http://www.stevencurtischapman.com/

(or When Sin Got Sexy or The Church’s View on Smoking or It Would Suck to Have Asthma)

In an attempt to dissuade smoking, I remember adults and health books saying it looked “uncool.”  I hardly agreed.  Although never taking-up the habit, “uncoolness” was far from the compelling cause.  I have to say, the thought of one smoking in a Parisian café, suavely engrossed in a good book, or stimulating conversation, rates as one of the more “cool” looking scenes in my opinion.  In its proper context, I think smoking is sexy.  

Too bad it gives you cancer.

(Random aside: I wikepedia’ed smoking and came to find that these little white sticks have dented history since 3000BC!?  Among other interesting, disturbing facts, “Between 1970 an 1995, per-capita cigarette consumption in poorer developing countries increased by 67 percent, while it dropped by 10 percent in the richer developed world. Eighty percent of smokers now live in less developed countries. By 2030, the World Health Organization (WHO) forecasts that 10 million people a year will die of smoking-related illness, making it the single biggest cause of death worldwide, with the largest increase to be among women. WHO forecasts' the 21st century's death rate from smoking to be ten times the 20th century's rate ("Washingtonian" magazine, December 2007)).

I was taking a walk the other day and passed a relatively fit looking woman on the other side of the road.  She was probably fifty or so, and I think what led to my initial double take was the fact that she required the pursuit of an inhaler two times in our fifty-yard span of passing.  Man, it would suck to have asthma.  But what an inspiration to see people like this, captured by disease, or disability, but still committed to a life that fights the odds.

But then I realized it wasn’t an inhaler.  

The woman was smoking a cigarette.  

While walking.  

Inspirational moment had passed.

Maybe something about this was good though—at least she was still exercising, right?  And certainly being “transparent” in her addiction.  But…really…together…cigarettes and cardio?  Could they work?  Should they work?  Puffing the odd cigarette in a Parisian café is one thing.  Sucking down cigs while exercising is another.  And publicly!  But then I got back on my “things that suck” bandwagon and realized an addiction to smoking must be really awful.  I have enough addictions and rarely have the gall to admit to them, especially in public.  Her authenticity appealed to me and although it didn’t strike me as sexy, it did strike me as honest—and I liked that.  Which led to my consideration of today’s “emerged church.”  We love authenticity.  But unfortunately, I feel like it’s taken on a pretty sexy twist.

It’s one thing to attempt belief in a wooden cross and unconditional Christ who wants to save you.  But it’s an entirely other to walk that out.  As if it’s enough.  As if his exercise really cuts the bill.  Without cost.  Without adornment.  Without a sexy cigarette in hand.  I think a lot of our dogma has moved into walking while smoking—because at least you’re out for the walk...and, at least you’re smoking with authenticity.  

So am I saying we can’t have our walk and smoke our cigarette, too?  In some ways, I guess, yeah.  But I think the bigger thing I’m saying is that there’s a temptation to make, and keep, sin sexy.  To over-glorify exercise with a cigarette, versus just exercise—to keep afloat destructive habits, as long as they’re “in accountability.”  Again though, I’m not saying cigarettes are “bad,” or “following Christ and/or authenticity,” is a seamless “good.”  Furthermore, I’m not meaning to minimize, or maximize, given habits.  These are theologically fringe conversations you can take up with God.  What I am meaning to say though, is that I think we’ve gotta be willing to further grapple with an atoned for, yet transparently addicted culture of saints.  Furthermore, to tread lightly in treating the arguably sexy appeal of sin.  Can they walk together?  Should they walk together?  How do they walk together?  

Because no matter how sexy smoking can seem, it still leads to death.

Airplane

Airplanes are one of the more perplexing things in life to me.  They’re intimate and communal, yet detached and individual. Unfaithful in offering a detailed view, yet immeasurable in light of granting “the big picture.”

I’m flying right now.  En route home from the Orange Conference in Atlanta, which collected thousands of leaders aiming to rethink our thoughtful (and sometimes not so thoughtful) attempts at “Church.”  It was encouraging on many fronts, but overwhelming on many others—revealing a naked and yet overdressed, vow-less and yet overly complex, modern Bride.

The man behind me is speaking German and has ordered three “vodka and tonics.”  The woman in front of me is holding a baby.  She seems sad and tired.  The man beside me snores in intervals of three and hasn’t moved since take-off.  The guy across the way looks about forty, with a young daughter.  Going by their head-gear, they’re Jewish and look to have a tender relationship.  And these are but the inside faces.  My window keeps changing its visage, from cloud, to mountains and soon to be ocean.

Imagine all the stories on just this plane, let alone the faces of atmosphere airing its frame.  Where do they come from?  And where are they going?  Which can’t help but make me think about leaving this conference and wondering where we’re all going—and if the airtime we experienced was enough to change where we’ll choose to go?

