The Last One To Know.

I have always been an Old Testament-kind-of-girl.  I guess when you are raised in chaos and neglect you can either choose to believe that God doesn't exist or you can believe that God is hiding behind every corner, just waiting to squash you like a bug. I chose the latter.

My dad took me to church.  He prayed with me in the mornings before school and he told me that Jesus loves me.  But any tiny bit of faith I had,  any moment of obedience or confession was drawn from a place of duty.  I feared God.  He created the world and could destroy mine.  I pleaded with Him desperately to forgive me and to save me.  I lived in terror that I would be found an unprofitable servant.  Once someone told me that my faith was probably a mental illness, like anxiety or schizophrenia.

As an OT girl, I love Lent.  Bring on the punishments I deserve! This past Lent was delightfully excruciating.  Just  as Tulsa Catholic Worker was beginning to see some formation and community, I was becoming disgusted with its failure. Well, my failure.  My fellow CW's would agree, I am sure, that I was, indeed, pretty schizophrenic.  Every day I was quitting or cancelling or  restarting. 

Then God came.

I was standing in line for confession (never reconciliation, cuz I am Old Testament :). Off topic, that is a weird line, isn't it?  Standing, waiting with everyone else to confess the deepest and the darkest.  Just an awkward thing to be standing in line for.

But there  I was in line, mentally having a bit of a stand-off with the Almighty.  It sounded a little bit like, "What do you want from me?  I have tried everything.  I have done this..and that..and remember that other thing that I did?  There must be some unconfessed sin that I can't see.  Something horrible that I have done or not done and should have wanted to do that I didn't.  What do I need to do for You?"  My soul was so sad and so heavy.   Poor me. 

I don't remember anything that the priest said to me that evening in confession because God was using that time, when I finally had to shut my mouth, to change my life.  I'll never be able to put it into words, because there aren't any, but this is as close as I can get.

I was a crying, blubbering mess, guilty of my sins and feeling the weight of my horrible-ness. All of a sudden and quite unexpectedly, over my entire self settled a warm, blanket of grace and into my  soul came a word-less message from Heaven of His eternal, everlasting and all encompassing love.  Something like, "Don't you see that I love you?  Pray to me, read your bible, spend time with Me, because I love you.  You ask me what I want?  I. Want. You."  

Then it got a little weird for anyone around me because I started laughing uncontrollably as I finally allowed my mind to wrap around this concept.  God loves me.  HE loves ME.  Isn't that strange and incredible?  And wonderful??!?!?!!

He loves me.  And He loves you.  And He loves all of us.  Thank God. 

Salvation in an Age of Child Abuse- By Charles D. Beard

A friend of mine recently was given eight consecutive life sentences.

He was basically told to rot in prison until he died. As the prosecutor put it: “We should make sure he never, ever sees outside a prison cell again.” In response to my friend’s desire to become a Christian minister, the judge said, “You can minister, but you’re going to do it from the inside of a cell.”

My friend’s attorney asked that the life sentences be arranged in such a way that there is the possibility that he could theoretically get paroled in 75 years, at the age of 112. The judge thought even that was too short a term; the request was denied.

A couple of weeks later, my friend asked to withdraw his guilty plea, claiming that he had been denied right to counsel. The lawyers battled it out for the better part of an hour, questioning four witnesses, including my friend. The judge gave his ruling with an anti-climactic “I’ll deny it.” My friend was dispatched back to jail.

I recount this not to besmirch the criminal justice system, though Lord knows it isn’t perfect. I agree with the rulings. My friend richly deserves every day in jail he received. One life sentence isn’t enough. What he did was absolutely beyond the pale; it was so terrible even other criminals don’t want anything to do with men like him.

My friend sexually abused his own daughter.

I trusted this man implicitly. His number was on the emergency call list that my kids had in case something bad happened. We sent the children to his house at least weekly. I’ve fed his children meals, sent them to the corner, and was generally a good friend. I was glad that our families were close enough that we could trust each other with our children.

By all rights, I should hate this man. But I don’t.

