a new look at homelessness (lenten reflection)

I teach high school.  We are a very service-oriented high school, too.  We prepare food for the homeless, clean up and repair buildings, and so on.  We support Adopt-A-Family.  My students know about homeless, and so do I.

So imagine my surprise when I began our devotions last week from a book for teachers that gives a devotion for each period during Lent, only to realize that I myself had been homeless.

No, I never lost my house.  I never had to beg for money on the streets.  God has been supremely gracious to me, because it easily could have ended up like that for my family and me after my husband died.  Instead, he brought my sister to dare me to go back to school.  I did, got my degree, began teaching, and was in the middle of my first year when my husband died.

What I realized this week was that I was "homeless" in that I moved and had no home.  Home was Bakersfield, as I've mentioned earlier.  In Tucson, I knew nobody, had no idea of where the good places to live, eat, buy clothes, go shopping, or find fun things to do were.  At that time, I was not a person who reached out easily, and so I didn't make friends and spent my first few years in solitude.

What a blessing it would have been had someone reached out!  When from time to time someone spoke words of encouragement to me, took me to coffee, or just reached out a hand in friendship, it was as if morning was dawning in a cold dreary night.

This is the lesson that my students and I learned this week.  God asks you to comfort those who are without comfort, care for your brothers and sisters, and minister to those in need.  You don't have to look in soup kitchens or on skid row for them; they're right here--in the workplace, in school, in your own neighborhood.

Have you noticed that new face at work?  Have you heard about the young mother whose husband just shipped out?  Did you get the news about the elderly lady whose husband just died?  Those people are your Lenten sacrifice--speak to them, offer them a hand of welcome, fix them a dinner, offer to babysit. You'll be amazed at how good it makes you feel.

The Church of the Open Door

They’ll know we are Christians by our love.

The words to the old song ring in my ears as I look at the white clapboard church, doors tightly shut against me.  My friends had warned me that this would happen—“They won’t understand.  They won’t try to understand.  They’ll just judge.”  I didn’t believe them.  How could it be? 

And yet, here it was.  I had come in seeking shelter, and I was summarily cast out.  Churches today expect a full record of your life if they don’t know you.  They want everything—birth records, marriage documents, reports of any known lifestyle defects and evidence that those defects have been taken care of.  “The church is not your nanny,” they are fond of saying.  This is a place for the Righteous to come and be safe, protected from the hideousness that exists outside.  I didn’t make it past the first step—the documents check.  Though I tried to explain that what happened wasn’t my fault, I was silenced and sent back outside.  Evidently I was one of the hideous mob and not welcome.

It wasn’t always like this, I’m told.  There are records of churches being welcoming sanctuaries where you could come and be safe.  In those days, churchgoers considered themselves sinners as well, and they welcomed one and all to come and worship.  I long for those days.  But that was before lifestyle changes led to disruption, science led to new visions of what man was capable of becoming, and morality gave way to “to each his own”.  The major churches banded together in defense of the unknown, and a new religion was born.  The view was that all redeemable men had been redeemed.  They felt that anyone who was not a member, anyone who was not in the fold, was incapable of redemption.  The operation of the church changed from one of welcoming redemption to one of guarded safety—we are inside, you are out.  You are not allowed in.

Most of the “unredeemed” didn’t care.  They had little use for religion, and there were plenty of other faiths out there anyway.  But for people like me, people who had found a Bible, read it, believed it, and wanted to be part of the Truth, seeing those temples in town was torture.  We thought that the truth was out there somewhere, and we wanted to find others who believed as we do.  As followers of Christ, we wanted to be accepted by our fellow Christians.

Why was I not accepted?  I am a clone.  I was created from cells of my older brother as a replacement for him.  Even after all these years, it still hurts to remember the disappointment in my parents’ faces when they realized that cells do not a replacement make.  He was athletic; I am a poet.  He was into cars; I am into books.  He was slim and ripped; I am heavy and…not.  After raising me to adulthood, my parents lost interest in me and turned me loose.  I had other brothers, after all, other clones who were more true to the son that they had lost.  I could easily be replaced.  So at sixteen, I was on my own.

