Definitions and Hidden Convictions

(Written Sunday, December 19^th, 2010)

I’m writing this after spending an amazing day hanging out with extended family on my grandparent’s farm in the backwoods of eastern Ontario (though it won’t be posted till later because…well…it’s the middle of nowhere and my grandpa only has dial-up).  I love my family.  I treasure spending time with them more than I could possibly express. 

And yet… 

Every time that I’ve come here in recent years, I’ve found myself struggling to define myself in the midst of this world.  You see, my extended family (and my immediate family to an extent) defines itself and everyone in it by how well each individual fits into their preconceived definitions.  Are you married?  How many kids do you have?  Are you in the ministry?  Are you preparing to be a wife and a mother?  Are you acting like a young woman?

Women and men are talked about as rigid, immovable categories which define nearly everything that you need to know about a person.  From such mundane (though still patently incorrect) things such as “women like mittens” to more frustrating notions like the instruction that my brother must go help my grandpa do chores outside but I, a girl, do not have to.

In this world, I am defined by these stringent categories.  In my world, I must admit, I am still defined by categories.  I am defined by my GPA.  I am defined by my AU honours status.  I am defined by my major and my career goals.    Except these definitions do not bug me so much.  Because I fit; because I’m comfortable.  I can answer questions regarding these definitions with ease and without agitation.  I never feel the need to suppress my anger or my grief. 

It’s a different story in this place though.  My family doesn’t seem to understand the thought that these definitions, these categories might not perfectly suite everyone.  Yes, they recognize that not every girl gets married (at least not right away).  But women still must play different roles than men in nearly every area of life.  Your gender is still the most defining characteristic of who you are.  It tells you where you can go, what jobs you are and are not expected to do.  It tells you when you can speak or how well your speech will be respected. It tells you what you like and do not like, what you are and are not capable of understanding.

My greatest heartache at this moment is that I cannot be myself in this place.  There is one definition that I must suppress and it hurts me more than I would like to admit.  I cannot be a feminist.  I cannot declare my equality with man.  I must pretend.  Pretend that I’m ok with this constant understanding that women are lesser.  That I am lesser.  I am defined by what I am, and what I am first and foremost is a woman.  So therefore, I am less than.  I am not him.  I am her.  I cannot stand up.  I cannot speak out.  I must pretend.

            This person is not me.  This silent person feeling the need to shrink away to my room so that I can find my voice.  The only comfort that I can find is in knowing that as soon as I get to the hotel in London, Ontario on December 22nd, I can copy and paste this document into my blog and then hit "publish post".  I am clinging to the hope of that button, knowing that nothing can silence this voice in the darkness.

Yet, though I cling to that thought, it is not exactly true.  I am choosing not to be a voice in the darkness of this place.  Out of fear.  Out of intimidation.  Out of love.  I don’t want to upset anyone.  I don’t want to get into a fight or make anyone mad.  Honestly, I just want to relax.  But I’m finding it to be more difficult than I had anticipated.  I’m feeling stressed out and agitated because I have no clue how to interact in this world.

I always know that I’m going to have to hide parts of myself while I’m here.  From simple things like my tattoos to bigger things like my feminism, I know far in advance that portions of me must remain hidden while visiting this farm.  I always forget how stressful it is though.  I never remember the heartache, the headaches, the pain.  I forget the need to rush into a private room and express myself through writing.  I forget the sarcastic comments which rise like bile in my throat.  I forget the clenched teeth and jaw, the furrowed brow, the painful concentration that it takes to simply bite these barbs back.

Don’t get me wrong.  As I said at the beginning, I absolutely love my family.  I love coming here, and I wouldn’t give up my time here for the world.  One of my greatest regrets in life is not being able to get to know my grandparents better.  So please don’t take any of this to think that I’m hating my family or not wanting to visit them.  It’s just hard.  I can’t seem to find a balance.  I need to find a way to love my family and respect their opinions, traditions, and beliefs while still maintaining my own convictions and character.

Home is where the ambition is

So I've been missing for an entire month.  Fail me.

The good news is: I am done with all of my classes for the semester. The bad news is: I still have to write an unholy number of papers and finals before I can go home.

