I forgot to post this in September.

The world is heavy today. It's heavy often. I'm beginning to suspect that it will never get lighter, not truly. It feels heavy to me because I have looked into the face of injustice, because I know how far reaching the curse on this world is, because I feel called to shoulder the burden of my neighbor. 

When I was little, after both of parents had remarried and started struggling in their second marriages, I used to mourn the fact that there would never be a complete family portrait. Such a small request, such a normal thing was impossible. To gather people together long enough to take a photo was not possible. It was almost possible at my wedding and at my sister's wedding, but neither of us succeeded. Now that I'm an adult, I feel that grief but on a larger scale. The impossibility of all of the people I care about coming together, holding anything in common for even a moment is, for some reason, a heavy weight for me. 

I want the miracle of life to be enough to bring us together. I want to hear us all laugh at the joke that is hidden in the human experience and marvel at the sacred trapped in us all. I want to stay up late with the rest of the planet wondering at how small we all are and how we manage to move our own mountains. Just because we are all here and none of us "chose to be" and all of us are trying so hard to "do life right". Even though I know intimately the thousand complications that divide us, the history that holds our stories, and the selfishness that isolates us, I want so badly for existing to be enough to bring us back together as siblings on a small rock in a big universe.

I feel overdue for a check in. I know I’ve had some real highs and lows in the past couple weeks but nothing feels worth reporting.

I realize that I have spent the last year or so trying to come to terms with parts of myself that I don’t like. Maybe it’s just this final stretch of my twenties taking its toll. Maybe this year has hit me harder than I’m fully cognizant of. Regardless, I feel a new awareness of faults and flaws paired with a knowledge that they are not going anywhere quickly. So I sit here listening to Tracy Chapman while I try to decide if I can sort my personality and consciousness into categories.

I have to admit that the self love movement has been tainted by those who have hurt me and loved themselves too much to change or apologize. But I’m finally beginning to understand how much harder this life is when you don’t try to love, understand, and accept yourself. I’ve always sought validation from outside sources like school, church, work, and family despite never feeling much like a people-pleaser. Instead of trying to please everyone, I typically would find a person who I respected immensely or who I shared common values with and I’d try to extricate the feedback that I need from them.

Whether the feedback was that I needed to change, try harder, or give myself grace...I didn’t care. As long as the person was on my list of personally selected authorities, I’d bend or rest as they directed. It’s only now that I have accumulated a pile of folks who have steered me wrong or directed their lives away from my core values... only now that I’ve been asked for impossible leaps enough times that I recognize what could have been avoided if I wasn’t doubting my own worth. My doubt was a crack in a cup that I kept asking everyone else to fill. For years, I resented the folks who took advantage of that crack. For years, I hoped I’d finally be full enough of other people’s opinions that the crack would close under the weight of my competency and spiritual growth.

I know my cup won’t ever be perfect, but closing the crack of self doubt is made easier if you love yourself. But loving yourself without knowing yourself is cheap and temporary. I’m at the part of the journey where I can see mistakes that I’ve repeated in more than one relationship, ways I continually hurt people. The patterns are there and I have a couple of choices. My younger self would have run to church to try to prove that I could change. Or I might have found a reason in my upbringing for why I am the way I am and made a plan to overcome the flaw. My slightly older self would ask a trusted friend if it’s really that bad and likely been crushed if they were honest and distrustful if they told me what I wanted to hear. 

 This year, I’ve been sitting with my flaws a lot. Trying to argue less with them. Trying to listen. Trying to accept that they’ve been part of me for a long time now. Trying to imagine how Jesus might talk to me by remembering Zacchaeus, the thief, Mary, Martha, Peter, Tomas, Judas, Lazarus, Nicodemus, the Samaritan woman, the man born blind, the adulteress, the centurion, the children, the bleeding woman, the demon possessed and so many others. Each of those stories is rich with a different kind of love than I typically extend to myself.

God who comes near. God who sees all. God who forgives all. God who touches, carries, explains, heals, weeps, praises, teaches, welcomes, helps,  frees, feeds, and sits with us. Make me like you. Teach me to know myself like you know me. Teach me to love myself like you love me.

I've been writing a lot. But none of it feels presentable. It's difficult these days to focus. I've been reading up on human rights violations in ICE detention centers, losing faith in humanity, and then trying to find my way back to somewhere safe and stable. 

