“I have lived to thank God that all my prayers have not been answered.” – Jean Ingelow

At the beginning of the semester, I saw in my mind a picture of a black wall. I was standing close to the wall, my nose almost touching, and I could see nothing but black in front of me and beside me. And then, somehow I knew I was seeing not simply a black wall, but a mural. A giant mural, full of colors, depicting an untamed, dark ocean and a lighthouse throwing her beam of hope into the maelstrom. In the picture, though, I could not see the mural because of my proximity to the wall. All I could see was black, bleak and black and devoid of light. And then, I heard God speak to me, saying, “I am the Painter. You do not fully see what I am doing, you cannot fully see. But know that I am in control, and I am creating beautiful things, and though you can only see black, the black is necessary for the light to shine. Trust me, I am the Painter.”

More recently, I saw in my mind another picture. This time, of a father carrying his little daughter to a destination unknown to her. She kept saying, “Daddy, I want to know where we are going. Tell me where we are going.” And he would laugh and respond, “My dear, you do not need to know. You are with me, and I know where we are going. You are safe.”

And then, on Easter Sunday, I was sitting in my pew singing “Christ is Risen” by Matt Maher, and for the first time I heard a lyric in my heart that I have never really processed before. It came and went quickly, never repeated, but I kept hearing it over and over again in my head: He bows to none but Heaven’s will.

He bows to none but Heaven’s will? He bows to none but Heaven’s will.

Honestly, this year did not turn out the way I expected, nor the way I prayed for it to turn out. There were so many moments when I felt angry with God, and ungrateful, and stressed, and anxious, and confused, and enslaved to doubt and fear and all sorts of lies. But in that pew on Easter Sunday, I realized something. Thank God! Thank God Jesus bows to none but Heaven’s good, pleasing, perfect will. Thank God He does not follow me and my will, nor does He answer my prayers the way I want Him to. And my life is so, so much better because of it. Thank God. I do not want Him to follow me. I want to thank Him everyday for allowing me to follow Him.

Finally, three days ago, I went to dinner and God changed my life (like He does).

I shared a meal with two Sisters—my best friend in China, a thirty-year-old who is beautifully and unequivocally free in Christ, and a fifty-year-old who is, perhaps, the most Holy Spirit-filled person I have ever met. Me, Corrie, and Judi, sitting at a little table eating Greek food and talking about Jesus. And, throughout the course of the meal and our subsequent prayer time, I saw clearly the culmination of all of these things, the message of this entire year:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart, and lean not on your own understanding. In all your ways acknowledge Him, and He will make your paths straight.

But seek first His kingdom and His righteousness, and all these things will be added to you as well.

For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, and whoever loses his life for Me will save it.

I walked out of that dinner not afraid of growing up. The more I live, the more I see that the desires of youth lead to brokenness. My generation can be so scattered, caring so much about what others think of us, partying every night, restless, uncertain, wiling away on social media networks, full of energy and potential and too much indecision over too many options. But these two women, and so many Jesus-leaning adults I’ve spent time with, have some tangible Peace my generation knows nothing about. And that Peace is warmer and more beautiful than so many desires my generation pursues.

And I? I am so so young. So little, with so little wisdom, so little maturity, so little ability to handle big things, so little ability to believe in Peace and dwell in it. But God? God is bigger than my weaknesses and my inabilities and my littleness. He is the Painter. He knows where we are going, and He is 100 percent trustworthy, and I am safe.

I have been in China for almost eight months, and God has been speaking John 14:27 to me this entire time. It only took a few visions, some Greek food, and a church hymn for me to finally pay attention.

Gah! God is so cool.

Hearts

There is a girl here who prays for celebrities. She follows the news, reads the magazines, and prays. For people like Whitney Houston’s daughter, who recently lost her mom. Or the lead singer of He is We, who has been fighting for her life against disease. This girl is passionate about Disney, and justice, and she is going to change the world for Jesus.

There is a boy who keeps to himself most times. He is quiet and gentle, and irrevocably loyal to those he loves. And if he shares himself, if he allows himself to be known, he does love – deeply and faithfully. We have a journal that we pass back and forth, forth and back, between each other, writing letters of thought down because sometimes we just can’t say them out loud.

There is another girl who shares and receives mercifully, at the right time and the right place. She listens to me read her bedtime stories at night, and sometimes I wonder if she does it just because she knows it makes me happy. She gives generously, things like dresses and shoes and straighteners and ears to listen, hands to do laundry late at night. When she sees someone crying, she hugs them and tells them she loves them.