I feel betrayed. I resent having to ask my 11-year-old daughter if he’d ever done anything to her (he didn’t), as well as the tension he’s created in my marriage as my wife wants to become overprotective of the kids. I became almost physically ill at the way he blamed his victim. I was angry when his parents (perhaps understandably) tried to minimize his crimes. Even now, more than a day after his latest hearing, I’m fighting a migraine—my first.

But I can’t hate him.

It would be easier if I could. I visited him in county lockup and listened for half an hour to him blather on about how he’s rediscovered God and going to jail in the fulfillment of a lifelong plan God has had for him to minister to bad guys. The worst part was when he told me that he read the story of Joseph and Potiphar in the Bible—and was convinced by it that he would only be in jail for two years. After I left, I vented to a mutual friend since my wife is so distressed by this that I shouldn’t vent to her. But I was so shaken that when I got home I vented to her anyway.

Part of the reason I can’t hate him is the fact that what he did is totally incongruous with my good friend and neighbor. Slightly annoying know-it-alls you spend New Year’s Eve with don’t hurt their children. Guys who are so bad with money you let him mow your yard for 20 bucks every other week don’t hurt their children.

When I think of my friend, I mostly think of the slightly annoying know-it-all, not the monster. As a result, most of what I’ve felt has been a sort of disgusted calm.

I saw him at his sentencing hearing. He looked like the man I’d always known: calm and unshaven. He could just as easily been pushing his mower across my yard. We weren’t allowed to talk to the prisoners in the courtroom, so I prayed.

I prayed and meditated. I didn’t know what else to do.

My stomach turned because in my prayer, I got a mental image of what he did to his poor daughter.

Growing up Catholic, I was only rarely bothered by the Problem of Evil. I never agreed with C.S. Lewis when he said that the Problem of Evil is only a problem after you become a Christian. St. Augustine said that a good God is so good that He can bring good even out of evil, and that idea has always worked for me. The goodness of God is such that He can turn evil actions inside out.

As an adult, this belief bore fruit in the realization that Jesus Christ identifies with helpless victims. When He died on the cross, He was a helpless victim too. We do not have a God “who is unable to sympathize” with us. When we are harmed unjustly—God is there suffering with us.

This belief even allows us to participate in our own salvation. St. Paul tells us,“I rejoice in my sufferings for by my sufferings I fulfill what was lacking in the sufferings of Christ.”

Unjust suffering, in other words, can make us godlike. When this poor girl was being hurt, God was allowing Himself to be hurt alongside her. This is radical identification with the innocent.

The idea that God would degrade Himself in this way may be scandalous to some—or even blasphemous. But I have always taken it for granted.

I couldn’t get this mental image out of my head while I was meditating, but the idea that God suffered with this little girl provided a measure of comfort.

But the next thought was horrifying.

Christ identified with the perpetrator as well—my friend, my annoying neighbor, this monster.

St. Paul says elsewhere, “God made him who had no sin to be sin for us.” That’s supposed to be comforting, but at the time it was like ice water in my veins. I’m comfortable—maybe too comfortable—with worshipping a God who identifies with victims. But I want no part of a God who also identifies with evil men. The very idea is revolting.

But that’s the foundational idea of Christianity.

Maybe I have a constitution that makes me better than most at compartmentalizing the evil deeds of people I like. That’s probably the origin of the smug superiority I sometimes feel toward “tough-on-crime” types. But Christianity demands that I go further. It requires me to look in the eyes of my friend and see—not a friend, not a neighbor, not a monster—but Jesus Christ.

I can’t do that. It would be easier to hate him
.
I bristled when speaking with the Protestant former prison chaplain. He preached at me over the phone until my cell battery died. He said, “Jesus already paid it all! And our friend knows God and has already gotten his forgiveness.” I wanted to scream at him, “Don’t you know what this man did?! How can God forgive this?”

Not that I haven’t tried to see Christ in my friend. I recently got irritated with my parents. When I told them that I was visiting my friend in jail, they called it an “act of charity.” It’s not an act of charity, I thought. It’s an act of justice. I was going to the jail to visit Jesus Christ. Doesn’t Jesus deserve to be visited?

