Juarez Reflection: Indwelling

 

There is the smell of smoke and excrement intermingled with the freshness of spring as I stand tiredly holding a dripping paint brush. I am painting a mural on the outside of a kindergarten. I am alone and silent. My thoughts wander in the last hours of daylight…

What is the nature of indwelling sin? Does it have the face of a man who would beat the woman he loves more than anything in the world? Does it look like a young man so deprived of any encouraging word that he must seek his dominance through violence and rage? Does it have the look of a girl who believes what is said about her worth, so she solicits the stares of middle aged men on the market streets and border bridges? Is it a mother who cannot fathom trying to fight uphill to provide for the family she already has and so bounces from whatever beds will give her children a meal? Does it look like the person who, even in the midst of poverty, is so consumed with an adherence to material things that he would vandalize, terrorize another to prove any sort of boundary between the two? Does it look like an American missionary making vast assumptions about the faith of another based not on any spiritual aspect, but solely upon their physical dwelling; when one assumes the character of another's spirit or level of inherent happiness and peace because of the décor or placement of their shack? Perhaps it is actually more when a large group of people seeks to appropriate the practice of others in order to justify their own unsatisfying and unwarranted pharisaic cravings. Maybe it is when tolerance…no love takes a back seat to dogma and pride. Maybe it is when I actually hinder others from believing the stark liberation of this thing called the gospel because I refuse to not simply practice but believe it. Maybe it is not when I am being inadequate of pardon, but more truly when I refuse to believe that I am so pardoned; when I lay down what it means to be truly spiritual for the interplay of a man made system; when I skip over life's chapter on the peace of the indwelling Holy Spirit and focus on those of the ever present darkness; when I forget the Apostle Paul's urging to remember that I have the same Spirit as Christ.

Dusk falls upon me as I drive home, and with the last streaming rays of sun I struggle to suppress the thought that I should leave this place. That life at home would be much easier – not from any sort of facet of comfort, but as a retreat from the poignancy of my vast inadequacies. I struggle to remember Christ and the peace of His Spirit. I struggle to remember my salvation. My heart wrestles to recall the place where I might be free and encourage others to be the same. I climb out of the truck and examine the paint splotches upon my clothes. I take note of the aroma of food filling the trash-filled streets where families struggle and play.

Juarez Reflection: Flame

 

The chilling wind bites into my hands and grabs hold of the bones in my fingers. I can feel my joints slowing as I push for every step further. I am fighting with my mind, trying to convince myself that it is fine to be out right now. I generally like to go out earlier in the day before the Chollos or gangsta-wannabe’s come out to play soccer or loiter about. It is not that they are ominous in general, but having never really seen anyone keep a regular running schedule in this neighborhood, I have become somewhat of a pseudo-celebrity for the kids and family, which means, of course, the attention of the older youth is exacerbated; sometimes they just need someone to mess with. At the moment, they are occupied in their game of Futbol and pay little attention to me. As I round the bend to one of my final laps, I see a figure ahead of me. It is a young boy holding a bit of a large stick. I come closer behind him and whisper, “¡Con permisso!” Obviously having startled him, he turns and raises the stick ominously ready for attack. I smile at him, and I say, “¡Hola Chavo!” as I pass by. I see his face relax, and he continues to poke around the trash and bushes. Continuing on my way, I see a group of his friends coming to join him. I continue around the outer fence of the school for another lap.

As I come around once more toward the place they are playing, I see that they are continuing to dig and prod in the neck high line of tumble weeds that is nestled between a high hill and the outer fence of the school. Finding this strange, not only for their careless attitude toward what grimy creatures could live in those dark branches but also for the fact that they are downright prickly, I proceed with caution at the sight of their actions. As I pass by at a very slow pace, I realize the malicious nature of their activity, for there at the height of my knee I see the kindling flame of what would soon become a blazing brush fire half a city block wide. What can I do, but be dumbfounded. I continue to run, wondering what, if anything, anyone would do in this neighborhood. No fire truck is going to come here to put out a brush fire. No police are going to look twice at a potential arson until the damage is done. No one is going to care about these kids’ safety. It is just the same as the time I saw a man being beaten in the street, and I knew no police would bother to think twice about helping a Chollo. And it is the same as the time it took the police three hours to show up when we had a theft at our place. Or the time some community contacts kept vigil over a house in their neighborhood all night because the police refused to come when a woman was being beaten by her husband outside.

I watch from the other side of the dusty field for a few moments as the fire rages and the kids scramble up the steep cliff embankment to try and escape the fire. No one even looks or thinks twice from the Soccer game. A few Chollos meander to the side to watch the flame, but most are enraptured with their game. Waiting for a bit, just in case, I head home humbled by the sometimes thick and striking presence of injustice in this place, and in the true fashion of Joyce, my eyes burn with anguish and anger.

Juarez Reflection: So There We Were...

 

Every good story starts with…

So there we were winding through the streets of Juarez on our typical Wednesday morning routine. Jenny Tapia sat just to my left smiling and humming contently in her quiet way as she always does. Suddenly, as we are dodging every large crack, crevice, and pothole that composes the street, there reared up in front of us a very peculiar looking creature. Truth be told, I thought it was massive black furred possum looking to attack our vehicle.

“uh…um…” I said, slowing the car and glancing at Jenny inquisitively.

“What is that?!” she muttered disgustedly. “Its standing on it’s HEAD!!!”

As we passed what we could only describe as alien spawn, we realized that the dog drinking from the street had played an optical illusion on us making it look like it was either some ominous otherworldly creature or it was literally doing an Irish jig on one foot. I glanced at Jenny who immediately burst into an uncontrollable and hysterical laughter that did not end until we reached our destination, the Comedor. Even over a week later, she admits chuckling: “Every time I think about it I can’t stop laughing! It was standing on one leg! It was like it was doing tricks for us or something!!!!”

Juarez Reflection: I Saw A Storm, But I Did Not Fear It

 

I saw a storm, but I did not fear it. The rolling fields of thigh high prairie grass gently lapped against my body which was vividly green against the backdrop of the dilapidated barn house. Many cyclones dropped from the dark sky in the distance; they split as many from one – plodding and planning. Each swirling column spun a cloud of dark debris reminiscent of a black smog from the ASARCO smelting plant – thick and noxious. With anger and ferocity, it was as if a caged lion bearing the brunt of a captive life, walked the thin line of his cage searching for holes in the gate; searching for an opportunity to strike; waiting for his turn to pounce.

The warm breeze kept me calm as I made my way toward safety in the cellar, but I never rushed or hurried because I had no trepid feeling of immanent danger though it sought to be the death of me. No wind had come nor any downpour. There was a storm on the horizon, but the calm preceding it did not just warn me of its immanent danger. No, it enraptured me in the peace of preservation. It kept me calm not only in the face of dying but also in the real possibility of it. It was a peace unwarranted of any word or phrase. I made a slow gait to the barn house smiling in the headwinds of death.

And as I awake to the morning chill of Juarez, I seek to know the meaning of this dream – why the brooding vehement animosity of the storm might seek my end. These passing thoughts fade as my day begins and the joys and trials rush upon me. The days pass on and the week moves through whatever mundane attributes it can muster, and all the while my mind fades from this encounter. Then, on a day full of rain, I climb tiredly the hill on which we live, and I shake the coarse dripping mud from my jacket which I had obtained from digging tree trenches at one of the ministries nearby. I stop and peer up. There, at the top, is a red faced elderly Mexican man surrounded by nearly ten horse drawn policemen and a silent frustrated staff member. Profanity and rage spew from the man’s mouth as he curses the police and the staff who struggle to remain calm in the mounting danger of the heated confrontation. The man is a raging storm, a caged beast, hoping to break free his cast iron chains to feast a succulent jugular.

The pattering rain falls steadily and splatters on the muddied steep road as the steaming breath of the chocolate police horses protrudes from their nostrils. Time fades while the darkened rain clouds roll in, and the tapping of my heart finds a peaceful tune which could see  this stilled portrait of death and smile.

Juarez Reflection: Homage to the Night

A black cat stares down at me from her perch on the concrete level above as I work out in the small area we call a court yard. It is late, and behind her a full moon casts its daunting glare on the girl's bedroom window as it peers out from the frosty desert clouds. Juarez is quiet tonight. Even the dogs are paying silent homage.