I believe the distance between the Church Body is shrinking.  Mileage between denominations and destinations seems to be lessening.  Masses are colliding and ministries collaborating toward new (and newly old) attempts at the Commission.  But I’m still can’t help but realize we’re gonna land in 46 minutes…and all these people are gonna go their own way and reenter their own story.  And I have to wonder if all of us from the conference will do the same?  If all of us in the Church will continue doing the same?  Will we choose to keep colliding on certain fronts, sharing airtime and elevation, but then isolate again when the rubber hits the runway?

Not sure what I’m meaning to say here, exactly, or if there’s every anything conclusive to say after all—heck, I’m thousands of feet in the air, so far from conclusive statements of precision.  I guess I just want us, and me, to be aware of the Churches full process in attempting to fly—the take-off and landing points, as much as the airtime in-between.  That we’d be grounds in our points of departure and destination, but risky in our willingness to head upwards.  I guess I just want our generation of disciples to be with the Bride in all parts of Her aisle—porch and alter, as well as airtime in between.  Flying high with lofty ideas and innovation is good, but its most important and challenging task is “landing well.”  Integrating successfully.  

The bad news is, I have no idea what this looks like.  For me.  For you.  For us.

But the good news is, the pilot just announced a grace period.  Seventeen minutes till landing.

makes it easier to believe God can handle the whole world in His hands today, but struggles to handle just mine?

Weakness—I think that’s what I need.  I think that’s what I want to ask God for today.

Outlandish?  Completely. Counterintuitive to me, culture and a lot of “the church”?  Utterly.  

But the truth of it is, I need to be weak.  God’s Word, and God, himself, I am realizing this Easter week, is flooded with personifications of weakness.  Endured weakness, failed weakness, transformed weakness, transforming weakness, and ultimately, I guess, resurrected weakness.  And maybe this is a stretch, but as of today, I feel like something of the crux of Christianity lies a willing surrender to weakness.  

Heard a thought recently that I can’t let go of.  “People will admire you for being strong, but love you for being weak.”  I have tried for most of my life to be strong.  I covet admiration and crave affirmation.  I long for people to see me as unfailing—to know my faith as unshaking.  Bottom line, I do whatever I can to avoid weakness.

Strength saturates our culture.  It’s sexy, stable and stands on its own.  Unfortunately though, it’s also a never-ending facade.  Yes, strength is always willing to lead us somewhere, but it’s always a Somewhere Road to nowhere.  So what I’m learning is weakness is actually my source of going where God wants me to go, which may mean “going,” but may also mean staying, being, or waiting, i.e. taboos in our culture, and in our post-fall complexion.  

As a Christian, my greatest understanding of Christ rises in my greatest understood weakness without him.  Thus, my strength after God MUST be prefaced by weakness in me.  Willingness to surrender—willingness to admit imperfection—this then, is my to way to strength.  My way to love.  The way to God.  

When I am weak, then I have reason to be with God.  When I am weak, then I am strong (2 Corinthians 12:10).

If I’m honest, I’d much rather ask you, than God.  I’d much rather hear your answer, than “hope” to hear one from Him.  Why is this?  Do I really think you know more than Him, or better than Him?  No.  But do I really think God knows more than me, let alone what’s better for me?  Apparently not, which leads me to my next question.

Are our prayers really being heard?  Because if I’m really human, which I am, and if God’s really inhuman, which He is, is our “connect” really possible?  Is His hearing really plausible?  No, It’s really not.  So my only fair, or quasi logical, conclusion then, is that prayer isn’t possible without some mediary source.  Or force, rather (see Luke 2:5). Prayer isn’t normal or natural.  It leans more toward ridiculously abnormal and unnatural, in fact.  But I guess if God were really my God, wouldn’t I want Him that way!?

Believing the Lord as sovereign assumes believing the Lord has a plan.  So that, whether you pray for him, or I invest in her, God’s will will prevail.  His story will unfold.  Essentially, your prayers don’t determine outcomes.  Does that mean they don’t matter?  No.  But does that mean peripheral theologies of why you should, or shouldn’t pray have gotten off line.  Yes.  Too often, I think, we lose sight of our ‘role’ in praying.  Our role in God’s eternal story.  What we’re offered in prayer and optioned through Jesus Christ, is the capacity to ask unnatural things for the sake of supernatural intervention.  Impossible dreams of man, by way of possible faith in God.  When you ask something outlandish and see it come about, who gets the credit?  Who, but God, finds you amazed?

So I guess the question I’m left asking is, if we really believed our lives script scenes of eternity, and really believed God as jealous for our voices, why the heck wouldn’t we get-in on it!?  Why the heck would I prioritize asking your opinion, over His?

