the margins

Farewell Blogger...

2006-08-08T15:39:00.001-07:00

My generous brother-in law has just given me space on his server and helped me launch a new site powered by Wordpress. Please check out the new and improved The Margins.

Thanks, Jer!

Quotation of the Week

2006-08-05T12:34:00.000-07:00

"Following Jesus was, by his culture's standards, an R-rated action movie, not a purpose-driven Bible study."

From Jesus the Radical Pastor

For my Oprah tells me so...

2006-08-04T20:58:00.000-07:00

Okay, so I have been known to quote Oprah Winfrey on occasion. Just last week I actually caught myself saying to my fitness-conscious brother: "well, Oprah told me I should give up white foods and eating after 7pm." While it is rare that I watch her show (when are the two kids EVER both asleep at 3pm), it is a guilty pleasure that I enjoy once in a while.

A few weeks ago a friend of mine wrote this about Oprah on his blog:

"First an article about Oprah told me that in one poll 33% of people said Oprah has had a 'more profound effect on their spiritual lives than their clergyperson.' As a matter of fact Jamie Foxx told Oprah when we get to heaven we'll find out Oprah IS God!"

I was thinking about why it is that she does command such spiritual authority in people's lives, and I think I figured it out. She is a person who lives and breathes testimony, and she gives it boldly and freely, unapologetically. Her life has been dramatically changed at different junctures (her struggles with her weight, her dealing with past sexual abuse, etc.) and she TALKS about it generously and with great passion, as if she truly believes that her story has the power to change you.

I have often exhorted my church members that we must be people of testimony. We can easily get so uptight about evangelism and what it means to "share our faith" and really, it boils down to this: am I a person who talks about those junctures in my life where I once was dead and am now alive; where I was once blind and now I see. And I don't mean the story of being a fourth grader at Christian summer camp (my own "conversion" experience), but the story of this morning, and last night, and two weeks ago.

I think we can take a lesson from Oprah on this one.

Lessons in the sand

2006-08-03T14:14:00.000-07:00

Since Mercy has decided that after a month of living at Newman Lake, Tillamook and Grammy and Pop Pop's backyard, our little apartment is terribly boring, we spent most of yesterday afternoon at our local park. Doug and I always joke about what it's like to let our kids play at this park, especially in the sand:

"Oh, look! Mercy found a condom!"

"Hey, Aaron, can you hand me that hypodermic needle, please?"

But of course, the sand is the thing Mercy is most excited about, so there we sat.

I had brought a few tupperware containers and a shovel, and Mercy busied herself "cooking" and bringing me sand delicacies to eat. At one point I realized that she had abandoned the bulky yellow shovel I brought for her in favor of a beer bottle top to scoop the sand into her plastic cups. I couldn't help but remember how, a few short weeks ago, she was running wild at the beach at Oceanside, scooping up sand into plastic cups with a broken sand dollar and partial mussel shell.

The other night I was sitting with Doug on the dock at Newman Lake and I turned to him and said: "When I am here, it is hard to believe that this place and South Central, L.A. share space in the same world." I guess I get how people forget that places like my neighborhood exist. I was gone for twenty-five days. I have to admit that it is not that hard. I am reminded of Doughboy's sober conclusion in the 1991 movie, Boyz N the hood :

"Either they don't know, don't show, or don't care about what's going on in the hood."

Crusty feet

2006-08-02T13:59:00.000-07:00

During my trip to Seattle, I made the decision to road-trip alone with the two kiddos to see our family down in Oregon. It was great to be with the family I have been lucky to inherit via Doug. It was also great to stay with good L.A. friends who relocated to Portland about a year ago. While the trip was very, very fun it was not without a few "what was I thinking" moments where the stress levels ran a bit high.

There was one night in particular when my baby simply would not go to sleep. Since the three of us were sharing a bedroom, I was not fond of the option of letting him cry himself to sleep since that would most certainly come at the cost of a very awake Mercy Lucille. So I was rocking and bouncing and feeding and shushing and "nuk"-ing the little guy but to no avail. He ceased being a small baby months ago so my back ached, my arms felt like they were going to fall off, and my emotions were raw. This was coming off of a difficult ending to my day with Dad and Donna (dinner hour meets a tired and manic Mercy in a house full of beautiful decorative pieces), a difficult phone conversation with someone I care about, and frightening news from my family concerning a trip to the ER for my mom.

It was in the midst of this that Erik came up to me and said, "Here, let me give it a try," and he lifted Aaron out of my arms. I collapsed onto the couch with Susie while Erik began a ritual of walking and singing with Aaron in the kitchen and on the back porch of their house. Susie, who had turned on The Daily Show, turned to me and said, "Do you want a beer?' and I'm pretty sure the moment required no verbal answer on my part.

At one point I started to feel bad for Erik because Jon Stewart was so hilarious that I felt bad for anyone missing it, but Susie reminded me that Erik had offered and that he would come in if he needed a break. So I sat, cozy with my Blue Heron and some scathing irreverance, and put up my feet and laughed.

I realized that something has seriously changed in me in this past year. A year ago, there is no way that I could have sat, let alone enjoyed myself, while someone else took over a burden that was rightfully mine. I would have stalked such a person, pleading to have my burden back, miserable in my guilt over being served. That is the way pride plays, and those of us who suffer from it have such a difficult time seeing it for what it is.

I'm not sure what has caused this change in me this year: desperation? exhaustion? disappointment? plain, unadulterated neediness?

I cannot help but think of Peter, the one who could not stomach receiving love through the washing of his weary feet. And yet he surely became the rock upon which was built the body of a crucified Lord.

There is hope.

How white is "the Street"?

2006-08-01T15:07:00.000-07:00

Someone made a comment to me recently about how there are no white people in the Sesame Street DVD we have (this person is white). Not having realized that or noticed, I paid attention the next time around and saw that in fact there were white kids and adults present throughout, though they were by no means the racial majority. I shared this with my sister and she told me about an interesting study she had read: if a white person is in a group where less than 80% of the people are white, they perceive themselves to be in the minority. Contrast this with a black person who, at 10%, feels like they are in a racially balanced mix.

Interesting...

Perspective II

2006-08-01T14:03:00.000-07:00

We just returned home to L.A. after twenty-five days of what, by comparison, now feels like a totally surreal life. Living lakefront for a week was certainly a highlight, however it is a bit of a heartbreak to watch my Mercy trying to reorient herself to her cement environment here.

Spending time at the cabin reminded me of how powerfully our surroundings impact our perspective. Allowing Mercy to run barefoot everywhere, cuts and splinters regardless; washing our dishes and showering (or not) in lake water; allowing dogs to regularly lick Mercy's and Aaron's hands and faces; having largely unclothed children for days on end; it was a kind of life with abandon--raw, unsanitized, free.

I have always been intrigued by the significance of the desert/wilderness for Israel, for the prophets, for Jesus. This place of withdrawal and perspective and reclamation of identity. I have also always held deep concern for how the American church lives without this, and how too quickly lattes and pedicures and SUV's become our entitlement.

It is easy for me to start to suffocate here in L.A. My environment here clamors to shape me, to control me. It takes effort and commitment to remain myself in this fear-ridden, appearance-driven place.

But last night I stood, barefoot, in front of the apartment building next-door, cradling my almost-sleeping (and largely undressed :) )infant in my arms. The regular posse of kids surrounded us as I chatted with my neighbor; we had all been drawn outdoors by five hovering helicopters, police and news, who were so loud and close they sounded like they were coming into our apartments. Turns out an 18-wheeler flipped over a block away, ending a police pursuit. That's a new one for South Central!

I often say to people that my neighborhood is the only thing that saves me here.

Perspective

2006-07-25T14:40:00.000-07:00

My Dad’s extended family shares a lake cabin outside of Spokane, Washington, where we are currently enjoying a paradise-like existence. Someone asked my cousin, Jenny, how it works to maintain a shared place like this. In her words: “when you see something that needs to be done you do it.” She said this after driving out after work to replenish the supply of clean towels, sheets, and drinking water for us after their stay here the previous week.

I loved the simplicity of her response. No ego. No martyrdom. Just a recipe for mutuality and servanthood.

Cabins can bring out the best in people I think.

Literally

2006-07-23T23:43:00.000-07:00

Two good Mercy stories from this trip:

1) The other night Mercy and I were engaged in our Seattle before-bed routine of lying on my old twin bed together, singing and talking. As we were lying there her stomach growled, a good long gurgly growl. I looked at her with big eyes and told her the frog in her tummy was awake (it's all about frogs right now in her world so that was the first animal that came to mind). She looked at me with those blue saucer eyes and she slowly reached down to touch her tummy.

That next week we were down in Portland at Doug's dad's house, and Mercy was running around in their front yard before dinner. All of a sudden she stopped dead in her tracks and got the funniest, most sober look on her face. She looked up at me: "Frog. Aweeeeeeeek." It took me a second to figure out what she was talking about. I laughed out loud and called her over. I was holding a cracker and I held it out to her and told her that frog must be hungry. She took the cracker, lifted up her shirt, and pushed it into her side.