Juarez Reflection: Like the Sun

 

Before leaving for Christmas break, I find myself in the dingy inner room of a women’s shelter handing out stockings to the eager little children and their moms. A young girl peers eagerly at me, but I know the mere idea of a gift is foreign to her; she does not know what it means to receive; She cannot understand provision. I show her all the things in her stalking and try my best in pleading with her to understand that they are hers to keep. I desperately want her to know that she gets to have all these gifts not watch as they are taken from her by the other children. I find a small bottle of bubbles and open it for her. She stares inquisitively as I dip the small plastic utensil into the bubbly water and bring it to my lips. As I produce a large and dripping monstrosity which rises but for a moment and then sinks quickly to the ground, I see something incredible. The young girl, having never seen a bubble before, throws her hands out shaking, widens her eyes, gyrates her entire body, and lets out a near deafening screech! And it is not only this first time but every time she sees one. For almost a straight hour, this ecstatically intense noise fills the deadened scene of the shelter. I am convinced that if joy could be bottled, it could never be as real, refreshing, or invigorating. It is as if the young girl is the sunrise, and her excitement is beaming off a single drop of dew as is streams through a spring’s morning cloud like the rays of the sun… There is something profound here I think.

Juarez Reflection: Like Chocolate and Venom

 

"Immediately, the boy's father exclaimed, 'I do believe; help me in my unbelief!'" (Mk 9.24 NIV)

I am laying in my chilly uninsulated room in the barrios of Mexico. The glow of the small propane heater, set next to my bed, creates lingering shadows upon the darkened walls. I am reflecting on the happenings of the day, thankful that it is ending in the same way it began: I am pleading with God. I am asking him for hope, encouragement, strength, wisdom…joy. I believe that somewhere between His grace and my complete unworthiness He has given me grace to be free; freedom to be His son with no qualms or questions. Though all of my being cannot accept this reality, I choose to believe it. I choose to believe for I have no other hope.

One shadow, dances off the wall reminding me of the vehicle I drove into a ditch this morning causing me to be at the whim of angry neighbors and a vacationing Youthworks! staff. Another, flickers with the event of community contacts standing me up even after I drove a half hour to meet them with presents and baked goods. Still another, displays the bleak hopelessness of the Woman's shelter I visited, and it tells of the ever growing helplessness I feel when I think upon the dim futures of the children I played with. Still another, reminds me of the stuck valve on the propane tank I assumed was shut and began loosening in our living room. The tank, after a frantic run outside by one of the Youthworks! staff, thankfully spewed the deadly fumes into the air instead of toward the stove someone was using. And still another, reminds me of the team tensions and frustrations between our very eclectic group and our aggravating recent interactions with the community. And one more reminds me…and still one more relates…and yet another tells me…

These dancing shadows creep ever closer to my flickering light, swaying and moving with a sultry toxic message – as of venom yet sweet as chocolate. There I lay, cradled close to the last security of the dimming light, ever aware of the advancing dark, and pray:

"I choose to believe! Overcome the black night of this unbelief!"

Juarez Reflection: A Feast of Praises

 

The steam of the nearly boiling water warms the otherwise frigid kitchen of the small church Salon de Sociale. In the background is the ruckus of rowdy Mexican youth and the leaders that are working tirelessly to keep them entertained as they offer a relevant message of Christ. I have been commissioned to cook for this overnight event. It is nearly ten, and I can't help but worry that the children are getting anxious to eat -though truly, this may be the best meal some of them will have all week; a spread of feasts for a crew of peasants. I subtly remind myself that eating in Mexican culture generally happens later, but I still cannot shake the nagging of my brain.

My thoughts dwell on the youth here and the frustration one of the leaders confessed to me; the realities of in-depth inner-city ministry had met this visionary minister face to face. He has been wrestling with some real and weighty issues in his work: How does one overcome the street life and show the great joys of the love of Christ? How does one stop the cycles of poverty so that a group of youth can see that there is more to life, namely the love of Christ, than drugs, violence, and an eclectically active sex life? How does one show the love of Christ in a place that teaches their children to lay Him on the wayside? How does one keep hope when every effort seems to end in disappointment?

I am reminded of a time of worship recently when the leaders, having pleaded with the youth to stay and worship, lifted their praises to Christ; hopeful; prayerful; alone. In the middle of one of the songs, the youth boisterously flooded the room returning and paying no attention to the meaningful praises of God, and the leaders continued to sing even amongst the obnoxious distraction. In that moment, my mind's eye dreamt and saw a time when these children, by the faithful and exhausting efforts of these young leaders, might someday bow their entire being at the throne of Christ, thankful for the life they have been given; worshipful for the mere chance to do so; reverent of His mighty power and love. I saw them – beautiful. I realized that these rough city kids had returned because they found no other like it anywhere else. They needed this place of safety and hope. Could they have found an even more "relevant" place to be in the druglord's house? definitely. But they would not have found the hope and Christ-like love offered here.

As my mind revels in the idea that one day the praises of this youth would ascend like the pungent altar incense of old, the rising steam from the boiling water reminds me of the task at hand. I thank God for His goodness and ask Him for encouragement in this desperate place for those that are faithful. I stir the pot and chuckle. We may not live like kings here, but tonight we're all sure as hell gonna eat like one.

Juarez Reflection: Walls Cannot Contain

I try to hide my shivering from the others who had come more well prepared than I have. The pastor has leant me a jacket displaying the allowed and appropriate colors, but it does little to fight the biting chill created by the shade of the building we are forced to stand in. As we make our way inside the penitentiary, things become very real and very sobering. All along the way, Mexican police officers garbed fully in modern war armor and SWAT gear stand guard with their fingers taut against the triggers of their M-16 rifles. Drug dogs run the line sniffing out any who might try to breach the borders and parameters of this guarded community. With me the pastor, the mother whose son we were to visit, and the pastor's assistant. We heave the weighted load of food and supplies for the young man to eat, bathe, and do laundry on to the inspection counter, and the undying love of this mother hits me for the first time. Without her, this man would starve. Without her, this man would die.

As we enter numerous inspection lines, and give our lives and identities basically to the whims of the Mexican prison system, I can't help but lean my entire being on the hope that God would safe guard me – that the sayings of Psalms 121:8, displayed proudly on one of the walls of our apartment, promising He would secure my path for eternity, would not fail me now. I am helpless to all but trust in Christ.

Once through these seemingly unending security checkpoints, and with my visitor card tucked safely inside my clenched and white knuckled fist, I proceed into the courtyard. In Mexico, there is no separation of inmate to visitor. Once one is in the gate, he is directly in the prison community. As we walk past starving and begging addicts, gangsters, and swindlers (who apparently were not as lucky to have caring family on the outside), and made our way to the young man's cell, It becomes strikingly obvious that, for some, prison might be the better option. For, inside these walls is a small community; inside these walls is a virtual paragon of commerce; inside these walls, men are free to sell, trade, and barter without all the hassles of having to worry about needing shelter or providing for family. That is to say, they are free to do so if they are given the proper provision which all are not. We reach the young man's cell, which is not unlike some of the two person dorm rooms of my university, where he has just risen and his cellmate slumbers continually never showing his face. His mother hands him the package of supplies which his shame permits him to take. I see a mother's heart breaking.

He walks us to the courtyard where we buy some coffee and cookies from one of the inmates there, and watch some of the men cook their breakfast on the gas stoves provided. We talk of various things. We converse about the recent riots inside and some of the horrors of death and violence the young man had seen, we spoke of the differences he has noticed in serving time in the States and serving time in Mexico, but most of all we spoke of God's undying love for him – we spoke of the liberty that Christ can offer.

We leave, and I am overwhelmed. My whole being, everything in me and of me, desires to scream and yell and pray as loudly as I possibly can for this young man:

Father! Show him the freedom these walls cannot contain!
Father! Show him the freedom these walls cannot contain!
Father! Show him the freedom these walls cannot contain!

Juarez Reflection: La Cancion ~ For When The Birds Sing

Follow me here…In the mountains of Colorado, one might find himself, in the early morning hours, staring at a bird in the branches of a pine tree, and that bird might be singing a frail yet powerful song as the breaking rays of the day's first light rush past illuminating the small creature. He might then realize that it is neither the pine tree, nor the sun, nor even the bird in itself that creates this magnificence, but rather it is the way in which all work together in their mere being to reflect and shine out the glory of God; they exist; they dwell; they are. Their mere identity in creation makes them.

As I sit in the community building of the site 2 church here in Juarez, my mind is captured by the captivating scene which I can only relate to that of a singing bird. For a brief second, I find myself watching the members of this church, and I am astounded at their liveliness – their realness. For but a moment, a haze is lifted from my tired brain, and I have awakened to life with renewed clarity on the vibrancy of God’s humanity through the interplay of these people. It is as if I am watching a grandiose painting coming to life; as if beauty itself is being manifested from a picture; as if I could dwell, in the purest sense, within the manifestation of the most wondrous imagination. In my panoramic and continuous view, I see – I think – the very face of the church. In one corner sits Maggie, a smiling elderly lady. She is quietly singing an awe-inspiring Spanish hymn to herself. Another older man, Antonio, just stands around reflecting the wisdom of his years as well as the true nature of his gruff exterior marked by the frailty of years. Pastor Jorge buzzes to and fro playing with the kids and laughing with the people. One member grills tacos to enjoy. The kids are playing and teasing each other. There is an abundance of joyful conversation. People are living together. God is manifesting himself. The church is being revealed.

