...and this is where I get the heat for being judgmental. Before you read, before you comment, please understand that I am not at all being judgmental, and if you feel that I am pointing the finger in your direction, maybe you should check yourself, because maybe, just maybe, it's the Holy Spirit.
Now that I've gotten that disclaimer out of the way and the pitchfork sharpening has commenced, allow me to continue.
As I drove over into the WalMart parking lot, the lady who I had shared campground space yesterday was flying a sign, asking for help with gas for her RV.
I wasn't in a giving mood. I rationalized everything I could; her RV was in idle, the TV and AC were on where her kids sat inside. To rationalize away would be easy, and maybe, just possibly, I would be right.
But what of the possibility that I could be wrong? What of the command not to judge? What of the command that if someone asks for your coat, give them your cloak also? What about the call to the sojourner? All of these things went through my mind as I gave, admittedly grudgingly. I've been feeling spent and bitter lately, and while I know that's not a good thing, I also know it's only a sign I am human.
I live in a world where the faith I follow calls me a fool. I have long cherished the amazingness of the grace of God who has given me so much, and so abundantly. My kids certainly don't see it, the world certainly doesn't see it, but I do. EVERYTHING I have and am belong to God, and when I see myself with so much while so many have so little, I feel that there is no response but to act.
I look at everything I have and wonder, when have I given enough? The answer comes back, when I have nothing to give. And that is the ONLY answer that lines up with Scripture, in my opinion.
The sad part of it is, the church in general does not agree. I've found one pastor in a thousand who will put the needs of the community over the material needs of the church. Yes, we serve, but when the need is still there, we must ask, have we served enough?
Being on the road has been the biggest blessing that I've ever known, as it has exposed me to the vastness of the need. Every time I put another drop in the bucket, I see how large the bucket is, and I wish my fellow Christians would understand that our ONLY cause is Christ, and everything else is just spinning wheels.
I'm not castigating folks completely; I've seen some amazing things from fellow believers, and I know they are doing as much as they humanly can and stay within their comfort zone. I'm not questioning that. But I am suggesting that, perhaps, we go beyond our comfort zone and surrender absolutely EVERYTHING, understanding that in the end, God will provide.
Tuesday, July 22, 2014
Monday, July 21, 2014
O America, Where Art Thou?
I am feeling disturbingly alone right now. I know there are people of like mind, but they seem oh so distant at every occurrence. I am watching the undocumented workers of America, and the child refugees from Central America villainized by the right, who demand that these are criminals, not children, and that they should be shipped back to a land of despair and poverty rather than embraced in the land of opportunity.
If this is the path my country chooses, this is no longer my country. I will not swear allegiance to a land that refuses to shelter the sojourner and gives power to multinational corporations while stealing it from the people. I will not ask God to bless a country that does not bless God; and blessing God has NOTHING to do with legislating the actions of nonbelievers, and EVERYTHING to do with thorough self examination to ensure that our own actions are consistent with the teachings of Scripture. And the teachings of Scripture do not mince words when addressing the plight of the sojourner, or of the poor and needy.
In the last twelve hours, two virulently racist articles have been splashed on my wall; one overplaying the gang connection of the immigrants (while gang members DO exist, it bears mentioning they are hardly exclusive to the Latino population), the other claiming that AlQaeda is coming across in droves in the midst of the children.
And I'm tired of it.
If you subscribe to such racism, keep it off my wall. Unfriend me, block me, do what you must, but it is getting more than a little frustrating to find that even my fellow Christians are ready and willing to show up with pitchforks at the border and usher these people out of America. It sickens me to a degree that's beginning to compromise my health.
Deitrich Bonhoeffer made the impossibly hard decision to stand against a growing racist culture, and I will do the same. But I know that in doing so, I may end up very much alone, at least in my real life encounters. But as Joshua boldly declared in his line in the sand moment: "As for me and MY house, we will serve the LORD". And serving the LORD, as Jesus makes poignantly clear in several instances, notably the story of the Prodigal Son and the passage in Matthew 25:31-46, includes serving "the least of these".
