Jesus is winning

The following is an email I sent out to a small group of people who, every week, receive a message from me. It started out as a reminder to our board of directors to pray every Thursday, in keeping with our covenant to--in this season--trust God for our finances instead of relying on big fundriasers, etc... and it has grown a bit to go out to a few more people.

Brad suggested I put in on my blog, and I realize now he is right. It is a good follow up to the previous post.

‘Disbelief is more resistant than faith because it is sustained by the senses’.

--Gabriel Garcia Marquez
Of Love and Other Demons

It’s funny how this life we live can just sort of throw us all over the place, like a paper cup on the surface of the ocean. Oh I know the Bible tells us we shouldn’t be that way (Ephesians 4:14). But the truth is... I am sometimes.

These days I am enrolled in a math class at Fresno State. It is a huge class—3oo people, actually. Since it is a remedial math class (and still a colossal challenge for me, I might add) the majority of the students in there are young, and--perhaps it is fair to say—have struggled academically.

Every time I attend that class I leave there feeling down. Brad met me as I came out of there yesterday and I recall laying my head on his side and closing my eyes--I was totally drained at 1:00 in the afternoon. And it wasn’t just because I am wading through interval notations, multiplicative inverses, and absolute values.

The atmosphere of that classroom is disheartening. A room chock full of youth—our youth, mind you—and the level of chaos in there is frightening…even to an old after-school-club-in-the-ghetto veteran such as myself. And it isn’t just chaos in the sense of disorder, though that certainly exists. It is hard to put into words, though I shall try.

Students yell out disgusting things to one another across the room, with no regard for how they might offend others: sexual statements and ‘invitations’, racist remarks, offensive comments about women, and more. The girls are as bad--or worse--than the boys. The disrespect for the teacher and those around them is astonishing. All throughout the class session they continue: mocking criticism of the professor or anyone at all who happens to walk by or raise their hand to ask a question. They talk on their cell phones, play their iPods so loud you can hear them three aisles down, and get up and walk out in the middle of a lecture, stepping over other students and talking loudly as they exit.

I find myself struggling in so many ways as I sit there. It is nearly impossible to learn anything in there, which the professor has presumably figured out, so he just goes through the motions of teaching, and occasionally loses it to the point of saying an insinuatingly insulting remark about those of us who have no other recourse than to take that class. So even as I am trying very hard to concentrate and learn, my heart is breaking.

It seems we have failed somewhere. We. Us. The grown ups in our society. We have hurt and ignored and abused and damaged our children so badly that they have become horrid to endure. This is not what was intended. How God’s heart must break.

It takes everything in me to reenter that classroom three days a week. I leave there heavy, tired, sad.

This morning I spent a good deal of time on the phone with Irisa, our young woman who lives at Dakota House with her husband Bobby. We talked about what God is doing there, and about what the enemy is trying to do in the neighborhood and in the lives and families we love.

One of the things Irisa told me about is a recent occurrence on the street. One of our core young boys—Albert--was accosted by a group of larger boys. They grabbed him and attempted to—as they told him--throw him in the street to be hit by a car. Another of our boys—Kiki--was with him, on his bike. Somehow they struggled and got away, though the group took the bike from them. Our boys ran to Dakota House to get Bobby. Once Bobby came outside and ran to help, the group of boys saw him and dropped the bike, running.

A disturbing--and unfortunately--common circumstance, to be sure. But here is where it gets good. Bobby used that incident—which of course was all the talk—to teach the boys something. In their Boys Only time, they talked about what had happened, and Bobby posed the question to them: ‘What makes someone a man?’

“Who was the brave one?” he asked. “Those older, bigger guys who bullied Albert and Kiki? Or Albert, who ran back to help his friend?”

On the street if you don’t fight back you are a target for ridicule and even admonishment from your parent or ‘caretaker’. Attacking other people to get what you want is the norm… forgiving and helping one another is unheard of. Bobby talked through the situation with our boys, showing them a different way to look at things. Told them what God would say. Encouraged them as a mentor.

I love to think about that.

And I realized--once again—that there is hope. It is up to us--as we are led by God—to fight the good fight in love and honor. Those kids in my math class? They are Albert and Kiki grown up. With parents and teachers and others who hurt them in varying degrees. Whom life is cruel to. But perhaps they did not have a Bobby, or Irisa, or Emily or Morgan in their life. Maybe they had no one to love God’s ways into them.

I am reminded of what I already know: we all need to heal. We are all acting out of our wounds.

Yesterday I read this quote from Anne Rice. You may recognize her name. For many years she has been churning out books about vampires, erotica, and evil personified and glorified. Evil always won out… it was always more powerful than the opposing good. There are literally cults who follow her books and emulate the characters in her stories… an entire black underground of followers. I read a couple of her books—the ones I could get through—and was saddened. Such a gifted writer, her prose so beautiful and precise…I recall wishing her subject matter was different and abandoning any attempt at reading her work.

A few years ago, she became a Christian. How the heavens must have rejoiced on that day. I like to think about that, too.

Now she writes about the life of Jesus. To me, her history makes the following words even more powerful:

“We need to stop being so afraid that the devil is winning.
The devil’s not winning - we are winning.
Jesus is winning. God is winning.
We have the strength and the time to
open our arms to absolutely everyone.
Rushing to judgment, condemning whole classes and groups of people –
that is not in the spirit of Christ that I see in the Gospel.
I can’t find that spirit. I see the spirit of love, taking the message to absolutely everyone.”

And so it is true. I am humbled by the words of this woman. Jesus is winning. The fight is long and hard, but the outcome is glorious. We win. God wins.