This forces me to necessarily think on the times when, in my own church at home, we too had an aura of truth and beauty around us, and I found the more I thought of it, the more I believed it to be similar moments as these. We weren't the church when we were trying to put together relevant worship services, when we sang the latest song, when we had new and swank art shows, nor when we took up any sort of post-modern rhetoric. All these things positively played into the way we worked out our identity, but it was in those times when we shared our hurts, reveled in one another's beauty, struggled with one another's flaws, when we ate together, sang together, and lived together that we most became the bride of Christ.

As the singing lark – perched steadily upon a low pine branch – whistles its endemic and coercive tune, arguing in its mere existence the presence of the almighty, so too do the people of God supplant any temple or dogmatic worship, and by doing so, reflect in their community and existence the true nature of a loving deity.

Juarez Reflection: Here is a Story...

 

The anticipation is building as we wait in line for the Mexican "Scream House." Surrounding us are the cheap imitated body parts of the horror spectacle. We are here with some of our community friends who we have been meaning to hang out with. This spunky crowd of late teens and early twenties only helps to heighten the mood. One of my house mates, Whitney (whom I continually tease in what I hope and assume is loving banter), is becoming more and more fearful as I and the others hype up the grotesque and sordid nature of what we were about to see. As we enter, Whitney gains a death grip on my shirt, and at one point begins refusing to look around. This happens intermittently through the show.

At one point I feel the familiar tug at my shirt, which I generally find pointless since I usually in turn try to scare Whitney further, and I turn expecting to see her. However, as I turn I notice, amidst the noise and flashing lights, that it is actually not Whitney but rather a Mexican girl with whom I have no association. With wide eyes, her white knuckles cling to my shirt, and she whispers:

"No, Senor, No Senor, No Senor!"

A little shocked, I chuckle to myself and think, "Hey! Do what you gotta do"

Truth be told, most of the jargon, not unlike the "Hell Houses" in the US, hurt my heart as we entered different rooms of "Scare Tactic Christianity," but I was not here to judge or govern but merely to support and encourage. Hopefully, God was with us that night as we sought to encourage our ministry partners and friends.

Juarez Reflection: The Bridge

 

Having recently found a great enjoyment in tea, I drank fast the now lukewarm beverage as I anticipated the coffee I would soon be enjoying from the gas station on the way to Jenny's (She runs the comedor – or soup kitchen at Youthworks Site 1 – it is our responsibility to pick her up every Wednesday morning to help bring the food across for the people). The line on the border bridge is relatively short this morning. I am listening to a sermon by a good friend of mine, Jeff Cook, as he traverses through the Pauline doctrine of Philippians. I have my hands tucked deep in my hoodie pockets, and all the windows are rolled up tight; the mornings have become increasingly cold. I inch ever more closely to the border. I pull out my passport, and go over what I am going to say to the border guard in my mind. Finally, I make it to the front and the guard waves me forward. We go through the typical exchange – "What are you doing in Mexico?" – "What are you bring into the States" – etc. However, there is something different in his eyes; there is something shifty; there is distrust.

The guard asks me to step out of the van and open the side and back doors. As I do so, he mumbles something that I cannot understand, and I, having been prodded to respond in Spanish while learning in the last week, unhesitatingly reply, "¿Que?" This, of course, is not the right response to an officer who already seemingly thinks you are trying to put something over on him. He steps back, he becomes very stern, and he begins to look me up and down. I pause and wait for his response.

Then, the question…

"When was Paris Hilton here?"
"what?"
"You know, Paris Hilton. She was here not too long ago with her kids, huh? When was that?"
"I-I don't know man! WHAT?"

Realizing that I was not a Mexican national, that I was not trying to trick him with anything, and that I apparently did not keep up with the doings of one snobbish Ms. Hilton, his embarrassment was evident.

All that said, sometimes border crossing is ridiculous…and I am glad I finally got my passport.

Juarez Reflection: Woe...

 

The messiah's hardened face glared into the fallacy of those that had for so long lead his people into the turmoil of spiritual being; he sets his face toward Jerusalem; he sets his face toward that dogmatic system that was killing his people.

"Woe to you Teachers of the Law and Pharisees…"

Woe to you Teachers of the Law and Pharisees for not wielding the law in order to be more fully human and less a slave; woe to you for allowing Israel to become more man's than God's; Woe to you for forgetting.

The small girl pushes the chair with all her might. For a few minutes, I am hardly aware of the activity because it seems to mold into the background of what else is going on. The prolonged activity seems to be very strenuous, and the few times that I do notice the girl, she seems to be exhausted with the work though her determination is evident. The metal legs scrape ever fervently across the concrete floor, hitting every bump and squealing the whole time. Finally, she reaches her destination. There is a small table in the corner of the room, and she bangs the back of the chair hard against it. She ascends to the seat of the chair, upon its back, and finally to the table top. Suddenly my full attention is enraptured in the intent of this small girl. Her eyes bounce around the room as if the bewilderment of her accomplishment had overwhelmed her, her face brightens as a glass of champaigne spilling overtop, and she begins to do something marvelous. She jumps. It happens only about three or four times, and never mind whether she was actually supposed to be up there or not. She jumps…she simply jumps, and for a brief moment the whole room seems to stand still (if I had been outside, I might even venture to say the whole world) that this girl's contagious laugh might echo out into the roaming desert and to the hearts of humanity. Then she climbs down and goes on with her toddler day.

The Spirit taps at my heart. "Don't forget to be human – Don't forget to be mine!"

Juarez Reflection: The Sinking Heavy Ships

There is a song that sings:

"'I do not EXIST!' We faithfully insist.
While watching sink the heavy ship of everything we knew.
If ever you come near I'll hold up high a mirror.
Lord, I could never show you anything as beautiful as you"*

The bright orange paint runs ever slowly down my side, and the shock of the falling bucket continues to prod my racing heart. I take a moment to peer out into the freshly painted rooms, newly brightened with color and vibrancy, and I try to wipe the ever increasing stain on my clothes from the spilled paint. It has been a full day's work. I nod to my Mexican counterpart, both of us sweaty and beaten from the incessant hours of painting, and I bid he and the rest of the crew farewell (or whatever happens to be spill from my broken Spanish).

As I leave the orphanage, and the grand hospitality of the couple that ran it, I breathe the dusty Mexican air and remember that it was I who only hours before dreaded the day and the time spent with the beautiful people of God. I think on all those who had generously and graciously struggled through the language barrier with me through out the day, and upon the various beaming children that had been at the building heading to and from school on Juarez' half day schedule. I remember that I walked into this great day fearing my interaction with these people and doubting my decision to be at this particular ministry and ultimately my entire purpose for being in Juarez this year.

I climb tiredly into the rustic and typical Youthworks! vehicle feeling every tired and satisfied muscle. I drive home aware of each moment, each mile, each turn of the wheel, and my soul is bemused by the simple and yet overtly stunning sunset. I listen to the ever faint but steady beat of my heart as it rhythmically sings a lofty tune –

"I DO NOT EXIST!" I faithfully insist.
I watch the sinking heavy ship of everything I ever knew
If ever you come near
I'll hold up high a mirror.
Lord, I could never show you anything as beautiful as you!


*Weiss, Arron, “Messes of Men”. Brother, Sister. Mewithoutyou. Tooth&Nail Record Company. 2006

Juarez Reflection: OOOOOHHHH!!!!

 

This is one of those moments that make you say… "REALLY?":

So we have a community contact over for dinner the other night. It was a fantastic time! She brought her two children over while her husband was at work, we made her dinner, and she (being a baker) made us brownies. However, there is one moment of the night that is most memorable. Over the joyous laughter of the interns, the children, Youthworks! staff, community members, and the sizzle of grilling chicken I was cooking on the stove, came a distinct and familiar sound. It was a snap. The snap of a mouse trap, in fact. The Interns have become very acquainted with the sound since we moved in. It has been a constant battle to keep the rodents out of our food and off our counters, and to that point, and currently, we had been winning with various glue and snapping traps. I am usually the only one excited over the death of the creatures whom I have humorously dubbed "El Mickey Diablo" or "Mickey de los Muertos".