I loved books, as I said.  I am a poet.  I found a Bible in the literature section of the library, and as I began to read, I first was attracted to Psalms.  I didn’t understand a lot of the language, but I loved the idea of a man who could come to his Father with anything—love, hate, despair—and know that he would be heard.  More than that, he would not be abandoned because of what he could or could not do.  So I read further.  So many varieties of literature!  At first, that was all I saw.  I don’t even remember when it began to dawn on me that maybe, just possibly, this could be a work of nonfiction.  The Old Testament spoke of wars, uprisings, races taking over other races, women and men born into infidelity and coming into a faith on their own, being led by this Jehovah…this God who seemed to love them in spite of their unworthiness.  The New Testament was devoted to the works and life of the Man from Galilee.  He was kind to all, Jews and Samaritans alike.  I was impressed by his actions, although it took a while for it to sink in.  The man in the second testament was sent by the God in the first testament—and he was God’s son.  In fact, if I understood the book correctly, he was God himself!  I wasn’t sure how that could be—that was one reason I wanted, no-- needed to get into one of those churches.  I had to understand!  But I was an outcast.

One day, I was reading the book of Genesis once again, when something struck me.  I reread the passage.  Why hadn’t I noticed it before?  God created Eve from Adam’s rib!  She wasn’t born; she was a clone!  She was created from Adam’s own body, just as I was created from my brother’s own cells!  And wasn’t Eve the mother of us all? In that way, couldn’t you say that we are all descended from clones?

I began to read the Bible again, in earnest.  I didn’t see another example of this, but I did see God himself go away from his own design from time to time.  He created warriors from skeletons.  He intervened personally into history.  He declared murder contrary to his own laws, yet he called a murderer—a man who killed his mistress’s husband—a man after his own heart!  It seemed that life following this God was anything but safe! 

As I continued to read and pray (I wasn’t sure what prayer was, but I read the prayer that was suggested by this Jesus and prayed it.  I also read the way he talked to his father, his God, and I also started doing that), the idea began to dawn on me:  why don’t I start a church of my own?  If I followed this Christ on the outside, maybe there were others who did as well!

So I found a building in good repair, made sure that there were no other tenants, and converted it to a small church.  I called it “The Church of the Open Door”, and I made sure that the door was indeed open.  It was open to all—clones, recipients of surgeries that the other Churches had declared ungodly, people who had fallen into sin and wanted to climb back out, even those who said that they weren’t interested in changing their ways, they were just interested in what this Bible of mine had to say.  Some of them came a few times, laughed at us, and left.  Others, though, kept coming back, month after month.  At first I spoke every month, but soon others asked to share the privilege.  We didn’t know much, but we all were studying the Book, and we all found something new to say.  It was a wonderful time.

One day, the strangest thing happened.  A man came who seemed different from us.  For one thing, he was much better dressed.  This was obviously a man of society, unlike the rest of us on the outside.  He was from one of the closed churches, but he said that news had come to them of our meeting.  The others had ridiculed us, but something about our meeting kept nagging at him.  He had also been reading the Bible—he’d been doing his own reading, not the suggested verses that the Church said were appropriate for these latter days, but all the Bible, and he thought that our way was closer to the heart of God than his way.  He humbly asked if he could be a part of our communion.

I was surprised, and I was pleased.  However, some of my fellow churchmen weren’t in the same frame of mind as I was.  They wanted to keep him out.  He was a member of the churches that refused us entry, so why shouldn’t we refuse him?  But they left it up to me.  I prayed and sought God earnestly, and heard only, “All are welcome here.”  So this man, too, found welcome.

Today, our building is bursting at the seams.  There is a growing desire to know this Jesus, and people come from all over.  Other buildings are popping up as well.  We don’t call ourselves churches (that’s forbidden by law, anyway).  We call ourselves communities of believers.  All are welcome.  All.  No matter the problem, no matter your race, no matter your background, surgery, marital state or creed, you are welcome here.  We’ve decided that we don’t need to prohibit anyone—the Word itself draws those who it draws and repels all others.  We understand this, and we are content.

Coming home

I've lived in Tucson for about 7 years now,
And I feel that Tucson is home.

When I first moved here,
It was difficult.
Every time I wanted to go to a certain store,
I saw a road map in my head

I knew exactly how to get there
In Bakersfield.

When I wanted a certain book,
I knew exactly which bookcase held it
In Bakersfield.

Bakersfield restaurants,
Bakersfield friends,
Bakersfield memories ruled my mind,

Bakersfield was home,
And Tucson was uncharted territory.

As the years passed,
I found something strange happening.

Whenever I was in Bakersfield,
My road map was for Tucson,

But whenever I came home to Tucson,
My road map was for Bakersfield.

Bakersfield was home,
But so was Tucson.

The last time I came to Bakersfield
I was surprised.

I had no road map!
I couldn't remember how to get to favorite places,
And needed to stop and think about where things were.