I just realized that I will be graduating from college in one year.  Very weird.  Not sure how I feel about it.  In so many ways, I'm not ready to be done with this place.  I love it here more than I could possibly express, and I honestly can't imagine leaving DC.  I feel like I have found a new home, and it's weird.  Because thinking back on my childhood home, I never could've imagined not feeling at home there.  But as much as I adored spending ten days back in my old house and old room over Thanksgiving break, probably for the first time, I felt like a visitor.  It probably had something to do with the fact that my old room is practically naked.  It still has my paintings on the walls, my bed, and my dresser, but other than that, it's not my room anymore.  No posters, no pictures of musicians that have changed my life, no quotes of influential people, no dozens of Canadian flags (ok, there's still four there, but still).  My bookshelf with all of my books and my stereo and everything that makes my room my room have all been transferred to my apartment here in DC.  I even found myself missing my bed at my apartment while I was home (thanks to no longer being on a crappy dorm mattress).

So what is it that makes me feel "at home"?  Is it the aforementioned furniture, decorations, and personal effects?  Or does it go deeper than that?  There is that age-old saying, "home is where the heart is."  But my heart is in so many different places.  My heart is here in DC, in this place which houses all of my friends and, perhaps more importantly, all of my passions and dreams.  My heart is also in Chicagoland, with my parents and my brother, Jason, sister-in-law, Laura, one year old nephew, Landon (who I miss quite terribly right now) and unborn niece or nephew (TBD by the beginning of the new year).  My heart is also in Mishawaka, Indiana, with my big brother and best friend Stephen, especially tonight and tomorrow as he performs in yet another show that I can send my heart to, but not my whole self.  My heart is in Camp Lejeune, Jacksonville, North Carolina, with my brother, Phil, the Marine who I am soooo proud of, my sister-in-law, Ashley, my nearly two year old nephew, Isaac (whose parents need to start feeding him more so he's not just skin and very tall bones!), and my unborn baby niece, Harmony Nicole, who doesn't seem to want to listen to anyone who tells her to slow down, just like her beautiful mom.  My heart is spread across Canada, but especially in London and Avonmore, Ontario, with my respective grandparents, who I am unbelievably excited to go visit over Christmas break.

So yes, my heart is torn.  There are so many different places which it resides on a regular basis.  So, getting back to the original question, why is it that I feel that DC, and not Chicagoland or any other place, is truly my home now?  I think that God has given me a passion for this place, these people.  I love the diversity.  I love the fast pace.  I love the politics.

But, more than anything, I love being in a place where I know that there will never be an end to new challenges and passions which will capture my heart.  I love being surrounded by people who have so many ambitions, not just to live inside their comfortable little dream-like bubbles, but to step out and change it.  Change everything.  Change the world.  It reminds of something that my old high school chaplain used to say when asked how my high school was able to raise over a half a million dollars in aid for a little town in Zambia.

"We gave them permission to change the world."  I love that saying.

I don't know exactly what it is about DC that I love so much, but I think it has something to do with this passion for world changing.  I've been to other places where such sentiments, such ambitions, were scoffed at, ridiculed, and considered unbelievably naive.  And maybe the sentiment is naive.  But it was naive high school students who sat around a table one day nearly a decade ago and decided to "do something" to combat AIDS in some random country in sub-Saharan Africa.  That was the catalyst for building an entire k-12 school, a maternity ward in a hospital, supplying food for an entire year, and countless other small projects in some random village in Zambia.  That village no longer needs our help.  It was a group of naive women who thought it would be fun to stand outside the White House with signs calling for women's suffrage.  These women were subsequently jailed and force-fed, all in the name of women's suffrage. We now have the 19th Amendment to the United States Constitution.

I will never listen when someone tells me to temper my ambitions.  I may be young and naive, but I firmly believe that I do have the power to change the world.  And I love that DC has never tried to temper this.  In fact, this place has fostered and encouraged my ambitions beyond what I could imagine.

"Now to Him who is able to do far more abundantly beyond all that we ask or think, according to the power that works within us, to Him be the glory in the church and in Christ Jesus to all generations forever and ever. Amen."