2) Grandma Peggy bought those fun foam letters that stick to the side of the bathtub for Mercy to play with during her bath. At one point, she picked up the letter J. I started rattling off "J is for..." with as many of her favorite J words as I could think of: Jordan, jam, Jack (yes, as in Bauer), jammies, etc. I ran out of good J words to name so I said, "J is for..." and left it for her to finish the sentence. She paused for a second and then looked at me with a big grin: "Jouch!" (as in, Oscar the...).

Seattle Crack

2006-07-13T00:16:00.000-07:00

So Doug and I decided that I was not allowed to go to the little coffee shop down Richmond Beach road while I am here in Seattle. They have the best lattes--even Doug thinks so. So much so that we went there three times last time we were up here. But I got to buy new shoes finally, so the Security Council gave strict instructions that lattes would not be in July's monthly budget. I am totally craving one but I gave my word. I guess I should go put on my shoes and walk around a bit.

Missional?

2006-07-11T13:21:00.000-07:00

I regularly read Scot McKnight's blog, and this past week he profiled some discussion about the closure of Axis, an age-specific worship gathering within Willow Creek, the famous first megachurch in Chicagoland. This ministry began while I was a student in Chicago, and I remember friends talking a great deal about it. I also new people who became leaders within this ministry.

There was a link to another blog entry discussing Willow's decision to end Axis that Scot deemed a "must read." So I went to it and found an interesting discussion by Dan Kimball about how existing churches, with set worship, mission, and leadership cultures, do or do not embrace the needs and desires of the "emerging" generation.

What struck me in the entry was an assumption that makes what I am a part of seem absurd. The assumption is that worship and mission and fellowship should be aligned with whatever current trends are in culture and are in fact most "missional" when they do this.

If this is true then Church of the Redeemer is missionally impotent.

The author assumes that the best way for churches to embrace differences, be they cultural, generational, stylistic, is to encourage the birthing of new worship gatherings to cater to them. With this assumption, then, his biggest complaint is against the leadership of the pre-existing churches that seek to maintain control and only allow for independence or change that is cosmetic at best.

Dan Kimball writes:

"However, when launching a new worship gathering in an existing church, the question is - are the changes occurring out there, mainly generational (music style, appearance, language) which changes every generation? Or are the changes bigger than that in worldview(s) and more about how people learn, specific values people have, how people think of God and the spiritual world etc."

He obviously believes that for him and his peers, the latter is true. That is why he left a "mother church" situation to start a new ministry altogether.

I guess what struck me in reading his post is that we believe we are missional at Church of the Redeemer precisely because we are doing the opposite of this. And I guess I knew we were a little strange, but I am realizing more and more that our vision for mission which demands each of us to relinquish our "right" to those things that divide ("how people learn, specific values people have, how people think of God and the spiritual world etc." -- just sit in for five minutes of one of our board meetings and you will know what I am talking about!) for the sake of another is more foreign than even I figured.

I don't know a thing about Dan Kimball and I am certainly not judging him or his ministry (again, I know nothing about either) but I am wondering if the "emergent church" that he represents is not embracing yet another outpouring of the spirit of homogenous church growth principles. And maybe they are okay with that--again, I am not sure.

I'll have to do some more reading...when the nap gods smile upon me again soon :)

Visual aids

2006-07-10T15:50:00.000-07:00

Our church meets in an elementary school, and there is little about our worship space that is visually appealing. It's not that our space is unattractive, it's just that it's a school cafeteria. Many of us have a desire to incorporate visuals and art into our worship gatherings, and our sister church in Pasadena has been working for a while on a set of four worship banners for us to use for this purpose. The images on the banners are replicas of banners we noticed hanging in their sanctuary years ago and they depict a seed becoming a sprout becoming a tree with the final banner showing a tree heavy laden with fruit. These images feel especially helpful to us in thinking about our desire to see the Spirit author new life in our community, and in our desire to be a church that may, like a tree with great branches, offer shelter and rest for the vulnerable.

Last week, we were presented with the completed banners at the conclusion of our "Day in L.A." work project with Pasadena Covenant. They are simply beautiful. And I loved that they were officially "presented" to us in a little ceremony of sorts at Chabelita's taco stand on Western. It just seemed fitting for us to receive these gifts of beauty and worship not in some sterile, safe environment, but in the midst of the grit of life in our neighborhood.

Two days ago, both kids took naps at the same time (oh, the glory of it) and I had some time to play on the internet. I found an online publication put together by some old friends from my North Park days who have organized within my denomination around justice issues. Inside one issue I found a piece of artwork that shook me. It is a rough drawing of a face with a gaping, open mouth. Inside the darkness of the open mouth, in what looks like the tongue and throat, is an image of the globe, with the continent of Africa most visible. In fact, when I first saw it all I saw was Africa--only later did I realize it was the entire globe. The title of the piece is "Third Lament."

I am excited to hang our new banners at Church of Redeemer. I am excited by the metaphors of life and growth they visually give and for the ways they might inform our acts of corporate worship. But I have to wonder, what would the impact on our worship be if we hung a banner of "Third Lament" in our sanctuary? How would the songs we sing, the scriptures we read, the sermons we preach change if we had an image like that in our midst?

At the feet...

2006-07-06T13:55:00.000-07:00

I am one of those people who has always seen the early church as pictured in the Acts of the Apostles as romantic, winsome, irresistible. This idea that people would literally bring their possessions to the feet of an elder so that the needs of a fellow worshipper could be met runs so counter to how we see life lived around us, one cannot help longing after something so foreign; so free.

This past week I received an email from one of the pastors at our sister church. The week before I had shared with their congregation about some of the things we were seeing God do here in South Central. I had shared with them about the families and individuals who regularly attend our weekly worship services who only speak Spanish. These wonderful folks sit graciously, participating to the fullest extent of their ability, while worship, prayer and teaching unfold around them in a foreign tongue.

As a board, we have been looking into the possibility of purchasing translation equipment that would enable these members to listen with headsets while someone translates the service from the sound board. As a board we have been praying for the means to purchase this equipment, and I shared this with Pasadena Covenant.

After the service, a husband and wife talked together and shared with each other how they had each felt stirred by this need while I was talking, and how both of them had, independently, felt nudged by God's spirit to make the purchase of this equipment possible. The email I received this last week informed me that this couple would like to make a financial gift to cover the expense of purchasing the translation equipment for our church.

I am grateful and humbled and glad to be in a time and place where the church today can look like the beautiful picture I have spent my life longing to see.

Quotation of the Week

2006-07-01T21:20:00.000-07:00

"Does George W. Bush have enough faith to keep America in God's good grace? Perhaps. But we should join our faith with his."

From the TBN documentary, "George W. Bush: Faith in the White House", that Doug stumbled upon last night. Anyone who knows my husband AT ALL can imagine the conversations that followed :)

Packing the diaper bag

2006-06-29T16:42:00.000-07:00

One of the biggest challenges for me about being a parent of two very small children is how a simple thing can take so much time and feel SO HARD. The last few days have been marked by a brutal heat/humidity wave and it has made me a bit of a grouch (or "ouch" as Mercy calls her favorite Sesame Street friend). I keep trying to tell myself, "Erika, at least your not pregnant this summer!", something I have NOT been able to say the last two, but I have found myself feeling overwhelmed and a bit claustrophobic. I want so badly to escape the heat but we don't have a big yard for the kids to run in, our neighbors gave us a little pool but we have nowhere to set it up and leave it so it sits in a box, and to even THINK about going outside requires so much sunscreen we might as well just get on each other's nerves in the living room!

I am realizing that it is the hard work of getting clothes and diapers and shoes and socks on and milk chilled and bottles fixed and nalgenes filled and bjorns packed and snacks found, and the seemingly neverending list of what is required to simply go out the door that I can find paralyzing. I am feeling foolish even now as I write this because, C'mon Erika, none if this is hard. Get your act together! But once you mix in a temper tantrum, a poop, and a spit-up, it can start to feel just plain impossible.

I was thinking today that this is a lot like the kinds of relationships we are trying to fill our lives with right now. Because we are choosing to share our lives with people from different ethnic backgrounds, different cultural backgrounds, different socio-economic backgrounds, relating to people can feel a bit like trying to leave my house with two little ones: there are any number of reasons why it can just feel so hard. And it can be very, very tempting to just not put yourself through the mess of it!

Yesterday when I was feeling overwhelmed I strapped the kids into their carseats and we just drove around, the wind blowing our sweat-wet hair off our faces. I didn't have a diaper bag packed for them and neither child had shoes on: but the amount of effort I did put out paid off. Auntie Anna and cousins Jordan and Isaiah had just come home when we drove by their house and we ended up having a delightful afternoon trying out their new hose attachment and eating watermelon.