So, naturally I turn to take account of my victory, but am dismayed to see that it is not a rodent I have caught. No, it is a child. There at my feet in our small apartment, is a young toddler with a torturing grimace upon his face and a mouse trap dangling from his four fingers. And then…the scream. It was the kind of scream that has to build first. It takes time to develop its full intensity, which is probably why none of us thought much of the snap at first.

Well, the lad is okay. Mousetraps aren't actually all that powerful, but they do sting – believe me. Needless to say it has been an encouraging, eventful, and sometimes crazy week of community interaction, and (hopefully) we will remember to set the mousetraps off before we have kids over again.

Juarez Reflection: Joy in Darkness

 

Morning breaks on the dry desert surrounding of the small hill on which our block house is situated, and the air feels thick as my body breathes in the dusty air which mingles with the smoke from a trash pit two blocks over.  As I stand on the porch, which is set just off the side of the apartment, sip softly the cup of coffee I have prepared to shake the last moments of sleep from my brain, and look at the impoverished ragtag neighborhood just below, a small black cat leaps, almost alights, atop what is left of a standing wall overlooking this small valley. His tiny frame is accentuated by the sheen glow of his fur as it soaks up the dawn's first gleaming rays. Immediately my thoughts are taken back to the women's shelter we had visited the day previous, and I remembered the small child that spun in ecstasy on the floor. I also remembered the mother whose daughter had been abducted only a few days before and the mother in Mexico city being treated for the wounds she had suffered after being sexually assaulted on her way to work.  In this moment, I see the cat and the child interwoven. One gives glory to God in her youthful revelry, and the other does so merely by displaying dumbfounding beauty in creation. All of this is in strict opposition to poverty, degradation, injustice, and need.  I finish the last sips of my coffee, breathe deep the tainted air one final time, I turn to go inside, and I pray for wisdom. I ask that I might know how to be the child dancing in the face of oppression; be that perfect creature of beauty in a disjunct and decrepit environment; bring joy to this seemingly dark place.

Rosebud: Fury

From fury, one returns to fury; angst to angst; hell to hell. The siege of rage entreats upon my soul.

Often, when I need to clear my head of ridiculous human drama, I go running. So I did. It was dusk. I chose a road that was guaranteed to deliver solitude. The dust rose to my face filling my lungs with brown mucousy mud. Around me the echoing belching of canines burned louder than the music from my headset, and I was troublingly aware of their presence and the fact that they were uncontained. Many, territorially, kept steady on the invisible line in which they drew between myself and them; a warning only. Soon, I came upon one who, like a crack of luminous thunder, came suddenly close to me appearing from no where. Drawing his territorial line with the path of his racing legs, I thought no more of it as I passed to the farther side of the road. In the next stride, as my heel went up, I felt it smash hard against something in the upward motion. It was the dog. Upon this realization, I had no more than an instant’s time in which to process before I felt the sharp sting of the dog’s teeth as it sank hard and deep into the flesh of my leg and was gone. Bleeding, and with a desire to chase and murder the creature, I had no choice but to run the several mile trek back before treating the injury.

From fury, one returns to fury; angst to angst; hell to hell. The siege of rage entreats upon my soul.

Rosebud: The Wind

“Get inside! Get inside!” I yell to the seventy plus people, that I am somehow in charge of, running to find protection from the pounding wind. I look back to see the caravan of white vans swaying methodically – melodically- to the erupting chaos of the coming tornado which is rising around them. I stand in the portico of the emergency wing of the hospital, tense, fervent, and soaking. I can feel the rain, as if a rush of river, flowing and dripping off my arms and limbs. I am overwhelmed by the duty that forces me to be here, and I am confused by the calling that gives me the authority over these people. Why send a ragamuffin to lead the infantry? Why, when you need a general, do you choose a beggar? Why was I here? What was God’s purpose?

Here, for a brief instant, the glorified Christ entreats my mind, shining and beautiful. I can see him in a garden – he is in a garden near Gethsemane, and he stands amidst creation vindicated. My emotions play a fickle tune akin to a dirge of mourning, for I realize that I am nothing, and I stand as a prime example of unmitigated and unceasing failure, unworthiness, and morose need. What purpose is there in Him fighting for a world born with a noose upon its neck? Why in the hell would He die to bring peace to an unfaithful line of children? Yet, here I am, I realize, sitting at the metaphorical transcendent table on which the Eucharist is served; I am here with the great multitude of siblings, quibbling, sneering, fighting but also loving, respecting, and enjoying each other; each breathing deep the air of the father’s house; each sitting accepted as a beloved heir; each embodying an identity of child – of accepted. A son never earns his title – he is born that way. No, a son only ever moves in a necessary way to fulfill his IDENTITY as a son, and in the process, he moves to fulfill a commission to become a father; he is ever fulfilled as a part of the whole, the family, and yet ever becoming fulfilled within the whole. And So, there stands Christ in this instant – glorified, deified – calling me to lay down that ideology that would be legalistic and strictly kharmaic, and he beckons me to rise, as the son that I am, to stand with Him in the new Eden; dwell in being; be a part of new creation; to live.

I am brought back to the moment, and the wind continues to rush and sway. The hordes of people run to make it in to safety, and I usher the last, and excruciatingly slow, man into the building. I turn to view the last of the scene. The trees swaying, dancing, move a little faster and a little more intensely for a second, and then suddenly, a line of them near the end of the parking lot flip back and fly forward in the force of the wind, cracking like a whip. Nature’s fury, this time a tornado, has come calling for a visit, and the rush thunders like a troupe of elephants racing toward some archaic battle front, and the trees bend and crack as they are forced to lay down in the immense power of nature; chaos. I enter safety with the wind and wild behind me, and I move toward the people which God has given me to lead and manage; I move toward my identity; I move toward my being.

Rosebud: In the Night

The echoing silence of the prairie grass dancing along the plain melds my soul into a confused mix of euphoria and anxiousness as the height of danger is intermingled with the sheer exhilaration of trust, faith, and adventure. My breath is harsh as I struggle to maintain some sort of weekly exercise which, this night, takes the form a jog around the Pine Ridge housing facility. My mind sways as it fights the burning and incessant call of my body for sleep – it is only my determination, or perhaps stubbornness, that keeps me out in this tar black night. Inside rest the little heads of all those whose burden is mine to bear for the summer – those who, unbeknownst to them have become my tiyospate…my family. The night is clear and the stars beam down infinitely. In the distance, I can hear the unceasing cry of one howling rez dog. Soon, another echoes his cry, and within seconds there is a howling chorus filling the once still air; animal; demonic. Time after time, I remind myself of the words of Paul when he says we will be mastered by nothing, and I entreat upon the Lord to keep me safe from the prowling pack moving through the untamed grass merely a few feet beyond. Besides, to flee would be death.

As I round a corner fighting the fear that would forsake my sanity, I am met with the stark outline of a strange figure. In the dark stands a person. For a moment, I envision the burning fury of a demon crazed mad man plagued with alcoholism, meth, and rage – my personal homicide. This, however, is not the case. I realize that it is actually a small child here playing in the dead of night. He shines a laser pointer on my chest, and, wondering his intent, I pause to see his movement. No doubt imitating something he had seen on television or that which had been modeled for him in his home, he points two fingers at me and makes a strange noise. “Bang, Bang” he shouts, “Head Shot!!!” My slaughter is a joyful game for him. His laughter fills my soul with dread, and as he passes into the light I can see no hope for him, no light of his own which might give peace and justice to his lost innocence.

My time in the night is over, and my safe harbor beckons. As I head inside, extreme sadness overtakes my heart because I know that the only refuge from the horrors of home for this child is the dim styngant arms of night.

Transcendence: The Sources

Adorno, Theodore W. "On the Fetish Character in Music and Regression of

Listening." The Essential Frankfurt School Reader. Ed. Andrew Arato and

Eike Gebhardt. Continuum: New York, 1993. 272-299.

---. "Subject and Object." The Essential Frankfurt School Reader. Ed. Andrew

Arato and Eike Gebhardt. Continuum: New York, 1993. 497-511...:namespace prefix = o ns = "urn:schemas-microsoft-com:office:office" />

Baudrillard, Jean. "The Murder of the Sign." The Intelligence of Evil or The

Lucidity Pact. Oxford: Berg, 2004. 67-74.

---"On the Fringes of the Real." The Intelligence of Evil or The Lucidity

Pact. Oxford: Berg, 2004. 25-38.

---. "On the World and its Profound Illusories." The Intelligence of Evil or The

Lucidity Pact. Oxford: Berg, 2004. 39-46.

