The Margins

Earth’s crammed with heaven, And every common bush afire with God; But only he who sees, takes off his shoes - The rest sit round it and pluck blackberries.

Elizabeth Barrett Browning  (via Dick Staub)

Aaron walked up to me today with his blue blanket draped over one arm and I told him he looked like Jesus. So we started playing that I was a woman with a sick child in need of healing, and I pleaded repeatedly with Aaron/Jesus to come and heal my baby. Aaron got really self-conscious and embarrassed in much the same way as when he met Cinderella, refusing to make eye contact with me while a silly grin tugged at the corners of his mouth.

After a few minutes of my pleading, Mercy could no longer stand it and ran over to where her white blanket was and, quickly draping it over her shoulder, walked over to where I sat kneeling before her brother. I turned to Mercy/Jesus and made my same request, and she quickly responded that yes, she would come and heal my baby. I brought her over to where Elijah was lying on the floor, and she gently bent over him and laid her hand on his forehead and said firmly: “Be healed.”

I looked up at her and began to thank her and praise God for my baby’s healing. She looked down at me and asked: “What’s my prize?”

In the span of just over a week, our family will celebrate my birthday, Elijah will turn one, my sister’s new baby’s will be born, and Mercy will turn four. It is a bit of a marathon, really, but what a reminder of how very much I have to be thankful for.

I am heading out in a few minutes for a night of celebrating with dear girlfriends, and I am wearing make-up, cute shoes and jewelry. Doug gave me dresses and a marvelous gift card for four spa massages. Wow. And our sweet cell group celebrated me last night with gifts and cake and a family-friendly party. Sweet.

Tonight life feels very, very good.

A young man was killed in our neighborhood last week. He was a USC film student who had some sort of altercation on the street while walking with friends late at night near campus. There was a fight, he was stabbed, and he died. Everything about the situation is tragic, and while USC can feel like an isolated world within our community, we certainly join his family and friends and the broader campus community in grief and sorrow over the loss of a bright young life.

I had known something must have happened due to the large number of helicopters which hovered nearby for so many hours that first morning after the incident occurred. And sure enough, it was the leading news story on every station throughout the day. My route home from Mercy’s preschool takes me directly past where the killing took place, and there were news trucks still stationed there the day after the tragedy was so widely reported.

As I watched the news coverage share footage from the candlelight vigil the night after his murder; as I heard friends share their love for this young man and their sorrow at losing him; as I listened to reporters tell the story of this young man’s life and accomplishments, I was struck by how much this extensive news coverage stood in contrast to the silence that typically hovers over the murders that happen in our hood.

When Carlos died on our corner four years ago today, there were no helicopters. When we held our vigil of remembrance and prayer, no footage was looped on any network. It is hard not to feel as if some lives really matter more; it is difficult to not conclude that some people are simply expected to die.

Just last week I came across a deeply disturbing article tracing a serial killer’s years of murder in our community, and the comprehensive political silence which accompanied his crimes. Because he is killing young black women, mostly prostitutes, not even the families of the dead girls were informed that their loved ones died at the hands of a serial killer.

“It doesn’t take a scientist to figure it out,” she says. But when LAPD detectives paid Peters a visit, they didn’t come clean with her. The city’s failure to involve the families, she believes, stems from the fact that “they are poor little black girls.”

A deeply frustrated Porter Alexander, who learned from this newspaper that his daughter Monique’s death in 1988 was the work of the Grim Sleeper, says, “We should have some awareness that it is going on again. Nobody came to us…”

The Weekly attempted to reach elected city officials and top Villaraigosa political appointees, but many were out of town, attending the Democratic National Convention, including the mayor, City Council President Eric Garcetti and Police Commission Vice President John Mack. Spokeswoman Eva Vega said Mack couldn’t weigh in on the Grim Sleeper case. “He doesn’t have the time,” she said. “He’s too busy right now.” The Weekly got a nearly identical response from Bratton’s office.

