Am I lame for wanting a "love wins" sticker?

This is pretty great. Rob Bell made it into Time Magazine, or at least the online version, and they actually did a pretty good job with the article. I really wish I had been there to see him bring a live goat on stage. I also wish that I knew what his band's name was. Guess I'll wiki it. I'm thinking Pavement style shoe-gaze. He's the right age for it. Weezer cover band maybe? I can only dream.

At any rate, it's encouraging to see two pretty sane depictions of Evangelical Christianity in less than a month. Audible sigh of relief. Especially with Mike Huckabee running around. Quick, someone get a time machine and stop him from opening his mouth between 1989 and 1994. Seriously.

While we're talking about Rob Bell, does anyone know where he stands on women in ministry? It's been a debate between some friends for a while. I'm on the "he's pro women in ministry side," but who's surprised by that? Thinking about it further, that little debate reminds me of another good reason to like Rob: Focus on the Family doesn't trust him.



update: He's been in several bands. The first one referenced in the article seems to be _ton bundle. And they sound(ed) like R.E.M. I guess. That could be good. This update has been brought to you by wikipedia. Wikipedia: Best friend to lazy bloggers around the globe.

Three birds meet one stone.

Bill Bryson blogging for Bryce, Irish blogging for Travis, and immigration blogging for myself. Does the internet get any better? I submit it does not.

From Bryson's Made in America

"If one attitude can be said to characterize America's regard for immigration over the past two hundred years it is the belief that while immigration was unquestionably a wise and prescient thing in the case of one's parents or grandparents, it really ought to stop now."

Slow clap.

But here's where it really gets good:

"From the earliest days, immigrants aroused alarm and attracted epithets. For the most part, early nicknames for foreigners were only mildly abusive, or even rather backhandedly affectionate. This was particularly the case with the Irish, whose fondness for drinking and brawling and perceived lack of acquaintance with the higher mental processes inspired a number of mostly good-natured terms of derogation, so that a police station was an Irish clubhouse, a wheelbarrow was an Irish buggy, bricks were Irish confetti, and an Irish beauty was a woman with two black eyes."

Two thoughts:

1. Those don't actually seem to be all that good-natured, but maybe that's just me.
2. The Border Patrol have a type of truck that we tend to call "dog catchers" because they resemble the type of vehicle used by animal control. I don't really like using the term because it sort of implies, by default, that migrants are the dogs, but the only other term I know for such a truck is a "paddywagon," which clearly has some pretty negative connotations for the Irish. So long after the Irish are really known for being arrested in masse, whether the stereotype was true or not, the name sticks. Language is fascinating.

Not that there's anything wrong with that...*

This is going to be way over the heads of at least a few people who read this blog.

So this whole thing started when both Deanna and Brianne quit the facebook (which is totally fine by the way, I understand why they did it**).

I mean, it hurt a little bit that two people very close to me were just checking out of reality, but that's their choice.

But back to the issue at hand.

Being that my girlfriend had quit the facebook, and Erik's girlfriend had quit the facebook, I decided to take this once in a lifetime opportunity to marry Erik on the facebook and live happily ever after. In the "fake marriage on the internet to one of my best friends" sense of the word, of course.

So I shed a tear, changed my relationship status, and prepared to make my move on Erik. Not wanting people to rush to my side and comfort me in my fake time of need I hid the news feed story of my recent breakup.

Ok, I'll be honest. The pain was real, but it was just too soon.

Everything was going about as well as could be expected under the circumstances. But my happy life turned emotional nightmare was about to get worse. Erik was still listed as being in a relationship. (Note to Erik: She's gone man, give it up. It's time to face facts and move on. I have). This was a big problem for me, because apparently being listed as already in a relationship is enough for the staff of the facebook to deny a potential marriage request. My sense is that they are, as John McCain so eloquently put it in 2000, "agents of intolerance." Who are they to tell me that I can't marry a man already in a relationship? If there really is a war on marriage, the facebook is fighting back.***

But I digress.

I should take this time to remind you that I was still heartbroken at having just ended my relationship with Deanna,**** and was now facing the dream-crushing reality that I would not be able to marry Erik (without, you know, getting him to change his status first). In my despair, I turned for comfort to the person who I knew for certain would always give me a soft landing. I married Kyle.