Another boy taught me to play Chinese chess two days ago. Last semester, he showed me how to cook rice. He knows how to make curry, and which running routes lead to the best parks, and what encouraging word needs to be heard. He creates rhythm on the djembe, and he offers me a taste of anything he is eating, no matter how small his portion. He will share his knowledge, his bike, his time, his slice of orange, with anyone, anytime. And perhaps most astounding of all, I have never heard him speak about himself or any of these things. I have had to observe them, and the humility that supplements them all.

This Jia, which literally means family or home in Chinese, is full of broken humans with beautiful hearts.  These hearts are encased in multi-colored skin, multi-colored personalities – and I am slowly discovering the hidden pockets of each one.

We have lived together for eight months, and from this group I have learned about humanity: Sometimes, we choose to not hang out with one person or other because we find him or her “annoying.” We judge on his or her level of “coolness” in comparison to his or her level of “annoyingness.”  We forget to see through personality surface and into the heart. And sometimes, the people who are the least “easy” to hang out with have the best hearts. They are the best friends, the most loyal, the most interesting, the most authentic. They do not shroud themselves in a cloud of “cool.” Rather, they thrive in their quirkiness. And they are beautiful.

So much of my life I desired to be accepted and loved by the “cool” group. But now, I don’t suppose I care. As we grow older, I hope we begin to realize that the things we desired and pursued in our youth really don’t matter. As we grow older, I hope we stop looking for “cool” and start looking for hearts. It turns out everyone has one.

Sunday Still Came.

There was a Friday once, when a man died on a cross. He died, bruised, broken, stripped. Gone. And his friends, they were suddenly alone. Each one thinking of the last time the man looked at him, spoke to him, shared bread with him. Even the man’s laughter, silenced by the sound of Friday. So much pain, so much fear, so much loss of a friend and teacher and son and brother.

And Saturday – it crept in, eyes crusted with exhaustion. Snotty nose. Stomachache. Suffocating lungs and chests with uncertainty, disbelief, regret. The question, what do you do on Saturday? What do you do when your life is throbbing with Friday? The dead man’s friends huddled together, a mass of eyes with tears. Hearts with tears. The throbbing grew louder and louder, deeper and deeper, and it seemed as though the world could not, would not, go on. That it would rather die an old, tired lady in her sleep, than live to see another day without the man.

But the good news is, in fact, the best news, the old lady world has ever received…

Sunday still came.

Sunday. Still came. And is coming and will come. And that has made all the difference.

Take heart, my friends, in this, the Saturday of your souls. Sunday will come.

How to Eat Like an Italian

First, slow down.

Remember that time is not of the essence. Relationship is of the essence. Flavor is of the essence. Sabbath is of the essence. And, when in Italy, each meal is a Sabbath snack of community, conversation, and cheese. Baskets of cheese.

Furthermore, every meal extends until the conversation has decided to take a nap, perhaps hours after placing the order. Busyness is no longer the business of the day, and sharing life with a loved one over a cup of melted chocolate, or lasagna for breakfast, matters more in those few hours than anything else.

Second, eat with a small spoon.

Bigger is not always better. When inhaling dollops of stracciatella gelato, for instance, the smaller the spoon, the longer the enjoyment. The taste buds will experience flavor despite spoon size. A smaller spoon ensures a decreased dwindle rate of the aforementioned dollop. So, it follows that, to savor is to small spoon. To rush is to big spoon, but to savor is to small spoon.

Third, finish one bite before beginning the next.

Multi-tasking has never been a peaceful activity for me. Consequently, my performance level decreases as the number of activities I undertake increases. I cannot be fully present, nor can I fully enjoy my life when I do not pursue one focus at a time. In the same way, my taste buds cannot be fully present for each individual taste if forkfuls of fusilli are shoveled in my mouth in rapid succession. Each flavor is experienced more deeply when allowed to express herself as an individual (And yes, flavors are female).

And finally, always have dessert.

Always.

***

I jotted these rules down in my mental composition notebook while stranded overnight in Rome’s airport. My first flight out of three had been cancelled due to weather, and therefore I had already missed the next two. I was alone in a foreign country, exhausted, about to be in trouble with Pepperdine for missing too many classes, broke. My computer, the only communication method available to me, was dying, and my charger did not adapt to European outlets. I couldn’t speak Italian, and I couldn’t get home.

So, I cried. I brushed my teeth in the men’s room just for fun, I wrapped myself in several layers of dirty clothes to stay warm, and I cried. Once that didn’t get me home, I prayed.

