The Margins

We have a good friend in an unfortunate situation right now. There are some avenues of relief open to this friend, but there is a stumbling block; an obstacle that, while on the surface appears easy enough to remove, in reality touches on some deep issues of pain and fear that paralyze him. Doing something which seems straightforward and non-threatening to me and others for this person feels for him like a risk that is simply too great. And because it is the thing that stands between him and hope for change in his situation, it may well be that he resigns himself to the continuation of his suffering.

It would be like the man who, having endured beatings and degradation at the hands of police officers throughout the span of his life, found himself in a position where he needed to seek out the authority of the police for something valid and good. It is understandable that the history of abuse could prevent this man from taking that step, and we would be hard-pressed to judge him harshly. There are reasons why people do not call the police where I live. There are reasons why I would turn and walk the other way when I saw a cruiser when I lived in Chicago.

So often when we engage the struggles of people who have lived beneath the weight of poverty, racial injustice, and what Jonathan Kozol called “savage innequalities”, we see a very simple, straightforward path toward healing or wholeness or redemption. Whether it is a gang member or single mom, we can operate under the naivete of our own privilege: just leave the gang, or don’t join one in the first place; just marry the guy who is fathering your children. What we can fail to see is the strength of the powers that oppress, and the damage that can be done over time. The ghetto is full of people literally and figuratively crippled by such forces. And may God have mercy on us when we so quickly dismiss the genuine struggle of learning how to walk.

I was fortunate today to spend some time in prayer with a co-worker in the quiet moments before the start of a meeting. As my co-worker prayed for me and for some of the ways that my spirit feels so conflicted, I was struck by a voice inside of me praying this prayer: Lord, help me to trust you again.

I think that I have sustained some spiritual damage from some of the things that have happened over the course of the last few years, and today I realized for the first time that I am struggling to believe that I can hope or trust in God to do good things for me. Ask me if I believe that God can redeem the pain and brokenness of South Central, and I will speak an emphatic yes! Ask me to speak on behalf of the amazing work of our missionaries around the world, and to share my hope in what God will do through them and you will have to shut me up. But ask me to speak of the “hope and future” that God has for me and I will lose my words. I no longer feel so certain of my claim to the promised land.

I realized in all of this that my friend and I have some things in common. And I wonder what the steps in my own life are that I am refusing to take because I simply can’t imagine that doing so could result in something good. Disappointment conditions. Faith calls us to believe in what we struggle to even imagine.

Lord, I believe; help my unbelief.

Mercy’s favorite song right now is Jingle Bells. The other day I was walking the kids over to my sister’s house to play (they are our surrogate back-yard) when Mercy asked me to sing Jingle Bells for her. “Sure!” I said, as I started to sing.

As I walked down Kenwood in the afternoon heat, pushing our double stroller and singing Jingle Bells loudly enough for the kids to hear, I felt quite absurd. The song was just so totally out of place: foreign, uncomfortable in our context, laughable even (though I am probably starting to resemble Santa a bit in my girth and the stroller can feel as big as a sleigh sometimes).

I was reminded of the ways that Doug has exhorted us as a congregation that when we sing during worship, we are declaring a new reality: we are announcing the realities of an unseen kingdom, and we are inviting ourselves and others to enter that kingdom and receive it. When we gather on Sundays and sing together, we say a lot of things that can feel as crazy as Jingle Bells in May. And as we consider our own lives and the struggles and suffering we share, as well as the scope of pain around us in the lives of our neighbors, the stuff we proclaim about God and his kingdom can feel as foreign and sometimes as laughable. And yet we come, and we sing, and we help each other believe that what we are saying is somehow true.

In his book, Walk On, John Goldingay shares about his life with God through the journey of his wife’s battle with MS. In his chapter titled Calamity, he shares his thoughts on the book of Job. He writes: “What we may be able to infer is that calamities do have explanations, even if we do not know what they are, for there is another feature of the story of Job that delights me every time I think about it, not least because it establishes a similarity between Job and us. It is that Job himself never knows about chapters 1 and 2 of “his” book. So he goes through his pain the same way we do. And he illustrates how the fact that we do not know what might explain our suffering, what purpose God might have in it, does not constitute the slightest suggestion that the suffering has no explanation…I cannot imagine the story that makes it okay for God to have made Ann go through what she has been through. But I can imagine that there is such a story.”

I think that part of what we do when we gather for worship is remind ourselves that there is a story: a story bigger and greater than the leviathans in our families, our neighborhoods, our cities and our world. And we tell each other that this story, the one we rehearse week after week, is something that we can stake our lives on. Even if our chorus sounds as strange as Jingle Bells on Kenwood in May.