Capstone Conundrums

     So, because I'm planning on graduating a semester early, this coming semester, which I just registered for (YAY!) is technically the start of my senior year (weird).  What this means is that I need to seriously start figuring out what I want to do for my capstone.  It also means that I need to seriously get cracking on LSAT studying (eek!), but that's beside the point.

     I really want my capstone to be something important, something that I care deeply about, something that acts as a comprehensive accumulation of my time here at AU, and (perhaps most importantly) something that I won't get bored with. :P  I have so many different thoughts in my head, so many things that I care about.  I really am at a loss as to how to narrow them all down to something feasible.

     I'm a Justice and Political Science Major with a concentration in criminal justice and extensive course work in women's and gender studies.  (As a totally unrelated side note: I'm taking a religion class called "Feminist Theology" next semester.  Get excited!)  My life goal is to become a sex crimes prosecutor.  As such, I'm hoping to get into a prestigious law school.  What would be the appropriate cumulative project for this preparatory life called college?

     Or I could just explore one of the many policy areas which get my blood rolling: underage prostitutes and the fact that their "johns" aren't charged with, at the very least, statutory rape; the idea of life without parole being a de facto death penalty; issues of human rights (or lack thereof) within the prison system; the lack of rehabilitative policy within the American criminal justice system; the direct correlation between the crappy education system here in the United States and poverty/crime rates; and the patriarchal status quo in this nation serving as the basis for most, if not all, sex crimes.

     I also have to write a 20-30 page paper for my Justice Stories class.  Maybe I can treat that as a sort of mini-capstone to get some of my more minor ideas out of the way so that I can focus on one major idea in my capstone.  Or maybe I could actually challenge myself and force myself to do something creative for the project...  I doubt that'll happen, but I'll at least force myself to consider it.

Since when did school start involving important life decisions?  Didn't freshman year just start?  Can I just go back to taking classes for fun and not thinking about the implications of those actions?

There is hope in the world.

So I had a 9-5 training session with DC rape crisis center today, and it was "isms" day (as in sexism, racism, etc.). This has by far been my favourite session so far, and I just wanted to tell a quick story told by the executive director of DCRCC which I thought was really cool:

First, background: Denise, the executive director, is a Caucasian woman who's partner, Donna, is an African-American woman. Donna has a daughter from a previous relationship whom they both raised. Now the story: When this daughter was about 5 years old, she was sitting on both Denise and Donna's laps, kind of in between them. Denise and Donna were holding hands across the lap of the daughter. Donna asked her daughter, "Which hand is Mommy's and which hand is Denise's?" The daughter accurately identified their respective hands. Then Donna asked, "How did you know?" Pointing to her mom's hand, the daughter said, "Because this ring is yours and this ring," pointing to Denise's hand, "is Denise's."

This five year old girl was so blessed to be able to live a life entirely oblivious to the idea that someone might be identified by the colour of his/her skin. To her, it was just as mundane as a person's shoe size, eye colour, or birthday. They are all just things which you are born with, but which do not, in any way, make you who you are.

Denise's hope, and mine as well, is that soon we will come to a day where most seven year olds don't yet see skin colour as a defining characteristic. And then eleven. And then 16. And maybe somewhere down the line, our great, great, etc. grandchildren will be able to live in a world where not a single person (or at least not the vast majority of people) will look at a person and see first their skin colour and then the rest of them.

Maybe one day the same will happen with the rest of the "isms" which we talked about: Sexism, Classism, Ageism, Heterosexism, Cisgenderism, Ableism, Faithism, Nationalism, and Lookism.

Maybe that's too much to hope, but I'm not giving up.

Double X's

These two little x's

So tiny

Even microscopic

Yet they seem to make all the difference

These tiny little x's

Seem to decide so much about me

What clothes I'm allowed to wear

What positions I can hold

In the church

In the workplace

In the home

On the street

On the bus

Late at night

All alone

But I can't ever go alone

I am lesser

I am her

I am not him

They say there is no difference anymore

That we live in a post-gender world

But they don't see

They can't know

The looks that I get

When I speak of my ambitions

When I say I don't want kids

They tell me I'll change my mind

That I don't know what I'm talking about

Or even that I'm wrong

Would you say those same things to him?