And to my everlasting joy, he said yes.

The next day I opened my facebook account to find a note from a high school friend with whom I've lost touch.

"booke! whats up buddy... married now i see. is it true? congrats!"

"Uh oh," I thought, "better hide that news feed as well before this gets out of hand."

I did, and moved on with my day, comfortably certain that I had nipped that potentially embarrassing/confusing situation in the bud.

The next day I signed on again, this time to a message from a college friend.

"You look so happy together."

Look so happy together? Wait...what?

And then I scrolled up. To my profile picture. The one of Bryce and I. Smiling. Together. Where I am embracing him from behind. In tuxedos. In a church.*****

At which point I started laughing hysterically.

The end.


p.s.- Since then I have gotten two more priceless wall posts, also from an old friend:

first post: "um, did I just read on your profile you are married???? um...que paso?"

second post: "wait that is a dude, OK, so your not married... But you are in a 559 area code, i guess we have some catching up to do =)"

Hahahahahahahahahaha.

Life is great.






*Seinfeld. Still sorely missed.
**Which also doesn't make it any less fun to call them quitters.
***I'm pretty sure that's what they use the money for from selling gifts.
****Albeit only on the facebook. Hi Deanna!
*****She's right, we do look happy in that picture.

Pride for the Alma Mater

Deanna, speaking to a friend of hers in Los Angeles:

Friend: "He went to Pomona? Oh, I know those kind of people."

Deanna: "What do you mean?"

Friend: "You know, the kind of people to pick up a book and walk into the mountains. They're deep."

Our fame grows.

p.s.- According to wikipedia, "alma mater" means "nourishing mother." Weird.

p.p.s- Alternate blog title: Overheard in Los Angeles.

You make me want to be a better man.

HAPPY BIRTHDAY WESLEY BENGT WICKLUND


Here are some thoughts I wanted to share with you on this momentous occasion:

1. You've been around through a lot of stuff. I remember being in elementary school with you, hanging out, moving on to middle school, and then being really excited when you finally got there two years later. Mission trips. Praise band. Leadership teams. Mexican champagne. I love that our history goes deep. I love that our future is going to be even deeper.

2. Because I can look back for years and years, far past a decade of friendship, I have no problem saying that you have always been a really, really good guy. More than uncommonly legit. And you've become a really, really good man. One of the best I've ever met. You've always tried to do the right thing, and when you've failed, as we all do, you've tried even harder. The title says it all.

3. You are damn passionate. I've seen you get in fist fights, yelling fights, and soccer fights (the dirtiest fights of all). I can't say I've always thought it was a good idea for you to be fighting, but I've always loved and admired that spirit. You have convictions, and a belief that there are things in life worth fighting for. And there are.

4. You don't love the law for the law's sake. You want all the freedom that Jesus can give you. Let's get after it.

5. JBBP baby.

You are my brother. I love you.

It doesn't get any better than Colorado in the summer.

It really doesn't. A few of my favorite things:


The mountains. Oh the glory that the Lord has made.



Backpacking. And stupid pictures.


Horsehawks (it's gone now, but it was glorious while it lasted).

Puppies

Chris. So classic.

Big B and Baby. So proud.

Family.

The dart game. A new favorite.

Mountain lakes and no shoes.

The foam party. It's the place to see and be seen in AP.

Disc golf.

Summer. YEAH!

Manfection. I suppose this blog was never G Rated. Now it's definitely not. But Travis in a bra was too good not to share.

That's a lot of man. Carried by some great men. I love you guys.

We Walk For Life

The first thing I have to say about the migrant trail is this: I had no idea what I was getting myself into. Every day that I was out in the desert a body was recovered somewhere in Arizona. Every hour, whether laughing, or sleeping, or eating Thai food (yes, Thai food) was spent in the physical and spiritual presence of people crossing, something that has come to mean so many different things to me throughout the past year. In many ways it means suffering. But it also means hope.

The view from the end. Looking back towards Mexico you can see mountain ranges on either side of the valley floor. When we started our journey those ridges were at least two days beyond our first camp. 80 miles really is a long way to walk in only a few days.

Alejandro Rangel Luna. My companion for the week. I started out in Sasabe with him strapped to the outside of my bag, but as time went on I found myself needing him closer at hand. It was very difficult to part with him. At times his presence felt like a burden. On several occasions asking for his forgiveness gave me peace.