Everything was changing around me.
Bakersfield was changing
And so was I.

Today, I have come to realize
That Bakersfield is no longer home.

Bakersfield is where I'm from,
And Tucson is home.

And I'm glad.
Not that I left Bakersfield,
But that I found Tucson.

There is much that I love in Bakersfield--
Friends, family, memories--
But Tucson is home.

children on the wall

It seems so foreign now
Silence, being alone.

I'm not complaining, mind you
It just seems strange.

Wasn't it just yesterday that little feet pattered down the hallway,
Little voices crying "Mommy, Daddy!"?

How did time pass so quickly?

I glance at the photos on the walls,
Frilly dresses,
Starched suits,
Awkward smiles frozen in time.

Why do we always go for formal solemnity
When what we remember is so different?

The neatly combed hair seems strange
On a boy who was always mussed.

Clean faces and hands peer out at me,
Daring me to remember them any other way.

Oh, but my darlings, I do!

I remember the mud-covered clothes and faces
Mud covering the floor as you fill the kitchen
Calling out, "Hungry, Mommy!"

I remember the scuffed shoes
Battered knees
Tears falling as you sob,
"Kiss, Mommy!
Make it better."

I did then,
And I wish I could now.

Games and toys and childish delight
Have made way
For jobs and families
And children of your own.

It's now your turn.

Your houses are family full
While mine is finally empty.

But don't weep for me, Angels.

I am content
Knowing that you have found love
And the cycle continues.

Yours is the mud, the hugs,
The tears and boo-boo kisses.

And while I wish you were here,
I'm so thankful that you're there--
With family that loves you.

God bless you my children
As you are blessed with children of your own.

Psalm 31:3--what I learned from a week of teaching

... tú eres mi roca y mi fortaleza,
        y por amor de tu nombre me conducirás y me guiarás.

I teach in a Catholic school, and every period opens with prayer or devotion.  Since I teach Spanish, the prayer/devotion is in that language.  Since my students are Spanish 2, I give the verse/prayer in Spanish and then enlarge upon it in English.  

So for a whole week, my students (I hope) and I concentrated on the above verse:  Psalm 31:3.  "... you are my rock and my fortress, and for love of your name, you will direct me and guide me." I wanted to share some of my devotions for that week.  Don't worry--the entire devotion could take no more than 5 minutes or so; this will not take forever.   Promise!

First of all--for love of your name.

Why should God care about me enough to direct and guide me?  Well, because I am his.  I reflect him.  He loves his own, and I bear his name.  A good father guides his children, and in the past, it was expected that we conduct ourselves appropriately because of our good name.  I was a Wood--my behavior reflected upon the Woods past and present.  Therefore, it was my responsibility to act in a way that would make the name of Wood shine.  It was my parents' responsibility to teach me how to act that way.  I think this idea is becoming a thing of the past in the US, and it makes me sad.  Another idea that came from this section is the fact that the name goes both ways:  I bear his name, and he carries my name in the palm of his hand.  We are intimately connected, my Lord and I.

Next:  My fortress

I always pictured a fortress as a place to run and hide when trouble threatened, but a fortress was more than that.  A fortress was a place where people lived.  While war was waged around me, I could know that I was safe in my fortress.  Understanding that this psalm was written by a man in the midst of war, we can understand that even though the conflict goes on all around me, I am safe within the fortress of God's love.  So why is it that I choose to only run inside when there is danger?  Isn't it a better idea to live my whole life within the safety of the fortress?  Lean on the Lord in your distress, yes, but also learn to lean on him when the times are good.  That way you're used to the fortress and can be assured that you're protected when times get tough.

My rock:

A fortress I can understand.  We can be safe inside while the battle rages outside.  But a rock?  What on earth is safe about a rock?  I actually had to look this up.  But when I did, it was a "ohhh" experience.  A rock means strength.   Well, God is our Rock.  He is our strength-he will fight our battles and be an ever-present help in times of need.  When I think of this idea--ever-present help--I think of growing up and going to the beach.  We knew we were almost there when we could see Morro Rock in the distance.  It is a big, beautiful rock, and its presence brought us hope and joy because our trip was ending and vacation fun was beginning.  When we look at Christ our Rock, we have hope and joy because we have a friend and brother who fights on our side and has guaranteed that we will win the race.

