Keep Crashing This Car, Over and Over

Why are we still so afraid?
The things we do deserve their rightful names.

Swing with all you have.
Stop me if you can.

-be sensible, jimmy eat world


I think that, in a way, we all bought into the hype.

It's the trial. At last. The trial.

And of course there's so much to be said about that. Justice. A reckoning. Punishment. Confrontation. Something.

Whatever we thought it would mean, if we ever really thought about it at all, we were not prepared for what it actually was. In poetry you can never say "I love you." In life it is never enough to say "good and hard." How to describe that week? Imagine Jesus descending into hell. Grace personified. But in hell.

The trial was, both literally and metaphorically, a destination. Something that we could look forward to. Something that we could place our stock in. Something that was, I don't know, tangible. But it was also an unwanted guest, still in the house far after we tired of its company. It was the emergency surgery.

And it's understandable really. We needed this. Some of us more than others. Several of us much more than me. We all needed this. But none of us wanted it to be necessary. All we've ever really wanted was escape.

When I try to think of the last time that I sat down with a bunch of other people from Central Presbyterian to discuss Peter, for any reason, I picture his welcome party. The rest of it has sort of slipped by. I've never really talked to my parents about it. I've never gotten a card in the mail saying "we're having a meeting at the church, why don't you come join us." I've never had someone even suggest that maybe we should sit down and talk this out. What in the world would we talk about? How would we possibly begin?

Looking back, these events (the Peter years, the post-Peter years, the Peter's back!?! trial years) have all transpired with surprisingly little fanfare. Look back again and you'll be forced to realize that he has never really left us alone. A constant presence that everyone is ashamed to talk about. Scared to talk about. Confused about. The 600 pound gorilla in no uncertain terms.

I got a phone call this morning saying that Peter has been arrested. Again.

I couldn't move on even if I wanted to.

When the stone first hit the water, the disruption of our lives was just too much. Surface tension destroyed. The rotting muck underneath revealed. And when the water returned to glass, no one could intentionally throw another stone. But the wake remains, bouncing off the shore and ricocheting around us. The ripples lapping against our collars remind us that we are up to our necks. The temperature drops slowly. We alternate between bouts of confused panic and treacherous sleep.

Look out the window. The green bleeds away, leaving a sickly, jaundiced yellow in its place. The lazy breeze speeds up, and then its temperament sours. The wind grows teeth and tears at the flesh of the trees. And then one day you realize that the cover from your shade tree is gone. You look up to see a weathered oak standing naked in the sun.

At some point I realized that all of this was choking me. This recurring sliding feeling wasn't going away.

So the trial, this public spectacle, became the chance to say that the emperor has no clothes. It was a chance to come out. All is not well. Something terrible has happened here.

Something terrible has happened here.

Late in the week I was listening to an expert witness testify about trauma and its impact on adolescents. Suddenly I became alert, conscious of myself in a room full of strangers. I was nodding along, picturing my life in the scenes of escapism and guilt.

Here's a test:

Do you often assume that people in the church are full of shit? Clearly guilty of something, definite skeletons in the closet?

Do you look for cracks in the corners, sagging rafters, proof that the foundation is slipping? Are you convinced that the building will collapse? It's only a matter of time. Save yourself.

Do you feel caught between the past and the present, as if some blunt instrument has struck your history and shattered its continuum? Endangered your future?

Do pieces of your life feel fragile? At any moment a wave will come and sweep them away, like great walls of ice abandoning the glacier and drowning themselves in the sea.

Do you search desperately for something that looks like Jesus and feels like love?

The trial unlocked the hard drives and knocked over the file cabinets. Information everywhere. Bits and pieces of fear and hate and betrayal just littering the floor. Millions of pixels all distorted. An image I had not forgotten, but had very clearly lost.

The trial turned out to be a chance for the world around us to crash the party, to reach the epicenter and look for survivors in the wreckage.

Ultimately, it didn't quite go our way.

Mistrial.

A miscarriage is when you lose the baby. We didn't lose the trial. We had a trial.

In some way it was validating. It was good to hear eight voices say that was has happened was wrong. That what has happened was criminal.

Why did I need to go? Why did I feel so compelled? A physical draw, my headlights pointed towards the one thing I wanted most to avoid. Was it to support my friend? Clearly. But what does that even look like? Was it to, in some way, confront Peter. Possibly. I confess that I always stayed out of the men's room when he was at the urinal.

