shelves and i stumbled upon it, flipped through a few pages and was fascinated by the author's frank discussion about weddings and bachelorette parties and what being a bride and groom signifies. so i bought it and read it and haven't stopped talking about it since.

i'm not a college student anymore, but i hope to always be a student in some capacity. and maybe one day, i can be a teacher too. i can have a bedroom or office where people come to me bursting with confusion and eagerness about books and ideas. and we can be confused and eager together. i can look in their eyes and smile and say "me too! i'm excited too!" and we can drink coffee or tea and share stories and ideas and lessons.

i hope to always discover things - the big and small. i hope to always leave crazy voice mail messages on my friends' phones that go like this "LISA THIS BOOK IS BLOWING MY MIND! YOU HAVE TO READ THIS! IT'S SO INCREDIBLY GOOD!" and i hope to always sit at the dinner table with my dad and talk about the newspaper and those articles he clipped out and places in his basket next to the computer.

i'm hoping school is closer than it feels. and i'm hoping to always be a life-long learner, no matter if i'm taking 16 credits or zero.

to the person wearing that shirt

preface: this is a weird post. but bear with me, friends, as i try to process some of my thoughts.

i went to a christian music festival a week ago and was particularly troubled by a shirt i saw a kid wearing. it had three words on it, so you wouldn't think much of it. but i think the implications of its message are profound -- and harmful, which is why i've been thinking about it for the past week.

"hate my flesh"

that's what the t-shirt said.

for starters, i think it's always a good idea to avoid using the word "hate," but i won't lie, i have used it many times when probably another word would have been better.

i understand the message the shirt was trying to communicate: the soul is more important than the flesh, don't let worldy things block the importance of keeping true to spiritual matters. and i do believe in the importance of life after death, i do believe that what happens on earth is part of a much bigger and greater reality. i believe in God's eternal kingdom and hope (thank you NT Wright).

but, still. i'm sad and angry about that shirt. and here's why.

i believe in a God who created flesh - and who delights in it. who loves that i have blue eyes, and you have brown, that i have small hands and you have long fingers, that i can run six miles and feel the exhiliration of letting my muscles move and carry me across the cement. i believe in a God who loves looking at faces with freckles and dimples; who lights up when a baby takes their first steps, and who is ever-present in the nursing home when it takes an elderly woman 10 minutes to get out of bed (but we celebrate those ten minutes, don't we? because she still has muscles that move and allow her to live with us -- and that is a blessing). i believe in a God who loves through touch -- i feel that love as my dad kisses my cheek when he walks in the door or when the little girl i babysit lets me cuddle with her for 5 seconds (i cherish those 5 seconds!). i hope in a God who is in the kitchen as we prepare food to eat, who laughs as spaghetti sauce drips down our mouth, who loves the sound of laughter and cares for our physical needs -- whether it's a stubbed toe or a scary disease.

and i think that if we "hate the flesh" we misunderstand God. i don't want to pretend to understand God, because frankly i'm quite confused about who he is, but i feel pretty confident of this: he created a body for me to dwell in -- and part of living is learning how to live here (in this 22 year old body), live  now, and live purposefully and hopefully. and i don't think i can do that if i hate the flesh; i don't think i can pursue justice and mercy if the flesh doesn't matter, if it's something to be hated.

i read a beautiful piece by lauren dubinsky a few weeks ago about learning to love her body. i confess that i feel this constant nagging in the back of my mind about what i look like and who i am trying to impress and "am i pretty enough? will more make-up help? do i need to die my hair??" stupid, i know. but it's a very true reality. read her words. they challenged me to see the physical as a gift, and to treat it as such. i needed that reminder -- and i think that person in the shirt could use that reminder too.

i think hating the flesh can lead to a misconstrued perception of self -- which can lead to hatred. and hating ourselves is just about the worst place to start. on the other hand, idolizing our flesh can also lead to a misconstrued percetion of self -- which is also quite harmful.

so, hate? is that where we start? idolatry? is that better? 

i want to be a person who delights in God's gifts -- and see that these gifts include feet that can walk on the beach and noses that can smell fresh-baked chocolate chip cookies; ears that can hear good music and eyes that can see sunsets and sunrises.

"taste and see that the Lord is good. blessed is the one who takes refuge in him" (psalm 34:8)
 i don't think i can do that if i'm hating the flesh.