I am reminded that we can all be like this in one way or another: sometimes the prospect of what it would take to do something exhausts us so we opt for doing nothing. It can be that relationship with someone very different form us, that great volunteer opportunity we keep talking about getting involved with, that spiritual discipline we long for in our life. What it would require of us to make it to that destination seems like too much work to be worth it! But just like my last-resort car trip yesterday, I am reminded also that even our smallest, most flawed efforts are almost always rewarded. And once we get there the things that seemed so hard about the journey pale in comparison to what we receive.

The Communion of Saints

2006-06-28T11:35:00.000-07:00

On Sunday I spoke at Pasadena Covenant Church, our sister church that has partnered with us in this adventure of church planting here in South Central. I never cease to be amazed by the generosity of this congregation. Generosity of friendship, of time, of listening and praying and celebrating with us. It is a true generosity of spirit and I truly cannot imagine the last three years without their steadfast companionship.

This is a church that, as they envisioned their life together three years ago, felt led to commit significant resources, time and energy to the birth of a new ministry in a totally unrelated community, among people having nothing to do with their congregation. There were a lot of other options for how they could steward their resources, many of which would have directly benefited their members. But they chose to release and not to store; to give freely and not to hoard. In other words, they chose, in a very dramatic way, to "consider others better than themselves" (Philippians 2).

I just read on my denominational website the story of another Covenant church up in the Northwest whose capital campaign for facility improvements included $100,000 for roofs to be put on schools in the Congo.

It is easy to be cynical about "the institution" of the church. My generation is especially good at this. We need to hear stories like these.

Irony

2006-06-26T13:51:00.000-07:00

Yesterday I met a woman about my age who lives around the corner from us with her husband and two darling children. They were walking home from the store and we were out front doing our best to escape the heat (with some help from Paul's sprinkler). I was holding Aaron and her little boy wanted to come and see the baby up close. So they came over and we got talking and the kids started playing, and it was probably a good hour that we spent together.

I really liked this woman and I adored her kids and I think she is someone that I could definitely see becoming a good friend.

So a year ago I blogged about a certain house in our neighborhood. That is where she and her family live. She moved in almost exactly a year ago, after the house was remodeled and painted by her Mother-in-Law who bought the property. She is so proud of how beautiful her home is.

Jessica

2006-06-24T14:03:00.000-07:00

Today marks a monumental day for someone I hold very dear. A young woman I have known and loved since she was the age of my sweet Mercy leaves the comfort of friends, family and home to move into a tough New York City community where she will, for two years, serve as a teacher through Teach For America. I am blown away by her courage, her steadfast commitment to what she values, and the way her belief in God compels her to go and dwell among the least.

Jessica has been an intimate witness to my own life and struggles in pursuing God in difficult places. Her home in Naperville was one of my places of rest and recovery during tough years of ministry in Chicago. She has had her own share of challenges and heartache in her years, and I know that she enters the inner city as one who knows the language of suffering; she thus enters as one capable of deep compassion which will be her greatest weapon against the injutice and oppression she will most certainly encounter.

We often laugh about the uncanny similiarites between Jess and me, and I know I get blamed (and probably rightly so) for many of them! I can only hope that Mercy will have many Jessicas as role models for how a young woman can boldly walk in God's calling.

We love you, Jess. May the Lord bless you and keep you, on this journey and always.

Quotation of the Week

2006-06-24T09:49:00.000-07:00

"When Jesus opens the table to all, the table begins to tell a new story. But it is a story unlike the story of his contemporaries. The observant person's table story: You can eat with me if you are clean. If you are unclean, take a bath and come back tomorrow evening. Jesus' table story: clean or unclean, you can eat with me, and I will make you clean. Instead of his table requiring purity, his table creates purity. Jesus chooses the table to be a place of grace. When the table becomes a place of grace, it begins to act. What does it do? It heals, it envisions, and it hopes...

The table of Jesus talks by envisioning a new society, a society of grace, of inclusion, of restoration, and of transformation. We need to ask what, at the physical level, our churches are saying."

From "The Jesus Creed", by Scot McKnight (pp.36, 39)

Clutter

2006-06-22T09:13:00.000-07:00

This past year I have been on a mission. I am determined to eliminate a bulk of the clutter that Doug and I each brought into our marriage as well as the unnecessary things we have collected here in L.A. My husband and I can both be sentimental creatures so this has not been an easy task. So much so that I have turned to an outside source for help in how to think about my attitude toward "stuff".

This past week I read one of her essays that described how things are not necessary to represent relationships: in other words, that statue or vase or sweater from your great-aunt whoever doesn't really need to sit in a corner of your house for you to honor your relationship with her. This is where my sentimental butt gets a good little kick!

I am reminded, though, of a promise I made ten years ago to a fourteen-year-old boy.

Ivan was a kid in my neighborhood in Chicago, one of the original "crew" who won my heart and led me into God's calling for my life. One night I took him out to dinner. Now kids in my neighborhood didn't "go out for dinner" anywhere. McDonalds was a treat, as was the walk-up Chinese restaurant. But I had told Ivan that I would take him out for dinner as a treat--I don't even remember now for what. So we went to this little Italian restaurant next-door to the Cubby Bear where I used to work in Wrigleyville.

I remember that the tables had white paper coverings, and each table had little packages of four crayons along with the centerpiece. I remember us coloring on our "tablecloth" and laughing a lot that day. I remember the look on Ivan's face as he sat in this "fancy" restaurant, ordered a nice meal, and told me that he would never forget this day for the rest of his life. I remember getting ready to leave and having Ivan look me soberly in the face as he held one of the boxes of crayons: "I am going to take these home and I will never throw them away and I will always remember this day." I looked at him, picked up the other box of crayons and promised him I would do the same.

Six years ago, Ivan's best friend, another young man I deeply loved, was murdered. I will never forget knocking on Ivan's door, his grief-stricken face, the way he collapsed in my arms. I will never forget his anger, his despair. And I will never forget walking into his room where he had dumped out a box that held all of his "treasures". Photos of him and Jamar, most of which I had taken over the years, covered the bed. As I picked up a photo and strained to look through my tears, Ivan reached down and picked up a little white box and held it out to me: it was the box of crayons from the restaurant. "I told you I would always keep these, Erika. I will never, ever throw them away."

I still have mine too: they have moved with me from Chicago to Spokane to Portland and Los Angeles. I don't care if that box of crayons is just "stuff" and isn't necessary to honor my relationship with Ivan. I will never, ever throw them away.

What do you mean?

2006-06-20T07:52:00.000-07:00

I made an amusing discovery this past week. Mercy is generally a very good talker. She knows a lot of words and her pronunciation is great (except for blanket which is "biktet", "bagdhad", or "biltlek", or some composite of the three). However, there have been two words that she uses with great frequency that have remained a mystery to us: "thank you" is "meeeenaaaak" and "spoon" is "muuuuuunsch".

A couple of days ago I was reading the perennial classic, "Goodnight Moon", to her and we came to the page that reads: "And a comb and a brush and a bowl full of mush" and as I looked at the picture I realized that what you see is a bowl with a very large spoon in it. Suddenly it made sense why Mercy just may believe that the proper word for "very large spoon" is mush.

This past week we had a congregational visioning meeting for our church. It was one of those meetings where we reflect together about the past, accomplishments and disappointments, as well as what we have learned and hope for our future together. There was a fair amount of emotion in the room at various points, and during one such moment, a dear individual grew quite passionate and said, "Maybe we need a new theology of neighboring."

It was one of those O.J. Simpson verdict moments where half the room nodded vigorously in agreement while the rest looked on in confusion. I can imagine some people puzzling: "a theology of neighboring? What is that?????"

Now any self-respecting Southern California Intervarsity graduate knows exactly what that term, taken from the writing of Bob Lupton, means, as does someone like myself who owns all of Lupton's books. Any first or second generation Latino, however, would not have a clue how a word they thought was a noun is suddenly working like a verb.

Language is so potent. And it can be so divisive. And sometimes the best you can guess is that "mush" simply must mean "spoon."

Because we live in L.A.

2006-06-19T09:12:00.000-07:00

I guess that everyone who lives here has their big star-sighting story to tell. Doug and I laugh because we NEVER see anyone famous and there are very few people we would actually be interested in seeing. But having Jack Bauer walk up to you while you are playing with your daughter at Manhattan Beach and strike up a conversation--now that is something.

Special Day

2006-06-18T14:48:00.001-07:00

Top ten things we love about our Daddy
by Mercy and Aaron Emmanual Haub

10. He loves taking us to the beach
9. He's the best Mango cutter in the world (Mercy)
8. He's always willing to listen when I have really important things to say, even at 5am (Aaron)
7. He lets me pick out my own clothes (Mercy)
6. He always convinces Mom to let us buy the totally overpriced nectar at the Aquarium so we can feed the birds
5. He makes great Puff
4. He works really hard to make sure we have food to eat and a place to sleep
3. He reads us lots of stories
2. He makes Mommy happy
1. He is ours

Quotation of the Week

2006-06-17T09:55:00.000-07:00

"Most churches ask, 'How do we get them to come to us?'
The real question is, 'How do we get us to go to them.' "

From a sermon preached by my preaching hero, Brenda Salter McNeil, at the Annual Meeting of the Evangelical Covenant Church in Grand Rapids, Michigan this past week.