If this is the path my country chooses, this is no longer my country. I will not swear allegiance to a land that refuses to shelter the sojourner and gives power to multinational corporations while stealing it from the people. I will not ask God to bless a country that does not bless God; and blessing God has NOTHING to do with legislating the actions of nonbelievers, and EVERYTHING to do with thorough self examination to ensure that our own actions are consistent with the teachings of Scripture. And the teachings of Scripture do not mince words when addressing the plight of the sojourner, or of the poor and needy.
In the last twelve hours, two virulently racist articles have been splashed on my wall; one overplaying the gang connection of the immigrants (while gang members DO exist, it bears mentioning they are hardly exclusive to the Latino population), the other claiming that AlQaeda is coming across in droves in the midst of the children.
And I'm tired of it.
If you subscribe to such racism, keep it off my wall. Unfriend me, block me, do what you must, but it is getting more than a little frustrating to find that even my fellow Christians are ready and willing to show up with pitchforks at the border and usher these people out of America. It sickens me to a degree that's beginning to compromise my health.
Deitrich Bonhoeffer made the impossibly hard decision to stand against a growing racist culture, and I will do the same. But I know that in doing so, I may end up very much alone, at least in my real life encounters. But as Joshua boldly declared in his line in the sand moment: "As for me and MY house, we will serve the LORD". And serving the LORD, as Jesus makes poignantly clear in several instances, notably the story of the Prodigal Son and the passage in Matthew 25:31-46, includes serving "the least of these".
Thursday, July 17, 2014
Why the Immigration Issues Matter
It was a striking scene: aging vehicles, barely roadworthy
and loaded to the point where the axles sagged and with every rotation seemed
ready and willing to snap, lined up as far as the eye could see, filled with
people and all off their possessions. It was a scene described ably by both
John Steinbeck and Woody Guthrie, both heroes of mine, who wanted to expose the
inhumanity and injustice that seemed to have become the birthright of so many
of America’s poor and hungry.
The immigrants were told to go home, were ushered into camps where they eked out an existence, were denied education and basic services, even as their very presence was caused by their attempt to escape the poverty back home, where the land had become unworkable, and the air had become unbreathable.
It was the Dust Bowl, and Americans were turning away their own, with no thought of the plight of these people. To be sure, there were people of compassion, and those people admirably swam against the tide of public opinion as they were called communists, and worse. In less than two decades’ time, the actions of many of these would bring them under the scrutiny of McCarthy, and they would lose jobs, and even liberty because they had dared speak out against injustice. And this is in America, the “land of the free”.
I am a cultural descendant of these Okies. While my family moved to Oklahoma in 1972 and did not know the Dust Bowl Days, I have lived most of my life within its sphere of influence. Old timers would tell stories of the Depression and the Dust Bowl, and of family that had moved on for a better life. Even in my generation, the constant exodus of those seeking a better life elsewhere was common, and, like many of my peers, I drove, road, and hitchhiked my way as far west as the road would take me virtually as soon as the law deemed me to be adult enough to do so with impunity.
In my current city of Clayton, New Mexico, recovering from the throes of a recent extended drought, the words “Dust Bowl” are ever on the lips of those who remember, and a certain somber feeling seems to permeate the air every dry year when the wind turns the air into a violent mix of wind, dirt, and tumbleweeds, and with every breath we inhale the powdery evidence of drought. I walk daily over sidewalks stamped with the letters “WPA”; letters that hearken back to a time when many Americans simply would not have survived had the government not have intervened. They would have simply been swept away with the dust that sweeps these hard plains.
Even as I appreciate my own heritage of people who struggled to survive in a land that did everything to evict them, I think back to the struggles of other immigrants. To the families whose final, lingering hope lay at the other side of the crowded gates at Ellis Island, to the families who sold everything, including their own liberty, to purchase a berth on a rickety boat crossing a vast ocean to a destination spoken of in hushed, almost reverent terms: America.