The beauty of the natural world continues to capture me. Midway through the week I realized that death was out of place in the desert. The loss of life that was occurring all around me became a tangible symbol that, as much as we love the garden, we are living in the time after the fall. I spent many hours thinking about what it means to have grace in the desert.

I have talked fairly openly about militarization and the border this year, but it wasn't until the migrant trail that I would finally feel able to call southern Arizona a police state. Military convoys passed us every day. In the picture above there are four young men wearing flack jackets and battle helmets. Yes, helmets. We were chased by a helicopter in the dark and at one point circled by ATV's at night while we tried to sleep. We passed by the new camera towers erected by the Boeing Corp. They are inland from the border by many miles. The high powered cameras can swivel 360 degrees. The price of freedom indeed.

Standing on the side of the road as the Border Patrol arrested a family. I had very mixed feelings about our role there. I believe that observing the Border Patrol is a good way to ensure that the rights of the people being arrested are not being violated. But what about when it turns the people themselves into a spectacle?

A road spike that we found while walking down the highway. Border Patrol will get into high speed pursuits with vehicles. As a way to lessen injury to bystanders they will lay spike strips down on the highway. Sometimes the vehicle fleeing is packed with drugs. On many other occasions it is packed with people. I don't need to tell you what happens when an SUV filled beyond capacity hits a spike strip and rolls over at 80 mph.

Everything about this picture amazes me. The clouds opening up. E's beard. That weird glint on his glasses. By far the best thing about the trail was all of the unbelievable people that I met.

On the road again.

High Fructose Corn Syrup Will Never Taste As Sweet to Me Again

So this is a little hat tip to something that I've been obsessing over lately and even discussing with some of my friends (hello Evangelical Environmental Network!). While working down here on the border I have become (even more) fascinated by the interconnectedness of our world. I have spent so much time this year thinking about the ways in which migration, economics, agriculture, the environment, etc. are all linked to one another. And this great article, written by Michael Pollan, talks about just that.

To try and cut down on the length of this post (and therefore increase your likelihood of reading it) I'm going to do this in two parts. I'm pasting the article below for your reading pleasure (it can also be found right here in a more legal setting). A few days from now (give or take) I'm going to be writing a little follow-up piece with some further thoughts and a few more links to make this conversation more interesting.

By MICHAEL POLLAN
Published: April 22, 2007
The New York Times Magazine

A few years ago, an obesity researcher at the University of Washington named Adam Drewnowski ventured into the supermarket to solve a mystery. He wanted to figure out why it is that the most reliable predictor of obesity in America today is a person's wealth. For most of history, after all, the poor have typically suffered from a shortage of calories, not a surfeit. So how is it that today the people with the least amount of money to spend on food are the ones most likely to be overweight?

Drewnowski gave himself a hypothetical dollar to spend, using it to purchase as many calories as he possibly could. He discovered that he could buy the most calories per dollar in the middle aisles of the supermarket, among the towering canyons of processed food and soft drink. (In the typical American supermarket, the fresh foods — dairy, meat, fish and produce — line the perimeter walls, while the imperishable packaged goods dominate the center.) Drewnowski found that a dollar could buy 1,200 calories of cookies or potato chips but only 250 calories of carrots. Looking for something to wash down those chips, he discovered that his dollar bought 875 calories of soda but only 170 calories of orange juice.

As a rule, processed foods are more "energy dense" than fresh foods: they contain less water and fiber but more added fat and sugar, which makes them both less filling and more fattening. These particular calories also happen to be the least healthful ones in the marketplace, which is why we call the foods that contain them "junk." Drewnowski concluded that the rules of the food game in America are organized in such a way that if you are eating on a budget, the most rational economic strategy is to eat badly — and get fat.

This perverse state of affairs is not, as you might think, the inevitable result of the free market. Compared with a bunch of carrots, a package of Twinkies, to take one iconic processed foodlike substance as an example, is a highly complicated, high-tech piece of manufacture, involving no fewer than 39 ingredients, many themselves elaborately manufactured, as well as the packaging and a hefty marketing budget. So how can the supermarket possibly sell a pair of these synthetic cream-filled pseudocakes for less than a bunch of roots?