I am fairly accustomed to the feeling of being a spectacle here. The white woman pushing her two white babies around in a very large stroller contraption is bound to make some heads turn around here. Yesterday, a good friend and her dog came to visit for the afternoon and we took the kids for a long walk to the park and then on to Starbucks for an end-of-the-day treat. As we were walking, I noticed that every head in every car, as well as every person outside in front of their houses was staring openly at our entourage. There was a steady murmur as well of commentary as we would go past people’s properties.

I turned to Karla and told her that I was used to getting a fair amount of attention when I walk down the street, but parading through South Central with a 100+ pound Newfoundland tagging along was setting a new record.

It was great, actually, in the way that big dogs make people stop in their tracks and it is like they can’t stop themselves from talking to you. Zoe the Newfoundland was certainly an event on our streets yesterday, and I am certain that I will hear about her from my neighbors in the days to come. And when Mercy woke up late last night to use the potty one more time, the first words out of her mouth were: “Mommy, where’s Zoe?”

“But does it mean that everything—everything—that is in us can go on to the mountains?”

“Nothing, not even the best and noblest, can go on as it now is. Nothing, not even what is lowest and most bestial, will not be raised again if it submits to death.”

From C.S. Lewis, The Great Divorce

This morning I headed out the front door with children in tow, on our way to our friends’ house around the corner. Our cell group was meeting at 9am to help them pack and box their belongings in preparation for moving out of their home for six months during a remodel. My job for the morning would be to entertain the brood of children attached to the different families, releasing as many adults as possible to help pack.

As we came down the front steps, I realized that the remains of a dead bird were sitting in the middle of our walkway. I had noticed a neighborhood cat staked out on our front steps for most of last night, so it wasn’t altogether surprising. However, I did have some concern over who the bird might be: our precious Sam spends day and night in her little nest on the front porch, and she would be easy pickings for any cat who made his way up there. I see the cats all the time on the neighbor’s roof hunting pigeons, so my heart sank as I considered the possibility.

I told Mercy that it was “yucky” and that we needed to not walk close to it, and she followed my lead, gazing intently at the mysterious thing that mommy was so adamant about not touching. Not to be too graphic, but I honestly thought she might not be able to tell what it was because of its condition.

As we came down the second set of front steps and rounded the corner to head down the driveway to get the stroller, I noticed a clump of what looked like nest in the middle of the sidewalk. There was a little catch in my throat as I realized that my earlier fears were now actually the likelihood of what had happened. I honestly did not think Mercy would even see the piece of nest–it didn’t really stand out so much from the other dirt and twigs and such that litter the sidewalk there.

We made it about half-way down the driveway when all of a sudden Mercy stopped, planted both feet firmly and looked up at me with big eyes: “Mommy, I want to see Sam.”

Her face registered fear and her eyes seemed almost wet. I knew then that she had recognized what was outside our front door, and I was guessing that she had also seen and recognized the pieces of nest. I looked at her, and suddenly I had tears in my eyes: “I want to see Sam too,” I told her. “Let’s get in the stroller and we’ll go look for Sam in her nest.”

I got the kids into the stroller, and we wheeled quickly down the driveway. This time Mercy pointed out the nest for me and I told her that I had seen it and that yes, it was a nest. “I want to see Sam.” was all she would say.

We got to the front of the house, and I stopped the stroller and put on the brake. I stepped up into our front yard, and stood where I had a direct view up to our porch. At first I looked and thought that all I could see were the bulbs of the porch lights dangling, and my heart sank. I kept looking to be sure, and then I saw it: there was Sam’s nest, clear as day! It had looked just like a bulb which is why I hadn’t seen it at first.

“There she is, Mercy!” I exclaimed, loud enough I’m sure for the neighbors to hear. “She’s up there. That’s not her nest.”

We looked at each other, and it was like looking into a mirror: my daughter’s heart and mine beating again, reassured. I almost cried with relief.

I called Doug a little bit later to tell him the story and I told him that, as if there were any question of this, Mercy is definitely my daughter.

Our happy day birthday dinner with Doug (half-price appetizers at the Yard House, outdoor patio seating, good beer to enjoy–at least for Doug) ended with our car dying outside of Doug’s office where we had gone to let Mercy use the bathroom before heading home. Luckily we had both cars with us (and thank God for AAA Plus), but the whole thing still involved a significant amount of waiting, switching car-seats, and, by the end of the evening, two very overtired kids and two crabby parents. It wasn’t the birthday bliss that I had hoped for, to say the least.

My mood shifted at one point in the evening when I was standing next to Doug’s car (the functioning vehicle) at the gas station. We were waiting for the AAA guy who was running late, and I was holding Aaron perched on top of my pregnant belly while Mercy stood in between the two front seats, singing into the rear-view mirror using a little cross necklace as her microphone. The truck finally arrived and, while the AAA guy worked on hooking up the car, I noticed Doug walking toward the street. At some point, I realized that he was getting far enough back to capture the scene that we were with his cell phone camera. For some reason, that diffused the whole thing for me and I just started to laugh.