These people ARE America, they built America, and the stories they tell became the very fabric of our culture. They drove spike after spike into the timber crossties of the railroads until these iron horses crossed the land from sea to sea, and they dug holes into the hot, unforgiving earth, losing many of their brothers and sisters along the way, to mine the metals that built the communities we walk among and too often take for granted. They came here speaking halting English, and, over time, their language changed, as did their bodies from the toll of struggling in the heat of the blistering summer and the cold of the Midwestern winter.
As the need for workers to build the infrastructure has dwindled and as the population of our cities has increased, though, many Americans have given into the notion that the opportunity that our parents and grandparents sought, the opportunity that endowed us with rights, with dignity, and with things that many nations take for granted, should be denied others, with the exception of the fortunate few with the financial means to buy a place in line.
The others, the ones not so fortunate to be bankrolled, but with the same desire for opportunity, are subject to a darker fate. They have become victims of the modern day slave trade, and they meet dark men with dark hearts in the middle of the night who promise them passage to that place still spoken of in reverent terms, if they will work for the greedy industries who refuse to pay a wage adequate for survival. Their reality becomes one of indentured servitude where they work 80 hours a week at less than minimum wage, never fearing to speak against these injustices because the people who run these industries can, with a simple phone call, have them deported to their impoverished communities of origin.
And this is why I speak. As a Christian, not only can I not turn my back on these people, these people are the very people that I and fellow believers are called to serve. Verse after verse speaks of the sojourner, and Jesus speaks of compassion for the poor; who, then, do we think He has called us to serve if not these. In perhaps one of the most poignant, misunderstood passages of the Bible, he is asked which is the greatest commandment. He cites two: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself. When asked “who is my neighbor”, He tells the story of a man regarded as filthy and wicked by the Jewish people, who meets another’s need when the very people charged with doing so (a Priest and a Levite) have passed him by.
The immigrants were told to go home, were ushered into camps where they eked out an existence, were denied education and basic services, even as their very presence was caused by their attempt to escape the poverty back home, where the land had become unworkable, and the air had become unbreathable.
It was the Dust Bowl, and Americans were turning away their own, with no thought of the plight of these people. To be sure, there were people of compassion, and those people admirably swam against the tide of public opinion as they were called communists, and worse. In less than two decades’ time, the actions of many of these would bring them under the scrutiny of McCarthy, and they would lose jobs, and even liberty because they had dared speak out against injustice. And this is in America, the “land of the free”.
I am a cultural descendant of these Okies. While my family moved to Oklahoma in 1972 and did not know the Dust Bowl Days, I have lived most of my life within its sphere of influence. Old timers would tell stories of the Depression and the Dust Bowl, and of family that had moved on for a better life. Even in my generation, the constant exodus of those seeking a better life elsewhere was common, and, like many of my peers, I drove, road, and hitchhiked my way as far west as the road would take me virtually as soon as the law deemed me to be adult enough to do so with impunity.
In my current city of Clayton, New Mexico, recovering from the throes of a recent extended drought, the words “Dust Bowl” are ever on the lips of those who remember, and a certain somber feeling seems to permeate the air every dry year when the wind turns the air into a violent mix of wind, dirt, and tumbleweeds, and with every breath we inhale the powdery evidence of drought. I walk daily over sidewalks stamped with the letters “WPA”; letters that hearken back to a time when many Americans simply would not have survived had the government not have intervened. They would have simply been swept away with the dust that sweeps these hard plains.
Even as I appreciate my own heritage of people who struggled to survive in a land that did everything to evict them, I think back to the struggles of other immigrants. To the families whose final, lingering hope lay at the other side of the crowded gates at Ellis Island, to the families who sold everything, including their own liberty, to purchase a berth on a rickety boat crossing a vast ocean to a destination spoken of in hushed, almost reverent terms: America.