He will conduct us and guide us:

Have you ever watched a shepherd guiding his sheep?  The shepherd has a rod and a staff.   If the sheep veered off,  the shepherd was there for him, not to hit or frighten, but simply to guard and guide.  The sticks were there to keep the sheep safe.  The rod disciplined and protected the sheep from intruders; the staff guided them so they wouldn't veer to far off the path.  Well, I am a sheep and the Lord is my Shepherd. If I veer off my path, I can rest assured that I won't veer too far, because he is right there beside me, using his rod and staff to guard me and guide me.  I know that at times it seems that you have gone too far, but just ask him to forgive you--you'll find that he's been there all along, and he's always willing to bring you back to the right path.

Well, that was my week in prayer.  What about yours?

reading the bible in spanish (for language lovers and others)

I teach Spanish at a Catholic school, and we start every period with prayer.  Since I teach Spanish 2, I teach the prayer or scripture in Spanish, but I then give a short devotion in English.  If you have never looked at scripture in a foreign language, you are missing out on a real eye-opening experience.  

English is limited. We have two tenses:  past and present.  We have various aspects, but only two tenses.  Spanish, on the other hand, has 14 different tenses:  present, imperfect, preterit, conditional, future, present perfect, pluperfect, subjunctive, to name just a few.  Greek, the language of the Bible (NT) has 15 tenses x 2 (don't ask me--that's what I was told, I'm not a Greek scholar)--making 30 tenses in all.  So in the New Testament, using Spanish might give you a clearer idea of what was actually being said.  For example,  this is John 1: 11-12 in English (NIV)

¹ He came to that which was his own, but his own did not receive him. ¹² Yet to all who did receive him, to those who believedin his name, he gave the right to become children of God— ¹³ children born not of natural descent, nor of human decision or a husband’s will, but born of God.

This is the same passage in Spanish:(NVI--same version, but in Spanish)

¹¹ Vino a lo que era suyo, pero los suyos no lo recibieron.¹² Mas a cuantos lo recibieron, a los que creen en su nombre, les dio el derecho de ser hijos de Dios. ¹³ Éstos no nacen de la sangre, ni por deseos *naturales, ni por voluntad humana, sino que nacen de Dios.

The version is similar, but with distinct differences:
Hi came to those who were his, bit his own did not receive him.  But to those who received him, to those who BELIEVE in his name, he gave them the right TO BE children of God. Those are not born of blood, nor of natural desire, nor of human will, but THEY ARE born of God.

So you see that in this version, the receiving and being born of God continues to this day (it could also be literary present, but I prefer to think of it this way :) )

The first thing that happens when you read in a foreign language is that you are immediately struck by language.  You are used to English--it's your mother tongue.  If you read in Spanish, words and tenses hit you.  Another example:

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome^[a] it. (John 1:5)
in Spanish:

Esta luz resplandece en las tinieblas, y las tinieblas no han podido extinguirla.

This light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not been able to extinguish it.

At first glance, there is little difference between the two verses; even the idea of "extinguish" also appears in the NIV as an option.  The difference is between "tinieblas" and "darkness" and "resplandece" and "shines"

Resplandece does mean shine, but it also means glimmers or gleams, and (I love this) it can also refer to a person.  Jesus is the light that shines in the darkness--he literally shimmers.

Tinieblas is a very dark word in Spanish.  It is a literary term and refers to both natural and MORAL darkness.  When I hear tinieblas, I think of a total absence of light, either natural or spiritual.  When I see La luz resplandece en las tinieblas, I get a picture of Christ himself shining in the total moral darkness of this earth.

So if you know two languages, get a Bible and try it out.  If you don't--hey, there's no time like the present to learn!!

les miz--the dance of grace and the law

I had a friend in Bakersfield who introduced me to this idea. It has been on my mind ever since.  She said that the musical Les Miserables is a perfect example of what happens when you mix grace and the law.  With the popularity of the musical high again due to the success of the movie, I thought that I would go with her idea and enlarge upon it a little.  Here's a breakdown showing grace/law's effects on some of the main characters:  (warning--if you are one of the infinitesimally few who haven't seen the play, there are spoilers.  Live with it or better yet, go see the movie and come back.  We'll wait.  Okay?  Hope you enjoyed it.  Now, read on.)

The bishop:  This is a man ruled by grace.  He understands it and he gives it.  When the law (Javert) tries to enforce itself against someone who has insulted the bishop's grace by stealing from him after he was given food and lodging for the night, the bishop vanquishes the hold of the law by affirming that he did in fact give the silver.  In fact, he further gifts him with expensive candlesticks, freeing him from the hold of the law.  When Javert is forced to leave empty handed, the bishop asks him to see this act as evidence of some higher plan, and he states that he has bought ValJean's soul for God. The bishop then leaves ValJean, understanding that he has done his part.  ValJean is now forced to deal with the consequences of both his own actions and the bishop's. When he decides that what he must do is change identities and become a totally different man, it seems at first that he threw away the grace offered him, but we come to see that it seeps into his soul and does, in fact, change him into an honest man.