(I'm contributing a weekly blog to www.collegeleader.org, a new site for college ministry resources, so many of my posts here will come straight from there, including this one.  Hope you're well!  Abbie)

“So what’s going on with you spiritually?” I asked through the steam of two cups of coffee. 
The student responded, “You know, I’m doing okay, but really struggling in a certain area.” 
At this point I was pretty convinced what the ensuing minutes would entail.  Namely, that topic that every student of Jesus will eventually face—and certainly every college student.
“Hmm,” I said, trying to remain at height with the conversation, “would you feel comfortable unpacking the struggle a little more?” 
“Yeah…I guess…I mean, I think a lot of people struggle with it, too…it’s just that, well, I don’t really know what to do about it.  Like…I don’t really know why it’s so bad lately.” 
“Well,” I said, seeing shame embodied before me, “let’s try to at least get this “it” on the table, and then maybe we’ll go from there.”
“Okay…well, it’s just this problem with…lust…I think about the opposite sex and sex and just lustful stuff all the time.” 
“Okay,” I said, “talk to me about those thoughts a little more.” 
“Ummm, I don’t know what else to say…it’s just like really bad and really gross.” 
At this point the student became more frustrated at the “it,” or the self, or something of the two.  “It’s like I can’t get lustful thoughts out of my head.  And they come-up at random times, like while I’m trying to study, or watch TV, or even trying to pray!?” 
“Gosh…it seems like God is unveiling a lot here.  Thank you for being willing to talk about it.  It’s clearly been burdening you a lot.”
“Yeah…yeah, it really has,” the student said, looking down at the table.  “I hate it.  And I hate me when I hate it.  And I can’t imagine how God would want anything to do with this—and definitely me in this.” 

The “it” of this conversation is not unlike many, and probably most, we’ll sit across from (or with) this semester.  As I’ve started to explore the topic (“lust”) with God, taking into account my presumptions and presuppositions, I’ve come upon some pretty interesting ends—well, not ends maybe, but at least entrances into beginnings I’d love to toss out. 
How does this four-letter word carry such power in our Christian lives, and persistence in our Christian journeys?  How does something so good and potentially opportunistic, become such an evil in an untraceable matter of seconds?     So I’m a nerd and went to dictionary.com.  The definition of lust is as follows:

1.    intense sexual desire or appetite.
2.    uncontrolled or illicit sexual desire or appetite; lecherousness.
3.    a passionate or overmastering desire or craving (usually fol. by for): a lust for power.
4.    ardent enthusiasm; zest; relish: an enviable lust for life.
5.    Obsolete.
a.    pleasure or delight.
b.    desire; inclination; wish
6.    to have intense sexual desire.
7.    to have a yearning or desire; have a strong or excessive craving
(synonyms: crave, hunger, covet, yearn)

Dictionary.com Unabridged (v 1.1)  Based on the Random House Unabridged Dictionary, © Random House, Inc. 2006.

Nothing too surprising, maybe, but of further interest was the etymology of lust, exposing original usages of, "joyful and merry,” and in later years, "full of healthy vigor.”  Christological interpretation followed, carrying the trophy that disturbed every positive inclination this word ever held.  Easton’s 1897 Bible Dictionary explains lust in two ways: sinful longings (referencing Romans 1:21) and objects of desire (referencing Mark 4:19).  And yes, I am in seminary, but no, I’m not about to exegete all “lustful passages” in Scripture.  I guess what I want to throw-out though, is what it would look like for lust to not always be the “bad-guy”—to not always be the “struggle” we assume, or standard to which we prescribe “accountability partners”?  Must the (natural) tendency of lust be always boxed as “sin”—always branded all bad?  Moreover, what if lust could actually bridge a good—a gateway into prayer, or glorifying potential of grace?  What if lust could be explored as an aspect of our sexuality, and window toward honoring the others’?   What if culture, Church, or Satan’s obsession with lust deflated to its intended role—to something designed with joy and boastful of vigor for Jesus?  What if lust was redefined—as a means, and not an end?  Rediscovered—in terms of gain, and not guilt?

What if lust was a gift?

I'm sure there will be more to say next week, but in the meantime, I wanted all Jubilee folks to know I've been praying for you and am expecting great things this weekend.  (No joke, you've been written with red lipstick on my bathroom mirror all month :)).  The weather in LA is currently about 75 degrees, and I'm guessing Pittsburg will be more like 30 or 40, but we'll have fun, regardless.  I've been carrying the message I'll be speaking-on for a number of months now, so it'll be a gift to share with you.  Hang-in there with studies this week and I'll look forward to seeing you Friday night!  PEACE. 

It’s easier when you know the whole story.  Makes more sense when all the pieces have fallen.  But that’s not where I am.  And per request, that’s not what I’m posting.  My latest thoughts have been unfinished. Unfinished starts, and unstarted ends.  It’s like they’re soaking the middle.  Steeped in the tension.  And I’m realizing that to dismiss this space—to discard this mess—is to lose the story.  To minimize the whole.  So here I am. Maybe these starts will further your finish, or maybe these midpoints resurface your start.  Or maybe we’ll just stay here and revel in the middle.