And then a bottle of Dewar’s scotch-whiskey taught me a lesson I will never forget.

Now, I didn’t drink the stuff. No, but I walked past a case of it in some duty-free shop or other, and the advertisement read, “Some things are just worth doing.”

Some things are just worth doing.

To be honest, I’m not sure such a worthy message deserves to be plastered across a whiskey bottle. However, for me, for that moment, it made sense. Some things, like my spontaneous trip to Italy, are just worth doing – even when they end in rerouted flights and fifteen hour layovers and arriving home five minutes after 8 a.m. mandarin class. I learned to eat (and live) like an Italian, I fell in love with hot chocolate all over again, I swam in the Mediterranean, I scaled the terraces of Cinque Terre and remembered how to rest and play and be in relationship. Furthermore, because I missed my first flight, I was able to see the Coliseum through the window of my taxi as I transferred from train station to plane station. I was able to converse with my taxi driver, who would exclaim “Mamma Mia!” after learning everything China strange. I was able to meet an angel who gave me money when I had none, who said to me, “You tell your mother that there is a mom here looking out for her daughter.” I was able to learn a life lesson from a scotch-whiskey bottle.

Some things are just worth doing.

And so I boarded my new plane from Rome to Paris, Paris to Shanghai, listening to Hot Chelle Rae’s single “I Like it Like That” on repeat. Because, in the end, I wouldn’t have it any other way.

"Cambodier"

Tarantulas taste like chicken.

Deep fried chicken, and crispy—all eight legs eight crunches of squeamishness. Delicious.

I know this full well; I popped one stiff arachnid in my mouth, after letting a live one crawl on my arm and hand, while at a roadside fruit stand in Cambodia last week. All around me were children in bright, sagging clothing, holding sticky fingers full of pineapple and plantains in my face while I chewed and swallowed. They said to me, “Pineapple? You want pineapple? If you don’t buy, I won’t go to school.” More sticky fingers.

Wedged between Thailand and Vietnam, the Kingdom of Cambodia (or “Cambodier,” to our English-speaking guide, Siranuok) is wrapped in a gauze of heat and wet during summer months. Yellow bushes squat, grumpy, beneath palm trees, which are strung across the plains without pattern. The sky is the underbelly of some giant blue creature, stretching like a circus tent over Phnom Penh and Siem Reap—two cities my group visited for our Spring 2012 Educational Field Trip.

We left on a Wednesday and returned on a Monday, and in between we experienced the country our director calls both tragic and beautiful.

The Tragic

The people are smiles and short, with names like Eang and Keav. Some are a remnant of the genocide that occurred between April 1975 and January 1979, a four-year occupation of a rebel group known as the Khmer Rouge. Over 2 million Cambodians lost their lives to this regime. The story is hidden beneath layers of media coverage for the Vietnam war, disclosing an atrocity reminiscent of the Holocaust and another reason for the world to ask, “how could this happen, again?”

Before the Khmer Rouge grabbed power, a monarchy (followed by a short-lived democracy) led Cambodia politically. The war in Vietnam spread across Cambodia’s borders, however, and American bombs dropped death into Cambodia in attempt to destroy soldiers hiding there. The Cambodian people grew discontented with the government for failing to handle these invasions, and a civil war between the government and the Khmer Rouge ensued. On April 17, 1975, the Khmer Rouge entered Phnom Penh to the applause of thousands of happy Cambodians, glad to be free of their incompetent government and excited for the future. Soon, though, things went wrong. As Khmer Communism seeped into the country, forcing a sick sort of equality on everyone, people began to die. First the intellectuals, ex-government officials, foreigners, mixed Khmer and Chinese families, people who wore glasses. Colorful clothes burned, paper money lost all value except for use as toilet paper. City-dwellers relocated to villages to form a purely uneducated, agrarian society. If anyone disobeyed the Khmer Rouge, they disappeared.

In Phnom Penh, my group and I trudged quietly through Tuol Sleng Prison, or “S-21,” the primary holding site used by the Khmer Rouge to torture victims during their reign. The three buildings had previously comprised a school, but once education was no longer necessary, it became a waiting room for death.  Blood still soaks the walls, near the ceiling, and rusted bed frames sit silently, like old men, waiting for peace or escape.  The Killing Fields came after, one ditch after another after another, thirty years ago filled with bodies but now only with flowers.  There is a tree in the middle of the Fields, gnarled and ancient, beautiful, tall. It would be the perfect tree to hug, to climb, to sit beneath, if not for the sign next to it, which reads: “Magic tree. The tree was used as a tool to hang a loudspeaker which make sound louder to avoid the moan of victims while they were being executed.”