Javert:  This man, an officer, is ruled by law.  Born in jail, he has never known true freedom.  Instead, he has come to understand that the law is all-powerful.  Nobody is above it.  When he comes up against ValJean, he can't understand the motives behind the man.  All he sees is a thief.  His unwavering, unquestioning allegiance to the law has blinded him to the grace that he sees before him.  Whenever ValJean confronts him after the episode with the priest, there is always a debt to be repaid.  When the debt would free an innocent man, ValJean is willing to go back to clear his name.  However, when the debt involves saving an innocent young girl, he cannot allow himself to be taken.  Each time he leaves, he says that he will return, and each time Javert refuses to believe him.  Of course, ValJean does spend a great deal of his time hiding from the law, but it's because "his race is not yet won."  Confrontation after confrontation comes, each one with Javert promoting the consequences of the law and ValJean begging for grace because someone in need.  The last confrontation, though, is different.  Javert is himself given grace.  He is given his freedom, and he is told exactly where ValJean will be should he want to come after him.  This is too much for Javert.  He is shown the same picture that ValJean was shown--grace triumphing over the law--and it undoes him.  He cannot find a way to justify the two disparate views, and so he kills himself.

Fontine:  A woman taken advantage of by a man, living a life of seeming grace, until the man abandons her and the child.  She is thrust into the midst of misery, having to live at the mercy of those around her.   She cannot fend for herself and is trapped in a situation that was not her doing.  ValJean, the owner of the factory where she works, sees the scuffle and calls on his foreman to "sort this out/...be as patient as you can".  Unfortunately, this is another man who has been looking for an excuse to use his position (another example of law--he holds total control over her) to cast her out into the street.  She eventually sells everything she has to care for her daughter--finally becoming a prostitute.  However, at the end, grace comes to her in the form of ValJean.  He hears that he is responsible for her plight and promises to care for her daughter.  He then stays with her as she dies, giving the poor woman the consolation of not dying alone.

The Thenardiers:  Life lived in total disrespect of the law is not a life of grace; it's a life of licentiousness.  The Thenardiers take full advantage of the power given to them.  They do everything that they can to "screw (the customers)".  The result of their ways is that they are totally ruled by greed. They make Fontine's life a living hell by constantly lying to her, saying her daughter is ill and needs money for medicines.  They live a slovenly existence, and they treat their own daughter, Eponine, as an accomplice.  Cosette is nothing more than a slave.  Again, however, this gives grace a chance to work.  They send Cosette to the woods to fetch water, and ValJean finds her there, which gives him a first understanding of the kind of foster parents the innkeeper and his wife are.  Later, Eponine acts as an unwilling messenger for this same girl, and later, it is this same Eponine who gives the cries that alerts ValJean to the presence of those who would do him harm.  How is grace exhibited?  For Eponine, it occurs when Cosette's lover, a man that she has loved without hope, is with her in her final moments.  I have always wondered about the Thenardiers.  It seems to me strange that nothing is said of the scene that must have come after the barricades fell.  The movie shows them hunting for trinkets among the dead.  How could they not have come across their own daughter?  How did they receive her death?  The movie, at least, does not speak of it.

ValJean:  I've spoken so much about him, but there's still more to explore.  When he was a thief, it was to rescue his sister and her child from starvation.  When he was released, he first tried to do an honest day's work, realizing when he was paid that now he was nothing.  He could not hope for honest pay, and he was doomed to be forever "nothing more than the dirt beneath their feet."  After he encounters the priest, that changes.  He sees grace and it sends him into a whirlpool.  He's been introduced to grace, and life will never be the same.  He changes his identity and lives trying to do good.  He is rewarded by being named mayor.  He struggles and falls, but always rises again.  And he is in a constant struggle with the law--Javert.  No matter what, there is always a confrontation.  He lives a life on the run, until finally he realizes that he must stay and fight-at the barricades.  He fights, and he prays.  He saves Javert, unwittingly causing him to commit suicide.  He saves his "daughter's" lover, allowing him the freedom to heal and marry Cosette.  And after the fullness of time, he dies in the presence of his children, and the priest, Eponine and Fontine sing him to his new home.

I know that this is by no means a thorough examination, but maybe it's given you an idea of what I mean.  Interesting, huh?