In the meantime, as we pray together for God to continue to provide for Dakota House, please join me in praying that we do not grow weary. That we do not tire of what we see but instead have God’s eyes and heart to see and love. And thereby, take the message of His love to absolutely everyone.

His,

Jamie

officially old

So the thing is I am officially old now.

Yeah. It just...I don't know....happened or something.

This semester I have to take a math class, and not just any math class, mind you... the one you have to take when you score excruciatingly low on your ELM test. I have to pass this just so I can fill my last general education requirement: a course like statistics or something that in some way involves math. I have successfully avoided this until now.

So anyway the median age (note the use of a mathematical term... it is one, right?) of the class is around twelve or so, I think. Presumably they are mostly freshmen, and I must say there are a considerable number of students involved in the rather passionately embraced (on this campus) sport known as football, as well. I'm just saying. I'm in there, too. So clearly I can't say much.

The first day of class I broke out in a slight sweat when I realized what is in store for me for the next 18 weeks or so. There are over 300 people in this class, and for some reason on the first day there was a lot of shoving and crowding going on... One girl literally pushed me out of the way so she and her friend could sit together next to someone else. They were laughing obnoxiously at the time. I felt like Kathy Bates in that parking lot scene in Fried Green Tomatoes.

The poor professor--whom I must admire for attempting to be funny and make the class light and enjoyable--endures mocking criticism, laughter, cell phones ringing, and 'students' talking to one another as if they were out to lunch instead of in a classroom. They yell across the room, saying things like "Yo bitch, what up?" and "Yeah I'll slap dat ass bring it."

Working in the ghetto has accustomed me to this sort of thing and I am perhaps even more comfortable with it than a lot of people. But...in class? At college?

I have to resist the urge to say something like, "Wow that's really rude," or "Does your mother know you are behaving like this?"

So here is the story that really epitomizes the whole situation. The defining moment when my great and voluptuous accumulation of years became clearest to me:

The professor (who is about my age) was attempting to keep our attention, or endear himself to us...or perhaps just amuse himself for the sake of his own sanity, and made yet another rather corny joke. In that instant, as my admiration and pity for this man grew larger, the girl behind me said this:

"Eeeeew... old guy trying to be funny. Gross." (make sure you read 'gross' with about three syllables)

Yeah. Seriously. It was then that I knew. I am not only 'old', but I am a different species. Or something. Clearly I am somewhere I do not belong. I had a little word with God right then, telling Him I know He usually either has me somewhere for a purpose, or at the very least brings good out of crappy situations.

But come on now.

A. It's a math class.
B. Yeah.

So we shall see. And if God finds something good in this situation for me, you will hear about it. Like, so totally.

still ridiculously good looking

athena, revisited. my heart, revised. again.

A little while ago I wrote about our neighbor whom we call Athena. She is an elderly lady who lives down the street. This picture was taken with my cell phone, a phenomenon which astounds Athena every time I show it to her. She still doesn't quite get it, actually. But the look on her face is priceless when she sees herself on that little screen.

A few weeks ago our other neighbor informed us that an ambulance had come during the night and taken Athena away. I panicked, wanting to find out what had happened and where she had gone. But I had no way of knowing who to call or where to look. I left a note on the door and waited.

My knowledge of Athena's family was limited. All I really knew for sure is that she has a daughter who lives in town with a family of her own. I couldn't understand how her daughter could leave her in that big old house by herself. Athena is extremely forgetful... often times disoriented, and--at best--confused. Many times I recall complaining to Brad about Athena's daughter, criticizing her for neglecting her mother. How unfeeling she must be, I thought. How selfish.

A day or so after Christmas our family was seated around the table, having a large, late breakfast. There were still Christmas wrappings and chocolates and assorted paraphernalia scattered everywhere. It was your usual post-Christmas dishevelment. We were laughing our heads off about something or other when a woman appeared. She rather tentatively stood on the porch looking through our glass front door. She introduced herself as Athena's daughter.

Once seated at our table with coffee and biscotti in front of her, and when the rest of the family had dispersed, she began to talk to me. She knew about our friendship with her mother. She wanted to thank us and let us know what was going on.

As this woman spoke somewhat timidly, fingering her long striped scarf, I began to feel a knawing sense in my heart. It wasn't a very good feeling, to tell you the truth. Because this woman shared with me her pain regarding her mother, and her family and marriage situation which made it difficult to bring her mother into her home. But she has done it. Athena is living with her family now. And it has not been easy. Her home life is turned upside down. Her marriage is challenged. Her finances are affected. It is huge. She told me through tears that she is determined to make it work. She asked for my prayers.

As I watched this brave young woman walk away from our home, I felt deeply ashamed. Once again I had made up something in my head and assigned feelings to it. I had judged this woman I had never met. I had decided things about her and was looking down on her based on those assumptions.

I stood there in the doorway and asked God to forgive me. And as always, I heard His answer to my heart. He is still growing me. Still loving me into a new being. He knows everything about me: why I do what I do, how hard I am trying, my progress and my pitfalls. He knows it all.

And He still loves me.

'wing and a prayer': phrase origin of the day

During World War One airplanes were still a novelty and untested in war. A "wing and a prayer" was first uttered when an American flyer came in with a badly damaged wing.

His fellow pilots and mechanics were amazed he didn't crash. He should have. The pilot replied he was praying all the way in. Another pilot chimed in that "a wing and a prayer brought you back."

--from the Origin of Phrases website.


This is my life, really.

not thrilled

Note the expression.

meet mo