***
The Fall—how did it feel?  What did it sound like?  How was it to experience the birth of fear?  Like in the garden…like when Eve consciously chose the apple…  Do you think her appearance changed?  Do you think her stomach flooded with anxiety, or maybe “falling” was more subtle?  And Adam—how was the experience for him?  What were his thoughts?  What did he say at his lover’s choice?  Did creation scream?  Or maybe it went numb?
*
Who would I want to trust that has the power to take everything away?  
But who else would I want to trust?
*
Jesus died on the cross to restore perfect relationship with our Heavenly Father.  What does this mean?  What does it mean that at the base of Roman nails, a soul finds nourishment in the cleansing blood of Christ?  Or that at the cross, we are rescued from ourselves, rescued from the death of this world, and most profoundly, rescued into the loving arms of our purposed chase—a Lord who, “Out of all the peoples on the face of the earth, has chosen you to be his treasured possession” (Deuteronomy 14:2)?
*
The call to marriage and God's sovereign plan for finding the “one” seems most about a sovereign plan for one's heart and heart's mutual readiness for find that one.
*
Do you ever feel like you give and give and give…and you’ve given so much that you’re done...out...at the end of your rope?  Hurt, tired and empty….saying to God, Lord, how do I do this?  How much am I suppose to give?  How much did you give?  How far does your grace go?  How far did your grace go?...”  I wonder how God would respond?  Wonder if He might say something like this, "I know child…I hear you.  My grace goes as far as it needs to.  My grace goes farther than it can fathom.  My grace goes back to the cross.  Always.  My grace always goes back to the cross.  Back to the point of death.  To the point of killing me.  Grace killed me.  Killed me for life.  For your life.  I died because my deepest longing was your birth.  
*
He knew who he was.
He knew whose he was.
He knew what he wanted.
He knew what he had.
*
I long for him tonight.  I long for the knight in shining armor.  I long for the smell, for the touch, for the silent gaze that speaks a novel.  What is that Lord?  What true longings found these thoughts?  What true desires sweep away my longings?  The blindfold on my heart is tired today.  But the raw strands of desire are exhausted too.  I can't run from it anymore, but my tears running toward it have cried their last.  The chase has found me beat.  The chasing has found me beaten.  How long must I wait, O Lord?  How long must I wait?  What is love, Father and who defines it?  What is not love, Lord, and who can so discern?  Is it the discrepancies that blind?  Or are blind?
*
Doing is so much easier than not doing
*
I saw a girl chasing a butterfly today.  It was glorious—the innocence, the artistry, the creation.  What is she really wanting though?  Is it the completion of the the caught fly?  Or the journey of actually chasing it?  Confusion seems to awaken when we chase an end without knowing its really for another.  Or when we chase another, unable to embrace its already found end.
*
Ever feel like your faith is frozen?  Wanting to move anywhere, but feeling stuck, to some degree, everywhere?  You know it has the potential to ebb and flow and mist and make, but right now it’s hard as a rock.  You’ve seen it soak and fill, and you’ve experienced its taste and filling, but its current state is dull, dark and fixed.  Frozen, cold and scared.
*
Mindful: "What is man that you are mindful of him, the son of man that you care for him?  You made him a little lower than the angels; you crowned him with glory and honor and put everything under his feet." Hebrews 2:6-7
I love the word, "mindful."  I love how philosophical it sounds, how introspective it reads and even how intellecutally it speaks.  What I don't love about mindfulness, is how hard it is.  Based on sheer semantic breakdown, mindful connotes carrying a full mind of, toward, to, or from something.  So the obvious challenge falls in the fact that to be full of anything, we must be emptied of something else.  In other words, in order for my mind to be filled completely, I must attempt an emptying of what’s already there.  Consider mindful listening.  If I want to be mindful in hearing you speak, my mind must attempt to be “full” of you—and thus to some degree, intentionally “less full” of me.  
*
Prodigal Freedom: I was always the perfect one, so didn’t relate to the story, or circumstance, or strayings of “the prodigal son.”  I was clean, innocent and didn’t need forgiveness.  I was the brother.  But now I’m angry.  Now I have done all the deeds and delivered the good life, but am still empty.  Am still longing.  Still lusting after the life I don’t have and freedom I don’t experience.  To get there though, I’m thinking part of me might have to embrace my stance as the prodigal—unveil my masked states of rebellion.  Not because of the rebellion itself, but because of what lies beneath.  Because of its instant gratification and then let-down.  Because of its turning, and then returning, to the porch I was made for.  The Home I was Freed for.  The hell I was Freed from.  But doing so means I let go of control.  I let go of my guard.  And resultingly, I follow and let Someone else in.  And that scares the hell out me.
*
Home: Something in me longs for home today.  But what, I must ask, is home—be it a home, my home, or the home?  It’s not as simple as grieving my church home, or residential home.  And it’s not as complicated, or far-off, as my spiritual home.  It’s a space between—a tension unscripted.  
I long to be at home in my body today, but I also long to be at home in my surroundings.  I long to taste the familiarity of peace, but I long to bring comfort to the confines of injustice.  I long to rest, and I long to play.  I long to be with and I long to be without.  I long to be whole and I long to be empty.  I long to live and I long to die.  
For in without, I am with.
In being empty, I become whole.
In coming to die, I choose to live.
Something in me longs for home today.
*
I’ve heard myself pray for opened or closed doors, believing such doing insists that, "God's will is being done."  Recent musing, however, has found me realizing it’s not just a matter of an open, or closed door.  My willingness to walk, or not walk through, is equally crucial.  "Yes, there you are God, but yes, here I am, too."
*
Loving: I asked my mom if she loved God.  She responded, “Yes.”  Then I asked her if she was in love with God.  She said, “No.”
*
Her tattoo caught my eye.  First impression was from across the bar, so I couldn’t make-out more than a caliedescope of colorful, Chinese script.  Moving closer, though, the shape morphed into a cross, coupled with a subscript that read: “RUINED FOR LESS.”  I loved it.
*
I learned what I don’t want to be when I grow-up.  A truck-driver.  See, I always thought leadership meant leading forward.  I thought it meant you lead and I’ll follow.  And it does, in some ways.  But it also doesn’t, in maybe a lot more ways.  That's what the truck driver taught me.
*
Correct me if I’m wrong here, but I think we tote deepest impression when we are least like the world.  Which seems to leave us in the most capable state to actually change the world?  And thus, maybe find ourselves most relevant to it?
*
Have you ever considered that a Savior was born to die?