See for yourself - scroll down to find June 15 sermon

Margins?

2006-06-15T15:17:00.000-07:00

I realized in writing my last post that I have never explained the source for the name of my blog. Some have asked, so here it is...

I recently spent three years as a student at Fuller Seminary earning a Masters in Divinity. I have never been one of those students who sits though class busily typing away on their laptops (or playing solitaire, which I saw a LOT of in my classes). I have always been the old-fashioned pen and paper type. In every class I would take thorough notes, and as I was provoked by ideas or questions, as I was stirred emotionally, as I was troubled, I would scribble my musings in the margins of my paper. I have never been a talker in class. I was the student, in both undergrad and in seminary, that got notes from her professors on the papers she wrote that read: "You have great insight! We need to hear your voice in class." But the shyness that marked my childhood actually does continue in many ways.

My husband used to go nuts sitting next to me in class at Fuller. Some discussion would be going on around us and I would scribble in the margins of my notebook my thoughts on the issue, and Doug would do everything short of actually lifting my hand in the air to get me to make my comments aloud. But I would opt for the anonymity, the silence, the privacy of my thinking instead.

So when I first considered starting a blog, I was motivated by the idea of having an outlet for the things relegated to the margins of my notebooks. And that is where the title originated, and I liked that it held a double meaning for me as well: I live in South Central, Los Angeles and I share my life with people considered by most around me to be "marginal" for a host of reasons: race, economics, nationality, citizenship status, culture. A lot of what I write about is my experience of life in this community, so the title seems a perfect fit.

So there it is...

What's in a name?

2006-06-15T09:56:00.000-07:00

I just stumbled across a collection of blogs from folks in my denomination. As I scrolled through the list looking for any familiar faces/voices I came across a blog named "Marginal Thoughts" . Intrigued by the similarity with my own blog name I clicked on the link. To my delight I found a blog belonging to a woman I have known since I was in college. She and I went on a mission trip to Mexico together when she was a youth intern in Mercer Island. I was a last-minute add-on to the trip, primarily because they needed someone who could speak Spanish to join them. I was on crutches at the time following foot surgery and one of my funniest memories is wearing this ridiculous sock on the tip of my open toed cast so that scorpions wouldn't crawl into my cast at night.

I didn't see this friend for a few years until she and I later overlapped at North Park Seminary in Chicago. It was great to be in touch once again.

Many more years have now gone by and so my heart is warmed to "see" her again through her blog, and to share a kindred spirit of blog names with her :)

Blessings to you, Jo Ann.

Quatro

2006-06-02T22:50:00.000-07:00

Yesterday Doug and I celebrated four years of marriage. Someone asked me tonight if we had a good time celebrating and I told them that it was the best date I had ever had. My husband is very very good to me. Thanks, baby.

Life

2006-05-31T13:31:00.000-07:00

Welcome, baby Zoe.

We can't wait to meet you and we are so excited that you have entered this world and joined our family. Mercy talks about you a lot already, and I am excited that you and Mercy and Aaron will grow up together as cousins. I pray that we might live closer to each other as time progresses so that we can enjoy lots of time together!

Zoe, your name means life and that is something I have been thinking a lot about lately. Sometimes your Uncle Doug and I really wonder what we are doing here in Los Angeles, and we feel the burden of things being really hard a lot of the time. I think a lot about "life" and what kind I want for myself, for my husband, and for my kids. There are a lot of things right now about "life" that I don't understand and can't seem to figure out.

Zoe Rose, you are a reminder to me that life is a gift not a right. You remind me that life is fragile and dependent. You remind me that life only matters in relationship to those around you. You remind me that life sometimes IS hard. But you also remind me that life is bound up in hope for the future. I remember reading somewhere that having children is a prophetic act; it is a declaration of hope in the midst of so many things that feel painful and hopeless all around us.

In the midst of the darkness here, Zoe, you remind me to live prophetically. You remind me to live with the end in mind; to live as one who yearns and hopes...

from death to life

2006-05-31T09:15:00.000-07:00

When I became pregnant with Mercy, it was as if everywhere I looked there were nothing but other pregnant women. It's the same with cars, right? As soon as you buy a Subaru, that's all you ever see on the road!

A few weeks ago, I posted about my newly acquired poverty-induced stinginess. Since writing those words, I think every day has offered me some opportunity, some invitation to live generously toward others. Every day has given me desperately needed chances to learn to die.

There was the phone call from a neighbor who was literally down to one slice of meatloaf left in her refrigerator to feed her family of four and who would not receive her paycheck for two more days. Of course I did not hesitate to send Doug to Ralph's to purchase a grocery gift card for her family out of our church's benevolence fund. But he would not be home with that until after the dinner hour, so I quickly packed up the last meal's worth of groceries we had in our cupboard, the food I intended to prepare for our family, and brought them over to her home. Now we did not go hungry that night. But it was a chance for my heart to move toward the other and away from my own self in a very small way. It was a chance for me to live as a slave to love and not to fear. It was a chance to hold loosely and not to cling, to release and not to hoard.

Last Thursday Doug and I were guest lecturers at Fuller Seminary for a course on evangelism. We basically offered our church as a case study for some of the different ways that evangelism can look in different contexts. At the end we had time for a couple of questions, and the last question we were asked was about our kids and how we felt about raising them in this environment. Doug spoke for us both when he answered that they are the first thing to cause us to want to leave. But they are also the thing that makes us stay. In Doug's words, "I want my kids to grow up not thinking twice about giving away a car."

C.S. Lewis writes this:

"The Christian way is different: harder, and easier. Christ says, 'Give me All. I don't want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want You. I have not come to torment your natural self, but to kill it. No half-measures are any good. I don't want to cut off a branch here and a branch there, I want to have the whole tree down...Hand over the whole natural self, all the desires which you think innocent as well as the ones you think wicked--the whole outfit. I will give you a new self instead. In fact, I will give you myself: my own will shall become yours.'"

how does your garden grow?

2006-05-18T10:21:00.000-07:00

Last night I held my final membership class for a wonderful group of individuals considering joining Church of the Redeemer. To be honest, I was sad that it was over because I really enjoyed the excuse just to hang out with these folks. Even with two moderately grumpy babies (mine included), the class went well and as always with this group, good thoughtful questions were brought to the table (along with way too many tempting snacks--thanks, Christy!)

One of the questions was how we as a church are thinking about discipleship and what kind of format that takes in our life together. I was hard pressed to answer. We have little that is programmatic. It is, I'm afraid, one of our greatest areas of need, especially as new believers join our ranks. How do we see people maturing in their life of faith? It is the absence of this focus, I believe, that puts such great pressure on the Sunday morning experience: it becomes the one stop shop where all my needs must be met, otherwise I decide that I am simply not being "fed". This becomes frustrating for the preacher, the worship leader, the board chair :) , etc.

Yet I feel like we are constantly up against people's full schedules, the many missional commitments we share, and just plain life, not to mention work schedules (many of us work multiple jobs, night shifts, etc.) People don't want another "thing", another meeting, another church commitment.

How do we give ourselves to this journey and to one another? What place does gathering to pray, to read the scriptures, to receive instruction, to confess sin have in our corporate life? This, I believe, will determine whether we live or die as a church, not attendance benchmarks or denominational commitment.

The sound of silence

2006-05-11T13:12:00.000-07:00

This week has me thinking about how we are doing as a church right now in terms of existing together as a learning community. Some people are expressing dissatisfaction with how they are being "fed". I feel some degree of tension between wanting the church to give people what they need to grow, and wanting people to put their "I need" checklists away and give themselves to the church and trust Father, Son and Spirit for the rest. I am weary of programmatic, structural solutions that promise to spit out shiny A+ believers, yet I do long to see real change in people's lives as they encounter a living God in the midst of our church family and our community.

Doug has been playing his guitar lately, singing some of the great songs he has written over the last few years. When I first met Doug he was in somewhat of a songwriting sprint and many of the songs he has been singing lately come from that time in his life. I remember that a weekly bible study many of us were involved in was particularly inspiring to Doug and his songs of that era reflect that.

Doug has not been writing a lot of music since we moved here. A new wife, too many jobs, and of course two under two are perfectly justifiable reasons for that, but I wonder if it isn't something else: perhaps he, like those discontent among my congregation, is feeling removed from biblical narratives with the power to inspire.

Is it not the artists of a community who sometimes give us the best read on how we are doing?

What a box of Quaker Oat Squares can teach you...

2006-05-05T16:25:00.001-07:00

I came to a frightening realization recently. I have always thought of myself as a generous person. I have been known for freely giving of what I have. There was a brief time in my life when I made more than enough money to live on and it was with great ease that I gave what I had to those in need around me.

Something has changed.

Perhaps it is simply this: living with need. Just plain not having enough to buy and pay for basic provisions.