But even then—I was thinking selfishly, like I was doing something heroic by visiting him. I wasn’t. Visiting him is an acknowledgement that I’m weak too. The only thing that separates him from me is the fact that the sins I want to commit aren’t as bad. My sins are socially acceptable, maybe even socially praiseworthy.

My sexual appetites are normal, but that doesn’t make me better than my friend. It just makes me lucky.
If I wrote off my friend and mentally consigned him to hell, I would be no better than he. I would be treating someone as something other than the sacred image of God—just like he did.

If there is no hope for him, then salvation is determined by luck of the draw on what you’re tempted to do. There is no justice in that.

So I must look at my friend—this vile human being—and see Jesus Christ. I can’t do that yet.

But I can’t hate him either. His hope is my hope. His hope is his victim’s hope. God—in His cruel love—has put all of us in this process together.

And just when I want to turn that realization into hatred of God Himself, I remember that He’s here too—struggling and suffering to figure it out with us.

Tornados Yesterday, Today and Tomorrow

Here we are again, state/national disaster.  Oklahoma in the international news.  Tragic stories and stories of hope and heroism are pouring out.  Politicians are on TV giving interviews declaring that we will rebuild, we will push forward; We will heal. Eventually we will become critical of the governments response.  It is all very predictable,  how we handle grief and pain as a nation.

People are sending all kinds of things to help out, clothes, toilet paper, food, gloves, tools.  The generosity that people in our world show during a major crisis is overwhelming.  The news has actually told us to STOP GIVING STUFF! There is too much coming in and no one to process it. GIVE MONEY! GIVE MONEY! That is the song being sung on the radio this morning.

This is a major time of crises for so many of our neighbors.  People have lost everything. The loss is overwhelming, people have died, children have died.  It is so sad, truly. May God bless them all.

Right Now, no one cares if the people in Moore were on food stamps.  Right Now, no one cares if the people in Moore were alcoholics.  Right Now, no one cares if the people in Moore had bad credit, were on welfare,  were dirty, smelly, stinking, mentally ill, unemployed, democrat, black, illegal or Christian.  They aren't requiring that charity be a hand up instead of a hand out.  They are giving money without considering if the money will be used in a responsible manner. 

May I just say, without the national attention and without the tornado, this describes the lives of our neighbors EVERY SINGLE DAY. They are not all conveniently located in one zip code but every day hundreds of people go without electricity, have no running water, go without food, are homeless, are suffering. Every day families lose their homes, lose everything they own.  Every day parents face the injuries, illness and death of their children...right here...in Tulsa.  It may not be a tornado, but life's circumstances can hit a family just as powerfully and without much advance notice.   Life is a F-5 rolling tragedy, there is no end, it just moves from one household to another.  And our response can be just as generous and selfless and constant.

From "It's None of My Business" to "Whats the Diff?"

After Bob Waldrop was arrested earlier this week, I was told by my brother (<3) that although Bob was a brave man, his actions wouldn't change anything.  "There would need to be thousands of Bob's to try and make a difference."

Yesterday I took my son and we hung out for awhile at Third Place in Turley.  Deb invited me and Ron graciously allowed me to skulk around, interrogating the volunteers about how they do things.  Toward the end of my visit, Ron was talking about a study OU was doing with 3rd Place and other charitable agencies around Tulsa to try and measure whether the these charities, in addition to providing food, clothing, and other physical resources, also play a part increasing a persons  "hope" after receiving services from them.

DO WE MAKE A DIFFERENCE?

It is an important question.  Does siding with the poor, standing up for injustice, refusing to conform my life to the world around me provide hope and make a difference? The resounding answer is YES! By siding with the poor, I am obeying Christ.  When I scream against evil and cry for justice, I am obeying God.   When I try to give back to God everything that He has bestowed upon me~love, family, money, patience, kindness, goodness, forgiveness, grace and mercy~by serving everyone around me, my hope of an eternity in heaven with my Saviour increases exponentially!!!