Wanting to give a big hello to the students at Linfield College and say thanks again for letting me come worship with you last week.  McMinnville, Oregon is quite the spot and I'll look forward to being back there soon.  In the meantime, praying for you guys and hoping these final (and finals) weeks of school carry-out smoothly.  Keep in touch (*facebook*) and have a Merry Thanksmas, or Happy Christ-giving, or something representative of the stint between Thanksgiving and Christmas.  PEACE, abbie

I thought it was gone.
I thought we were done with this.
Will you ever leave me fully?  
We you ever leave me in full?

Sometimes this is the conversation that goes with my sin.  Or sometimes it’s what goes with my circumstance.  Today it's my summer.  I can't get rid of it.  Fall is edging toward Winter, and I'm still stuck in a season well past.  

Some call what I'm experiencing "Post Traumatic Stress Syndrome."  I call it…I don’t know what I call it.  Hard.  Exhilerating.  Awful.  Real.  Right. …  It depends on the hour.

Tip-toe'ing on the gates of hell scared me to a point where death and danger are no longer what happens to old people, or hurts only on the movie screen.  Death is real and danger is present.  The question is, am I willing to feel that?  In a culture that’s convenient and “full of life,” am I willing to feel that no matter how it’s spun, it still carries death.  Sometimes at face value, and sometimes as an undercurrent, but at the end of the day, I’m still a dying person.  We’re still a dying people, and we still live on a dying planet.  

So in a world that facades reality and a body that runs from pain, do I have the courage to engage with death’s sentence?  And if so, do I have the courage to engage with the one that claims Life?

I’ve not cried too much this summer, but this afternoon found me swayed by hesitant tears, wondering if I could bear, or wanted to bear, last goodbyes at the baby home. As it turned-out, my final hours were far less dramatic, or climatic, than I might’ve imagined. Mama Lucy and I shared some special time together, and then Mama Claire was running late, which left me alone with the babies between shifts. Everyone was quite antsy for dinner, but still kind enough to humor my necessary discourse.

I explained how much I loved them, and how proud I was of who they were becoming. I thanked them for their gentle spirits, and for their willingness to teach and be taught. I petitioned for the health of their hearts, minds, souls and strength and for an increased openness to God’s unfailing love. I prayed for their families and the generations they would influence. And I promised to stand as their ambassadors from this day forward. My little angels were speechless. All ten of them offered undivided attention, until at some point Ryan screamed and the room gained a stench saying someone’s bowels had lost control. I was touched. And kindly prompted toward the end of my talk. Things went a bit downhill from there, which honestly made a night that could’ve been surreal far less so. Ten cranky babies have an exceptional way of ruining a sensuous moment.

The remainder of the evening proceeded as normal, with bottles, baths, diapers and PJ’s, and then off to cribs for a final kiss. These moments marked a delicate mix, not unlike every preceding nights spent with this adieu. I was overwhelmed by the gift of handling life for this day, but more overwhelmed by the gift of handing it back to that which it came. To love in one’s presence, and yet to release to one’s greater Presence, must be the richest miracle I have ever held, or imparted.

May you rest in peace, child. May you rest in Peace.