These people ARE America, they built America, and the stories they tell became the very fabric of our culture. They drove spike after spike into the timber crossties of the railroads until these iron horses crossed the land from sea to sea, and they dug holes into the hot, unforgiving earth, losing many of their brothers and sisters along the way, to mine the metals that built the communities we walk among and too often take for granted. They came here speaking halting English, and, over time, their language changed, as did their bodies from the toll of struggling in the heat of the blistering summer and the cold of the Midwestern winter.
As the need for workers to build the infrastructure has dwindled and as the population of our cities has increased, though, many Americans have given into the notion that the opportunity that our parents and grandparents sought, the opportunity that endowed us with rights, with dignity, and with things that many nations take for granted, should be denied others, with the exception of the fortunate few with the financial means to buy a place in line.
The others, the ones not so fortunate to be bankrolled, but with the same desire for opportunity, are subject to a darker fate. They have become victims of the modern day slave trade, and they meet dark men with dark hearts in the middle of the night who promise them passage to that place still spoken of in reverent terms, if they will work for the greedy industries who refuse to pay a wage adequate for survival. Their reality becomes one of indentured servitude where they work 80 hours a week at less than minimum wage, never fearing to speak against these injustices because the people who run these industries can, with a simple phone call, have them deported to their impoverished communities of origin.
And this is why I speak. As a Christian, not only can I not turn my back on these people, these people are the very people that I and fellow believers are called to serve. Verse after verse speaks of the sojourner, and Jesus speaks of compassion for the poor; who, then, do we think He has called us to serve if not these. In perhaps one of the most poignant, misunderstood passages of the Bible, he is asked which is the greatest commandment. He cites two: Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, mind and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself. When asked “who is my neighbor”, He tells the story of a man regarded as filthy and wicked by the Jewish people, who meets another’s need when the very people charged with doing so (a Priest and a Levite) have passed him by.
I look with sadness on the Tea Partiers, the conservatives,
those who claim the moral high ground in politics, as they fight against the
refugee children in this country, and as they call immigrants criminals and
demand their deportation, and I realize with sadness that the ghost of Fred
Phelps has not gone away. For it is the inconvenient reality that the sin of
those who would denounce these immigrants is every bit as dark and deplorable
as those who hold up signs at funerals in protest. And while I desperately want
to believe that the actions are not
being driven by racism, it is a reality that is becoming harder to escape.
And yet, it is in many ways, my reality. I
understand the plight of the migrants more than most, for it is who I’ve
become. Over the last two months, my home is more frequently wherever I am
allowed to park my van for the night than it is my own home, and the luxury of
resting my head on my own pillow is one that I know only a few days out of every
month. I live in the modern day Hoovervilles, as I seek work wherever someone
is willing to pay my price. And although I am more fortunate than most in that
I have a home to return to, it is only because of my working as a migrant that
I am able to do so.It is an experience that has been both humbling and enlightening; that has helped me to grasp the reality that the plight of every working person is intertwined with mine, and that the injustices that affect one of us affect all of us. I have come to better understand the concept of privilege, and have an increasing desire for social justice. I am daily reminded that I am disposable, that future is only a hope, and security only an illusion. And in the middle of that it strikes me; if there were a border fence that I could hop to give me access to a life that offered more promise, your guns and your border fences would be ineffective barriers. And if my reality included drug cartels, human trafficking, and corrupt officials, it is no stretch to imagine being in a condition where the hot sting of a bullet and its immediate release from the pressures of this world would be preferable to the lengthy protracted suffering of staying where I was.
I am not speaking for any other person in the faith, nor can I. But even as many fellow Christians denounce me, I will state with firm conviction my belief that we need to open the borders to ALL who seek a better future for their family, and not make entry available only to those with financial means. There was a time when we welcomed those who sought a better future, and one of the most iconic landmarks in the USA celebrates that. As a nation, if we are going to choose to be isolated nationalists, we need to tear down the Statue of Liberty while the price of copper is still high and cash in. As Christians, we need to speak out for these, and any who suffer injustice, even at the risk of being ostracized by leaders of our own faith.