Today, the existing leaders of the Khmer Rouge stand trial to be punished for crimes against humanity. Amongst other things.

The Beautiful

Now, Cambodia is healing. Although the Khmer Rouge no longer plagues the country, brokenness still exists in the form of a thriving sex trafficking industry. The International Justice Mission, Daughters of Cambodia, Hagar Ministries, and other non-government organizations work to free and redeem the hearts and bodies of young girls taken captive for the trade. In the middle of Phnom Penh, one such NGO has concocted a beautiful and soft cupcakery, a place where ex-prostitutes can find safety, shelter, and work. The business refuses to advertise the histories of its employers, so the women know, when customers come along, they come for delicious cakes and not out of pity. The shop opens at 10 a.m. and closes at 5 p.m. so the employers can participate in morning Bible study. Although these hours do not cater to the typical 9a.m. to 5p.m. work crowd, God has been faithful to provide customers anyway. He provided thirty of us all at once, in fact, and our group sampled delicate and rich cupcake flavors—all with the fair trade label—like coffee cake with Bailey’s Irish Cream icing, orange poppyseed with passion fruit buttercream icing, dark chocolate hazelnut, and apple blueberry crumble. My own taste buds smiled through Oreo cheesecake cupcake and red velvet cupcake. All for a good cause, all for a good cause.

In the city of Siem Reap, Cambodia is a vending machine. The exchange rate for Khmer currency, the riel, is 4000 to $1. American money is circulated for convenience, and it seems everything costs one dollar.  One dollar in, one tuktuk (the Cambodian form of taxi, sort of a cart attached to the back of a motorcycle) ride out. One dollar in, one 20 minute “Dr. Fish” massage out (A “Dr. Fish” massage consists of one giant fish tank, and willing participants sit on the side and dangle their feet in the water, only to be swarmed by fish who proceed to gnaw the dead skin, calluses, and bacteria off toes and ankles. Pink, raw, ticklish feet emerge along with “happy people, or no charge!”). One dollar in, one bracelet, or sweet potato, or fried tarantula, out.

Travelers avalanche the country to visit Angkor Wat, one of the seven man-made wonders of the world. The temple is plopped in the jungle amidst other, smaller ruins. Angkor Thom, for instance. Ta Prohm. Banteay Srei. All constructed hundreds of years ago as Buddhist and Hindu sites of worship. Perhaps twas only wishful thinking, but to me, each ruin looked like gobs of dripping ice cream. One, mint chocolate, another cookies and cream, with brownies mixed in. Angkor Wat is dark chocolate, almost black. Deep and mysterious and brimming with carvings, secrets, and cacao.  I learned to plant rice around these ruins, cow brown mud squishing between my toes, water hugging my knees in the rice patties. I sat with a monkey around these ruins, watched him eat Pringles and love them. I rode an elephant around these ruins, thinking of ice cream and giddy to be so close to my favorite animal.

Somewhere along the way, I fell in love with this land of blue sky, bloodshed, palm trees, elephants, tuktuks.  One day, I think, I will return to love on more people, make sure those sticky-fingered children go to school, rescue ladies by eating cupcakes, things like that. I might even learn to speak Khmer, or eat another fried tarantula. Maybe.

"Smile with your liver."

Perhaps I am becoming a hedonist.

In the past seven days I have sipped on three different slices of chocolate cake, like silk.

This morning my friends and I bounced along in the sunshine to Mr. Pancake House for a rare breakfast treat—spinach mushroom omelet, airy pancakes and chips of dark chocolate on the side—instead of doing homework. During Tai Chi class, the three other girls and I asked our instructor to let us learn in the park today. He said yes. For an hour, we were the local live entertainment as we attempted to develop grace, flexibility, and agility in the dappled sunlight. Afterward I stretched on my bathing suit, which hasn’t left my drawer since Christmas in Hawaii, laid a towel on the lawn, and lollied there “bathing” while reading my Film textbook.  The sun is such good soap.

Every other night I read my roommates child stories like Cloudy With a Chance of Meatballs or Stellaluna orOld Jake’s Skirts or The True Story of the Three Little Pigs. Lindsay falls asleep before I finish, and I feel like a mom.

This weekend I watched Eat Pray Love and learned to smile with everything I have—even my liver. A grinning Italian in the movie spoke words that particularly grabbed my attention: “Americans know entertainment, but they don’t know pleasure.”