Such responses from City Hall feed the view held by Laverne Peters, that if 11 troubled young women had been killed in Westwood or Mount Washington by a single nut case operating over 23 years, it would be big news at City Hall. Instead, “It is almost hush-hush. … [The authorities] act like the parents of those kids don’t exist.”

Since the publication of the article quoted above, a reward has been issued for help in solving this case.

As I drove up Western Avenue the other night after a later Target run, I saw the alleys and dumpsters where these women’s bodies have been left. I thought of our own good friend who used to work as a prostitute in this very area. And once again I was struck by whose deaths warrants outrage; whose murders feel like loss; whose lives feel invisible and disposable.

Sunday after church we headed to a nearby restaurant to grab lunch with our good friends. As we arrived and found street parking, I sent Doug and the baby and Mercy to go in and grab us a table while I changed Aaron’s drinking-fountain-soaked shirt in the back of the van. I had barely finished unbuttoning Aaron when I heard some dreadful hacking and gagging and looked up to see Doug rapidly approaching the van holding Elijah at arm’s length.

I got Aaron’s shirt changed and sent him with Doug and Mercy instead and arranged the stinky baby on the folded seat in the back of the van. As I started to take off his clothes, I quickly realized that the job was going to be a bit more, how shall I say, comprehensive than was at first apparent. Half a pouch of wipes and a naked (and finally clean) baby cavorting in the back seat later, I was sufficiently grossed out and exhausted from the delicate wrangling a change-job like that requires in the less than ideal environment of the back seat of a Toyota Sienna.

I do have to say that my little Elijah was quite endearing throughout the whole mess. He kept looking up at me with big eyes and saying “uh oh…”

Yes, Elijah, that was an understatement.

Oh, and I was totally amused because there were no trash cans anywhere on the street and the only thing I could find in the van to stash the poop mess in was a large envelope filled with cheesy church marketing stuff that had been sent to our pastor at our home address. I emptied the envelope of its shiny brochures and sealed up my mess and laughed a bit at the object lesson.

Then it hit me that stewardship is like sobriety: it’s a day-by-day decision to trust God. The alcoholic lets the conditions around him/her determine drinking: got fired? drink. Got a raise? drink. Feeling blue? drink. Feeling happy? drink. Bored? Yes, drink. Exhausted? drink. Sobriety is a choice a person makes for right now and today. Today I will not drink. Today I will not get drunk. Today with God’s help I will be sober. I have so many recovering friends who have taught me so much good theology in AA.

Stewardship works the same way. For those prone to not give, to not be generous, everything is a reason to not give. Got a raise? hold on to it. Got fired? hold on to what you have. Like the church? hold on to it. Dislike the sermon/music/youth program/etc. hold your money back till they perform better. If the markets are uncertain? better not give till things even out. If the markets are performing? Hold on to your money till they top out.

From Don Johnson

I came across a post on a friend’s blog this week that I deeply appreciated. It reminded me a teaching series I did once where I shared the experience of having my assumptions, based on scripture of course, challenged by someone who suggested that maybe Jesus’ return would not match my expectations and imagination, in much the same way that his birth and ministry did not match the expectations, again based on scripture, of his followers at that time. I have always been haunted by that challenge; haunted in a good way, I think.

Grace’s post expresses how I have felt challenged by this so, so well:

The people in Jesus’ time were convinced that the kingdom Jesus spoke of would be an overthrow of existing powers in their day. They believed the man riding into town on the donkey would be their Dread Champion. And He was and is, but not in the way they expected.

Likewise, the people of today are convinced that the kingdom of God will be an overthrow of existing powers. They believe that the man riding through the clouds on the white horse will be their Dread Champion. And He is and will be, but maybe not in the way they are expecting.

Apocolyptic language typically sounds violent and tyrannical, especially to the ears of those who believe they might be potential targets of this spiritual army. The people who consider themselves part of the army communicate an imperialistic vision of overthrow and theocratic authoritarian power.

