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.

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.