We recently had the blessing of dear friends and family sharing our home with us for the weekend of Aaron's baptism. I went to the grocery store in preparation, WIC checks in hand, and loaded up on food to have around. There are a few key grocery items that WIC covers for us, like cereal (for Doug, Mercy and me) and peanut butter. There are specific cereal brands we can buy, and one of them in particular serves as both a breakfast food as well as a snack on the run for our little girl. The monthly allocation is just enough to usually get us through each month.

The first night that our loved ones were here, Doug's mom asked me if she could take some of the cereal I had over to my sister's house where they were staying so she could have it to snack on in the evening. Of course I said yes and I encouraged her to take the whole box. As she left that evening, cereal box in hand, I realized that I was filled with anxiety over giving up that cereal. How ridiculous, I told myself! Yet I could not shake this deep desire I had NOT to share what we had, as I was haunted by the awareness that I had blown all my WIC checks for their visit and the month ahead stretched out before us yet.

Two of our big grocery expenses NOT covered by WIC are water (the non-rocket fuel laced variety) and soy milk (due to Mercy's milk allergy). We go through a LOT of both of these items, due to Mercy's love for her milk and my neverending need for hydration, which any nursing mom can identify with! The entire weekend, my heart would sink as I would watch our guests go through glass after glass of water, or opt for the soy milk instead of the regular (which CAN be purchased with WIC).

Needless to say, by the end of the weekend I was exhausted by this new and very ugly miserly side of myself I had not before encountered. I don't want to be this way. I don't think I realized before how hard it is for those accustomed to comfort to be generous when they find themselves suddenly without. I do not seem to encounter this behavior among those used to having little--they are usually the MOST generous, the most free to give of what they do have. My neighbors next door who continue to amaze me with their thoughtful gifts are an excellent example of this.

I have so much to learn, so much to die to, when it comes to trusting God and truly placing the needs of others above my own. Will I ever know Christ in me to the point of freely loving my neighbor as myself, in times of want as well as times of plenty?

Juxtaposition

2006-05-03T13:54:00.000-07:00

Mercy has started potty training recently which translates to frequent visits to the bathroom for Mercy, Aaron and me. Aaron sits in his swing next to the potty, Mercy sits perched on her "throne", and I sit in front of both of them, squeezed into a small piece of floor between the sink and the toilet.

Sometimes Mercy needs to sit for a little while before she does her business, so we read books, sing, or I do silly things to amuse her. This morning we were sitting there when I heard a bunch of noise outside our window. A police helicopter had been circling our house for five minutes or so, and it was one of those times you know whoever they are looking for is very close because the whole house is shaking and it feels like the helicopter is coming in through your window. So I peered out the window and immediately saw four young men running frantically into a little shed in my neighbor’s backyard. Two of the guys I recognized as young men who have been involved in a fair amount of trouble we have had on our street recently; the other two I did not know. I am pretty sure they were laughing as they scrambled into their hiding place.

I called the police to tell them what I saw and the operator told me she had no information on a helicopter at my address. I wasn't going to argue with her, so I left my name and phone number so that I could be contacted if need be.

I have been edgy all morning. We have gone back twice to sit on the potty and both times I have held my breath and held back tears as we sit beneath that window. Just a few weeks ago our good friends had bullets pierce a piece of furniture in their daughter's room of their second floor house. Since then I have struggled with being sincerely afraid for my kids' safety.

I am delighted that Mercy is potty training. I am sad that she is doing it in front of a window that opens out to so much danger and fear.

thank you God

2006-04-28T22:40:00.000-07:00

This has been a week of blessings for the Haub household.

Doug and I were given two really great tickets for the L.A. Philharmonic--I have been dying to get inside the Walt Disney concert hall since moving here! We actually ended up not being able to go but the gift meant the world to us.

A friend dropped by last night unannounced to drop off dinner for us--the food was enough to take care of us for two days!

Last night I called our dear friend who baby-sits Mercy for us to ask her if she could come over for a couple of hours this morning so that I could clean my house for my company that arrives tonight. After giving Mercy two wonderful hours at the park, she refused to let me pay her for her time and told me she was "helping out."

This week I have had three good friends come over to the house to spend time with me. With each of these women I have shared honestly about my struggles and questions around being here.

Today Doug finally placed the order for his new guitar, something made possible by financial gifts from three unrelated sources. Only ninety days before our third "baby" arrives :)

Our good friends brought their first child, a beautiful baby boy, home last night after a few days in the NICU.

And tonight we welcome dear family and friends who are here from Oregon for the weekend to help us celebrate Aaron's baptism.

At night Mercy and I have a ritual where we "thank God". I go through the day and we thank God for all the different things we did that day, the people we encountered, food we ate, toys we enjoyed, places we went, etc. We also thank God for the special people in our lives. It's funny but I don't think of it as praying, though as I write this I realize that it is pretty obvious that that's what it is. It has always felt more like this fun recap of our day's adventures. I hope that it teaches her to live with gratitude. I think it is teaching me to stop more often and examine my days and weeks like I have done here tonight.

Thank you God.

Let the little children come

2006-04-22T21:55:00.001-07:00

Mercy picked up her pink guitar today and started singing. It was impressive not because of the volume (though I must say the girl's got some lungs), nor her little performer's stance, nor the dramatic facial expressions she was making which could have landed her a spot on Idol for sure. What grabbed me were her "lyrics". As she sang, a not-so-simple word continued emerging: "alleluia". Over and over again, her little mouth formed that word as she strummed her guitar with passion.

You might think we must be a really holy household to have our eighteen-month-old daughter singing her "alleluias" already; but I have to confess that there are a lot of other words she hears with much greater frequency. At first I thought, well, she hears her daddy planning worship every week, or she must have picked that up in church, but she spends most Sundays in the nursery (as do I lately) and Doug rarely practices through the worship set until after she is in bed. Was it the four weeks of intensive Hebrew I got through while she was in utero???

We have had a little bit of drama in our household the past few weeks over our decision to have our son, Aaron, baptized. In our multi-cultural church context, the issue of infant baptism is a hot one and our Latino pastor is more than aware of the potential cost of celebrating this as part of our church life. Mercy was baptized almost a year ago and our pastor got a lot of flak--one new family even left the church.

Doug and I are clearly in the minority in our congregation, even among the Anglos, and so many of our peers here don't at all understand our position on this. As a lifelong (and current) member of the Evangelical Covenant church, I never thought I would be in a place where I had to explain myself so many times over, or fight for a theological freedom I have grown to assume. It is not her baptism that saves her; only Christ can do that. That is true at nine months, nine years, or ninety years of age! And like Israel she will be saved not because she is strong or mighty or good or beautiful, not because of her righteousness or faithfulness, but simply because God, in his goodness and grace, chooses her.

I guess this morning watching a little girl strum a pink guitar, it all seemed so very simple. God's grace in my little girl's life is pure gift, as it is for all of us. And part of God's grace to her is the provision of parents, Godparents, and a church family who are committed to helping her learn the language of worship, in word and in deed. I do not believe that she understands the meaning of her song yet. But it is my job, and the church's job, to help her do just that.

Happy Day

2005-05-07T21:22:00.000-07:00

Dear Mom,

So I bet this is your first ever "blog" Mother's Day card. I thought it fitting since you are one of the greatest supporters of my desire to write and share my heart and faith with others. So I realize it's a bit public, but oh well, so is a billboard :) !

The last time I published something about you, I got quoted for the first time ever by another publication. That was a stroke to my ego, but more importantly it was a testimony to the kind of woman and mother you are--someone who makes people feel inspired or convicted or just plain grateful that someone like you exists.

Tonight Doug and I are sharing our home with a fellow classmate from Fuller. She needed to spend the night with someone involved in "incarnational ministry" and visit the ministry and ask questions. Earlier today I was anxious about the Hebrew test I will have Monday and my desparate need to study and prepare. Having a houseguest interrupted my ability to do that, but I am reminded of how you and Dad always had a bed or a couch or a floor somewhere for just about anyone who needed a place to stay--need I mention accordians?--and it was never about your convenience or ease. I hope that Mercy will grow up seeing her mom and dad do the same thing.

Tonight I was at Ralph's trying to exchange the formula I purchased last night with my WIC coupons. I had accidentally picked out the wrong kind and the checkout lady noticed so she sent the bag boy back to the shelves to get the right kind. He bagged my things and I left, only to discover when I got home that he had again given us the incorrect kind. Tonight the store manager gave me a hard time. As soon as it was apparent that I was a WIC customer, his demeanor changed and he told me that they were out of the kind I needed and that he couldn't help me. I told him that my baby can't drink milk and this is a milk based formula and that he would give me a different kind--I would happily take a different brand if that was my only choice. He finally relented and gave me the larger size can in exchange for two of the four cans I brought to return. He told me repeatedly that they weren't supposed to do this and that I needed to be more careful next time. Then he turned with a smile to the USC student waiting to order a keg of beer beside me. I was reminded of all the ways you would stand up and fight for me when I was young--getting me into the best programs at school; getting bus service for me when they told you they couldn't help you. And it wasn't just stuff for me or Anna, or now for David. Anywhere you encountered a system working against people, you would stand up and fight and you would not stop until right prevailed. I hope that Mercy will grow up seeing her mom bravely tackle obstacles and injustices, not just for her, but for many.