Mostly I think it was because someone finally gave me the chance to show up, to walk into a room. To say with my presence, "this was wrong."

I have been living my life like a sprint since the moment Peter left. Or maybe since the moment I left Peter. I've been running. From myself. From him. From the guilt. But sprints don't last. You can't live a sprint.

I've been running because the temple where I worshiped, the place where I Am dwells, burned to the ground. All that cedar and bronze. Poof.

But we've found that life goes on without the temple that Solomon built. Instead of the altar, we've had the Nicoletti's table. Instead of the burnt offerings, we've had the Wicklund's fire pit. Understanding in a car crash.

Transformation just takes so much time.

If I could make it better for the people around me. The friends and the family. Oh God. I would. But I'm not God.

And God is. God Is.

I'd be lying if I said that I don't still try to offer myself up as the ram caught in the thicket. I'd be lying if I said that I was alone in that.

I've got my hands up high, my feet down low...

Time lapse of the Migrant Resource Center, a story captured in moments.

Last Night- While trying to pour himself a cup of coffee a young man accidentally spilled the not-quite-hot-yet liquid all over his hand, where it dripped off to form a pool on the plastic table. I was heating up some burritos for his 25 companions just steps away. Seeing the coffee streaming off the table and onto the floor I began to laugh.

Turning to me the man said, in perfect English, "Do you think that's funny?"
"Yes," I replied, my laughter having sprung forth not from his misfortune, but from a deep well of appreciation for a coffee machine that defies logic in its dispensation of the aforementioned liquid.
"Well I don't think that's funny," he cut back, the tension rising in his voice.
"Lo siento, I'm sorry," I said, in the best accent I could muster. "Friends?"

My plea for peace went unanswered. Rebuffed. Setting down the cup, he turned his back and walked out the door into the April night.

Last Week- I arrived at the Center totally spent, bankrupt in every conceivable way. It soon became apparent that I wasn't going to be much good for conversation, less so in Spanish. Leaving my friends sitting at the desk I headed to the front door, setting up a post to await the "customers" that would undoubtedly pass by. My fatigue defeated my attempts at reading, and I soon found myself "waiting" under a blanket, flat on my back. From there I migrated over to a cot, a little metal bed that's tucked away in the space that used to house Viagra and Cialis back when the Center was a pharmacy for snowbirds in search of a deal. Three hours later I woke up. A more honest telling of the story would be that I was awoken. I had slept through the coffee, the burritos, the jokes, and all of the night's migrants.

Two weeks ago- My friend James and I sat behind the desk, fighting off the sleep that wooed us back towards pillows and sheets. Public policy, migration, education, and old times weighed heavily on our minds and spilled freely from our lips. Migrants passed by the open doors to the Center. I let them go, knowing only too well how few resources we had to give them. Sometimes it's better to save the burritos for the person hungry enough to come searching for them.

Three weeks ago- I was sitting at my desk, chatting up (I was hoping) the leader of a group of high school kids. Five migrants had come in about thirty minutes before, a group of cousins traveling together, all under the age of 17. All of a sudden I realized that both the visiting students and the migrants were standing in a big circle in the space by the door. Unexpectedly, the entire group burst into song. One by one the students stepped forward into the circle, each one in their turn taking up the mantle to cut the proverbial rug. An impromptu dance party. At first it was clear that the migrants had no idea what was going on, and even less idea of what they should do. But the mood was infectious. They started dancing. I started dancing. Everyone was singing. Before you knew it there were two lines and we had broken into a soul train. And just then it dawned on me: this is why I have come to the border. This is what the kingdom of God looks like. No border. No fence. No desert. Just some teenage kids and a dance party. And who doesn't love that?

The main thing is to keep the main thing the main thing.

Love God. Love people. Nothing else matters.

-Bart Campolo.

Evangelical + Progressive + Radical + Loving = Sexiness

If you've ever thought: I'm way too conservative to be a "liberal," but there's no way I'm a Republican.

It's really dumb that the same people who get so worked up over abortion don't seem to have a problem with the death penalty at all. Those both seem like pretty bad ideas.

I want something different for my life. I want my life to be like the book of Acts, not like The Real World.

Women make really great leaders.

Drinking, smoking, and swearing seem like really silly reasons to send someone to hell.

Secular progressives really don't get me. Christian conservatives? I think they get me even less. Neither of them speak for me.

I really want to live faithfully, but sometimes it seems like the system is stacked against me. What does it mean to love people when I buy shoes? Go to my job? Decide where to live?