The issue of immigration is one that should be addressed with compassion, not condemnation. For in a sense, todos somos ilegales – we are ALL illegals.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
Thankful for the Fleas
In her book, "The Hiding Place", Corrie Ten Boom told of how she had learn to be thankful even for the fleas in the concentration camps, as they kept the guards out of the cells.
In the recent debate over the status of children who have come across the Mexican border, I have seen hateful posts that are frighteningly reminiscent of the kinds of things Germans were saying about Jews prior to WWII. And from the computers of people who largely claim to be Christian.
At first I was sickened, then I was angry, now I am resolved.
See, their hate has exposed the truth of who they really are. The truth of their lifelong service to the God of Mammon and not of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. That they cannot look into the eyes of another and see a duty to them shows that they don't understand a whit of the words Jesus said. And it's sad, really, especially when they claim to speak for God.
But this has paralleled my own spiritual walk, and as the debate progresses, I am increasingly convicted by how much I have in light of a world that has so little. In the coming days, weeks, and years, I will begin reducing my material possessions so that I can use my resources more wisely in service to others. It wasn't just the situation with the immigrant children that brought me to this, but the nights at free campsites, washing my hair under stadium bleachers, and seeing a little bit of life from the "other side", and realizing even those of modest means in America are better than those with much in many nations.
And so, I'm thankful for the fleas. Those tiny, biting annoyances. Because it is in the light of their own harsh words that I see my own inadequacy and sense of purpose.
In the recent debate over the status of children who have come across the Mexican border, I have seen hateful posts that are frighteningly reminiscent of the kinds of things Germans were saying about Jews prior to WWII. And from the computers of people who largely claim to be Christian.
At first I was sickened, then I was angry, now I am resolved.
See, their hate has exposed the truth of who they really are. The truth of their lifelong service to the God of Mammon and not of Abraham, Isaac and Jacob. That they cannot look into the eyes of another and see a duty to them shows that they don't understand a whit of the words Jesus said. And it's sad, really, especially when they claim to speak for God.
But this has paralleled my own spiritual walk, and as the debate progresses, I am increasingly convicted by how much I have in light of a world that has so little. In the coming days, weeks, and years, I will begin reducing my material possessions so that I can use my resources more wisely in service to others. It wasn't just the situation with the immigrant children that brought me to this, but the nights at free campsites, washing my hair under stadium bleachers, and seeing a little bit of life from the "other side", and realizing even those of modest means in America are better than those with much in many nations.
And so, I'm thankful for the fleas. Those tiny, biting annoyances. Because it is in the light of their own harsh words that I see my own inadequacy and sense of purpose.
Wednesday, July 9, 2014
Voices Longing to be Heard
I have really wrestled for awhile with what is bugging me about the state of the church today, and ultimately it comes down to the fact that I feel that so many Christian ministers are not listening to the voices of the needy that they are called to serve.
In fact, in my experiences with Occupy, I found that to be an overarching theme. In Dallas, people lined up for hours just for a chance to tell their stories.
But what my latest experience has done is reminded me that often what we see wrong with the church reflects our own personal failings. Yes, many ministers are disconnected; I will not recant that statement.
But what I am increasingly becoming convinced of is the fact that I am increasingly disconnected. In living on the road and depending on public facilities to clean up and change, and on roadside parking, it is becoming clear to me there's a lot of work that needs doing, and people need to be out and about doing it.
More specifically, I need to be out and about doing it.
I've figured out the what; I'm just clamoring to understand the how. I'm picking up a bit of it, but I have so, so much further to go. The "High Tech Migrant" is a good start, and I hope that if I am in your area you will patronize my business in the knowledge I am using it to do something important. But there is more to do.
The biggest thing to get past is the fear. I cannot even begin to describe how all consuming that is. I am having to reject a lot of strongly held beliefs to do this, and I'm cast into an area of doubt and uncertainty. In fact, the ONLY certainty I have is of the one who holds my future.