Tonight I sat in the green rocker holding my sweet Mercy asleep in my arms. I remembered all those nights that you would come and sit on my bed and rub my back or give me an arm scratch and listen to all the stories from my day, and you would often sit there patiently until I drifted off to sleep (often nodding off yourself). I realize that since marrying Doug, that precious ritual is gone (though it was alive and kicking up until that point :) ) but I do my best to make up for it now with cuddles on the couch whenever I am home--though Mercy is stiff competition. Tonight as I gazed down at my sleeping baby, I almost suffocated with love for her. I hope that she will know many nights of ending her day with a mom beside her who will listen and talk and rub, and falling asleep knowing well how very much she is loved.

At our wedding, Pastor Mike said something about how Doug and I were made for each other. I feel the same way about you--that God gave me the mom God knew that I would need. Thanks for loving me. Thanks for making my life so very rich. And thank you for showing me what kind of mom I want Mercy to have. I love you. Happy Mother's Day.

Erika

P.S. Talk to Debbie Wilkins--she has something for you :)

cartoon houses

2005-05-05T09:19:00.000-07:00

A friend of mine has owned a home here in our community for many years. Recently, she and her husband painted their exterior in rich earth tones and enhanced their landscaping. When you drive by, you immediately notice how nice their home looks. This past month, their neighbor also decided to beautify his home. He worked for weeks on a complete makeover of the exterior. And then came the paint…

Neon orange and lime green are the best I can do to describe the colors--the house is vibrant, electric, and probably glows at night. In the words of my friend’s husband, “It looks like a cartoon house! “ And he’s right. If you drive down the street this is certainly the one house you will not miss!

I heard last week that my friend who lives next to this house had said: “I just don’t want to leave the house anymore, because when I come back home I have to see it.”

I was thinking about how this feels a lot like what Bonhoeffer calls, “Life Together.” There are people who are like that house: bright, bold, foreign—ultimately, different than us. But we like OUR color scheme; OUR style; OUR way of looking at the world. And sometimes people’s colors can clash so badly with our own carefully chosen palette that we choose to stay inside so as not to be reminded that they exist.

Maybe this is why so many housing developments have restrictions and a carefully chosen menu of what colors homeowners can choose from. Maybe this is why so many people are attracted to living in those kinds of places--and abandoning those where you can't legislate your neighbor's taste. Maybe this is why churches struggle so hard to bring together people of different cultural backgrounds; or why they don't.

Yoda and the Passover

2005-04-26T10:00:00.000-07:00

Dick Staub has written a new book, Christian Wisdom of the Jedi Masters, that explores the question of how my generation has (or in most cases, has not) been mentored by those who have gone before us. He uses the clever comparison of Jedi in desperate need of Yodas who will instruct and guide and enflesh what it is we hope for in our Christian lives.

Sunday night I attended a Seder dinner with my husband and the messianic Jewish congregation he helps lead music for at a synagogue in Beverly Hills. The irony of the evening was that I should have been home studying for my Hebrew exam on Monday morning :), but instead I spent the night participating in something very beautiful and strange.

The Seder dinner celebrates Passover: the occasion in the history of the Jewish people where God brought judgment upon Pharaoh and the Egyptians for enslaving the Hebrews, and “passed over” the homes of the Jews in his slaughter of the firstborns, both children and animals, throughout all the land. It is this gruesome event that causes Pharaoh to finally release the Jews and “let them go”: following the Passover, the people of Israel are slaves in Egypt no more.

As I was reminded frequently throughout the Seder meal, celebrating Passover is about celebrating redemption: redemption from bondage and slavery, and extinction. For Messianic Jews, this dinner also celebrates the life and death of Yeshua, the messiah, who shared this very same meal with his disciples hours before his passion began.

So what does this have to do with Staub’s book?

It is said that the Passover is celebrated for the sake of the children, that they would hear the stories of their people. At the beginning of the Seder, there is a ritual where the youngest child asks four questions:

“On all other nights we eat either leavened or unleavened bread. Why on this night do we eat only unleavened bread?

On all other nights we eat all kinds of vegetables. Why on this night do we eat only bitter herbs?

On all other nights we don't dip even once. Why on this night do we dip twice?

On all other nights we eat either sitting or reclining. Why on this night do we recline?”

As a gathered people on Sunday evening we read, together, the answers to these four questions. And over the course of the evening we read, sang, and listened to the stories of a people who were once enslaved and who are now redeemed. And through eating and dipping and washing and hiding, we answered, as a body: “why is this night different from all other nights?”

Sunday night, I sat in a room filled with Yodas. Sunday night I ate and drank with young and old who gather on this night with the express purpose of shaping the next generation. Sunday night I shared a meal with a people who would probably not understand the need for Dick Staub’s book. Sunday night I shared life with a community that regularly speaks to what Staub describes as the hunger "to discover your true destiny and your place in the cosmic story.” For my Jewish sisters and brothers, faith has never been something that one has to go out and get a hold of by oneself. Faith does not exist apart from ones family; one’s people. Faith is always something corporate: or as my husband likes to say, for our Jewish friends, “belonging” comes before “believing.”

I don’t know about anyone else, but in my church people get annoyed if they are not spoon-fed their worship experience by people up front. I don’t mean to be critical, but in the name of being “welcoming” and “sensitive” to visitors, there is a dangerous trend toward making the Sunday morning service a fun “experience”; something that can be “enjoyed” as a spectator, with actual participation and responsibility left at a minimum. The long hours and high level of participation that the Seder supper demanded would, in the language of my church, be "inaccessible", "uncomfortable", and a "turn-off."

I wonder what it must be like for the children on the night of the Seder. As they look around they see their parents, elders and friends practicing a strange, inaccessible ritual with flat bread, parsley dipped in salt water, and hard boiled eggs:inaccessible, that is, unless one knows the story. As I sat there and shared in these rituals I thought of my own little girl. What in her life and experience in our home and in our church will teach her about who she is and who her people are? How will she learn the story of salvation as something bigger than a private romance between her and Jesus?

Maybe what Staub's "Jedi Christians" need are not more conferences, seminaries, books and workshops. Maybe what we need is not another new, more “fashionable” way of doing church. Maybe what we need are not more opportunities to be “performed” to. Maybe what we need are simply more places where we gather to encourage our children to ask questions; where we eat and dip and wash and hide; where we, together, retell and reenact our story.

I do

2005-04-21T09:43:00.000-07:00

I remember being single and really struggling with the idea of marrying someone and giving up my freedom to follow God wherever and however God would call me. I didn’t like the idea of giving up the “I” for the “We” because I felt like I would be held back somehow—no longer able to pack my bags and head for Africa or Chicago or anywhere else God might call me at any notice.

A wise friend told me to wait: to not marry until there was someone with whom I experienced MORE of life; MORE of God’s initiative and calling and direction than I had on my own.

So I waited. And waited some more :). And then there he was. The one I tried to not want. The one I tried to tell myself I could live without.

My wise friend got it exactly right. Life with Doug is richer and more full than anything I ever could have imagined. There is more of God, not less.

Last week we had the pleasure of four friends from Seattle invading out little apartment and making their home with us. On Saturday they left to return to their own lives and callings back home, and while our apartment once again feels roomy and quiet, I miss them terribly. And it is not the morning Starbucks runs that Dick would make or the groceries that would just appear in the refrigerator or the extra hands that were quick to hold the baby that I miss. It is that being with them made life richer and more filled with God’s presence and grace.

I think this is what being the family of God is exactly about. It is that move away from singleness; from independence, self-reliance and “freedom” to a place where life is better together than it ever could be alone. It’s a lot like marriage and I understand why many are skeptical or afraid. Being yoked to one another is a lot of work. It can hurt. It is sacrificial. But just like life in our apartment last week, in all of the chaos and compromise, it is a treasure I don't want to live without.

my burden is light

2005-04-14T20:38:00.000-07:00

I love my baby. I love holding her, playing with her, talking to her, bathing her. I am one of those moms who simply cannot get enough of her little one.

With that said, when someone asks to hold her and I pass her into the arms of another, there is that moment where I straighten my back and shoulders and stretch my torso a bit. There is that feeling of release, relief, and the easing of a weight or burden, even if for only a few minutes. There is that sudden freedom to go to the bathroom by myself, or sit down and eat a plate of food unencumbered, or sit at the computer and read an email without her little hands grabbing at the mouse and shoving bills and papers onto the floor.

This week our church is hosting a group of kids and adults from my home church in Seattle, Washington. They are here this week to serve our church and our community through morning service projects at our tutoring center and at homes of church members, and through afternoon sports and dance camps for neighborhood children. It is an amazing group of people who chose to spend their spring break, many of them as families, not in Cancun or at Disneyland, but in the gritty streets of South Central.