For the answer, you need look no farther than the farm bill. This resolutely unglamorous and head-hurtingly complicated piece of legislation, which comes around roughly every five years and is about to do so again, sets the rules for the American food system — indeed, to a considerable extent, for the world's food system. Among other things, it determines which crops will be subsidized and which will not, and in the case of the carrot and the Twinkie, the farm bill as currently written offers a lot more support to the cake than to the root. Like most processed foods, the Twinkie is basically a clever arrangement of carbohydrates and fats teased out of corn, soybeans and wheat — three of the five commodity crops that the farm bill supports, to the tune of some $25 billion a year. (Rice and cotton are the others.) For the last several decades — indeed, for about as long as the American waistline has been ballooning — U.S. agricultural policy has been designed in such a way as to promote the overproduction of these five commodities, especially corn and soy.

That's because the current farm bill helps commodity farmers by cutting them a check based on how many bushels they can grow, rather than, say, by supporting prices and limiting production, as farm bills once did. The result? A food system awash in added sugars (derived from corn) and added fats (derived mainly from soy), as well as dirt-cheap meat and milk (derived from both). By comparison, the farm bill does almost nothing to support farmers growing fresh produce. A result of these policy choices is on stark display in your supermarket, where the real price of fruits and vegetables between 1985 and 2000 increased by nearly 40 percent while the real price of soft drinks (a k a liquid corn) declined by 23 percent. The reason the least healthful calories in the supermarket are the cheapest is that those are the ones the farm bill encourages farmers to grow.

A public-health researcher from Mars might legitimately wonder why a nation faced with what its surgeon general has called "an epidemic" of obesity would at the same time be in the business of subsidizing the production of high-fructose corn syrup. But such is the perversity of the farm bill: the nation's agricultural policies operate at cross-purposes with its public-health objectives. And the subsidies are only part of the problem. The farm bill helps determine what sort of food your children will have for lunch in school tomorrow. The school-lunch program began at a time when the public-health problem of America's children was undernourishment, so feeding surplus agricultural commodities to kids seemed like a win-win strategy. Today the problem is overnutrition, but a school lunch lady trying to prepare healthful fresh food is apt to get dinged by U.S.D.A. inspectors for failing to serve enough calories; if she dishes up a lunch that includes chicken nuggets and Tater Tots, however, the inspector smiles and the reimbursements flow. The farm bill essentially treats our children as a human Disposall for all the unhealthful calories that the farm bill has encouraged American farmers to overproduce.

To speak of the farm bill's influence on the American food system does not begin to describe its full impact — on the environment, on global poverty, even on immigration. By making it possible for American farmers to sell their crops abroad for considerably less than it costs to grow them, the farm bill helps determine the price of corn in Mexico and the price of cotton in Nigeria and therefore whether farmers in those places will survive or be forced off the land, to migrate to the cities — or to the United States. The flow of immigrants north from Mexico since Nafta is inextricably linked to the flow of American corn in the opposite direction, a flood of subsidized grain that the Mexican government estimates has thrown two million Mexican farmers and other agricultural workers off the land since the mid-90s. (More recently, the ethanol boom has led to a spike in corn prices that has left that country reeling from soaring tortilla prices; linking its corn economy to ours has been an unalloyed disaster for Mexico's eaters as well as its farmers.) You can't fully comprehend the pressures driving immigration without comprehending what U.S. agricultural policy is doing to rural agriculture in Mexico.

And though we don't ordinarily think of the farm bill in these terms, few pieces of legislation have as profound an impact on the American landscape and environment. Americans may tell themselves they don't have a national land-use policy, that the market by and large decides what happens on private property in America, but that's not exactly true. The smorgasbord of incentives and disincentives built into the farm bill helps decide what happens on nearly half of the private land in America: whether it will be farmed or left wild, whether it will be managed to maximize productivity (and therefore doused with chemicals) or to promote environmental stewardship. The health of the American soil, the purity of its water, the biodiversity and the very look of its landscape owe in no small part to impenetrable titles, programs and formulae buried deep in the farm bill.