I like my sketchers, but I LOVE my Prada backpack.*

I wish that there were more singers/preachers/authors/prophets/leaders like Bart Campolo/Shane Claiborne/Rob Bell/Anne Lammott/Donald Miller/Derek Webb.

It's not my revolution if I can't dance to it.

Sex is so much more important than my friends make it out to be.

Fighting gay/lesbian/bi/trans/queer people just doesn't feel like love.

It's so great how many amazing people I know who love Jesus, love people, and are changing the world because of it.

If you've ever thought any of those things, then I have a confession to make: So have I. Cool, huh?

And apparently so have a whole bunch of other people. Read this article. It's long, but it's very very important.

Did you read the article? Because that was the whole purpose of this post. Seriously.Read it.

Something Bryce posted got me thinking about the problem that we as thoughtful/progressive/evangelical/radical/beautiful/sexual/intellectual/artistic followers of Jesus have. Well, it's several problems really, but mostly it's an image problem. People just do not understand how many of us there really are, what we believe in, or what we are trying to accomplish.

Secular progressives, perhaps rightfully so, get freaked out and run the first time they hear the word Jesus. Ditto for religious folks of a different faith. Kudos to AlterNet for posting this. Secular progressives complimenting suburban Christians can only be called miraculous. If you say evangelical to any one of my secular friends from Pomona, you would get a negative response. Or they wouldn't know what you meant. That's not a good sign.

"Traditional" evangelicals/Christians think that we're a bunch of tree-hugging hippies who have cast our lot in with the devil and his kin. To be fair, some of us are tree loving hippies. Sorry Erik, you'll just have to live with it. The positions that some of us hold (Bart Campolo: Gay marriage is good, Donald Miller: post-modern thought is good, Jim Wallis: Jesus cares about the environment) are so foreign to people like Dobson and Ralph Reed that we may as well not be Christians. When pressed, they might agree that we aren't.

And finally, "we" isn't really a we. This article makes it seem like there is an "us," but there really isn't. It's a BIG tent. Reading Relevant does not mean that you read Sojourners. Liking Donald Miller does not mean that you think American global capitalism has serious problems. Going to a church with women in leadership does not mean that you think that gay marriage is ok. On the whole, I think that all of that is good. Clearly it's important to have beliefs. But it's also important not to exclude people for holding well thought out, faithful positions, that aren't your own. Jesus probably loves them too. But that puts us in a classic progressive bind. How do you make people who have a lot in common feel like they are connected, powerful, and influential (which they are) without resorting to essentialist tendencies (ex: you must believe x,y, and z or you just aren't with us)? Last year Bart Campolo said, more or less, that he doesn't believe in a God who sends people to hell. If evangelicals could excommunicate, he would no longer be welcome to communion. In some places he probably isn't. So obviously we have some issues. But we have a lot more promise. More and more churches across the country are being transformed in ways that are very, very good. I am having more and more conversations with people who are involved in completely amazing grassroots action, willing the kingdom into being by the sheer force of their love. But I don't think any of us has really realized yet how many people are having these conversations. Am I excited? You bet I am.

Are you in?

Thanks to Zach Exley for writing this. I've been thinking it for years.
Thanks to Zach Lind for posting this link over at Finding Rhythm. P.S.- Zach is the drummer for Jimmy Eat World. You're right, he IS the man.
Thanks to all of you for being revolutionaries in a whole bunch of ways. The world is changing.

(In the photo: Tony Campolo gets his preach on)
*Ok, I haven't thought that. But I do love Ten Things I Hate About You.

Is it a sin to covet an ash cross on someone's head?

Today is Ash Wednesday. I am sad to say that I will not make it to a service today. I really wanted my ashes.

Despite this tragic setback I did manage to celebrate the beginning of Lent with my very dear friend Julia who came to visit me today. We hung out in Agua Prieta and ate some delicious tacos, then headed up to Bisbee for a little ice cream cone action. It was great to see her, and makes me miss all of my Po-mo-na/Claremont College folks.

My second celebration of Lent starts today as well. I had been thinking long and hard about how I should celebrate Lent this year, and later what I should give up. In years past I have given up tv (no Simpsons was really difficult), meat (not as hard as I would have thought), and "sweets" (I like sweets). This year I decided to really test myself and give up music. Not listening to it, that would kill me. I have decided to give up buying it. I know that this is a good thing to give up because I REALLY don't want to do it. I mean, I don't even have the entire Iron and Wine collection. Can that really wait forty more days?! As a way to pursue love, because I don't really think that Lent should be about self-deprivation, but rather about faithful reflection and celebration, I am going to give away the money that I would have spent on music to something worthwhile. Don't ask me what, I haven't quite decided. I'll keep you posted though.

