Persist

I read about the Persistent Widow in the Bible and all I can think about is how I never want to be like her. To need justice from an unjust judge. To know that they have no interest in justice. To have no other recourse but to ask the judge again and again. It’s a story of persistence, yes, but also of powerlessness. Of water wearing down a stone. Of patience born not so much out of spirituality but out of necessity.

In the end the judge says to himself, “Even though I don’t fear God or care what people think, yet because this widow keeps bothering me, I will see that she gets justice, so that she won’t eventually come and attack me!” I see the promise here even though I don’t want it. She didn’t win by having the best moral argument or by having popular opinion on her side. Neither strength nor intelligence gave her power. She won because the judge was afraid he would never be rid of her and that she would eventually attack him. There are so many reasons why I feel dis-ease when I read this. First and foremost is the fact that I want to win the judge over with my words, my rightness, my cleverness. But I cannot argue him into fearing God and doing what is right. Such is the world. So many times I have asked for justice and what I wanted was the power to explain and defend myself. But that isn’t the promise. The promise is that if you show up with persistence, the unjust will relent. Not “they will know better” and not that they will be any less corrupt.

And I wonder how I'm supposed to apply that now, today. If you’re outside of Portland (and the other cities protesting vigorously), you might not know how active many churches have been in these protests. If you go to an all white church, you might be surprised that other churches view this fight as their own. If you are able to look at this issue from far away, you might not see that some churches seem to unanimously support BLM and others see it as a source of division while still others unanimously condemn the movement. When it’s your family, coworkers, pastor, or friends who might not come home after a traffic ticket, this fight feels different. It's not just the names of the dead that you want to remember and give justice to. It's also about the names of the living that you want to protect.

I know these issues are big and complicated and messy. You can get lost for days asking "how much violence is too much violence?", "would anyone listen and seek change if protesters asked in a nicer way?", and "what do people really expect to accomplish?" and so many more questions. But when I pray for my city, I ask that we be like the persistent widow who kept asking even though the judge was known to be corrupt and did not care what God or man thought of him. I ask that we show up for justice regularly in big ways and small ways. And I ask that no one has to attack the judge before he relents. I ask that part of the promise be that he will relent before violence is "necessary", but I also admit that I don't know how this is "supposed to go". What I do know is that the protests have been largely peaceful so far, but they don't have to stay that way.

I didn't expect to find that line in the Bible when this story started tickling my brain. I wanted the story to end with the judge understanding the value of justice but it ends with the judge just trying to save themselves from the threat of the persistent widow. None of the moralizing that I expected to find exists here. No extolling a good patient wait or extorting the virtues of gentleness, only a widow committed to her own need for justice and a judge who is moved by self-preservation. May it also be so here in my city with the judges, the legislators, the government officials, and the police. There certainly are enough widows in the streets these days. And may God grant peace in my heart as I continue to wrestle with this passage.

Mediator

My friend looks at me with compassionate concern. "I can see how you think that it's your role to mediate between these two people, but it might be better for you if you can think of someone else who would be willing."

And just like that my head is swimming. I have made a whole life on being the mediator and I never meant to. Do any of us ever mean to? Suddenly, I want to talk to other people who find themselves in mediator roles regularly. I want to know if the idea of finding someone else who is willing makes them want to cry/laugh too. I want to know if they were ever truthfully, perfectly willing...or if they were just less willing to let the alternative play out.

I am 29 years old. And I can honestly say that there has only ever been one time in which I volunteered to mediate out of a motivation not mixed with self-preservation despite mediating almost all of my life. That one time happened just this year, a couple of months ago. The success of it still feels new and fresh.

When I mediate, I enter a space inside of myself where I've made room to try to look at a situation from every angle. It's a space where my own needs don't mean very much, where logic only matters to the degree and in the way that the two people in disagreement are using it, and where I take a very hard look at where a step together in the same direction might be possible. It's a ruthless place that doesn't have room for considerations that are ideal but not immediately possible or for imagining what could have been. It's a cold room full of scalpels used to piece apart want from need, vengeance from justice, guilt from regret and so on. Until all of the weapons have been sorted from the armor. Until all of the the crooked paths are un-knotted. Until all that remains is misunderstanding and the next step to lessening the void.

This room inside of myself is helpful when trying to build bridges between two people. But when I myself am in conflict with someone, I find myself running back and forth between my experience and this room. Attempting objectivity. Naming the obstacles between myself and the Other. Returning to my memories to feel around again for clues to where it hurts and why that might be. Back to the room and the scalpels and empathizing with the Other. Scattering tools between one place and another. Locking myself in or out of wherever I think I need to be. Trying to build a bridge or find a path or craft a metaphor that contributes to understanding. It's exhausting. I get lost. I get it wrong. I get hurt. People get hurt.

My friend was being a good friend and she was right to ask if there was someone else. But all I could think was "Are any of us Mediators here by choice?" Were any of us gifted the tools for bridge building because we were the best communicators, the most objective, the most skilled negotiator, or the best qualified by any metric? Weren't we just in the right place at the wrong time? Aren't we all just people who are broken by our love for things and people who can't occupy the same space, people too stubborn to give up? Don't we become mediators by trying to knit ourselves, our homes, our realities back together? Until this year, every bridge I've ever tried to build was also an effort to bring a distant piece of myself safely across the river, safely home. I didn't choose the tools or the trade. I only stretched my hands out for anything I could hold onto in the opposite direction of complacency and oblivion. I chose "not destruction" and found myself here making bridges, fighting for reconciliation.

And I guess that's the difference between an adult and a child. As an adult, I can find other ways of protecting myself. I don't need to mediate to survive. I can leave any situation. In that way, my skills are a gift I can give or withhold like any other gift. It is good to remember that. It is good to remember that I am not obligated to try to heal every wound. It gives more meaning to the times when I choose to do so. It's also good to thank the child who chose mediation over complacency when none of the choices seemed very good. I'm proud of the person I was trying to be back then and of the choices my younger self made.

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.