No, of course not.

Because I am not him

I am her.

What is it about these double x's?

To insult a man,

They call him a woman.

To degrade a woman,

They tell her she is not a man.

Because I was born with these double x's,

I must not act like a man

For fear of being degraded.

Questioning my womanhood,

They call me a dyke

Or tell me to return

To the comfy and unconfusing little world

Of these two little x's.

I want to be judged,

Not by my chromosomes,

But by the ideas inside my mind,

The passion in my heart,

And the character of my life.

If that's too hard,

If you can't see past these gender roles and sexual lines,

Then don't bother judging me at all.

Old Revelations and New Commitments

So I think three major things happened on retreat:

1. I broke down and realized that I can't follow my life's calling on my own; I need to rely upon the strength and love of God.
2. I'll never be able to hear God's voice if I'm not regularly listening.
3. I need to stop focusing so much on myself and where I'm at with God, and instead focus on how I'm serving, ministering to, and loving others.

Now, in light of that last point, the whole idea of blogging about my thoughts seems kind of counter-productive, but I think it's important for me to solidify what I believe God is teaching me by allowing this semi-public forum to hold me accountable.

Well, I think the biggest (as in most overwhelming) thing which happened on retreat is that I finally got to a point where I knew that I couldn't volunteer at DCRCC on my own. The last time I tried to tangibly tackle these type of issues, I was consumed by the fight. I became depressed, started cutting and became suicidal. And I know for a fact that, if I try to counsel and advocate in my own power, I will return to that place. And that thought terrifies me. But silence isn't an option; apathy isn't a choice. After laying this issue on my heart again, God asked me, "Whom shall I send? And who will go for us?" My heart and mind, voice and whole body cried out: "Here I am. Send me!" This fight has already captured my heart, my soul, and my future, and I can never turn away. These two realizations (my inability to fight on my own and my inability to turn away from the fight) was overwhelming and heart-breaking. But I think that it was a necessary place for me to get to. Because once I got to that place, I was able to realize that, although I cannot fight this battle on my own, as my verse of this year says, I have the Spirit's very power, love, and mind within side me. If I rest in Him, if I let God's love and not my own flow through me and into these broken people, instead of consuming me, this fight will make me soar.

For this reason, I'm contemplating getting "Love" tattooed on my forearm (in cursive, white lettering), right underneath my scars. This is not my love, but the love of my Saviour which will stop me from picking up that knife again, no matter how inadequate I am to love these people.

The second thing which God has really been teaching me over the past several weeks, months, and even years, is that He can never talk to me if I'm not listening. It's when I read and know His Word that I have any chance of growing in knowledge of God and following the call of His Spirit. Yes, my life is insanely busy right now. I am mentally, emotionally, and physically exhausted; the very thought of waking up one hour earlier or staying up one hour later to truly connect with God seems to drain me. Even though I know how much more refreshed I feel when I do, especially in the morning. I have to learn to be disciplined.

Finally, I need to stop complaining about not hearing God's voice, stop spending all my time trying to muddle through the convolution of my brain instead of focusing on serving and evangelizing those around me. I am rarely one who talks about or even, in all honesty, thinks about evangelism. But, certain people (cough, cough, Kera, cough) have truly gotten to me by bringing one simple fact to my mind: if I truly believe that some of the people around me are going to hell, then, how much must I hate them to be perpetually silent about my faith? Now, I have no clue what this looks like. I will never be one of those fire-and-brimstone, "let's go burn a Koran for fun," wack-o Christians. It will just never happen. But I do know that it looks like more than what I'm doing. I need to truly figure out where my convictions lie, and then stick with them. I also need to not shrink back from the awkward conversations, the difficult discussions. I don't know how to have those discussions organically. I'm very new at this whole being bluntly open about my faith thing. But I really am going to try. And I ask anyone who interacts with me regularly, whether you share my convictions or not, whether you think I'm crazy or not, to hold me accountable to what I'm saying. I will be no where near perfect. I'm sure I will fail much more than I succeed. But I am publicly committing to changing, empowered by the overwhelming power, love and disciplined mind of Jehovah Jireh.

My Justice major is showing...