Ellis, John. "Ideology and subjectivity." Culture, Media, Language. Ed. Suart

hall, Dorothy Hobson, Andrew Lowe, and Paul Willis. London: Hutchinson,

1986. 186-194.

..:namespace prefix = st2 ns = "urn:schemas:contacts" />Hall, Stuart. "Encoding/decoding." Culture, Media, Language. Ed. Stuart hall,

Dorothy Hobson, Andrew Lowe, and Paul Willis. London: Hutchinson,

1986. 128-138

Morley, David. "Texts, readers, subjects" Culture, Media, Language. Ed. Suart

hall, Dorothy Hobson, Andrew Lowe, and Paul Willis. London: Hutchinson,

1986. 163-173.

The Ecclesian Aesthetic III: The Shadow of Imperfection

One final way that an aesthetic ideal is presented in Ecclesiast thought comes by view of beauty.  Again turning to the philosophy of William Morris, beauty is the semblance of an ideal life. That is to say that expression, whether in deed or in artifice, must be an unhindered action which Morris relates when he says:

I demand a free and unfettered animal life for man first of all: I demand the utter extinction of asceticism.  If we feel the least degradation in being amorous, or merry, or hungry, or sleepy, we are so far bad animals, and therefore miserable men (Society 177).

Here beauty is manifested through expression as an immediate function of the subjective self. So, Morris makes a connection to man as an animal so that there might be a heightened view of instinctual and fleshly urges thus promoting the idea of expression, not merely in art, but also in the procurement and progression of life in general.  So, in this way expression becomes the path to a higher state of being.

            Similarly, the Ecclesiast relates, "Do not be over-righteous and do not be over-wise.  Why should you destroy yourself? Do not be over-wicked and do not be a fool. Why destroy yourself before your time?" (REB Ecc 7.16). Besides an obvious contrast to the Platonic stance of a high value of wisdom and knowledge, the Ecclesiast brings to light a similar idea to Morris in that the individual must not seek to over extend himself in the realm of legality, but the true essence of life comes in the free and unhindered life. While perhaps not going so far as to make extinct all asceticism, as Morris does, the author of "Ecclesiastes" most certainly presents a notion of being able to adhere to the demands of the animal side of human nature.  So, the legalistic nature of Mosaic tradition becomes, not negated, but appropriated to a new stance on the independence of the individual subjectivity.  Asceticism as far as it is related to guilt becomes obsolete, and it makes room for the animalistic and instinctual side of human nature.

            Comparably, chapter nine promotes this sort of strike at legalism when it says:

            […] the righteous and the wise and whatever they do are under God's control; but whether they will earn love or hatred they have no way of knowing. Everything that confronts them, everything is futile, since one and the same fate comes to all, just and unjust alike, good and bad, ritually clean and unclean, to the one who offers sacrifice and to the one who does not. The good and the sinner fare alike […] (REB Ecc 9.1-2).

Here legality is struck in order to more appropriately digest the suppressed nature of the exiled nation, and it presents a notion of an apathetic social outlook. This then reverts back to Morris' strike at asceticism by revealing the truly helpless nature of the Israelites. It promotes the idea that the loss of control should be followed by the ineffectual nature of power seeking.  That is to say that by noting a strike at legality, the Ecclesiast presents a means by which the Hebraic community is not uninvolved in the tenets of life, but they are untroubled by adverse circumstance;  the Jewish community is powerless to change their circumstances and so should stop trying and find meaning in what they are.  Other passages, namely chapter eight verse fourteen and chapter eleven verse four, recognize this same theme of striking legality, and this may again be tied to the ancient thoughts of Parmenides. 

            While the changing nature of the status of the Israelites may be characterized by the hope of future glory, already related to Heraclitian philosophy, the universe yet remains an unchanging constant for it is an extension or creation of the unchanging nature of God so that man has little effect on the outcome of His will.  Relating back to Morris then, this ancient philosophy notes a way in which the community members are simply untroubled as they adopt their human nature as a normative function of reality and relent to the Parimedean thought of the unchanging nature of God. The Israelites are free to adopt their new mode of life in exile and yet cling to the tradition that up until that time had expressly required their sovereign independence. 

            No more do the words of Morris ring clear than when the Ecclesiast says:

Go, then, eat your food and enjoy it, and drink your wine with a cheerful heart; for God has already accepted what you have done. Always be dressed in white, and never fail to anoint your head. Enjoy life with a woman you love all the days of your allotted span here under the sun. Futile as they are; for that is your lot while you live and labour here under the sun. Whatever task lies to your hand, do it with might; because in Sheol [Hades], for which you are bound, there is neither doing nor thinking[…] (REB Ecc 9.7-10).

For, here the unfettered life is given in full proportion so that the highest value in life "is first the unconstrained life, and next simple and natural life. First you must be free; and next you must learn to take pleasure in all the details of life" (Society 178). So beauty, in all areas of life, is the main staple of it even in adversity, even in tragedy, even in toil, even in labor, and even in the midst of failure; beauty is the manifest way of life being lived for the sake of living.  The Ecclesiast aesthetic frees the Jewish people to be who they are as they are, and it frees them from the social constraints and guilt associated with their failed monarchy and suppression under foreign leaders; Ecclesiastes screams in to the human psyche (and indeed unto us) to not be hindered by the imperfect nature of its soul and surrounding darkened world, but it calls it to find beauty in the midst of spiritual failure, solace in the wake of guilt, and reassurance in shadow of imperfection.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------

Morris, William. "The Beauty of Life." On Art and Socialism. Ed. Norman

       Kelvin. New York: Dover, 1999. 35-56.

---. "The Society of the Future." On Art and Socialism. Ed. Norman

       Kelvin. New York: Dover, 1999. 174-184.

Oxford Study Bible. 1976. Ed. M. Jack Suggs, Katherine Doob Sackenfield, and James R.

        Mueller. Rev. ed. New York: Oxford UP, 1992.

Ruskin, John. "Modern Painters, IV: Of the Turnerian

       Picturesque." Selected Writings. Oxford: Oxford UP, 2004. 82-92.

Suggs, M. Jack, ed. "Ecclesiastes." Oxford Study Bible. 1976. Ed. M. Jack Suggs,

Katherine Doob Sackenfield, and James R. Mueller. Rev. ed. New York: Oxford UP, 1992. 684.

 

The Ecclesian Aesthetic II: Nobility in Nature

A second means by which an Aesthetic mindset is presented in the ancient philosophy of the Ecclesiast is by contrasting it with John Ruskin's notion of the "Noble Picturesque" which is an aesthetic object that gains its value through "its expression, namely, of suffering, of poverty, or decay, nobly endured by unpretending strength of heart" (Ruskin 85).   In seeing that John Ruskin's idea of that which is the "Noble Picturesque" necessarily accepts and finds its value in its flawed nature, one can make the parallel to the Israelite nation in the notion that the community itself must acquire the ideals of a "Noble Picturesque."  So, in light of a post exilic lifestyle, the Ecclesiast philosophy not only gives permission for the community to proceed in their oppressed lifestyle, but it also sets up a noble ideal so that the community actually finds value in its diminished nature. This allows the broken community to maintain integrity even in the midst of struggle and against their monarchic ideal.

 On this the Ecclesiast once again borrows Heraclitian thought when he says, "All streams run to the sea, yet the sea never overflows; back to the place from which the streams ran they return to run again" (REB Ecc 1.7). So while the heightened value of the flowing river for Heraclites is its changing nature, the Ecclesiast shifts this thought to maintain that change is only an intermediary state which anticipates the return of the past; the Ecclesiast gives rise to acceptance of circumstance while maintaining the hope of a future return to glory, and parallels the "Noble Picturesque" through the acceptance of flaw as the means of value.  In this way, the Israelite community is able to find its identity in its struggle and is thus able to reconcile itself to the sin that, by the Judaic tradition, allowed the downfall of its monarchy.

So, while the "Noble Picturesque" obtains its nobility through its savagery, through its necessarily diminished nature, or by its flawed essence, so too does the Israelite nation parallel this aesthetic quality by the embodiment and propagation of its flawed nature which is further seen in a return to chapter four when the author notes, "Better one hand full, along with peace of mind, than two full, along with toil" (REB Ecc 4.6).  Here, again, the author allows for the nature of the present state of being to become the means by which the community accepts its place, and while it does not neglect the hope of a future glory, it leans toward circumstance as an almost teleological function so that the nature of existence of the Israelites is the function of who they are.  By this then, struggle and flaw become the ideal. As a teleological function, the flaw of the present must be the ideal as a progression toward the future glory, and thus an aesthetic ideal is born out by a parallel to the "Noble Picturesque."