In the short span of walking home from dinner, I practically tripped on a young boy curled-up to sleep, and witnessed the crash of a motorcycle with three people on it, one being a little girl not more than five, or six. She was thrown-off the bike and then skid across the ground, yet didn’t bat an eye, or shed a tear. That’s not normal. Or it’s not “our normal,” at least. The risk, fear and pain factors of this continent travel in a different wavelength than we do. Infants here could win “Survivor” with their eyes closed. Adults would just laugh at its concept. Or lustfully cry. Extremes of a TV show for us, are samplings of normality for an African. Does one ever get numb to these horrific exposures? For me at least, I think I would say I’ve become numb to the element of surprise, but am still pained by the elements of the stories. And to be honest, I hope it stays that way.

I don’t think there’s a story you could tell me, on that soil or this one, which would surprise me. I don’t think there’s a height of depravity, or depth of humanity, which would overwhelm me. It’d be tough to catch me off-guard, given the hidden heart, motivation, or manipulation of an individual. But at the same time, I seem to remain aware and feeling of the effects and affects of a given story. I think it would be easier, however, and certainly more efficient and less emotionally draining, to ‘not’ hold this awareness, but I also think that would be death—death to living, or the sign of a dying life.

To be numb seems to negate a felt sense of the senses, to hibernate silence and stillness of one’s Spirit. He, or she, is masked by busyness, or idle noise. Being still and silent, however, is what reveals a need beyond ourselves—a knowledge of feelings beyond our comprehension. When I am numb, I have convinced myself that I do not need…, and they do not need… “We’re all okay,” I say. “Such is life…it’ll work-out in the long-run…just a temporary bout between the ying and the yang…etc.” Numbness is like a justifying optimism, a state of consciousness that dissolves reality into nothing more than selfish permissibility. This reminds me of when Jesus attempts to explain the danger of not realizing our need for forgiveness.

“Then one of the Pharisees invited Him (Jesus) to eat with him. He entered the Pharisee’s house and reclined at the table. And a woman in the town who was a sinner found out that Jesus was reclining at the table in the Pharisee’s house. She brought an alabaster flask of fragrant oil and stood behind Him at His feet, weeping, and began to wash His feet with her tears. She wiped His feet with the hair of her head, kissing them and anointing them with the fragrant oil. When the Pharisee who had invited Him saw this, he said to himself, “This man, if He were a prophet, would know who and what kind of woman this is who is touching Him—she’s a sinner! Jesus replied to him, “Simon, I have something to say to you.” “Teacher,” he said, “say it.” “A creditor had two debtors. One owed 500 denarii’s, and the other 50. Since they could not pay it back, he graciously forgave them both. So, which of them will love him more?” Simon answered, “I suppose the one he forgave more.” “You have judged correctly,” He told him. Turning to the woman, He said to Simon, “Do you see this woman? I entered your house; you gave Me no water for My feet, but she, with her tears, has washed My feet and wiped them with her hair. You gave Me no kiss, but she hasn’t stopped kissing My feet since I came in. You didn’t anoint My head with oil, but she has anointed My feet with fragrant oil. Therefore I tell you, her many sins have been forgiven; that’s why she loved much. But the one who is forgiven little, loves little.” Then He said to her, “Your sins are forgiven.” Those who were at the table with Him began to say among themselves, “Who is this man who even forgives sins?” And Jesus said to the woman, “Your faith has saved you. Go in peace.” (Luke 7.36-50)

Correct me if I’m wrong here, but I think numbness is a refusal, or at least minimizing, of our need for forgiveness. And the worst, or craziest, addendum to that is that I think it’s natural. I think we are more susceptible, and comfortable, to live hidden from our true state and thus, that of another. Human nature avoids emptiness, brokenness and shameless feeling at all costs. And numbness is its greatest defender, whereby we find ourselves content in a realm of mediocre, functioning well maybe, but failing to experience the actualities of life, those of elation and those of desperation.

I sometimes volunteer at a hospital with kids born, developed, or damaged by long-term head-injuries. Dakota is one of my favorite little girls here. She’s a chatty, little ray of sunshine, but silenced by a cage, helmet and hand-coverings. Dakota was born numb to pain. If she is burned, bleeding, or beaten, she doesn’t have the capacity to feel the situation. What a tragedy, and what a greater tragedy that we are apt to choose. “God, help us. Help us never be overwhelmed by states and stories of humanity, but also help us never go numb to the feelings we find in Your presence. Amen.”