We know entertainment, but we don’t know pleasure. We know how to party, but we don’t know how to celebrate. We know thrills, but we don’t know savor.

We know how to do nothing, but we don’t know rest.

This truth has found me tangled in a schedule of busyness and business, calendars and to-do lists and strained sleep and no time to read or play. When I do find that flighty moment of freedom, I sit and stare, or sleep, or try to relax and prepare for the next onslaught of forced productivity. But I do not rest.

So now I am on a quest. For pleasure, for celebration, for savor, for rest.

Life is beauty, and a waist is a terrible thing to mind, and love is meant to be risky and fierce and deep, and sunshine is only felt on the skin, not through a window or TV screen, and believing in Jesus is a relationship, and time passes whether or not we make the right grades or say the right things or play it safe, and Sabbath is still a commandment.

Without asking anyone, without consulting my schedule, without convincing myself not to do it, I bought myself a plane ticket to Italy. I will be tasting Florence two weeks from today.

Maybe I’ll learn something from those grinning Italians. In the meantime, though, I think it’s time for a good nap.

Rocks III

I’ve been picking up rocks of God recently. Turning them over in my mind, cracking them open to see the colors inside, examining them and setting them back down. I keep walking and picking up rocks, rough, cold, smooth, soft to my fingers. And then I set them back down and continue along. And after I set one down, I know there will always be another one to pick up. I will always have something to listen to, to learn from, to ponder, to toss back and forth between my hands, to fill my pockets. I will never be able to pick up all the rocks of God.

The Third Rock:

I had a dream recently about two groups of people. The group on the left consisted of nonChristians I know, and the group on the right consisted of Christians I know. In the dream I was placed in the middle of them and had the opportunity to listen to both conversations happening simultaneously. On the right, the Christians were discussing Jesus with the usual Christian vernacular that pervades Christian speech. Words like “sin” and “forgiveness” and “the Cross” and “blessings” and “Satan” and “salvation” and “resurrection." All said with love, all said in gentleness, all said with certainty and a sense of finality, from the mouths of people I love and associate myself with.

On the other side, the nonChristians were not talking, but were rather listening. Although I could not hear their words, I felt their emotions as they listened. The emotions were collective, and (if I am to interpret this dream) represent the many conversations I’ve had with the people in this Jia who have felt jaded, embittered, judged, and threatened by the Christian vernacular, however loving, happening on the other side. It was as if, for one of the first times in my life, I could step back from the Christian group and empathize and understand how it feels to be on the outside looking in.

Somehow related to this dream, something I’ve been pondering, is fat. My mom is an anesthesiologist, and she says that fat can cause quite a bit of difficulty for doctors in surgery. Overweight and obese patients have much riskier surgeries because of the interference of fat in the procedure. Well, God has been revealing myself to me through various mirrors, and one of the things I’ve sort of received from Him is a picture of fat. A picture of Him performing surgery on my heart, and encountering a big chunk of bloody fat right smack in the middle of the procedure. I know this fat to be arrogance. An arrogance that is both pride and stubbornness, an arrogance that creates an “us” and “them” mentality within me as I group myself with people I like and relate to and group myself away from people I disagree with or find disagreeable. I am arrogant, and this fat is getting in the way of God healing my heart. I think I am arrogant in one sense because of the belief that Christians should have answers. I have scraped through conversations with nonChristians simply because I tried to give them answers, regardless of whether I knew the answers or not. I have made myself seem better, my life seem better, or less pain-filled, or less confusing, simply on the foundation of knowing “the answers.” I have been arrogant with answers.

So let me clear something up here. I follow Jesus. I follow Jesus and my life is confusing, and broken at times, and I often find myself at a loss for answers, and sometimes I get afraid, and I get angry at injustice and pain and I question God Himself and most of the time I just don’t get it. But I will still follow Jesus. That much I know.

And I’m also starting to understand something else about questions and answers. By its very definition, faith seems to be more of a question than an answer. Which perfectly fits into Jesus' whole inside-out, upside-down Kingdom idea. We want to know the right answers. He wants us to know the right questions. Maybe instead of searching for nicely worded Christian answers, we should be searching for questions like, “what does it look like to love the person next to me?”

Because it seems that Jesus was less of an “us” and “them” type person and more of a “we” type person. Actually, He typically could be seen hanging out with the “them’s” more than the “us’s,” an action that humbled those in higher positions and exalted those in lower positions, effectively leveling the planes and creating “we.”

