Portland Jesus

"Unrest" is how we characterize these days. A pandemic. An ongoing protest against police brutality. And the thousand myriad interpretations of what is really going on. It's amazing how the 2-3 city blocks which house the protests and destruction by both protesters and law enforcement have been made to look like the whole city is under siege and in flames. But we are Portlanders. We are used to rearranging our commutes around parades, naked bicycle rides, and protests. Living here has taught me just how many good causes there are to champion and how gathering to protest is in itself a healing form of self-expression and community expression.

These last two months have been the most heated protests I remember. More so than Occupy Portland or the anti-Trump gatherings. More so than previous BLM gatherings. And for good reason. My city loves a good protest. And, contrary to the expectations I brought when I moved here, protesters are organized beyond measure. There are folks who show up just to interrupt violence before it happens and folks who come strictly as legal advisors or medics. Other folks take on education or play music. It's not a mob. Mainstream media will show you the fires and the anger, but they'll never show you the care and consideration. The people who create cash accounts for the small businesses damaged. The small businesses who show up to the protest even after their windows are broken. The folks who show up the day after to clean up trash, glass, and tear gas canisters (hint, it's not the police). The folks in vehicles on call to take injured protesters to emergency rooms. The folks who provide instruction and advice on "how much protest" you want to participate in and what to do if things escalate quickly. The folks who stay home and pray and those who show up just to hand out water and snacks. And I wish people who don't live here saw that side of Portland, that side of the protest. It's why I'm not afraid of what is happening "down town".  It's why calling it a "riot" never seems accurate.

I haven't found my role yet. This is something I feel guilty about. But in these last two months I keep trying to imagine Jesus in different places around Portland... in the churches, in the streets, on the police force, in the crowd getting gassed, healing the broken, comforting the family of those killed by police officers. And I know he supported racial outcasts like Samaritans and social outcasts like tax collectors, thieves, and divorcees. I know that his few times on record as angry had him withering fig trees and throwing tables in the temple (presumably because profit had interfered with the value of people and their access to God). So maybe Jesus would like a good protest too. I know that he never had political ambitions but that that didn't stop the pharisees from seeing him and his followers as a political threat. I know that the way he listened to and treated women, Samaritans, Roman Gentiles, the disabled, orphans, thieves, and the unclean upended the social order of his day, but that he valued those people over keeping that status quo and a false peace. I know that Jesus warned us about trusting those who speak about peace when there is no peace.

And I know that the Jesus I was told to be like has conveniently been wiped clean of all of those difficult facts and more difficult emotions. I'm supposed to resemble the oil paintings of Jesus in the garden, suffering for the world but doing nothing more than kneeling in prayer as I prioritize spirituality over our present circumstances, a beatific smile on my face. But I also know the words to the book of James like the back of my hand. From beginning to end it is a challenge to do something. To put faith to deeds. To not show favoritism. To be wary of teaching because you will judged. To pay those who labor for you fairly so that the wages don't cry out against you and consume you. It's a book that makes me want to flip tables. I like to think that James was the half-brother who understood Jesus best as a whole, divine person.

Truthfully, I don't know where Jesus would be in Portland. But I also don't know where he wouldn't be.

I can’t be sure where we’d find Jesus were he in my city today. But I do know that he always affirmed the value of those who had no power, whether they were born blind or caught in the act of adultery. When he was criticized for eating with tax collectors and sinners, Jesus’s only defense was that "the healthy don’t need a doctor". And I know that statement wasn’t meant to endorse the righteousness of the pharisees and claim they weren't sick. I’m beginning to suspect it was meant to criticize them for their own reluctance to eat with tax collectors and sinners.

So when I look for Jesus, I look for him among the sick who know they are sick. I look for him among those seeking medicine, seeking change, seeking justice. I don’t know what he would be doing for sure. Maybe he’d be chanting, “no justice, no peace” with my city. Maybe not. But he certainly would eat with the least of us. He would heal the most broken. And he would affirm the image of God in everyone, but especially in those who political and church leaders have forgotten or excluded.

Today I feel strong. I haven't felt strength in a long time--not in body, mind or spirit--so I know that I should give thanks.

I thank my body or not quitting on me when my will exceeded my physical limits.
I thank my mind for looking into the darkness without losing the light of the twin lamps of reason and compassion.
I thank my spirit for drawing me forward when my body and mind were unbalanced and unwell.

And I thank my Creator God for making us in so many parts so that each may look after the others. I give thanks for work that wears out the body and brings sleep when the mind would worry and worry. And I give thanks that weakness does not always persist and that suffering is not an end to itself. I am thankful to be strong when strength is not promised to any of us. And I ask for wisdom for how to use this strength. May it not bless only myself.

When my father came to visit for a month but gave me less than 5 hours and lunch on his way between my sisters and his girlfriend, I didn't argue. And when he asked if I was disappointed, I didn't answer his question. All I said was that I understood. Because I knew that he wasn't asking for advice, he was asking for permission or forgiveness. And I did understand. And I did both permit and forgive.

I wondered later if I was supposed to feel something more than disappointment hedged in with resignation. I have been alive for 29 years and 138 days. Not once in all of those days has my father ever learned to enjoy doing something he doesn't want to. At least not for me. I am the oldest daughter, the confidante. The oldest, boldest one that he knows never lies and never leaves anything important unsaid no matter how many times he wished I would. So he doesn't lie to me either even though sometimes I've wished he would. He doesn't think the truth ever hurts me. In his case, it seldom does anymore. And so, He has never been surprised by how much he enjoyed something despite having reservations about it and I do not ask for what my father does not want to give. If he wants to leave, there is no point in being hurt that he does not want to stay.