 

The Ecclesian Aesthetic I: The Appropriation of a Human Nature

Emerging during the high point of ancient philosophy and borrowing the famous thoughts of other Hellenistic philosophers, "Ecclesiastes" presents a starkly contrasting view to the a sundry collection of ancient philosophies. While traditionally associated with a grim out look on the uncertain nature of life, the book of Ecclesiastes actually presents an example of ancient philosophy that promotes an aesthetic outlook on life as it seeks to reconcile the grim nature of Israelite political reality with the liberation of a joyful life of a free expression. An aesthetic ideal can be seen in "Ecclesiastes" through an examination of social circumstances, by noting parallels to John Ruskin's idea of the "Noble Picturesque," and by an appeal to the search for beauty in life.

One way to see the book of "Ecclesiastes" as an ancient appeal to an Aesthetic mindset is to see the social aspects of the Jewish community of the day. Having an original composition of sometime around the third century BCE, "Ecclesiastes" meets the Jewish nation at a place in their history when they are broken and exiled (Suggs 684). The fall of Judah to Babylonian power had grave effects on the religious psyche of the Hebraic community. No longer able to maintain the claim of the sovereign and chosen people of God, "Ecclesiastes" meets this once independent nation in a place where they are desperately and completely destroyed, and it is here that the mindset of the Ecclesiast intermixes with the Hellenistic philosophers. Operating at around the same time as Aristotle, the author of "Ecclesiastes" presents a philosophic and religious view that would entertain and satisfy the arising need of a broken subjectivity, in the Kantian sense, of a community of folks that has been stranded and forgotten.

It is here that one might look to chapter four as the mainstay and call toward a Marxian notion of power. As the author proceeds there is a strict sense of a parallel to a sort of class struggle. While not expressly in the bourgeois sense as with the rise of capitalism, what chapter four presents is the notion of an oppressive ruling group opposing the lower class. So, when the text says, "Power was on the side of their oppressors, and there was no one to afford comfort[,]" it intrinsically creates a sense in which the Jewish community is experiencing such oppression at the hands of the dominant ruling society (REB Ecc 4.1). The once powerful and independent nation is now at the whims and fancies of their oppressors.

This becomes important in chapter five when the author mentions that God, in terms of their oppressors, "has watch over them all" (REB Ecc 5.8). Here what develops is the notion that, though suppressed and in the hands of the enemy, the Jewish God still maintains the authority over his subjects. In this way, God appropriates the role of the panoptic gaze in the Foucaultian sense so that God becomes the all seeing eye of all humanity's action. This striking development presumably extracts the notion of a collective responsibility to the Jewish deity, and replaces it with an independent and individual nature of faith; by placing God in the role of the panoptic gaze, the author of "Ecclesiastes" creates the means by which judgment is no longer based on the deeds of the Jewish community but on the individual self. This becomes more striking when one returns to chapter three and begins to contrast it with previous ancient philosophers such as Parmenides and Heraclites, and here the famous "for everything its season" passage takes on new meaning as it embraces the Heraclitian ideal of changeability especially in light of the Jewish exile to Babylon. The exile becomes necessary and inevitable which then allows the community to rightly assume a new identity as exiled members and calls for permissible acceptance of circumstance. So too, when the chapter later goes on to say about God's power that "there is no adding to it, no taking away[,]" the deity necessarily assumes the function and embodiment of Parmenides' philosophy of the unchangeable nature of the world so that appropriation of both philosophies allows the nation to function as they must without losing the power of their deity (REB Ecc 3.14).

In all of this, the aesthetic ideal emerges as one focuses on the newly acquired relationship between the individual and the Jewish deity. The adoption of a Heraclitian type philosophy of change allows the community to step beyond a communal look at a relationship with God and into one in which the individual affects the way the two interact. For the Ecclesiast, this relationship is manifested in the familiar progressions of human activity. So while the universe is unchangeable through the nature of the deity, by the acquisition of Parmenides' thought, the individual becomes more sanctified merely by being human; every action has its place; every detail has its setting; every individual is liberated to be the human that they are. One might here bring in the aesthetic ponderings of William Morris when he says, "Have nothing in your houses that you do not know to be useful, or believe to be beautiful" (Beauty 53). In this way, what is beautiful for Morris becomes the necessary outpouring of the subjective individual so that, in the noumenal sense, the mind must take action on the evaluation of beauty, and in such liberate itself from any sort of overt and dominant cultural ideology that might strike at the genuinity of such an evaluation. One might postulate that the same liberty is found in the exercise of the individual subjective of the Ecclesiast philosophy because it allows for the individual to assess for himself the means by which any and all action is within its right "season" so that a relationship with God comes not only by usefulness or reverence for Him but also by gaining beautiful aspects. Here the Aristotelian thoughts on the high value of moderation is implied since excess might cancel out the appropriation of beauty and negate reverence for God; the Ecclesiast does not promote hedonism, but he merely makes human nature and endurance of circumstance permissible.

Crash; My Angel

I might have met an angel tonight.  His name was Crash, and he smelled of cheap liquor.  My only penance for the disquiet of his spirit was the solace of offering him a clove cigarette.  He told me he was a true American, and I could only see irony in the statement as I knew the bench he sat on would be his bed this night.  After I told him I studied English, he shared with me the good times he had in his earlier days at school. He reminisced on the times he would carve crosses in his arm during English class -- "it was my favorite subject!" he said.

His greatest advice? -- "Don't get too busy!  They will steal what you already have!  Don't let them steal what you already have!"

I left him to his darkness as he continued to mumble at me. David Crowder's "Obsession" filled my head. Smoke from my lungs intermingled with the steam from the crisp December air. Each street lamp burned its brightest but gave no light.

"Don't let them steal your shit," he continues to say to me. "Don't let them steal it!"

Red Lake VII: The Skull

Red Lake is clear and the crimson sunset bounces off the glassy surface. The light then pitters out leaving only its passing memory and the thick woolen blanket of night along with the awareness of its darkness. Our fire flickers off the faces of my staff as we sit in meditative silence reflecting on the ending of our journey; the conclusion of our hard days and nights of ministry. Mosquitoes buzz about wildly infiltrating our comfortable bubble and eerily heightening what none of us could express. Our summer had been poignantly marked with demonic attack, and we were all grossly aware that our mission was meaningful because we were being hindered.

Lights flash and roll across our (their) little section of sandy beach, and they stop; they are fixated on our gathering. Soon two ladies emerge from the car and walk, as best they can, toward our fire. "Hey! Hey! What you up ta?" Both ladies are extremely intoxicated to the point that I fear for their health. They plop down next to our fire and continue their binge with cans that they carried with them. "Who are yous? What are you doing? What's that you're drinking? COKE?!" we explain to them who we are (not really expecting them to understand), but as it turns out I am convinced that they knew who we were and what we were doing as workers in ministry.

"Gaaaah! Yous are too innocent for us! What are you doing? We should go! On our fucking beach no less! Yous should watch yourself, we're nice, but you're gonna get murdered! People will fucking KILL you! Gaaahhh!" says one, and here the tirade begins and we know that our meeting was no accident; that the God of the universe was humbling us, growing us, talking to us through his broken creation. "Hey! we know God too!” says the other. “ Giitchi Manito! He lives in the sky...wait...wait...Manito - He's right above you! He's right above you!" She motions to my Site Director, and for a brief second reveals a sincerity of awe that can only be described as Divine as she repeats that she sees God above him, but soon, through the wrestling expressions of her face, it becomes apparent that the darkness would take this round; The alcohol would win.

"I'm S----- Fucking Sumner! You tell them I was here! Get off my fucking beach! This is our beach! You're out of place! Get off our beach!" Engrossed in the moment, the Spirit leads me toward an aesthetic experience, I begin to mold in the sand the image of a human skull. Atop the skull is a cross, and around the whole is a large heart. Why I am lead to create in this volatile moment I can only attribute to God, but in it, as these ladies remind us with their continued verbal assault, I am faced with the reality of our inadequacy to bring lasting joy and love to Red Lake and these ladies iconic representation of the struggles that their community deals with. I watch the light flint and flicker off the image of the skull as it flinted off our own faces earlier, and I am starkly reminded, especially sitting in the skin crawling darkness that clouds this place every night, that the cross of Christ is not a glamorous object; it is not through crowns and the riches that create beauty that our Lord saved us, but it was through His ultimate suffering, death, and the grotesque subtleties of human nature that He gave himself; it is only He who can bring lasting joy, nothing that we can do, and it is only He who can strip this community of the demons it houses.