“Desperado…you better let somebody love you, you better let somebody love you before it’s too late.” –The Eagles

Daniel arrived this morning. He was dropped-off by two women from an NGO (Non-Governmental Organization…same as a Non-Profit) who took him from a village. They said the mom looked about fourteen and as if she’d gone mad, clearly with no ability, let alone intention, to care for her son. Daniel is between ten and twelve months old, but weighs just eight pounds. He has sores all over his body and when he arrived, it seemed doubtful he’d make it another hour. His chest and face protrude with bones, and his stomach is hard and swollen. Mama Lucy and I named and bathed him. Caressing ribs never gets easier. We attempted to feed him, but Daniel was so weak and unknowing of touch that his miniature body shrieked mightily when anything neared his flesh. It was as though his corpse was all he had left, with his only defense being a death-cry that screamed bloody-murder and hoped someone would hear. I took him to the clinic for blood tests and a physical. He cried most of the time. When they pierced his finger, he didn’t even flinch. It was obvious Daniel’s life had endured far more pain than a needle. I was his caretaker for the day and it was required that he be held around the clock and given nutrition every two hours. The Mamas rarely spoil a baby to such measures, but in his case it was life-or-death. He alternated between my lap, shoulder and the incubator. Though his tests miraculously showed-up free of “the biggies” (HIV, TB and Malaria), new babies are always kept incubated for a few days, in case of obscure disease or infection.

I sat quietly over Daniel’s rest, watching the glucose-enhanced formula slowly enliven his corpse. His mouth was unfamiliar with the bottle and too weak to suck without assistance, but it was astonishing to see the rate of improvement and change in just a matter of hours. The short, unfamiliar verse, which I’d probably read ten times, but just noticed this morning, was all I could think about. In a tender exchange relaying the promise of the Holy Spirit once he departed, Jesus explained, “I will not leave you as orphans; I am coming to you” (John 14.4). It was as if these very words were being whispered into Daniel’s spirit. The slightest of grins matured into a most magical of smiles, which Mama Suzanne calls, “the ugliest thing she’s ever seen.” The problem is, his face is quite bony and small and his toothless smile is abnormally large, so it’s as though this enormous hole just takes over his face. I still think it’s adorable. Anyway, what remains of Daniel’s limp-less neck and body has at least started to move. By dinnertime, after seeing him through a slow, but successful run at mashed pumpkin, I was convinced this child was going to be okay.

Mama Grace, on the other hand, might not. She got fired last night. Unknown to us, she was caught stealing 2 kilos of sugar the day before we left for Gulu. It would’ve been a disgrace to come home without a gift and she had no money at that point, so at least wanted to bring sugar. Unfortunately, she was caught red-handed when a hole in the sugar bag shined a straight path to her cookie jar purse. Ashamed and shocked, I guess, she lied about it and tried to deny her attempt. There is a lot of pardoning done around here, and a confession of stealing probably would’ve sufficed, but when someone lies, and then keeps lying, there’s only so much pardoning to do. I’m heartbroken for Mama Grace tonight, for many reasons. The Baby Home is an incredible job, paying 90,000 shillings a month (equivalent to about $100) and providing incredible community, safety and opportunity, which are all unheard of around here. I’m also heartbroken that I couldn’t tell her goodbye. All I want to do is put my arms around her and tell her I forgive her and love her. And that God does, too. I can’t imagine the shame she must be feeling right now.

When I put these stories side-by-side, I realize how hard it is to receive. One could say Daniel’s life was saved because he was open to receiving grace (one could also say he didn’t have the strength, or intellect, to prevent it, but maybe that’s what “faith like a child” looks like). And one could say much of Mama Grace’s life was lost because she wasn’t. Daniel let himself be loved, and Grace didn’t. She couldn’t believe God would provide. She couldn’t believe had she waited mere hours, four Muzungoo friends would ask her on a bus-ride home what would most bless her family. She could’ve answered, “Ten kilos of sugar,” and we wouldn’t have batted an eye. When it came down to it, Grace couldn’t resist the indulgence of something that seemed so necessary and would be so instantly gratifying. She couldn’t believe Someone knew of her orphan feelings and would come to her rescue. And I usually don’t either.

How can we believe God wants to feed, hold and handle this day for us? How can we believe He’ll not abandon us, but rather, takes every extreme, including death on a Roman Cross, to rescue us from ongoing villages of despair? How can we trust God’s love? If I had two wishes tonight, they’d be: 1) Realization that letting myself ‘be loved’ by the person of God is my greatest calling. “Love consists of this: not that we loved God, but that He loved us and sent His Son to be the propitiation for our sins” (1 John 4.10). This, then, is likewise my greatest capability toward ‘loving.’ 2) I wish my faith would mature to that of Daniel's. “The disciples came to Jesus and said, “Who is greatest in the kingdom of heaven?” “I assure you,” he said, “unless you are converted and become like children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven. Therefore, whoever humbles himself like this child—this one is the greatest” (Matthew 18.1-4).