For 150 years, the Louisiana plantation known as Angola has been worked, toiled over, and broken by the sweat of forced labour. The bloodiest and most dangerous war in American history was fought to stop the use of humans as cattle, people as slaves. Until recently, Angola plantation was known as the bloodiest and most dangerous prison system in America. So yes, circumstances have changed, but I would bet that if you took a picture of the fields of Angola in the mid-1800s, it wouldn't look too different from the fields today.

77% of Louisiana's maximum security state penitentiary is African American. I wonder if some of these boys can trace their lineage back to these very fields? Angola is their prison, their plantation, their ancestry, their heritage, their nation.

This brutal land is covered in the blood, sweat, and tears of African-American slaves. Burl Cain may claim the title of warden and may be bankrolled by the state, but just as in days gone by, he is a plantation owner looking down on his forced labour like cattle, like chattel, like children. Maybe one day the land can be put to rest, can stop bleeding, sweating and crying out the suffering of its slaves.

The preceding paragraphs came out of my Justice Stories class. We've been looking at the writings of American prisoners as well as watching films and learning about prison conditions. We've also looked a little bit at the solitary confinement policy of prisons.

Throwing inmates in "the hole" is not widely considered to be a violation of any rights. But if it truly isn't torture, why was solitary confinement the primary method of breaking the souls of inmates at Abu Ghraib, Gitmo, and other torture strongholds? Humans are meant to be social creatures. It is psychological torture to entirely cut them off from all communication with other humans.

Another policy which we have been examining in a couple of my classes is the death penalty and life without parole. Every time we look at these policies, the question always pops into my head, "Why do we deny the possibility of redemption?" When it comes to theories of punishment, the idea of rehabilitation has largely been discarded in favour of retribution and deterrence. Over the past couple decades, the United States has largely eliminated the education programs within her prisons, despite the fact that education in America is the one proven way of getting people out of poverty and a life of crime.

Furthermore, the people who have the largest stake in punitive policy are cut off from voicing their opinions on punitive policy! Why do we deny ex-convicts the right to vote? We cut these people off from society for years on end, and then deny them an ability to ever life a normal life again. They can't vote. They have little to no education. Very few legitimate employers will hire them. The only landlords which will house them are in very shady places. And then we act surprised at the high recidivism rate. There are so many people which claim that America is a "Christian nation," and yet they deny the very possibility of one of the most basic tenets of the Christian faith: redemption.

Why is it again that I'm pursuing a career in prosecution?

Procrastination, Purposeful Insomnia, and so much Fear

It is nearly 3am and I should be doing one of two things: reading homework or sleeping. Because I have no desire to read and thus am not giving myself permission to sleep, I figured maybe I'd try to clear my head by writing.

My life just can't seem to slow down right now. I have class and work and small group and DCRCC and homework and church and (hopefully) friends and...the list goes on. It's six weeks into the semester and I'm already procrastinating on my homework and papers till the very last minute. I can't seem to force myself to focus, and I'm not sure why.

On an entirely unrelated note: we talked in small group today about God's radical call on our lives, the power that that gives us, and our duty to live that out. For the past several months, God has been pounding 2 Timothy 1:9 into my head: "For God did not give us a spirit of fear, but of power, love, and a sound mind." I know that God is telling me to stop being fearful/timid/intimidated about/by what others might think of me, and instead to truly live a radical, changed life for Him. But stepping out like that brings so many questions. I don't want to be one of those people. You know who I'm talking about. One of those people who constantly talks about "God," and "faith," and a "relationship with Jesus" and so many other things with such courage and yet such utter irrelevance that even I, a devout Christian, shrink away from. So for fear of seeming like a crazy, irrelevant Bible thumper, I hide my faith from my friends outside of Chi Alpha and only really mention it in contrast with those "crazy" Christians in an effort to try and prove that we're not all like "them."

But I'm afraid that, in my efforts to stay "relevant," I have simply become silent. I am a huge proponent of evangelism through example, of living the type of life that inevitably calls for inquiries and naturally leads to genuine conversations about faith. But I often doubt that I'm living that kind of life. My life, to the outside observer, seems fairly average. I don't talk about my convictions which may make me seem "different" for fear of seeming "strange." And now that this has gone on for so long, I'm afraid that, if I did start talking about my faith regularly, my testimony would be weakened by the months of non-sharing.