I've been thinking about the Old Testament question: "Am I my brother's keeper?" I've been reminded of the Jesus who picked up a whip to cleanse the temple. Somehow I missed the whip on my last meditation. God with a weapon. I've been comparing Jesus with a whip and Jesus in Gethsemane, trying to instruct my heart on the complexity of God on earth, God surrounded on all sides by injustice. God who defended the poor, the sinner, the unclean...but who didn't defend himself. And I've been thinking about how badly I want to be understood, how dangerous it feels for those in authority to misunderstand me, how I really should be looking to God to understand me and worrying less about other folks. How I shouldn't pick up a sword to defend myself, but the precedent is definitely there to fight injustice by cleansing the temple, defending the poor and oppressed wherever we find them.

There's a surprisingly large amount of overlap between being misunderstood and fighting for justice. I've been struggling to remember what I'm fighting for. My ego gets hurt and I retreat. Someone I'm close to advocates for complacency and I feel anger simmering in my skin. Sometimes, injustice happens to us and things muddle even further. Which Jesus am I supposed to emulate when I am attacked? Can I choose both? Am I choosing the Jesus in the garden because I'm afraid of standing up for myself and suffering seems holier? Am I choosing Jesus with a whip to fill my desire for vengeance? 

Vengeance is always what people, especially church people, will accuse you of when you seek justice. When I see Jesus with a whip, I don't see vengeance. I see a glimmer of what John will prophesy about in Revelation. I know that it must be possible to pick up the whip and seek justice without getting mixed up in self-righteousness, self-protection and vengeance. But the path is narrow and it is easy to fall off. 

I am, however, comforted by a God who disagreed frequently with Synagogue leaders, taking up a whip to defend those who came to the temple to find God. I am comforted by a God who enters his own temple as a stranger and is angered by the greed that taints worship, by the way access to God is restricted, by those who profit off of those who would draw near to God. I am comforted by a God who would defend the poor and unworthy worshiper so thoroughly. For once, there are no parables or teachings or prayers. No miracles--except that of an angry God cleaning house. For once, you cannot mistake him as buddha-serene, detached and aloof and whatever we think holiness is. God with us. God who sees us. God who loves the unworthy. God who defends those whose oppression is normalized, commercialized.

And I know there is more to this. I know I'm supposed to bring this full circle. God with a whip and God in the garden of Gethsemane, teach me the meaning of, "Am I my brother's keeper?" Teach me what the answer to that question is as I continue to learn about Black Lives Matter, the abuses of ICE, and all of the other weights the world has. For now, I think the answer to that question is, "Don't look away." So I'm looking. I'm learning. I will not close my eyes to the suffering of others just because it hurts. I will see the stranger as my brother.

Meditate

I’m learning what it means to meditate on something day and night. This past year has felt like good meditation. Like chewing. Like climbing inside a chrysalis. Like the type of act of faith that will either transform you or prove you the fool and rob you of any remaining faith.

It wasn't a comfortable start, but the longer I meditate the better it feels. Holding a Scripture in mind for days. Turning it over and over. Examining it. Wondering "Why these words?", "Why this emphasis, order, or phrase?" Comparing expectations with what I find. Chewing and chewing. Thinking about what I know of cultures that are closer to the those of the writers represented in the Bible. "What did this mean to them? What were their expectations? What was their reality?"

It's been good to meditate. To return to familiar Scriptures and interrogate them, chew on them, let them change me. It's been one of the most grounding things to return to these days. To know that God cares about the things tearing my city apart. To see that as my reality gets more complicated, Scripture keeps pace.

Good Samaritan

There are days when the world seems so cracked and battered that I do not know what the point of getting out of bed is. There are days when injustice and pain seem so total and complete that I feel guilty for the ease of my life. There are days when the success of evil people pulls me down like a weighted net. And I wonder if there could possibly be a "how" or a "why" meaningful enough to heal the world's wounds. I wonder if there is a "when" imminent enough that it would save anyone.

How is it that grieving human suffering has become political? How is that nurturing human life has become political? I hear folks talking. They want people to "deserve" dignity and nurture and success. But if they don't, then I don't. And I cannot make more sense of it than that. I want people to share my grief so I share theirs. I want people to work towards a world where we all can succeed, so I work for and celebrate everyone's success. But mostly, and I cannot stress this enough, I believe people. I do not question their tears, their worth or their stories. The few times that I have needed people to believe me and they failed to, have stayed with me as deeply impactful moments that have illustrated how much we all need each other. 