And so I can only hope that, through proper diet and exercise, my fat will burn and God will have a direct path to perform whatever surgery on my heart. Maybe the surgery involves instilling a sort of humility in me, a sort of empathy for the hearts of all people. Christian or nonChristian, “us” or “them,” “me” or “you.”

And just maybe, you and I can create “we” as we search together for the right questions.

Rocks II

I’ve been picking up rocks of God recently. Turning them over in my mind, cracking them open to see the colors inside, examining them and setting them back down. I keep walking and picking up rocks, rough, cold, smooth, soft to my fingers. And then I set them back down and continue along. And after I set one down, I know there will always be another one to pick up. I will always have something to listen to, to learn from, to ponder, to toss back and forth between my hands, to fill my pockets. I will never be able to pick up all the rocks of God.

The Second Rock:

“Are you a missionary, or are you just studying?”

I am often asked this question in China. And I often find myself stuttering over an answer. Am I a missionary, or am I just studying? Just studying? Or? Missionary? What do these words mean? Why does the question imply that I can’t do both?

The answer lies in the separation of the “secular” and the “spiritual.”

(I would be very interested to see someone dissect Jesus’ life into “spiritual” and “secular” components.)

For quite a long time, Christians have been spreading the Gospel of Salvation. Many things could be said about this Gospel, both good and bad, but for my purposes here I will simply note its existence and its tendency to separate life into spiritual and secular. Usually, physical things like the earth and the flesh and chocolate and dead dogs fall into the basket of “secular.” Anything that doesn’t have a shape or a taste or a smell, basically, anything invisible, falls into the “spiritual” and therefore more important basket. So basically we have these two baskets, and one of them, the one with the entirety of creation inside (minus any sort of soul), is declared unimportant and set in the corner to await its fiery demise.

Hm.

Well at this moment, I am more concerned with a new (old) Gospel that is emerging in the heart of the global Church. The Gospel of the Kingdom.

The Gospel of the Kingdom focuses on the idea that the Kingdom of Heaven has come and is coming to earth in a physical, earthy sort of way. It is not merely concerned with “converts” or “salvations” or “saving souls.” It is concerned with bringing light and good and truth to earth in this lifetime, today, joining in God’s redemption plan for all of creation. Here, now.

Basically, the Gospel of the Kingdom infers that everything we plant, work for, build up, tear down, foster, destroy—everything we do, matters.

I’ve been reading Romans, and James, and other snippets here and there, and I’ve noticed that good, true, light, and pure things apparently come from God. I’ve read my way through the Garden of Eden, and through Jesus’ life (which he spent healing and teaching and feeding, three very physical acts of service) and through Jesus’ death and resurrection (a very physical resurrection, by the way), and through words about the end times, and I’ve noticed a recurring message of restoration, purification, and redemption dappled throughout the pages of these stories. It’s almost as if the nonspiritual basket, the one with sunsets and poodles inside, had significance.

I’ve prayed, and discussed, and thought, and written, and tasted physical foods like watermelon and cookie dough that must somehow make it into the “spiritual” basket (oh please oh please oh please), and I’ve come to the realization that God “saw that it was good.” It being a vague qualifier for almost any noun. Noun insinuating some sort of person, place, thing, animal, vegetable, or mineral—basically anything physical.

God saw that the physical things He had made were good. And then something happened in the Garden that brought pain and brokenness into the world, and then God set about rescuing and redeeming all of us by sending perhaps the ultimate good Thing, His Son Jesus, to live physically, die physically, and then be physically resurrected. Essentially, if Adam set the destruction process for all good things in motion, then Jesus set the redemption process for all good things in motion.

And so we are here, now, with the job of joining and spurring along that redemption process in the hope that all good things will be resurrected in the end.

All good things will be resurrected in the end.

An idea which lends a certain focus for our lives, our relationships, our careers, our hobbies, our politics, our gardening talents—all of which, it turns out, matter very much. And suppose the inverse is also true. If all good things will be resurrected in the end, then accordingly, all bad things will be destroyed in the end. An idea which also lends a certain focus for our lives. Knowing that evil things, that dark things, that broken things, that death-bringing things will be destroyed ultimately, and knowing that all good things will be resurrected, perhaps we would pursue more of the good and set the bad in a basket in the corner to await its fiery demise.

And perhaps, who knows? This last bit here is only me writing and thinking, pondering and wondering. I am not trying to pretend what I am about to write is unflawed. However, I am thinking it so I will write it: Perhaps, if these two ideas are true, then we ought to be filling our own lives and our own souls with good things, rather than bad things, so that we will remain even after all bad things are destroyed. If I am a basket and you are a basket, and we fill our baskets only with things that produce death, brokenness, hate, and pain, what will be left when those things do not resurrect with the risen Christ?