I'm sarcastic and I swear and I'm not always nice and I get tired and cranky and sullen and depressed and I slip on my convictions and I have secrets and I don't have it all together. And I'm human. And somewhere in the back of my mind I still have this notion that, in order to have an effective testimony, I have to be one of two things: a) perfect from the moment I was born or b) have a horribly wretched background, an amazing conversion tale, and am now perfect. Needless to say, I am neither.

I don't know what it looks like to live a transparently imperfect life as a testimony to others. I don't know how to be vulnerable and to freely admit that I'm not perfect but I'm trying to live a life that's different from the rest of this world.

I don't fit the mold of what it looks like to be a devout Christian in today's world. For starters, I'm a crazy liberal feminist. For the most part, I can't stand the Republican Party, and I believe that they, in their claims to God and faith, give Christianity a horrible name. I struggle with and often find ways to rationalize away or outright dismiss the traditional gender roles which the Bible seems to purport. I'm obsessed with and addicted to tattoos and I don't always watch my tongue as closely as maybe I should.

At the same time, I have an incredible calling on my life to fight for the least in this world, to bring justice to broken situations, and to see God's image in every human being. I am not shy about my love for people, especially broken and hurting people. I don't just see the least in those whom it is easy to love: the babies half way around the world dying of AIDS, the rape victims, the sick and needy who have done nothing to deserve their hardship. No, I also see the least in the outcast and the downtrodden, in the homosexuals, in the imprisoned, in the homeless, in the gang members, in the welfare dependent, in the mentally ill, in the convicted robbers and murderers, in the pedophiles, in those that society forgot about years ago. These people too, are the least in this world. They, too, deserve justice and equality. They, too, are recipients of God's love. I feel God's heart inside of me for these and so many others.

I know that this is the type of radical life that Christ called me to, but does simply following this calling on my life to help the least in the world make me a good evangelist? Or do I need to do more than that? Street corner evangelism never has been, and I'm positive never will be my thing. But what does it look like to boldly live out and talk about my faith? Do I need to be worried about compromising my testimony or turning people away or perpetuating the pain of an already so hurtful church? Why am I still struggling with so much fear and so much timidity? I try to continually claim God's power, I know that I have His love, and I don't think that my soundness of mind is in question. So why do I still have this spirit of fear that Paul warns Timothy about? When will this verse get through my thick head, into my heart, and back out through my life? Maybe once I figure out how it'd look cool tattooed on me...

Worries, Conundrums, and New Adventures.

So I'm two weeks in to my training to be a volunteer counselor/advocate at the DC Rape Crisis Centre. We did our first hotline call role-play tonight and it was both one of the most terrifying and exhilarating experiences of my life.

I've been waiting to do this for a long time now: find a way to tangibly help those affected by sexual assault and rape. I am devoting my life to this cause, and for the first time in my life, I feel like I'm actually making a difference.

I'm worried though. The reason why I chose to go down the route of prosecutor and not counselor is because I'm the type of person who needs to get into the fight. I'm also a firm believer in the criminal justice system and in bringing the perpetrators to justice. Yet my role as a hotline counselor and hospital advocate is not to push the survivor in any given direction but instead just to be there, to listen, and to provide resources and information. It's not my job to give advice or to tell the survivor what I think that they should do. I found that trusting my instincts is really helpful on hotline calls, but how do I make sure that I suppress my instinct to push the survivor in the direction that I think they should go?

I have this incredible call on my life and passion in my heart to help the least in this world. I can't shut it off. It doesn't go away after the time and tears and years and fears. And yet despite this passion inside, the actual physical actions which I take on behalf of my fellow man so far have been minuscule. I've been on a couple missions trips. I support a couple kids. I rally for a few causes. But the majority of my life right now is lived in the waiting, in the preparation, in the academic. It's the nature of being a student: preparing for the life you truly want to live (or at least for the career you think you want). As many of my professors have said, this is the one time in my life where I will have the freedom to ask the questions, the time to philosophize and wonder, the encouragement just to think and to learn. And it is undeniably and unquestionably one of the favourite parts of life.