Given all this, you would think the farm-bill debate would engage the nation's political passions every five years, but that hasn't been the case. If the quintennial antidrama of the "farm bill debate" holds true to form this year, a handful of farm-state legislators will thrash out the mind-numbing details behind closed doors, with virtually nobody else, either in Congress or in the media, paying much attention. Why? Because most of us assume that, true to its name, the farm bill is about "farming," an increasingly quaint activity that involves no one we know and in which few of us think we have a stake. This leaves our own representatives free to ignore the farm bill, to treat it as a parochial piece of legislation affecting a handful of their Midwestern colleagues. Since we aren't paying attention, they pay no political price for trading, or even selling, their farm-bill votes. The fact that the bill is deeply encrusted with incomprehensible jargon and prehensile programs dating back to the 1930s makes it almost impossible for the average legislator to understand the bill should he or she try to, much less the average citizen. It's doubtful this is an accident.

But there are signs this year will be different. The public-health community has come to recognize it can't hope to address obesity and diabetes without addressing the farm bill. The environmental community recognizes that as long as we have a farm bill that promotes chemical and feedlot agriculture, clean water will remain a pipe dream. The development community has woken up to the fact that global poverty can't be fought without confronting the ways the farm bill depresses world crop prices. They got a boost from a 2004 ruling by the World Trade Organization that U.S. cotton subsidies are illegal; most observers think that challenges to similar subsidies for corn, soy, wheat or rice would also prevail.

And then there are the eaters, people like you and me, increasingly concerned, if not restive, about the quality of the food on offer in America. A grass-roots social movement is gathering around food issues today, and while it is still somewhat inchoate, the manifestations are everywhere: in local efforts to get vending machines out of the schools and to improve school lunch; in local campaigns to fight feedlots and to force food companies to better the lives of animals in agriculture; in the spectacular growth of the market for organic food and the revival of local food systems. In great and growing numbers, people are voting with their forks for a different sort of food system. But as powerful as the food consumer is — it was that consumer, after all, who built a $15 billion organic-food industry and more than doubled the number of farmer's markets in the last few years — voting with our forks can advance reform only so far. It can't, for example, change the fact that the system is rigged to make the most unhealthful calories in the marketplace the only ones the poor can afford. To change that, people will have to vote with their votes as well — which is to say, they will have to wade into the muddy political waters of agricultural policy.

Doing so starts with the recognition that the "farm bill" is a misnomer; in truth, it is a food bill and so needs to be rewritten with the interests of eaters placed first. Yes, there are eaters who think it in their interest that food just be as cheap as possible, no matter how poor the quality. But there are many more who recognize the real cost of artificially cheap food — to their health, to the land, to the animals, to the public purse. At a minimum, these eaters want a bill that aligns agricultural policy with our public-health and environmental values, one with incentives to produce food cleanly, sustainably and humanely. Eaters want a bill that makes the most healthful calories in the supermarket competitive with the least healthful ones. Eaters want a bill that feeds schoolchildren fresh food from local farms rather than processed surplus commodities from far away. Enlightened eaters also recognize their dependence on farmers, which is why they would support a bill that guarantees the people who raise our food not subsidies but fair prices. Why? Because they prefer to live in a country that can still produce its own food and doesn't hurt the world's farmers by dumping its surplus crops on their markets.

The devil is in the details, no doubt. Simply eliminating support for farmers won't solve these problems; overproduction has afflicted agriculture since long before modern subsidies. It will take some imaginative policy making to figure out how to encourage farmers to focus on taking care of the land rather than all-out production, on growing real food for eaters rather than industrial raw materials for food processors and on rebuilding local food economies, which the current farm bill hobbles. But the guiding principle behind an eater's farm bill could not be more straightforward: it's one that changes the rules of the game so as to promote the quality of our food (and farming) over and above its quantity.

Such changes are radical only by the standards of past farm bills, which have faithfully reflected the priorities of the agribusiness interests that wrote them. One of these years, the eaters of America are going to demand a place at the table, and we will have the political debate over food policy we need and deserve. This could prove to be that year: the year when the farm bill became a food bill, and the eaters at last had their say.


Michael Pollan, a contributing writer, is the Knight professor of journalism at the University of California, Berkeley. His most recent book is "The Omnivore's Dilemma."