I have been close to tears many times this week:

leaving the home of one of our church members who is widowed, wheelchair bound, and the primary caregiver for her elderly mother with Alzheimer’s disease where four members of the mission team were scrubbing walls, priming rooms for painting, scouring behind toilets, picking dropped pills up off the floor, and helping to organize the contents of a kitchen so that things could be accessed from a wheelchair;

standing in the middle of the street talking to a neighborhood woman and her son who had nothing to do with any of our camps or events but who had driven by our gathering time of singing with the kids in the park and had stopped their minivan to find out who we were and why we were doing what we were doing;

sitting in the auditorium of our local grade school watching a beautiful high school senior who is an accomplished dancer in Seattle teach dance to more than forty little girls—and remembering holding that young woman when she was the same age that my own little girl is now;

walking into the back classroom of the tutoring center I have directed for the past three years and having someone flip the light switch to reveal a brand new ceiling filled with new recessed light fixtures that fill the room with bright, warm light--no longer will young children and their tutors squint to learn new words on book pages that are barely illumined by a lone fluorescent light.

I love my life here in South Central. I love my church and the people I call neighbor and friend. I love the opportunities I have daily to wrestle with Jesus’ call to love mercy and to walk justly. There is nothing else that I would rather be doing.

But it is not always easy. And it can sometimes feel lonely. And so this week I am feeling that deep sense of a weight lifted, of responsibility shared; of partnership, companionship, and relief. I have stood on the sidelines of camp programs, free to chat with the watching moms. I have stood in the back of the group of kids singing, free to engage stopped minivans and curious neighbors in conversation. I have stood in the middle of a newly painted tutoring center, and watched others bend and sweat and cover themselves with paint so that children I love can be welcomed by cleanliness and beauty.

This week, twenty-nine people have come into our life here and humbly asked: “Can we hold your baby?”

The gospel according to Los Angeles

2005-04-07T10:26:00.000-07:00

During a recent lecture in my Early Church History class, our professor was discussing Epicurus and his understanding of reality. According to Epicurus, life happens when a bunch of atoms bump into each other and stick together, and eventually become a complex enough clump to somehow produce life. Death is inevitable, and when it happens, the atoms return to their original source: life is therefore a very temporary experience.

Those who followed Epicirus believed in maximizing their pleasure and happiness at all times, and finding every way to make their present life as long and as happy as it could be.

Maximizing happiness and extending life: it sounds a lot like what life looks like here in L.A. From zany health trends to expensive dieticians, spas, and of course surgical procedures, Angelinos are all about making life look as good and last as long as possible.

But something doesn’t match up. My professor also discussed how, according to Epicurus, anxiety is the enemy of the pleasurable life! He would argue against going into politics, for example, because it is too anxiety-producing.

So here’s what I find intriguing in all of this: everywhere I turn, I see people scrambling after happiness. I see people terrified of death and going to extremes to prevent it! I see pleasure placed on private alters everywhere and worshiped faithfully. Yet if you were to ask me what other word could best describe the families and individuals I know, I think it would have to be anxiety. I have too many peers on too many medications; I know too many teenagers who cut, starve, or wish to die; I see too many desperately controlling people whose lives are held hostage to every kind of fear. And these are just my Christian friends…

I heard a sermon recently that reminded us that we are all yoked to something: our egos, our addictions, our stuff. I wonder if it isn’t that, for many of us, we have we chosen to yoke ourselves to happiness or pleasure or longevity. And in doing so, we have found that we have chosen our Self as our ultimate yokefellow; and that is where the anxiety comes from. For when we grow weary, our yokefellow does too. When we desperately need the strength of another to help shoulder our load, we are left with the limits of our own endurance. When we simply want to turn and see that we have a companion in our labor, we instead find our own haggard face staring back.

What does the promise of an easy yoke and a light burden look like today-and are we brave enough to proclaim it?

Requiem

2005-04-06T23:39:00.000-07:00

"May the angels lead you into paradise: may the martyrs receive you at your coming, and lead you into the holy city, Jerusalem. May the choir of angels receive you, and with Lazarus, who once was poor, may you have everlasting rest."

faith

2005-04-02T11:23:00.000-08:00

Last night I took out the trash from our kitchen (something I do much more often now that diapers have entered the scene). It was dark and as you walk out our back door, you have to go down the two flights of stairs to get to the driveway where the trash cans are tucked away under the trees. Usually the top flight of stairs are somewhat lit—whether it’s the moon or the generic city “light” or the lights from neighbors houses, I can always see comfortably at the top. Once I get to the bottom stretch of stairs, the visibility has almost disappeared, and I am always very anxious about tripping, missing a stair, rolling my ankle, whatever. When carrying some large item, like the baby carrier or a big box of recycle, this feels especially scary.

Our landlord who lives below us has a motion sensor light that comes on when you get to the very bottom. It lights up our back parking area quite well and I can make my way to one of our cars or to the trash cans with ease. But, it will not trigger until you have come to almost the last stair.

Every time I go out there at night I have the same experience—I walk cautiously down our steps, growing increasingly afraid as I near the bottom, until I get to the point where I feel like I cannot take another step because I just plain can’t see. And just when I think I can’t go any further, I step down into the darkness and the unknown and boom, that motion light kicks in and all is well.

Now, I do this often enough that you would think I would quit being afraid—that I would know the light is coming and that it will show me where I need to go. But every time it is the same story—anxiety, hesitation, disbelief that the light will work THIS time, even though it has always been faithful before.

I am at a funny place in my life right now. I sometimes feel like things seem a bit like the journey down my back staircase—I can’t see where I am stepping; I’m not sure that I will make it; I wonder if the Light will come on and show me where to put my feet.

the sacrifice of praise

2005-03-31T09:58:00.000-08:00

“Fix these words of mine in your hearts and minds; tie them as symbols on your hands and bind them to your foreheads.” Deuteronomy 11:18

I went into H and R Block last night with much fear and trembling. We had a lot of anxiety about our taxes and our prognosis was not good. After an hour and a half, Pat (my new favorite person), pushed the little button on her screen that totals everything up and there it was: not only did we not owe, we would be getting money back!

As I walked out the door of their office toward the street where I had parked, without meaning to, I burst into song. One of the worship choruses we sing just came pouring out. As I drove to my husband’s office to share our good news with him, I found myself belting out yet another hymn we sing at church.

I was struck by the gift of song—the way that words that are not our own become our own. The way a common language of praise and petition grows in the minds and hearts of a church family, creating language for all occasion; language that speaks what is true about “what is God and what is not” for every circumstance, and for all time.

My husband is very intentional about what we as a church sing. He is big about ‘substance’ trumping ‘style.’ I think he’s right—the songs that found their way out from my spirit onto my lips yesterday did not come because of their rhythm, ethnic background, or genre. They came out because what they say described what is true about me and about God. They came out because, in my situation yesterday, they gave words to the gratitude and thanksgiving I felt toward a God who did not abandon us. They came out because I needed to testify, to say what was true in my situation, and they gave me the words to do it.

paradise found

2005-03-26T09:38:00.000-08:00

Yesterday we drove out to Joshua Tree National Park. The traffic on the 10 on the way out was slow going, so by the time we got there we had only a short time to actually enjoy the park. But it was worth every second of traffic endured! It is absolutely amazing there. We drove out, having never been there, expecting to see some of the desert wildflowers still in bloom. No such luck. But honestly I didn’t even care because the place was just so spectacular.

I was thrilled when a feisty jackrabbit appeared in front of our car and bounded off into the cluster of trees beside us. My husband went crazy with our little digital camera trying to capture the majesty of the place. Even our baby went nuts. I have never seen her kick and squeal and wave her arms and basically just dance as we held her like I did yesterday.

There were rock climbers everywhere, like little geckos scaling stone faces. It was so fun just to watch them--it definitely made us miss our little rock gym community back home. We decided we definitely needed to come back when we have our climbing shoes and a lot more time!

I am reminded of how important it is to find those places that feed your soul. Our best friends, S and J, recently stumbled across a spot five minutes from their home in Santa Monica that had the same affect on them. We all agreed that we needed to be better about finding those places and giving ourselves the joy of experiencing them.

What is it about standing high on a mountain or sitting among giant boulders and curious trees or gazing out at a spread of ocean waves that changes us? What does it give us that we don’t seem to get from all the other areas of our daily life? Where does its power come from?

How do you do it?

2005-03-24T20:44:00.000-08:00

I had an interesting conversation the other night about boundaries—in relationships and in life in general. I am pretty sure that I am not a person that has a very mature understanding of what it means to operate with a lot of boundaries with people.

Today my husband had taken a day off from his seven day a week work schedule so that we could spend some time together as a family. The morning quickly disappeared with playtime with the baby, getting our tax paperwork ready, and random household chores. I was really looking forward to the afternoon—to doing something frivolous and fun together.