So my life right now is a continuous conundrum: frustration at living in a state of perpetual suspended animation, waiting to be able to pursue my true passion, all the while absolutely adoring living within the hollowed halls of academia and not having to actually step out into the real world of hard work and true responsibility.

I'm also wondering if there can be such a thing as true altruism. Can a person truly do something for another person(s) out of entirely selfless motivations? Or am I only volunteering at DCRCC to gain a new set of skills, to enhance my resume, and to get a good feeling inside? I'm contemplating going on a missions trip to Greece this coming summer, but I don't want to go if my only motivations are selfish. Obviously, when it comes to any trip to an amazing place like Greece, there's going to be some selfish desire to see the country, but I honestly do care about the cause, and I want to make a difference. Is it selfish to want to get first hand experience dealing with an issue which I am passionate about? Can one person on one missions trip through one church really make any difference? Or can the only purpose behind short term missions be egocentric? Do we do it to feel better about ourselves, to feel less guilty about our wealth and our comfortable, easy lives?

I wrote this poem several years ago about the idea of giving away money to a worthy cause (fighting AIDS in Zambia) just to assuage our own guilt, and it keeps popping into my head:

I’m not writing this to ride you down with guilt
Until you crawl home and drop a bill
Into a little orange box
With pictures of smiling faces you’ll never know.
Just so that you can once again forget
That there is life beyond
Your megamalls, iTunes, and facebook blogs.

You’re continually spoon fed messages
That if you just
DO SOMETHING
You’re better than everyone else
In this wretched, immoral world
But does it really make you better?
When you know what’s really going on
Yet feel that your job is done
Once those coins hit that box?

Yes, it’s true that every penny helps,
But when we spend 5 dollars every day
On coffee alone,
I have to ask, are pennies really enough?

The average person in this blissfully ignorant country
Spends more money on coffee every day
Than millions of people live on in a week
And it just doesn’t seem right.

Yet every day I hear another one boast:
“We’re the best country in the world!”
And I have to ask,
How can you be so ignorant?

Even though God demands our first 10%,
As a supposedly Christian nation,
You can’t even muster 1%
To save the lives of their dying children!

But, wait, I forgot:
You’re spending that money
Finding new ways to kill your children.

You spend your millions
On the perfect body, car, and clothes
While another one dies
Because you can’t spare enough to save her.

Or maybe you do save one,
And you think it’s enough
So you return to the comfort
Of your American Dream
And you press on in the hopes that one day –

But what if you tried something different?
What if you thought about that woman?
Who loves her kid so much
That she would knowingly subject herself
To death by AIDS
Just so her little girl can eat for one more day

She makes the same amount of money
Selling her body on the streets
That you carelessly throw into that box
At the end of every day.

What if, for once, you loved this woman?
Who has more love in her
Than you could ever hope to have
Even though she has nothing in this world.

We always claim that, by giving a dollar
We’re being Jesus to these people,
But, truly, who’s more like Christ?
The one who drops their pocket change into a little box
Just to feel better about themselves
Or the one who lays down her life for her daughter?

Truly, whatever you do for this woman,
You do for Christ.

So I’m not going to tell you what you need to do
You already know
And it doesn’t involve going home
And emptying your pockets
Into a little orange box

Stop talking, and start acting.
And never stop.

Because even though life goes on for you,
If you don’t make a difference,
Who will make sure her life does to?

So never stop.

I don't want to become the very person that I'm frustrated with in this poem. I don't want to be a person who just gives a few dollars and maybe a few hours just so that I can move on with my life without feeling guilty.

I want to be the type of person that truly can act altruistically. But does volunteering at DCRCC qualify? My guess would be probably, but what about this missions trip to fight human trafficking in Greece? It reminds me a little of the missions trip that my high school youth group went on to the Bahamas several years ago. I didn't go with and one of the reasons was because...well...the Bahamas? For a missions trip? Really?? And I think part of my has that same reaction to the idea of Greece as a destination for a supposedly altruistic venture. But the fact of the matter is that Europe is becoming a stronghold for human trafficking and the A21 Campaign is doing phenomenal work there. So I guess I just need to check my motives. And find out more info about what NCC will actually be doing there.