(In the photo: Michael Pollan in all his glory)

Despierta Mama, Despierta

It's Mother's Day here in Mexico. Quite a celebration, let me tell you. Last night the jovenes group from the church (jovenes being high school to twentysomethings) set out to do a little late night serenading in the streets of Agua Prieta. Armed with two busted up guitars, some hand written lyrics sheets, a list of Mexican Mamas, and a few flashlights, three cars set out to wake up all the women of the church with off key singing and the promise of group hugs. 3:30 in the morning later I finally made it to bed, surprised by how quickly I have adjusted to a post college life (well before 2:00 a.m., my former bedtime, I was way past still wanting to be awake). I managed to confuse some of my Mexican (and American) friends yet again last night by being both very detached socially and also willing to sing quite loudly. A sure sign that it's time for a nap.

I have been really fortunate this year to take part in a whole mess of Mexican customs that I didn't understand or know anything about prior to arriving at the border. A lot of people have been very gracious by opening up their homes to me and letting me share a small part of their lives with them. This was one of those times.

I thought about calling my own mother to wake her up for some singing, but in the end decided that muffled and incomprehensible noises at two in the morning might not be the most compelling way to tell her how much I appreciate her. But there's always next year.

From my gmail inbox...

A link to this video:



And a suggestion:

"Now think in terms of Jesus"

One of my favorite short films set to music (yes, I made that genre up myself) from one of my favorite orchestra/post-rock/post-genres/unbelievable bands.

Glosoli by Sigur Ros. Thanks Jo.

Everything's bigger in Texas

What a charmed life I live.






The view from my balcony, room 529 at The Crescent Hotel in Dallas.






My feet getting ready for my "mani and pedi." Yeah, seriously.







What shines more brightly, the Rolls' logo or my freshly manicured nail? The car was parked right outside the hotel- across from an Enzo and next to a pair of Bentleys.







Jimmy, Nate (the groom), and Garrett channeling their inner CEOs. Alternate caption: Go on brush your shoulders off. First runner-up: I'm not a businessman, I'm a business, man.












Milli (the bride) gets henna applied on her hand at the Mehndi party.







Junia and I share a moment at the airport.

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.

Can you really blow smoke rings? Radical!

Seymore/C-Macaroni and Chesse/C-Money/H to the Izzo V to the Izza (Wait, that's the Roc)

Happy Birthday Brotha!

Not surprisingly, I have some thoughts to share with you:

1. You really love profound thinking. And I REALLY love that about you. I don't know anyone who hasn't found themselves in an unexpectedly deep conversation with you only to realize that it has revealed a big truth about their life. How do you do that?

2. You have really been a part of a second family to me. Your parents treat me like one of their own kids. That makes us close like white and rice.

3. You, to be as cliche as possible, have taken some lickings and kept on ticking. You have what older people would probably call grit. I like that about you. I respect that about you. Sigue adelante, as we say here in Mexico. Roughly translated that means "keep on trucking son."

4. Tom Moore is your father, but I'm pretty sure that Bryce is your daddy.

5. I always sleep on top.

I love you brother.
Happy Birthday

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.

Thanks facebook.

The power of the internets has just informed me that Karl F. Kling is part of a new project called The Pragmatic.

It has synths.

It has Karl.

You know I'm loving it.

Spin it to win it. Pull up your pants and do the rockaway. Act a fool. You know you want to.

I hope it's still yesterday in New Zealand...

Happy (belated) Birthday Erik!

Yesterday was the 21st anniversary of the birth of Erik Haagenson. I celebrated with you in my heart of hearts.

On this magnificent day I have a few thoughts that I would like to share with you:

1.You, more than any single one of "us," are a leader. Despite being younger than some, and a peer to others, you have been able to lead us into many great adventures. You make things happen, and "get it goin'." I will be forever grateful for so many memories.

2.You, in the face of great adversity, seek to be a safe place in the midst of a storm. You look towards love in the face of sickness, and hope in the face of grief. Keep walking that path, it leads to great beauty. You have been an inspirational figure in my life, more so than you will ever truly know. Through many long seasons of darkness in my soul, you have been a great light.

3.You have an amazing eye for beauty. Your pictures move me, and I look forward to having many of them on my (our?) walls.

4.You are a man that I treasure fiercely. It feels strange to call you my brother, as there is nothing else, in this world or the next, that you could possibly be.

I love you Erik. Happy Birthday.

Feliz Cumpleanos.

Happy Birthday Chris!