Rocks I

I’ve been picking up rocks of God recently. Turning them over in my mind, cracking them open to see the colors inside, examining them and setting them back down. I keep walking and picking up rocks, rough, cold, smooth, soft to my fingers. And then I set them back down and continue along. And after I set one down, I know there will always be another one to pick up. I will always have something to listen to, to learn from, to ponder, to toss back and forth between my hands, to fill my pockets. I will never be able to pick up all the rocks of God.

The First Rock:

For Lent I decided to study homosexuality. At home in Malibu, Pepperdine University has been in the process of deciding whether or not to recognize Reach OUT, “a student-run organization that represents and serves the LGBT community at Pepperdine,” as a member of the Inter-Club Council (ICC)*.  The decision to officially recognize Reach OUT would grant, along with the recognition, all of the perks and responsibilities that come with being an official school club. Although Pepperdine has officially responded with “no,” the debate continues. Two weeks ago, I received in my inbox a one-question survey asking whether or not I think Pepperdine should allow Reach OUT to become an official member of the ICC. Only two blanks were available. Yes, or No. I pondered the question for an hour, sent in my response, and resolved to study the perspectives, facts, rumors, Scriptures, and political stances regarding homosexuality. For Lent.

This journey has led me to an unexpected destination, a location that has far less to do with sexual orientation and far more to do with a crucial, and yet often-overlooked, characteristic of the man/God Jesus.

I began the journey by scouring articles and blogs** about homosexuality. When I read these articles and blogs, I do not merely read the posts. I read the public’s commentary beneath the posts. And on most articles (not every one, but most), I have noticed a trend of anger, dissension, polarization, and arrogance that pervades many of the comments. In a word, hate. Hate between “us” and “them,” “Christian” and “Non-Christian,” “liberal” and “conservative” and other such divisive labels. The trend does not limit itself to the topic of homosexuality. Rather, many Web articles and blogs concerning theology, religion, God, salvation, etc. seem to create a highly energized environment of people trying to prove other people wrong.

It was during one of my “study” breaks, however, that I discovered the most interesting thing of all. The band Safety Suit has become one of my favorites, and while I listened to their new album the other day I decided, upon the recommendation of a friend, to watch their music video for the song These Times***. The pervading chorus of the song is simple yet hopeful, repeatedly confirming, “these times are hard, but they will pass.” They will pass. For the video, the band requested the public to post videos sharing why “these times are hard.” And the public responded. Each video depicts a single person holding a poster board with words like, “My mom has cancer” and “We lost our home” and “Anorexia surrounds me.” These videos are sprinkled throughout the entire music video, along with current statistics concerning poverty, unemployment rates, deaths related to cancer, teen suicide, etc.

I cried while watching, both empty and full once again because of pain in the world. And, out of habit, I scrolled down to review the public’s commentary on the video. Immediately I kept reading. Page after page after page, I couldn’t stop.

In the comments, people had posted more stories, more reasons why “these times are hard.”

·      “Lost my Mom to suicide.. It's been a struggle but I know it will pass.. Love you always Mom we miss you..”

·      “i lost my boyfriend in a car accident i do sometimes call his number to hear his voice but ive learned that hes not coming back and the realization kills me every time this song really helps out”

·      “6 years ago my dad died in front of my eyes... just colapsed and died. I'm still waiting for it to pass”

·      “Sometimes, all the crap of the world is overwhelming, but knowing there are other people dealing with the same things is a little comforting--It makes me feel as if even in this vast world of endless hardships, at least we're all connected, you know?”

I kept reading and I realized that these comments were missing something that pervades the comments beneath the blogs about theology and God and religion: hate. It was as if this problem of pain had somehow created a gentleness in each person, an empathy, and a knowledge that everyone, everywhere has struggled, is struggling, and will struggle.

The conclusion of my observations seemed to indicate that religion divides, and, according to these posts, pain unites.

Abandoning my first study of homosexuality (which will resume shortly), I determined to answer the question, “Where is God in all of this?”

It seems that, if I were to imagine a dialogue between Joseph Smith, and Mohammed, and Confucius, and Buddha, and the Pope, and the American, modern-Christian Jesus (who, to me, seems to be a stylized, fictional character who points his finger and spouts judgments on the masses), the dialogue (or rather, debate) would take place in the public commentary beneath the theology blogs. People would refresh their pages in rapt attention, following one blazing, polarizing opinion after another. They would probably be eating popcorn, come to think of it. Sitting and eating popcorn and watching these religious heads try to prove each other wrong.