But maybe I'm over-thinking all of this. Jesus said, "Whatever you do for the least of these, you do for me." I believe that every individual on the face of this earth is made in the image of God and thus deserves equality and deserves justice. So if I can bring some little bit of justice and/or equality to the lives of those who have been sold and trafficked as sex slaves half way across the world, then count me in. Jesus doesn't say "Whatever you do for the least of these as long as your motives are entirely altruistic, you do for me." I think I just need to keep getting out there. And keep doing something. And never stop.

The Ethics of Living

My life is getting busier, and I am finding taking the time to actually sit down, and just think, process, and write to be nearly impossible. Beyond my own busyness, the free moments that I do have are filled with pointless exercises in mindlessness and numbness. I add more and more TV shows and online activities to my schedule, possibly in an attempt to avoid the very thing that I long to find the time to do. I mourn my loss of creativity and my ever lessening attention span. For at least a decade of my life, I spent hours upon hours on end just reading and absorbing as much written information as I could. Now, the very notion of reading a book for fun seems exhausting. I also used to find such clarity and fulfillment putting pen to paper (or cursor to screen, as the case may be) and muddling through the convolution that is my brain. Beyond the clarity that came from my writing, I also used to have such creativity, such beauty, such poetry. I long to rediscover that part of my voice. As I have spent the past fifteen years developing and perfecting my academic voice, my creative voice has become stifled and halting due to lack of use.

There are so many questions swarming around my head. So many life decisions to ponder, so much philosophy to work through. Many of my classes right now focus on major issues like the meaning of life or the theories of punishment or the idea of deviance. Nearly every time I leave these classes I tell myself that I should take the time to really meditate on these questions, to truly figure out my own thoughts. So maybe this is my beginning attempt at that. Maybe this is just me rambling (which is probably more accurate).

My thoughts are rarely coherent or well developed. I process my thoughts as they come to me, not before, so I will make no apologies for this stream-of-conscious production. I make no promises about my insight or poetry or genius. My thoughts are what they are. They are scarred and broken and tainted and faltering. But they are mine and they are important.

One of the biggest questions that has been disturbing me recently is the attempts in my philosophy class at defining the value of life. As an opening premise, my professor dismissed the idea of afterlife based upon religious faith as a reason for living, as that can never be universally proven or accepted and is thus irrelevant to an intelligent academic conversation. While I can accept this notion in theory, when it really comes down to defining life’s importance, I cannot shake my belief system for the sake of academic discussion.

When discussed in this purely academic setting, the conclusion which everyone seemed to settle upon is that human life is valued as the ability to autonomously act and contribute to one’s own life. A “good life" is defined by the individual and dependent upon whether or not that individual feels that their life has value and significance.

As these thoughts and ideas where swirling around the room, I instinctively and repetitively scrawled the words that define the reason why I am still alive: “To live is Christ, to die is gain.” Having been to a place where I did not feel that my life had significance on its own , the only thing that pulled me back, that stopped that knife, that threw away those pills was the knowledge that my purpose on this earth is not my own ability to feel value and significance in this mystery called living. Instead, I remain on this earth because of one basic fact: “To live is Christ.” This is a conundrum that I still don’t fully understand. The second half of Philippians 1:21 comes easily to me. The concept of death as gain resonates inside. The latter portion of Paul's maxim calls to me in the uncertainty, in the questions, in the darkness. It is a continuous fight to accept the former.

Now, I am nowhere near the depressive suicide risk that I was three years ago. But I honestly don’t believe that I will ever be in a place where, without Christ, I would believe that life is gain. This world is harsh and broken and contains so many unanswered questions and so very much suffering. This life is not gain. But, oh, how much gain is to be had in living and dying for my lover, my Saviour.

Every day I must deny my own selfish desires to end my life in order to achieve the immeasurably great gain of everlasting life. I stave off this desire for no other reason than the commission of my Lord. I choose to remain alive solely because my God calls me to this life. I do not live because of some gain that I can find for myself, in myself. Even if I lose all my capacities, my family, my friends, my functioning mind, my very body, I will still choose to go on living because of this one basic truth: “To live is Christ.”