Wait. What? Oh, perhaps I misunderstood the question. Does it change the government?  Does it help to eradicate poverty? No. I guess not.  But God never asked me to do either of those things.  Jesus never even suggested we eradicate slavery.  God is above our governments, He is above our politics.   He is above and beyond our times and our places.  He knows what was important...the only thing that is ever important...love.  Love that heals pain, fills tummy's and draws us closer to Him until the day when we can be with Him.

Providing a meal isn't supposed to be a building block out of poverty.  Assuming first that there is something wrong with being poor, which of course there isn't.  Christ never condemned the poor,  He warned the wealthy.  But my goal, the goal of Catholic Workers has never been to move someone from poverty into the shining middle class of America, it is to share the love we have from God and with that love comes an eternal hope for everyone.

And with that said, please join me tomorrow in fasting and prayer:

A Conversation With My Neighbor (N).

My neighbor is a neat guy.  Single dad who is raising his two daughters, one of whom is not biologically his but he decided to raise her because she is his daughters sister.

He lets the girls play outside with the other kids but is careful to watch them and call them in when the sun starts to set.  The girls always have their hair brushed and clothes match. (Which, as a girl who was raised by a single dad, I can tell you this does not always happen). Their apartment is way cleaner than mine can ever hope to be and he holds down a pretty simple job at a box chain store.  Most Saturdays I see him washing and waxing his car.

We don't talk a lot but this morning we met at the steps and walked to the parking lot, chatting about the recent crime spree in our neighborhood, the weather and wondered why our water was mysteriously turned off last night. Then he said this...

N:  If I don't pay my rent, then the apartment manager reports my debt to the collection agencies, right?  But I am trying to save and buy a house next year, so I went and told the manager, 'I have payed my rent on time to ya'll for the past 5 years.  Never been late even once.  Have you or can you report that to the credit agencies to help improve my score?'  They told me 'No, that is not something we can do.'  So you see?  They will hurt me to try and get my money if I am late but they refuse to help me if I am a good renter because it doesn't benefit them in any way."

Do you see how the system is stacked against those who are in poverty?  If he had a mortgage then his timely payments would be recorded to improve his credit score.  But he would already have had a good credit score to begin with to obtain a mortgage;  Because once you already have something it is much easier to get more "somethings."

But he began as a renter in a sketchy apartment so his good payment history does him no good.  Tell me again how the capitalist economic system helps those in poverty more than any other economic system.

Actually, don't tell me, try and convince my neighbor.

Not Quite Fitting In

Hey Everyone! Long time, no blog.

Faith is an interesting concept isn't it?

 My prayer for 2013 has been,  "God, increase my faith.  Leave no room for doubt."  For a girl who has struggled with belief/unbelief, especially in those wee hours of the night as my mind wondered if I should hedge my bets and indulge in a little more sin and selfish behavior; care a little less about those around me....God's answer to this prayer has been a glass of cold water to a parched soul.

There is no doubt.  Not in my head or in my heart.  I believe in God.  I believe in Jesus.  I am so confident that I could tattoo The Creed on my back and be buried face down.

AND...that is where everything goes a bit pear-shaped.

 I don't fit in anywhere.  I'm not rich, or smart or athletic or talented. I'm not beautiful (my boss recently told me that I looked so bad that she thought I wore makeup to purposely look worse) . I'm not particularly friendly.  I can't seem to carry on a socially acceptable conversation.  I'm not popular or color-coordinated. I never got good grades or won any awards.  People think I am funny, but in that three-legged-dog-chasing-his-tail-kind of funny. I was born abandoned and followed the foreshadowing of this birth by getting left behind by every caretaker I ever had. I can't spell.  I'm not successful or accomplished or cherished in any area the world deems valuable.

 If this God-thing doesn't pan out, I don't have a fall back for my life.

 I literally do not fit in anywhere except in the ever-merciful arms of my God and Saviour.  This is not a low self-esteem lament you are reading.  This is a letter of gratitude to God for making it nearly impossible for me to find love and contentment in any other place but Him.  I am so weak.  So easily swayed and distracted. 

If I was successful by the world standards I would feel my heart swell with the applause and probably lose my soul.

Join me in praying for an increase in faith.  Then step back as God turns your world upside down.