When I was younger, I sifted through my memories trying to figure out how it seemed that my father could both love me and not love me at the same time. My father does not have the sacrificial love often attributed to parents. I wish there was a different word for his type of love because then it would make sense when I say, "my father loves me but he doesn't love me like that." Now that I am nearly 30, I do not ask for sacrificial love. I only ask for what my father wants to give. The only sacrifice he's ever made was agreeing to stay a father when he did not want or expect to be one.

In the end, it is most accurate to say, "my father loves me, but he will never love me more than himself." He will never give something that hurts him. I can trust this. So I feel disappointment when spending time with me is a sacrifice he's not able to give. And I feel frustration that things couldn't be different. But I feel neither anger nor a will to ask for something more. I have had 3 decades to learn how to read the weather of this man and it never goes well to ask for more than he is willing to give. His ability to self sabotage and make everyone miserable testifies to the strength of his subconscious and his selfishness. And no matter how little or how much he loves me, he will never love me more than himself. And on the days that he does not love me well, I accept that this is because he does not love himself enough to also love me.

I don't know if this is the way a daughter is supposed to feel about her father. But I don't think that's the point. Can you change the moon? Can you postpone the weather? No. You dress accordingly and do not ask for what is not freely given.

My heart is heavy and my body is tired. Federal forces refuse to leave Portland. I'm not normally given to political conspiracies, but this unnerves me. The blatant lies by mainstream media (Fox News, I'm looking at you), the excessive force, the military flex by the President all make me feel like only bad things can follow. I think Portland could be occupied by federal forces and there is a surprisingly large number of family members who would believe the news channels saying that it is necessary to protect us from the anarchists over my own experience of living here.

I love my city. I choose to live here. I have learned so much from the people struggling to build a better Portland over the history of white supremacy, hate, and mistrust that have for so long been the underpinnings. This is the city where I met and image of God that I could relate to. Where my conservative family sees a godless and lawless place, I see a stream in the desert. Prosperity doesn't puff up and insulate churches here. Pastors have to preach knowing that the eyes of the oppressed, the poor, the widow, and the orphan are on them at all times.

I don't know what I'm trying to say this morning. I guess, just that I love this city and I fear for this city. I'm praying about my role in the coming days because I have a deep sense of dread and a need to do something to support the flame of justice. I want to be a peacemaker, a bridge builder. But false prophets come claiming peace where there is no peace, and act as though peace is a fabric you can drape over conflict instead of a structure you build from the ground up.

At some point I realized that I did not want the relationship with my body that my mother had with hers. Nor did I want the relationship with bodies in general that my dad had. This fear of fat. This shame. This disgust. This drive to dominate your own body. To think a body without the evidence of discipline was unworthy, unlovable.

I don't know exactly when, but I started speaking to my body. It was somewhere between finding that certain foods made me sick and beginning to do capoeira with very nearly no experience with organized exercise. When food makes you sick and brings pain instead of energy and health, you lose a support that so many people take for granted. It was like not being able to trust the atmosphere of this planet. My food problems intensify if I don't deal with my stress and just pack it away. My body was telling me that I was not being thoughtful or kind to myself. So. At 19 I needed to confront my trauma and my stress if I was going to be able to eat.

I asked everyone I knew what they do with their stress. No one in my life had anything helpful to say. No one. Many people wished me luck. And nearly everyone asked me to let them know when I find the answer. I was a brand new adult born into a world with no functioning role-models for the only thing I needed to know at that time in my life. And somehow that led me to talking to my body. I remember lying in bed one morning and asking my body if today was going to be a good day. There was a lot to do and I wanted to know if we were going to be able to do it together. It probably sounds silly. But that was a turning point.

Since then, I have apologized on the days when I know I have taken on more than I should and for the grief that weighs both body and spirit down but has to be experienced. I have asked my body to forgive me when it hurts because I ignored my limits. I have thanked it for being a good home and thanked it for keeping my mind and spirit safe. And I have come to realize that all of this is important. Not because talking to your body changes very much. But it does is make space for gratitude, regret and forgiveness. For a relationship with yourself based on wholeness and respect.

I'm a person who tends to live in my head. I don't feel particularly good or bad about how I look, what I weigh, or what beauty standards are out there. I tend to be aware of my body only as it relates to how I communicate and am received. Like how being tall can make it difficult to talk to men who are sensitive about being short. Or how being thin means people will assume that you are healthy even in a doctor's office for a visit about how you get horrible, burning pain whenever you eat anything. I have had weeks upon weeks in which I have only given enough thought to my body to make sure I am wearing clothes and showered which is to say, entirely on autopilot with almost no thought at all.

But when I talk to my body, I think about what I need differently. It helps me respect and accept my limitations instead of pushing to burnout. It helps me be on my own team instead of always waiting for positive feedback from the people around me to determine my course.

This is a funny week to wrote this. I work a very physical job and have gone immediately from work to our new house to sand floors every day until 10pm or later. “Burning the candle at both ends” has never felt more apt and I am the candle. But I found myself asking my body, “do we have one more day in us?” and waiting for the answer. That’s a kind of success that doesn’t get celebrated often enough.