The next few minutes are spent coercing, conniving, and at times almost wrestling these two ladies as we try and put out the fire and worry about their trip home in the car that they had arrived in. We leave the beach with a grim reminder that for all the work we had done, God's sovereignty rules all. And ours? We have none. I envision the darkness crawling off our cars like purple flame as we wind our way back to our housing site. The mood can only be described as somber especially when my Kids Club staff recognizes one of the ladies as the mother of a child that we minister to, and it is like a spike of ice being driven in our hearts as we contrast the scene we had just been in with the faces of the children.

In all this I am given over to Paul's words in Second Corinthians when he says:

"Since God in His mercy has given us this ministry, we NEVER lose heart. We have renounced the deeds that people hide for very shame; we do not practise cunning or distort the word of God. It is by declaring the truth openly that we recommend ourselves to the conscience of our fellow-men in the sight of God. If our gospel is veiled at all, it is veiled for those on the way to destruction; their unbelieving minds are so blinded by the god of this passing age that the gospel of the glory of God, cannot dawn upon them and bring light to them [emphasis added]" (REB 4.1-4).

I cannot judge the condition of souls even when presented with such darkness, but I do know that, in the example of Paul, I will never lose heart. I know that at times like these that passion that would stir such an emotion in me is the only thing to cling to, as I fix my eyes ever on the cross and do my best to declare the truth openly that the veil which may blind the eyes of this beautiful people might be lifted, if ever it existed, and they may walk hand in hand with a God of glory. I also know that in not losing heart I might take this lesson of God's sovereignty, turn it in a positive light, and depend, with fervent intercession, on the great power of God to work for the people of Red Lake; I can know that the unfailing love He has for me can be applied for them as well.

Here ends the documentation of my brief and honoring travail into the culture and people of Red Lake. Pray for our brothers and sisters there as God moves mightily among them. Thank you for hearing.

Red Lake VI: Another Strange Moment

The Korean group – So often when I feel stressed or, I’ll be honest, bloated I will often take a run around the school that is our mission site, and more lately I had been actually running around the community (this I had previously avoided due to the abundance of stray and venomously volatile dogs running about but had since gained a confidence which was based on the mere fact that doing laps is more boring than scenery). On one occasion as I ran I became grossly aware of a strange gathering of folks on the road before me, for the path I usually take leads me down Highway 1 which runs through Red Lake. I found this to be odd, mostly because it is ridiculously hard to get any type of gathering in Red Lake let alone one that, from a distance, seemed so vibrant, joyous, and energetic. From afar I could see that this group of young people was armed with banners, matching T-shirts, and an unsurpassed enthusiasm. “No way this is Native Youth!” I thought to myself (no offense to any who read, but it just seems culturally true that native youth are generally more reserved). As I came closer I realized that my previous prediction had been correct. In fact, this youth were far from Native youth. They were Korean. I had seen signs around the reservation advertising the coming of this group, a Korean ministry, that held cultural exhibitions to attract crowds to hear the gospel. So, here I find myself running down a highway on a closed Indian reservation passing hordes of exuberant Korean youth. Strange enough? Not quite.

Later that night as our group did our weekly cookout for participants and community members at the Catholic Mission, we get invited to go and see the cultural exhibition that this group is putting on. Intrigued, we take our participants to the back of the mission where the school gym is for the viewing. As I sit there I realize that this is a multi-cultural experience put on by only one culture group. So, again, I find myself in the most strange moment as I realize I am watching this Korean youth perform an African tribal dance with a group of mostly Lutheran (a.k.a. not the most culturally enthusiastic folk or just enthusiastic in general for that matter) participants while sitting in a Catholic Mission half filled with natives on a closed Indian Reservation. I just kept thinking of my close Asian friends and their probable thoughts on the situation had they been present for it, and I think comments may have included “F@#king Asians!”, “That’s SO Asian!”, or “We’re taking over the WORLD!” I still chuckle just thinking about it. It was just weird!

Red Lake V: Diversity in the Body

There is a worship song that sings, "Take me to that place, Lord, to that secret place where I can be with you; you can make me like you! Wrap me in your arms! Wrap me in your arms! Wrap me in your arms!" I think on these words and wonder: What does it mean for me to be like you Father? How can you wrap me in your arms when I am too soaked in my own putrid filth and mire? What does it mean for me to pursue a life devoid of earthly dealings and yet full of your life giving bounty? How can I journey with my brothers and sisters on a road that is too narrow for any of us? How do we unite and proclaim a gospel of love in which I remember John's words when he says, "[...] love must not be a matter of theory or talk; it must be true love which shows itself in action. This is how we shall know that we belong in the realm of truth, and reassure ourselves in his sight where conscience condemns us; for God is greater than our conscience and knows all (REB 1 john 3.18)?

This I think is a glimpse:

As the stage vibrates with the bouncing of the chosen children who have come to serve the Red Lake community this week, I sing and drum and dance in jubilance knowing that they could not possibly know or accept the truth which God has been growing in me as of late; they too would have to journey a similar path to the one that I have walked in order to be convinced of the beauty of Christ's bride. This particular group knows what it means to worship. They have tasted the meaning of giving ones heart in ardent and joyful praise to their God, they have served in a manner fitting of the kingdom of God, and they have begun to open their minds to the love that Christ speaks of and John reminds us of. I see them here in trueness as they pour out their thanksgiving to God, not for earthly spoils and treasures, but because he has been faithful to them in their search to be humble servants of Him. These people, these kids, they are vibrant and free; they are the body of Christ.

In contrast to these who are charismatic, I find myself dwelling on the thoughts of the week previous to this one. It was then too that Jesus began to open my eyes to the vast, eclectic, and diverse nature of His body. See, it is not that the charismatic are any more sincere or ardent in their love and expression of faith, but it was that they are allowed, through the culture of their faith, to be free, open, and expressive with an exclamation of praise; they could dance; they could spin; they could scream; they could bow. But what other groups lack in expression, many times, they redact by means of genuinity, for it was the week prior to this one that I saw a group of Catholic kids, on the opposite end of the spectrum, pour themselves into the work of the kingdom in a way that I had little seen surpassed by any groups in the two summers of work in that community. And in the midst of a chaotic and expressive session of worship, I knew that these two groups, had they been coincidentally joined together on a trip, would not have been compatible in their faith expression and may even have been hostile to one another. Even still, in the vibrancy of the worship scene, I could not help but dwell on the sincerity and beauty of a hymn sung A Capella the week before by a more structured crew. It is in the depravity of cultural walls and the hostility of organized denominations that I might find disenchantment, but ever so subtly does the Father remind me of His sovereignty and His undying devotion to all who would proclaim his truth. He reminds me that I have glimpsed the notion of the earth full of His glory; though separated by qualms and brokenness, that it is by His name His children are unified; that the earth, including the sovereign nation of Red Lake, will know and does know Him by our love, not our take on Calvinism/Eucharist/ baptism/insert-secondary-issue-here.

 
I look on the faces of the kids that we are touching in this place, and I think on the families that we are doing work for and it is here that love as a petty appearance of words begins to lose its meaning and endows itself in the trueness of action. I fear for the decrepit aura that surrounds the future of the children that have touched my life and I know what it means to love in truth. What if the kids fall at the hands of the darkness that has engulfed their community? What if Eugene finds himself in a life of violence because of the gang culture that seems to confront him in every aspect of life? What if Jeff loses his vivacity and joy as he is swallowed up by the biting cynicism, brutality, and anger that he is attacked with daily? What if Zack, one of the most intelligent eight year olds I know, never realizes the potential of his mind because of distraction and lack of opportunity? What if the beautiful Angela finds herself tied to a man who can barely take care of himself because she bought in to the lie that her only worth is in her sexuality? What if Andrea never realizes the beauty of her smile and laugh, because she is too worried about finding her next fix of alcohol or meth? What if Flower loses herself in an addiction of eating as she deals with the abandonment of her mother and family? What if some of these families have to live the winter out in houses that lack windows and doors? How will some of them live with the shame of a house that is in shambles? What joy would be lost if the love of Christ was never known here?

--What if ...we lose? What if there is no hope? It is here, in this fear, that God reveals His faithfulness and sovereignty in His love of man as one remembers His promise to Israel, in Jeremiah, to never leave nor forsake them if they would only seek Him; as one remembers His promise to never leave or forsake us. Here, through the diversity of His body, He opens the door of realization to know what loving in truth really is. It is here that the body and bride of Christ can be unified in commonality as they raise a banner in their own lives and denominations that proclaims the end of apathy and shouts out conviction which would end the plague of darkness that sabotages the hearts of men. It is the bold and coercive doctrine of truth that would proclaim the love of Christ. It is the secret place where Catholic and charismatic, broken and healed, bold and meek, poet and priest can be with Him; can be made like Him; can be wrapped in His arms, wrapped in His arms, wrapped in His arms.