I set out on this as a way to support my family. And it's working; albeit with some uncertainty (which, to be sure, was present even before I hit the road). But I am discovering a lot more. And, I think more clearly seeing what I need to do.
In fact, in my experiences with Occupy, I found that to be an overarching theme. In Dallas, people lined up for hours just for a chance to tell their stories.
But what my latest experience has done is reminded me that often what we see wrong with the church reflects our own personal failings. Yes, many ministers are disconnected; I will not recant that statement.
But what I am increasingly becoming convinced of is the fact that I am increasingly disconnected. In living on the road and depending on public facilities to clean up and change, and on roadside parking, it is becoming clear to me there's a lot of work that needs doing, and people need to be out and about doing it.
More specifically, I need to be out and about doing it.
I've figured out the what; I'm just clamoring to understand the how. I'm picking up a bit of it, but I have so, so much further to go. The "High Tech Migrant" is a good start, and I hope that if I am in your area you will patronize my business in the knowledge I am using it to do something important. But there is more to do.
The biggest thing to get past is the fear. I cannot even begin to describe how all consuming that is. I am having to reject a lot of strongly held beliefs to do this, and I'm cast into an area of doubt and uncertainty. In fact, the ONLY certainty I have is of the one who holds my future.
I set out on this as a way to support my family. And it's working; albeit with some uncertainty (which, to be sure, was present even before I hit the road). But I am discovering a lot more. And, I think more clearly seeing what I need to do.
Tuesday, July 8, 2014
Am I Doing It Wrong?
I had a "moment" today. I have those from time to time.
It was 100 degrees, and here I was stubbornly fighting with a jack to change a tire over blistering asphalt. A situation not pleasant in the best of circumstances, and made less so when your resources are painfully low and you are simply trying to get to the next job.
I really sometimes question whether or not I am a fool for holding the positions I do. For trying to hold out against a world that insists my only value is in the bottom line of my bank account. And as I am seeing more and more of my fellow Christians drawn into the net and finding material success, it's very easy to ask myself if I'm doing it wrong.
It's also misguided.
I think of the simple theology that's often found in the old hymns that the church usually discards for the latest worship CD. Quite specifically, of the old hymn "Count Your Blessings":
Count your blessings, name them one by one
The wobbling in the car wasn't a suspension problem, or worse. It was a tire whose tread was separating
Count your blessings see what God has done
The tread separated near a widening of the road so that the tire change was not done less than a full sized bed's distance from a semi trailer
Count your blessings, name them one by one
We had adequate resources to replace the tire. That's not always the case.
And it will surprise you what the Lord has done
It was me driving, and not my daughter on the expressway through OKC.
Yup, works every time.
Maybe I'm NOT doing it wrong. Maybe my perspective is wrong!
It was 100 degrees, and here I was stubbornly fighting with a jack to change a tire over blistering asphalt. A situation not pleasant in the best of circumstances, and made less so when your resources are painfully low and you are simply trying to get to the next job.
I really sometimes question whether or not I am a fool for holding the positions I do. For trying to hold out against a world that insists my only value is in the bottom line of my bank account. And as I am seeing more and more of my fellow Christians drawn into the net and finding material success, it's very easy to ask myself if I'm doing it wrong.
It's also misguided.
I think of the simple theology that's often found in the old hymns that the church usually discards for the latest worship CD. Quite specifically, of the old hymn "Count Your Blessings":
Count your blessings, name them one by one
The wobbling in the car wasn't a suspension problem, or worse. It was a tire whose tread was separating
Count your blessings see what God has done
The tread separated near a widening of the road so that the tire change was not done less than a full sized bed's distance from a semi trailer
Count your blessings, name them one by one
We had adequate resources to replace the tire. That's not always the case.
And it will surprise you what the Lord has done
It was me driving, and not my daughter on the expressway through OKC.
Yup, works every time.
Maybe I'm NOT doing it wrong. Maybe my perspective is wrong!
Subscribe to:
Posts (Atom)