“Jo-cu-cu-ba” means spanking and boy-oh-boy, jo-cu-cu-ba’ing is quite the fad in this place. The Mamas have no problem smacking babies with a wooden spoon, stick, or whatever’s in closest reach. And none of this “three strikes and you’re out” bit…if you disobey, you’re gonna get smacked. Other modes of rearing are pretty different, too. Rarely will a Mama pick-up a baby here ‘just’ because they’re crying. They think it’s important to make sure a child can be alone and to train him/her not to cry unless they’re actually in need/hunger. Average African babies don’t have “blankies, passies, or dolls.” This has made me think about our early tendencies toward depending on “things” to make us feel identified, or confident, whereas children here are raised to depend on themselves, or a god (explains why ‘some’ religion is followed by everyone here…Atheism isn’t in their vocabulary). You can’t help but wonder if our early suggestions of security associate with more “grown-up ones,” that hide us behind a job, relationship, image, or status. If a baby needs to stop sucking his/her thumb, they’ll rubber band a sock over it, or band-aid the finger with aloe vera, or hot sauce. This is all I can think of right now, but there are definitely loads more. Overall, I’ve found the babies to be a lot better behaved and have a lot more calm and “readable” demeanors. When a baby is crying here, it’s usually for a reason. Rarely will kids just cry for attention, or out of boredom. The older ones know Muzungoos have quite the habit of picking-up babies when they’re crying, or just cute, and Ugandans don’t do that. As Mama Lois explained to me, “We don’t have time and freedom to play like you guys do.” Interesting point, and I just realized this is one big run-on paragraph, so I’m gonna stop.

***

Women.

There was a post some weeks back called, “Man Hatred.” And after a few more weeks being here, I can no longer let the women get by unscathed—though I will say the male side is still far more challenging to me. For the most part, Mamas I interact with are from the north and either widowed, or just have different views due to faith and/or the affects of living through a war. Having now spent time with a broader range, however, I've seen some different and less tasteful sides of the feminine mystique.
<Women here are often grossly driven my materialism, in a different and somehow even more distinct manner than back home. If a woman is married to a man here and another comes along who can offer more luxury, they’ll split without a thought—and often leave their children along the way (for the more fortunate, they’ll be left in a Baby Home, but for most, they’re left on their own).
<A lot of stealing, killing, cheating and deceit goes on here. And I mean a lot. Again, it happens in the west, too, but I think we’ve got a lot more props and masks to hide behind.
<Any war-torn territory, which includes most of Africa, will typically have fewer men than women, so that certainly here, polygamy is a norm. Three, or four women and their kids, will live with the same man. The idea has very little to do with love, and more to do with sex, convenience and an option to proliferate if desired.

***

Random.

*I got a massage. It was quite the luxurious $6 investment. (I’ve not talked too much about the economy here, but you can see that cost of living is significantly lower. An average meal out costs between $1-3 and if you go to a really nice place, and spoil yourself, you might spend the equivalent of $7 or $8, but that’s with appetizer, drinks and probably dessert, too.) I’m most comfortable with the more “natural approaches,” so after a couple weeks of mad medicine intake, I figured the least I could do was move around muscles and clear some toxins from my system. I’d passed the crooked, hand-written sign a number of times and figured if it was a female misuse, I was in. I’ll spare you the details, but between a table, sheet, olive oil and an hour under hands that could break a rock, it might’ve been the best 10,000 shillings I’ve ever spent.

*Mama Claire’s sister died yesterday. She was twenty-one and “had been feeling ill, but was never sick.” There was no explanation, just a text, and no extreme shock, which was shocking to have to witness. Mama Claire was very sad, don’t get me wrong, and she made every immediate effort to collect money and head north for the funeral. But no one is surprised when such a tragedy happens. It’s as thought they’d be surprised if it didn’t. Elongating life here isn’t the attempt; survival is—and they often fail.

Come to me, all you who are weary and burdened, and I will give you rest. Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls. For my yoke is easy and my burden is light. Matthew 11:28-30

Have you looked Jesus in the eye today? Have you sought something beyond the natural, or above the normal? Has the Spirit of God found any space in your schedule, or the discipline of faith any means of necessity? Has grace found you on you knees?

There was an hour of this day that owned you. When was it?
There was a conversation that stole your true identity? Why?

Consider, confess, and turn from it, freeing your heart to claim forgivenness as far as the east is from the west!

I'm realizing more and more that I can battle "being" for the rest of my life, or I can submit to "not being," and trust that if God is really who He says, He will. "I am" only takes me so far in being strong, capable, smart, disciplined, wise, even Godly enough, before I come face to face with the reality that I am not...nor will I ever be.

Only God can BE all that I am not.

May you come to the Lord today, and allow His words to give you rest.
"But God, what if..." Daughter, I AM.
"But God, she said..." Beloved, I AM.
"Father, He did..." Child, I AM.
"Lord, they didn't..." Chosen, I AM.
"God, I need..." Blessed one, I AM.
"When it..." I AM.
"Why can't...?" I AM.
"They don't..." I AM.
"But I'm not..." Shhhh, child, be still. I AM.

Be His today, unashamedly His.

Amen.