Today is the 21st anniversary of Christopher Nicoletti's birth. Well, it is here. Only God knows what time or what day it is in the land of the Kiwis. I could probably find out, I'm just too lazy to look it up.

On this momentous occasion I have some thoughts to share with you Chris:

1. You, more than any other person I know, have an ability to connect with new people and become interested in their lives. It never ceases to impress me.

2. You, through a bunch of really crazy life situations, have sought to be a steady and faithful presence in the lives of the people around you. I continue to be inspired by the peace, patience, and love that you've shown to so many people.

3. You, even when I don't realize it at the time, always make any activity that we do together more interesting and more fun. If I see a wall, you see something to climb. If I see some paint, you see Kyle as the canvas.

4. You are a great man of God and a person I am proud to call my brother. I'd give anything to buy you a drink, but I can't afford the plane ticket.

I love you Chris. Happy Birthday.

Album Review: Dustin Kensrue- Please Come Home

I just finished writing a ten paragraph review for this album, and somehow in the process of publishing it almost the entire thing got erased.

Instead of rewriting it, which I know I could never do, here's a video of him performing "Pistol," one of my favorite songs from the album, on Jay Leno.



By the way, I gave the album a 9.1/10 and said that it would undoubtedly make my top ten of 2007 list.

I'm On Permanent Mexiroam

Here it is, the Chiapas post that at least two of you have been clamoring for. The rest of you don't have to read it if you don't want to.

I still haven't figured out a way to talk (succinctly or not) about a trip that lasted almost three weeks and encompassed two-thirds of the great country of Mexico, so my apologies if this is a little disjointed or confusing. This is going to be a massive post because of the pictures.

Here are some basics for the trip:

Who- Myself, Meghan (my housemate, co-intern, and partner all things Mexico), Tommy (my boss at the Just Trade Center, a weird sort of blend between hippie, Catholic, corporate manager, and romantic), Barbara (Tommy's girlfriend and an unbelievable coffee saleswoman), Arthur (Tommy's twentysomething son and a great guy), Daniel (co-founder of Just Coffee and one of the nicest guys I've ever met), Vicki (Daniel's wife and the woman in charge of packaging for Just Coffee), Danielito (Daniel and Vicki's son, easily one of the coolest two year-olds I have ever met), Luis (A Guatemalan immigrant who lost both of his legs in a train accident trying to get to the U.S. border), and Surullo (Vicki's dog and constant companion).

What- A three(ish) week trip down the west coast of Mexico to visit the town of Salvador Urbina in the state of Chiapas (the location of the Just Coffee cooperative), and then back up through the center of Mexico with a stop in Veracruz to visit one of the two new cooperatives. We borrowed a 1980's Ford 15 passanger van with 225,00 miles on it from our friends at the Catholic Church and loaded another 4,000 miles onto it between the time we left the border and the time we got back.

When- We left on December 27th I think, and got back last week at some point.

Where- I suppose I sort of covered that point already. Here's a map to help out.
The red lines follow the rough route of our trip.



Why- Part of my motivation for going was just to visit so much of Mexico that I had never seen before. Part of it was just to take a break and relax. Most of it, however, was my desire to meet the Just Coffee growers and see the states where migrants were coming from. I also didn't really want to come home for Christmas because this year is a bit of a test run for how I would like living abroad for an extended period of time.

Now for the pictures (click to enlarge):


The beach just north of Mazatlan where we stopped for a swim after our first night of driving. Gorgeous.


A blurry, but adequate, picture of the ditch that I accidentally backed the van into, and the rescuers that helped us get it out. To be fair, it was pitch black and we were in a residential neighborhood. Ditches weren't really on the radar. And no, I didn't take the picture. I'm behind the van pushing just like everybody else. I haven't really had great luck with vans in Mexico.


Sadly I did not break the pinata. I will say that pinatas, fireworks, and hugs for ALL of the fifty people at the party is a great tradition for celebrating the new year. Feliz ano nuevo indeed.


My home away from home. This is Daniel's mom's house (Mama Yoly). There were already six people living in the house (from three different generations) when the eight of us moved in. I'm quite happy to say that Mama Yoly and company spoiled us rotten. Great food. Great conversation. Great people. Tons of fun. The stuff on the cement outside is coffee being dried in the sun.