Instead, the three of us ended up commuting out in the afternoon rain and the ensuing L.A. traffic to Pasadena to pick up microphones that some friends are kindly loaning to us for our church service this Sunday. Ours were all stolen last Saturday night, along with all of our church’s sound equipment. So, because I am the board chair, and because my husband is the worship pastor, we have a great deal vested in having sound for our service this week. And this meant taking our one rare day off and losing a bulk of it to a tiresome journey.

I wonder what it means to protect yourself and your family in ministry. Would another high-boundary person have simply not gone to get the equipment, or let someone else carry the burden of making some kind of arrangement? What does it mean for us to be pastors here when we are not paid for our time and work, thus causing us to fill our lives to overflowing so that we can fulfill our ministry calling and pay our rent?

Or am I just making a big deal about a stupid rush hour car trip out to Pasadena…

Sisters

2005-03-22T10:03:00.000-08:00

Last night I drove to LAX to pick up an old friend, AB. She is here in L.A. for her spring break of her final year in college in the Midwest.

AB and I have a pretty special history together. In college, I was the coordinator for a big sister/big brother program in the inner city of Chicago. My job was to match college students up with kids in the neighborhood for mentoring relationships. Once a month, I would plan some fun activity for everyone to participate in together.

My “little sister” worked every Saturday at the swap meet, so she almost never made it to the planned events--she and I would get together on weekdays instead. AB was involved with the program and she was matched up with a college student, only her student was kind of lame and would often miss the events. Because I was usually “unattached” at our parties, and because AB was “big sister-less” as well, we kind of adopted each other, and became each other’s honorary big and little sister.

As AB got older, our friendship grew in depth and substance. In my years in Chicago, she became one of the dearest people in my life. I will never forget in those early years receiving my first ever mother’s day card from AB. I will never forget being the ”adult” for her birthday slumber party at her house. I will never forget her screening the boys I would date. I will never forget the hours of conversations we shared about boys, the hood, God, and family. I will never forget being there for each other when J was killed.

It’s amazing to me where friendship comes from sometimes. I’m glad that it’s like that—that you never know who will enter your life and change it forever.

and on the seventh day...

2005-03-20T00:30:00.000-08:00

Tonight our pastor showed up at the park rec center where our Spanish language bible study meets to worship on Saturday nights. He was greeted by a few hundred members of the Bloods street gang who had gathered at our park after the funeral of one of their own. He made his way into the building and began setting up chairs but was soon interrupted by L.A.P.D. storming into the building with their guns drawn. Our pastor and a young couple who were there to help set up were forced out of the building by cops who had received a tip that the Crips might be on their way to pay the Red mourners a visit. The L.A.P.D. confiscated more than twenty-five guns from those gathered on the park grounds.

As our pastor relayed this story with me over the phone, I expected him to tell me that, as a result, the Spanish service had certainly been cancelled. But instead, he shared with me that more than thirty people had shown up for worship, and that, after some difficulty getting inside, all who gathered had experienced a great time of praise and thanksgiving. I am pretty sure that I would have sent everyone home and gotten myself out of there as quickly as possible.

The helicopters have been circling on and off here for most of the night. Meanwhile my baby sleeps peacefully in the next room—the barking dogs and the hovering aircraft don’t wake her. She is kind of like her pastor and a small band of believers who likewise were able to rest tonight in the midst of the din of fear and the agitation of violence.

I have wondered a lot lately about the Sabbath and what it means for us to rest. I think that there is a lot more to it than setting aside some time to pamper yourself, or creating space in your schedule for quiet times and prayer. I don’t think that it is ultimately something we are to do as individuals. How does the soft still face of my sleeping baby and a bunch of crazy Latinos change the way I understand this idea of Sabbath in South L.A…?

mailbox manna

2005-03-19T11:45:00.000-08:00

Dear Anonymous,

My guess is that you won’t ever read this, but maybe writing this has more to do with me than you anyway.

When I walked down the stairs to my front door last week to check my mail, the highest hopes I entertained were that perhaps the Newsweek had arrived a day early, or maybe a complimentary shipment of Storyhouse coffee would be balancing on the rack beneath our mailbox. As I reached inside our box, I was disappointed to find it empty. Surprised that there would be NOTHING in the mail, I put my hand back in for one more swish (something I am usually hesitant to do because of the little family of spiders who live in the beautiful palms above the box) and my fingers brushed the edge of a sturdy envelope. As I pulled it out I realized that, strangely, it was not sealed. It was addressed to us with our address written plainly, however it had not been mailed. No return name or address was written, and the envelope was not even sealed. A bit surprised I reached inside (again, thinking briefly about the spiders) and I pulled out three folded, colorful gift card holders.

As I unfolded the first, I was surprised to see Trader Joes printed on the card. I didn’t even know they DID gift cards. The next one, with its bold bull’s-eye, was a bit more familiar. The final card came from our good friend down the street, Ralph’s. The amounts written above the cards were generous.

Baby formula, diapers, wipes, and rice cereal would now be purchased with ease. I could look forward soon to Trader Joe’s peanut butter, frozen vegetables and brown rice. And we could once again load up on rocket fuel-less water to keep a baby fed and a breastfeeding mom hydrated.

As I walked slowly back into my house, I encountered my mom (who was visiting from Seattle) at the top of my stairs. By then the tears had already started flowing and my mom, obviously caught off guard and concerned, asked me what was wrong. “Someone gave us money for groceries…” was all I could get out before I began to sob. I went and stood in my room for a few minutes, leaving my mom and baby in the other room.

I don’t always know what the tears are for when they come. Are they tears of gratitude for the anonymous generosity of a friend? Are they tears of anger that we still, with my husband working full time at Fuller Seminary, and part time for a Jewish synagogue, can’t pay our rent and bills and put food on the table? Are they tears of shame that my mom would see how her thirty-one year old daughter is relying on help from others to have her grandbaby’s basic needs met? Or are they tears of communion with a God who has heard my cries and has sent me manna for one more day?

Though you remain anonymous, I am trying to see you in everyone who surrounds us here. In my pastor who would give us the shirt off his back if we asked for it. In my sister who has never said no to watching my baby for a few hours so I can go to class or write a paper. In our Kenwood neighbors who have done more to care for us this past year than I would have thought possible on this side of heaven. I am also trying to see you in myself. What are the things that I have that can be quietly and generously given to another who feels discouraged, isolated, or afraid.

Thank you, Anonymous.

Deus Absconditus

2005-03-18T13:39:00.000-08:00

While studying for a recent course final at Fuller Seminary, I stumbled across a great devotional nugget in a surprising place: my lecture notes from a class in Medieval and Reformation Theology! Our professor was discussing how Martin Luther saw the hiddenness of God within revelation, as well as outside of it. Luther argued that, quite plainly, revelation does not often look like revelation: a fragile baby does not look like an all-powerful God, and the violence of the cross certainly looks nothing like glory! These “festivals of humiliation”, the incarnation and the crucifixion, demonstrate how concealed or shrouded God’s revelation can truly be for us and for our world.

Our professor then illustrated the point with this provocative statement: What if, instead of “majesty”, we sung these words in our worship services: “Poverty, worship His poverty…” How would doing this transform the way we think about our churches, our Christian witness, our own discipleship?

As we prepare to celebrate Easter, I am reminded anew of the surprising ways we encounter God as God enters our world in hiddenness. I confess that too often I am in danger of missing the glory of God precisely because I do not want to admit that my God is a God of soiled diapers and bloody trees. Whether it is my own suffering or that of my neighbors, I find myself quietly yearning for heresy: for a God who is a stranger to pain; for good news of “health and wealth” rather than that of a crucified Lord.

I am reminded here of one of my husband’s favorite quotations by Nicholas Wolterstorff:

“It is said of God that no one can behold his face and live. I always thought this meant that no one could see his splendor and live. A friend said perhaps it means that no one could see his sorrow and live. Or perhaps his sorrow is his splendor.”

I am also reminded of a line from one of my favorite songs:

“And the earth trembled beneath the weight
of a father whose only son
hung ragged and royal on the throne
of his kingdom.”

This past week, I have found myself walking the streets of my neighborhood with the opening lines of Psalm 22 on my lips:

”My God, my God, why have you forsaken me? Why are you so far from helping me, from the words of my groaning? O my God, I cry by day but you do not answer; and by night, but find no rest.”

As I have prayed these words for myself and for the sisters and brothers I call neighbor, the words of the psalmist have emboldened me to consider how welcome is our suffering in the throne room of heaven. As I have the opportunity to invite those who are struggling with very real physical needs to draw near to Jesus, I can be confident that the ways that they are socially and physically lost do not place them at a distance from our Lord. Rather, in the very despair of their lives, they become even more his sisters and brothers for the psalmist’s words of anguish were Jesus’ own liturgy as he wrestled the forsakenness of his death.

It is my hope for my church that we would truly experience something of Martin Luther’s “hidden God.” It is my prayer that as we engage the unique needs of a little corner of South L.A. with the good news of a crucified Lord we would become a people who could sing, with hearts that are glad: Poverty. Worship His poverty.