 It's a popular thought in today's society to "move somewhere out in the woods and become self sufficient". The mindset behind that bothers me. And I wonder if it isn't more meaningful for us to take care of our neighbors, to allow ourselves to be taken care of by our neighbors. And for our neighbors to include everyone. People will let you down. You will also let people down. AND, you will let yourself down. There is no protection, no armor, no strength, no independence, and no self-sufficiency so total that you won't get hurt. Every time we remove ourselves from society to "live off the grid" we weaken the community that we could be a part of, and we remove ourselves both from being able to help others heal and for others to help us. So many healers, peacemakers, and bridge-builders are sitting on the bench hoarding their gifts and talents and impoverishing the world out of self-preservation or a distaste for the political. It makes me want to weep especially on the days that injustice feels particularly heavy.

Thinking about "going off grid" or more accurately people's desire to withdraw from human community, I always come back to the story of the good Samaritan. It's on the list of stories that keep me up at night. Jesus telling this man (this expert in the law) who has kept all of the commandments to love his neighbor as himself. This man (maybe earnestly or maybe not) asking who exactly is his neighbor. I suspect that he thinks he already loves his neighbors. Maybe he's expecting some guidelines like you might find in the Talmud about how many steps from your door someone has to be in order to be an official neighbor. I don't know. But I wish I did. I wish I could see inside this man's mind.

I also wish I knew why Jesus responds with a story that puts the audience in the position of identifying with the man who gets mugged and left for dead. It feels like the man asking, most churches, and myself would be much more likely to identify with the helper who comes to show kindness. But we aren't allowed that. We are the man left for dead. And our neighbor is not the local rabbi or the priest. Presumably they say a prayer and keep walking. (Like I do in so many situations.) They are also not the helpers, the neighbor. 

The Samaritan who will definitely not receive anything for helping. The Samaritan who definitely doesn't know the man from church, work, or anywhere else, decides to help. The Samaritan who could probably be blamed for this man's injuries if the wrong Jew finds them together. He is the neighbor. Jesus could be describing an undocumented Mexican immigrant helping an abused and half dead dude in a MAGA hat with a striking likeness to our President and this story would not be any less shocking or challenging for the man who asked "who is my neighbor". And the Samaritan man doesn't just help him out of the ditch. The Samaritan performs emergency first aid, brings him to a hotel, and pays for all of the medical and food bills. He never asks for anything. Actually putting himself at risk in the process. Maybe the Samaritan knew what it was like to be the kind of human people would prefer not to see on their commute. Maybe the Samaritan thought "if I don't help him, who will?" Maybe the Samaritan had been practicing compassion like the spiritual discipline that it is.

Jesus asks, "who was the beaten man's neighbor?" And the expert in the law doesn't have the guts to say "the Samaritan" (and I think that's intentional evasion) so he says "the one who had compassion on him." Jesus doesn't miss a beat, "go and do likewise." Jesus, telling this successful, presumably righteous, expert in the law to be like the Samaritan has got to be the biggest slap in the face that the man has ever experienced. I don't think there's a more impactful way to say that everyone, yes everyone, on this planet is your neighbor. Help them heal. Pay the bill. Don't complain about it. Don't seek compensation. Love your neighbor like you love yourself. Share the risk of being human. Be like the Samaritan. Be kind to Samaritans. Don't just be kind to your neighbors, be neighborly to everyone.

It's a difficult interpretation. When you begin looking at the whole world with each individual as your neighbor, the sheer number of folks bleeding in a proverbial ditch that you are responsible for can overwhelm you. This challenges American individualism head on. But the Bible wasn't written by Americans or for Americans. It's not meant to validate our country or our culture. It's meant to show all of humanity the Kingdom of Heaven. Where it challenges our cultural ideals, we should pause, have humility and meditate. Return to the words again and again. 

I know I do. The violence in my city, the way selfish people want to control the narrative, and the coldness of those who I thought were committed to loving their neighbor has driven me to a deeper meditation of Scripture than anything else ever has. And I'm not done yet.

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.