As a woman who has given birth twice in the last three years, birthdays are something I view now with a sense of renewed significance. This total miracle that that day is, the day when raw life is celebrated in all of its beauty and terror, should never be lost on us as we look toward those we love on their “happy days”.

Today is Doug’s birthday, a day when not one but TWO little Haub boys staked their claim on the planet, and I marvel at how that little miracle in some hospital room changed the course of my life. It is too little to say that I am grateful for the man who is my companion, lover and friend. It is too small a thing to say that I appreciate him. What I can say is that he is the only one I want by my side in this journey; the only partner I can imagine ever desiring.

When I called Doug at lunchtime to sing Happy Birthday to him with Mercy, he was wistful in remembering how three years ago I was showing up at his office to surprise him with a birthday getaway to Carpinteria for a romantic, beach front weekend. Picnics at dusk, seal-watching, and lots of surfing made for a perfect escape, and it was lying in the bed of our bed-n-breakfast watching a movie one night that Doug first felt our little Mercy kick. Times have changed a bit around here, and the extent of romance in the house this morning was a bowl of Honey Nut Cheerios in bed (which he mostly shared with his two hungry kiddos who thought it was very silly for Daddy to be eating his cereal in the bed). And I guess what I love is how much I love him in both of these very different seasons.

Happy Birthday, Doug. Voooooooooommmmmaaaaaaarrrrrrooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooooom!

Last night a young woman from our church came over to talk and hang out a bit. There were some things in my sermon on Sunday that had connected with her and her experience as a single woman, and it was great to hear her share her perspective on being single in our church. I love that when people approach you after a sermon or a lecture and ask to talk: it is great encouragement to take the dialogue from the pulpit to the living room.

At one point, I asked her to share in general about her experience of our church, and one of the strengths she named was this: “It’s never really comfortable…for anyone. There is enough of everyone represented in what we do and how we do it that you can never quite sit back and be comfortable with things being the way you would have them.”

I thought that was a great description, and I believe it means we are on the right track. Earlier in the conversation she had described how our church does a really good job of making people feel welcome. In so many discussions of how to be “sensitive” to those visiting the church, the thing I hear the most is about how to make visitors “comfortable.” I was struck by the fact that, for my friend, welcome and comfort were not equated. As I look at the gospels, I am pretty sure that Jesus would agree.

You know you are at a park in Pasadena when…

• your children are the only kids there not wearing Crocs.
• the primary athletic event is Ultimate Frisbee.
• between you and your husband, you know half the people playing frisbee.
• every other parent pushing their kid on the swings is on their cell phone.
• the parking lot could be mistaken for a Honda Odyssey showroom.

Husbands who say the words: “I’ll take both the kids to Ikea with me so that you can…” to the dead-tired pregnant woman mid-afternoon should be knighted (or should at least get a lot of foot rubs).

Being pregnant has some distinct advantages at the grocery store: the deli guy must have given me six pieces of meat to eat while he was slicing our turkey.

Grocery shopping can actually be almost relaxing without children (especially with a Starbucks latte in hand, thank you Jennifer!).

It seems that whenever I am scheduled to preach, there is inevitably a very loud party in close proximity to our house. Today was First Communion, so half of our neighborhood is that incredibly large party. Should be an interesting sermon tomorrow morning…

UPDATE: one crying infant and a grumpy worship-leader later, the party next-door seems to be settling down and my sermon is mostly finished.

About an hour ago, in the midst of our neighbor’s celebrations of their little girl’s religious rite of passage, there were a few rounds of gunfire exchanged at the end of our street, and a helicopter had the spot painted for some time. Jefferson was shut down and a large number of police and emergency vehicles could be seen. I am assuming at this point that someone was shot, but I don’t know anything more at this time.

Nope, there’s the music again…It’s going to be a late night.

[J]ustice is not necessarily “getting what you deserve.” This idea has crept perversely into our readings of Scripture, but it is Greco-Roman rather than biblical in origin.

Get-what-you-deserve justice includes two things: a goal of orderly equilibrium where everyone is in the place they deserve, and a strategy of maintaining balance by responding in kind. This Greco-Roman idea conflicts with the Christian conviction that our very existence is an undeserved gift from our creating God. And this strategy is incompatible with our Christian conviction that salvation is available because God refused to respond in kind (Romans 6:23). If creation and redemption are just acts of a just God, then the notion of justice as “just desserts” is incompatible with our faith.

From “Truth, Passion, and the Death Penalty.” by D. Brent Laytham in the March 2007 edition of Covenant Companion (via Tyler Watson).