Red Lake III: A Strange Moment

There are a few moments in life when the ridiculous seems only too familiar. The following was one such strange moment as I was working in the great and sovereign nation of Red Lake:

As it turns out, there is a fairly large Mennonite population in Minnesota. Here, there are types of Mennonite traditions that are essentially just a Christian denomination, and then there are those who live a bit more of a cloistered and rural lifestyle that seems similar to (though not to be confused with) the Amish, at least to those on the outside looking in. In the more northerly region, where I work, the latter are pretty common.

Who knew? 

Most people, probably. At least, most Minnesotans, I guess?

Anyway, on one recent day, a co-worker and I are driving the rural back roads of the reservation. We are a bit harried from a lack of sleep and the near 24/7 work it takes to engage the different groups who come to the Reservation with our non-profit service organization. Rounding a bend, we pass a traditional Mennonite couple selling various fruits and things out of the back of their truck. Intrigued, we decide to get out and support them. We have a couple minutes to spare - why not stop and see their wares? 

As I approach, there is a woman who is neatly arranging baskets of raspberries. She is dressed in the unembellished clothing that marks their community - a somewhat boxy but clean-lined, monotone, and simple dress with a white prayer cap. And, I am immediately struck by how large she is, both in girth and height! She may be the largest woman I have ever seen in my life. Her hands are callous and gruff with dirt and soil embedded in their dried skin; It is the kind of dirty that doesn't just scrub off.  

She embodies an aura of "farm tough." 

As my coworker prods around the stand, I realize that I am not particularly interested in the raspberries she had laid out, but I feel awkward at the thought of walking away without purchasing anything. Also, I feel a bit encumbered by our size difference. So, I am a bit nervy. Nevertheless, I pluck up the courage to ask her the price at which she is selling the little baskets of fruit. 

Upon hearing my voice, she freezes, and Her work-worn hands begin to tremble a little. She mumbles something in...German? I guess, some of the communities still only speak the mother tongue of the original countries from which they came - Dutch and German. I have heard of this, but I thought it was a custom that had come out of practice.  Apparently not! I have no idea what she is saying. It is mutual.

Our combined nervousness  somehow makes the whole interaction that much more awkward. As my mind quickly races through the different reasons for this intensity, her husband (as large a man as she is a woman) lumbers out from around their mid-sized truck with a barrel of squash in hand. He is dressed equally as humbly in a flannel shirt, overalls, and a straw hat. He pauses for a moment to spy the scene. Then, it finally dawns on me that the wife is extremely uncomfortable because she doesn't want to interact with a man who is not her husband.

The Husband drops his basket and hulks his way to the merchant's table. He points a seemingly distended  and overly worked hand at the different sized baskets of raspberries, and in broken English with a German accent, he loudly says, “These... two and half! These... three and half!” My eyes widen a bit at his volume, but I gladly, though maybe sheepishly, hand him a five dollar bill and take two of the smaller containers.

I slowly say, "THANK YOU!"  - they must know what that means, right? They both turn and carry on futzing about their stand. I return to the car where my coworker is already waiting - he has fewer scruples when it comes to leaving a small business empty handed.  

I pause and reflect about the scene that had just occurred:

I just bought raspberries from a gargantuan and German speaking Mennonite man whose wife, being probably three times my size in (mostly likely) sheer muscle, was completely intimidated by me on a closed Indian Reservation in the middle of an intense Summer of service work. Sometimes, life is strange.

Red Lake II: On Sovereign Land

“...WHEN YOU ARE ON OUR LAND, YOU HAVE TO OBEY OUR RULES!”   

It is dusk on the Red Lake reservation, and the stern face of the police officer peers down at me through the open driver’s side window. His glare only reinforces the guilt I feel at having been pulled over. I nod compliantly, and apologize again.

_____

Everyone knows that jolt of dread - it is the worst feeling in the world! It’s that moment, peering into a rear-view mirror, when one sees  a squad car flip around and those lights go on! And though there is an old myth on the reservation that no one ever gets pulled over on the rez (the police there are too busy handling bigger problems - meth dens, gang activity, unruly alcohol induced violence, etc.), when you cut a cop off so you can pass the person in front of you who is already maxing the speed limit… it is pretty blatantly obvious that you are going to be pulled over. 

As I watch the two-toned patrol vehicle speeding up to my back bumper, I am giving myself a mental lashing! As part of our non-profit’s evening schedule, I am responsible for the programmatic elements - the entertainment and educational portions of the service engagement. I am rushing to beat the group back to our site in order to make sure everything is moving forward on time. But, our organization has stressed SO MANY TIMES that they nary tolerate traffic infractions! We are meant to be on or under the speed limit, and we had to take and pass a defensive driving course, which we are meant to follow to the minutiae of detail.

How could I let this happen?! 

Am I about to get a ticket? 

How does that work on the reservation? 

Wait…am I about to lose my job?! Since this gig offers room and board, much of my earnings are meant to be savings toward my expenses the rest of the year!

My anxiety begins to spiral. I immediately begin to sweat.

The officer flings open his driver side door, exits, slams it forcefully, and marches up to my vehicle. My window is already down, and he positions himself in the frame of the aperture. With a small notebook in his hand, he leaves his sunglasses on. Still, I can feel his pupils (unblinking, I assume) burning into me. His face is close to mine, and I can feel his breath.

He is not amused.

Beyond the possible immediate personal consequences, when the policeman takes my information, I become dreadfully aware of a strange paradigm that heightens the situation. Red Lakers truly believe themselves to be a foreign country, an independent nation.  This is because the seven Ojibwe tribes that comprise the commonwealth are unique from many other American Indian nations in that they rejected the Dawes Act in 1887. This would have allowed the federal government to divide up communal tribal land into private ownership, and it would have relocated many of the residents onto other allotted reservations. The act was a tool used for decades afterward to cede much Native land to the government by forcing the residents, who culturally understood land to be collectively held, into the capitalist structure of proprietorship. Often, these holdings were lost to deals the people did not totally understand or entered into out of desperation.

But, because the tribes of Red Lake rejected the initial treaty, they maintained their traditional and communal governance of their territory. To this day, as a closed reservation, they hold their tribal lands in a traditional and communal way; no one “owns” property on the reservation. Ultimately, this means their land is both their ancestral territory and, by their view, completely and sovereignly their own. 

And while I am aware of this reality, the weight of it becomes painfully clear, as I sit nervously on a secluded two lane road. This “routine” traffic stop  may in fact be a much greater ordeal than would normally be expected; I am treading less-than-lightly on this free and autonomous land!  I am sickly stricken with the realization that I am now suddenly seen as an unruly guest in foreign territory. 

The officer sternly grills me about the rental car that I drive. It is a company car, of sorts. The non-profit I work for often fills out their fleet with rentals, especially in the Summer - that is their busy time. He seems skeptical as I stammer a bit trying to explain why the car is not rented in my name. I am sure he has heard every type of excuse for why someone would be “legitimately” driving a car that does not belong to them. I flounder as I try to remember our training and the protocols my organization has for explaining why I am authorized to drive this vehicle. I hand him the proper paperwork and I even press a finger to a scratched and faded company ID with the organization’s logo.

As I continue on, the officer softens a bit. In truth,  there seems to be surprise and maybe even awe in his tone as the interaction continues. It dawns on me that this sort of encounter may not be normal for him.  Besides having to deal with some squirrely kid, he may not be used to  someone so compliant; to have someone ready and prepared with paperwork; to have someone openly admit that they are in the wrong and so willing to accept the punishment due to them.

Maybe for him, traffic stops tend to be anything but routine. Maybe, he came into the situation geared up for any sort of altercation. Maybe, rez life has taught him to have his cackles up, even in seemingly commonplace interactions

Finally, he pauses, and his still shaded eyes seem to look me up and down. He sighs, clicks his tongue, and says,“Sir, I’m not going to write you up today. I see you are here working to help my people, and we appreciate what you are doing here. That said, the speed limit through here is _5, so please watch your speed. And, WHEN YOU ARE ON OUR LAND, YOU HAVE TO OBEY OUR RULES!”  

“Yes Sir. Sorry, officer.” I muster meekly.  

With that, he slams his notebook and saunters back to his patrol vehicle.

I slowly pull back onto the road and turn on my cruise control. I set it to five under the limit. I am still mentally eviscerating myself for my error in judgment, though my thumping heart begins to finally slow.

My little sedan slowly makes its way down this rural highway, which is forested on either side with tall pine trees in unending stretches. Internally, I bow my head in greater reverence for this ancient and wooded land; for this strong and storied people.