Surely Jesus Christ is and will be Lord over all. Yet we can see throughout scripture that His is an alternative kingdom, a kingdom of love, restoration, and wholeness. An upside down kingdom where the poor, the marginalized, the broken, and children are welcomed and valued; yet entrance is difficult for the powerful, religious, or wealthy…

The references to Jesus’ domination and power over his enemies refer to the defeat of darkness, evil, poverty, and pain. The lost are not Christ’s enemies. So often the wrath of God, His hatred of sin, is communicated as hatred of the lost. But scripture tells us otherwise, that God loves us while we are still sinners.

I have a blogging friend I really appreciate who posts periodically about her mishaps in negotiating parenting kids in school: things like forgetting picture day or failing to order the needed school supplies. I have always read these posts and smiled but not related, until now. Mercy started preschool two weeks ago, and I feel like I am the new kid in class who doesn’t know where to hang my coat or how to sing the opening song.

We started her two weeks into the school year, so all the kids had already brought in all of the supplies needed for the classrooms. Mercy’s teacher gave me a different list of a few general things they still needed, and it has been like a comedy of errors trying to purchase what at first seemed like a harmless little list of supplies. I don’t shop in general, and I have been to Target three times this past week which is remarkable for me, and I still don’t have everything. I am supposed to get little people figures, but everything in the stores is either Disney princesses or Batman figurines or Bratz dolls. Where do you buy regular little people figurines???

Today I dropped Mercy off in a cute little plaid dress in place of her uniform and we carried a little plate of apple tarts I made late last night. It was “Multiculture Day” and we did our best to work with our small amount of Irish heritage and come up with food and clothing that could represent this somehow. As we stepped out of the van and started walking toward the classroom building, my friend whose daughter also attends came running over: “It was yesterday!” she said, apologetically.

Apparently, she had heard the information incorrectly about when the day was and she had been the one to communicate with me since she had picked Mercy up on Monday. So our two little slightly Irish girls stood out a bit more today, and both of their classes had a little extra snack to eat. Oh well…

Transition is in the air.

Mercy started preschool this past week at a little Catholic school a few blocks away. The nuns are delightful and Mercy seems to be enjoying her experience very much.

Elijah has started walking and talking. And at his physical yesterday, he weighed in at a not-so-modest twenty-seven pounds. My mom is pretty sure she knows three year olds who don’t weigh that much.

Our pastor announced his resignation on Sunday during our worship service. This is the first event of many in a string of changes for our faith community.

My sister’s son, born the first year we lived here in L.A., is now in kindergarten at one of the new schools in our community. He is learning in both English and Spanish.

My sister and her husband will welcome their third baby into the world in two weeks.

Our Adventures Ahead tutoring program will expand this fall to include tutoring for junior high ages. The kids who filled our overflowing kindergarten class my first year as the director are those who will benefit from this expansion in the next few years.

My sister and her husband are preparing for his shift to full-time work with Redeemer Community Partnership. My brother-in-law has always been the driving force behind our community organizing efforts and I can’t wait to see him released to work full-time on behalf of our community.

We focus a lot on the adjectives. We want to be special, unique…We take those markers of specialization and turn them into entirely different entities. Grammatically speaking, we take adjectives and turn them into nouns. In politics, conservative and liberal used to describe a person’s beliefs, but now these terms stand for the person themselves. When I hear people say, “He’s a liberal,” I want to ask, “He’s a liberal what?” Or, “She’s a conservative.” She’s a conservative what? A conservative cook? A conservative Zanzibarbari?

Our grammatical tendency to build dividing walls has seeped into the Church too. We don’t have mainline Christians and evangelical Christians, we have mainliners and evangelicals. Instead of focusing on the commonality we share with others, we emphasize our differences, making the differences our whole identities rather than just aspects of who we are.

From Tyler Watson