The women of Mama Yoly's house. And it was DEFINITELY a house of women (only one man lived there permanently, and he was moving out). Mama Yoly is in the back right of the picture, her daughter-in-law Rosy is next to her, her daughter Elda next to that, Elda's daughter Tahlia on the back left, Barbara and Meghan are clearly the gringas, and Daniella is between them. I actually don't know who that baby is, there were many of them around. All of these women except for Daniella were living in the house.


Tahlia (back left, 19) and Daniella (front, 22) were my homegirls in Salvador Urbina. Tahlia's mom Elda owned this little store in the town square, and it was awesome to just hang out with them, drink delicious Fanta, and talk about life.


Danielito is my boy all the time. Seriously, can YOU think of a toddler you would want to spend 120 hours in a van with?


Elda. What can I say about Elda? Well, for one thing, this is a picture of her punching me. I guess that tells you something about our relationship. Tommy and Arturo call her "La Mala," which literally means "The Bad One." We skirmished. We teased. We laughed. She misses me, I know it.


Rosy and her boys (her own description of this picture) That tall drink of water on the left is Arthur. The other one, you may or may not be able to tell, is me.


This is the view of Salvador Urbina from the front of Mama Yoly's patio. The pueblo is on two sides of a valley and centers around the road that runs up the mountain through the center of town. The Cifuentes family is pretty legendary in Salvador Urbina. For one thing, Daniel's grandfather helped fight for the land that the town now sits on. For another, there are at least 150 people in the family, and most of them live in Salvador Urbina. Daniel has 12 brothers and sisters, and Mama Yoly has more than 50 grandchildren. Finally, Daniel and his brothers Eri and Isaac were pretty much the driving force behind Just Coffee.


This is the "laundry machine" at Mama Yoly's house. It is also the large basin of water that you draw from in order to bathe yourself or flush the toilet. Compared to showers I almost prefer baths out of buckets now, but that's just me. I'd say the highlight of doing anything down there was the view, but the fish that lived in the water tank was pretty cool too.


The market in Tapachula. Fireworks? Check. Hammocks? Check. Used clothing? Check. Fresh pineapple? Check. I love street markets.


Sunrise on our way up the volcano Tacana. We left at 8 p.m. the night before, hiked until about 1 or 2, and crashed until dawn. It was freezing cold and I stayed up most of the night keeping a fire going in a little shack that they had built for people climbing the volcano. The brutal thing about Tacana was that there were hardly any switchbacks at all, just a straight path up the mountain.


Tacana's summit. The marker that I am standing by is the international border between Guatemala and Mexico that divides the mountain in half. The volcano behind me is in Guatemala. Needless to say, customs doesn't have a checkpoint up there.


Ruins from the city of Tahin in Veracruz. One of the most beautiful places I have ever been.


The gringo crew enjoying coffee, pan dulce, and good company in Veracruz. Throughout our trip the people of Mexico were undecided whether Tommy looked more like Santa Clause or more like Fidel Castro. Votes?


This is the armadillo that we started eating almost immediately after the last picture was taken. Pretty tasty actually. Especially with hand made corn tortillas, possibly one of the best tasting things on earth.


The "Socios" (members of the coffee cooperative) in Veracruz. Really great folks.


The coffee "fields" in Veracruz. Organic. Shade grown. Just. It's a beautiful thing. Kind of reminded me of my grandfather's avocado grove from when I was a kid.


Cleaning the coffee by hand so that it would be pure enough to decaffeinate. We really need to figure out a better way to do this. It's all about the quality though. Who loves you? That's right, Just Coffee loves you.


A coffee farmer on his way to sell the harvest. He still had another 45 minutes to go and those bags weigh 100 lbs. Think about that the next time you're at Starbucks.


One of the ten or so Cathedrals that we visited in the colonial city of San Luis Potosi. Thanks for the European training Mom and Dad. I can visit Cathedrals like a champ. On a side note, I think that when Protestants get bored they found new denominations, and when Catholics get bored they build more churches. It's a working theory.

That's it for me I think. I might post more thoughts later. I might post more pictures. We'll see.

I will say that it was easily one of the best trips I've ever taken, and that I'm also incredibly glad to be back "home" on the border, particularly as I've taken up puppy ranching. But that's for another post.