And off in a corner of YouTube somewhere, would be a Rabbi named Jesus, watching the These Times music video by a band called Safety Suit. He might watch and cry, and read the stories of people who have watched and cried before Him. Then, Jesus might share His own story. He might post a comment, or send in a video of him, holding a poster board that might say:

“I was crucified, though I did nothing wrong.”

Religion divides, pain unites. And if I’ve learned anything in my time in this Jia, in this strange country of China, in this heart, it is this: Jesus is always bigger. He is always bigger than religion and theology and Christianity (yes, even this). But even so, despite His bigness, or perhaps because of His bigness, He chose to come down and sit in the pain right alongside us. He became one of us, to be united with us through the shared experienced of struggle and brokenness.

So may the world, and may the Christians, stop fighting and start sharing. May we set down our popcorn and our ravenous desire to prove someone else wrong, plop beside the person next to us and listen to why these times are hard.

May we be like Jesus.

* “Reach OUT, as a student organization at Pepperdine, affirms that diversity is a critical component to a liberal arts education.  We aspire to contribute to the University community by helping ‘to insure full engagement of diversity-related issues, and to become a clear reflection of the communities we serve.’ (Andrew K. Benton, Envisioning a Bold Future 2001).  Reach OUT exists to support and serve the LGBT students at Pepperdine, and in this capacity it will:

1.      Create a safe space where LGBT students and their peers may comfortably ask questions and confidently express themselves.

2.      Regularly hold social events wherein students may interact with one another, developing healthy, lasting friendships and sharing common experiences.

3.      Perform community service events related to the treatment and well-being of the LGBT community and people as a whole.

4.      Inform the student body of issues pertinent to the LGBT community and to initiate dialogue concerning those issues.

5.      Disarm destructive stereotypes surrounding the LGBT community.

6.      Construct bridges of mutual understanding and respect between members of the LGBT community and their peers.

7.      Facilitate constructive dialogue concerning spirituality, and Christianity in particular, as it relates to issues surrounding sexual orientation and gender identity.” (Reach Out Constitution, Bylaws, Section III)"

** One in particular has been especially beneficial and is devoid of the nastiness and hate I mention later in this post. I encourage anyone to explore it and learn from it. http://www.oddmanout.net/

*** http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=TOS1GaxqAkI

South of the Clouds

I thought a visual would do. Yunnan Celebration Video, Spring Break 2012.

Extended Analysis of Childbirth, etc.

I don’t presume to know much about pain, except that I’ve felt it and seen it and caused it. But I don’t know why it’s here.

In Shanghai on Monday evenings the girls of the program gather together for Block Party. It is an hour or so set aside for community and for identity, for Clementine oranges and dark chocolate chip cookies. We talk, we laugh, we look into our stories and share them with each other.

This week we had Open Mic Night. We sat at a round table and cut flower shapes out of origami paper and listened to three girls tell their stories. Each story, like each girl, was beautiful in its own way. Beautiful and painful.

All of our stories are dappled or drenched in pain. But I’ve been thinking. There is a part of my heart (soul?), deep deep down somewhere, that I don’t think could be touched by anything except pain. But when it’s touched, the result is beauty. Sort of like how a tongue, when touched by a lemon square, tastes sour.

I know…I don’t get it either.

My metaphor can only go so far. It is flawed, as a lemon square naturally produces a sour taste in the taste buds. Just as a chocolate cake would produce a sweet taste, and a pretzel a salty one. It would seem, then, that a painful story would naturally produce a pain in the deep depths of my heart. And it does. But, there is something else it produces. Something I can’t explain. Something that causes me to love the girl who shared her story more than I loved her before I tasted her pain.

I don’t know. Maybe the idea of pain resulting in beauty is a naïve idea. I have never been starving. I have never been assaulted. I have never seen someone murdered. I don’t know if I could see beauty in those sorts of pains.

But then again, maybe there is a beauty that is coming that is bigger than any of those pains. Maybe there is a beauty that is coming that could only be the result of a tremendous pain.

Childbirth is painful and produces something beautiful.

So are relationships. So do relationships.

So is faith. So does faith.

So was the cross. So did and does and will the cross.

            I don’t presume to know much about pain. I don’t know why pain is here. But maybe one day all of us who’ve felt it and seen it and caused it can sit down at a round table with God and share our stories. Perhaps He might share His own story, His own pain, His own beauty.

           He might even give us a lemon square or two.