I Must Read This Book.

Oh yes, this looks really good.

Salon has just posted a short excerpt from a new memoir called Take This Bread: A Radical Conversion, by author Sara Miles.

It is, from the description given, a memoir about Miles' unexpected conversion to Christianity, her view of the church as she came stumbled in from the outside, and the unexpected paths she found herself walking as she adjusted to a life of faith.

It sounds like a really great book, a camp onion of sorts to the great faith tapestries woven by fellow Bay area resident Anne Lamott.

It's not surprising to me that my favorite works of faith, whether they be music, literature, art, social action...whatever really, are often made by people who are, or who think of themselves as being, outsiders.

Derek Webb, C.S. Lewis, Dustin Kensrue, Oscar Romero, Anne Lamott, and Martin Luther King all come to mind immediately, although the list could just keep going, couldn't it.

It's refreshing to get a look at Jesus (and at his bride) from someone who loves him, but is unfamiliar with the strange ways of his people. At the same time, it is also refreshing that a treatment of Christianity done by a metropolitan progressive could be so nuanced and based out of love.

I'm excited to get my hands on this. Anyone else?

Link to the excerpt: http://www.salon.com/mwt/feature/2007/02/17/take_this_bread/index.html
(sorry, links are still inconsistent for me at best. Can't figure this one out)

As much as I love my bicycle, I wish I had a biodiesel truck.

Here´s a really cool little interview between Aaron Weiss of mewithoutYou and Jeremy Enigk, formerly of Sunny Day Real Estate. They talk a lot about faith, music, and yes...biodiesel. Enjoy.

http://www.synthesis.net/music/story.php?type=story&id=4961

I went to college with a girl who did a really good impression of Mothra vs. Godzilla

Boundless Magazine is a webzine targetting college students and twentysomethings that was started by James Dobson's Focus on the Family. I read it regularly, and disagree with it more often than not, but I always find it a really enlightening glimpse into more conservative Evangelical Christianity in America. A really good way to keep my finger on the pulse, if you will.
There's a new post up over there written by Boundless regular Matt Kaufman called "Gays vs. The Garden Guy" (http://www.boundless.org/2005/articles/a0001402.cfm) I'm feeling too tired to summarize both the article and the event which sparked it, so please head over there and at least skim the post if you are going to read on.

From the start I was worried about what I would find in the article, largely because I took offense to the way that Kaufman used "Gays" in the title as a catch-all for everyone who identifies as homosexual. Really, all gays are against The Garden Guy? All? Also, did you know that Christians were in a war "vs." Gays. I didn't. Turns out we are. Actually, I thought Christians were supposed to be peacemakers, ones who would be called children of God, but apparently that's off base as well.

There are really two major problems with the way that Kaufman addresses this situation. The first is that he labels the actions of the Farbers and their company an appropriate Christian response. For a direct contradiction to this I would have him check out Matthew 9 and Jesus' relationship to a tax collector. Apparently refusing to interact or do business with people is the 21st Century version of loving your neighbors. Who knew.

The second major problem with Kaufman's assessment is that he gets all bent out of shape about the way in which "gay activists" are trying to steal freedom away from the Farbers. Now, freedon isn't a bad thing. Look at Galatians 5 (yeah Erik H.) to see Paul's very enthusiastic comments on freedom. No freedom isn't bad, but freedom isn't the be all end all for Christians either. Jesus is. So when Kaufman rails on about how the Farbers would be less free if they were forced to work for gay men, he misses the point entirely. The Farbers always had the freedom to love those two men, and they willingly gave it up. The Farbers always had the oppurtunity to love like Jesus, and they took a pass. All Christians do that far more often than we would like, but celebrating it is another matter.

Both Kaufman and the Farbers have made a tragic mistake. In an attempt to stand up for what they believe in and defend their right to do so, they have decided that love is in fact not the most important thing, but being right is. I have fallen victim to this same thinking more often than I care to admit, so let me be the first to say to both Matt and the Farbers, welcome to the club. Thankfully for them, and for me as well, forgiveness, love, and grace, are still included free of charge.