Hope in the ashes...

This week, fire has me thinking about rain.

In 2005, I couldn’t believe the vitriol of “religious” pundits suggesting that Hurricane Katrina was an expression of God’s wrath on New Orleans. At that time, I argued that such statements are preposterous coming from finite creatures lacking access to the motivations of God.

This last week, we have watched as walls of fire have consumed significant parts of our beloved Southern California. Some structures destroyed by the inferno—like Malibu Presbyterian Church—held a special place in our hearts. We have received many phone calls from across the country wondering if we were out of harm’s way. We are. What we didn’t receive was the same condemning attitude expressed post-Katrina.

This reality has spawned several questions that refuse to leave my mind. Why would we pick and choose our natural disasters, interpreting one here as a deliberate and message-bearing act of God and one there as a consequence of human negligence? What gives us the right to play prophet, especially when we have proven over and over that we play that role so poorly? Perhaps an even more important question: what reading of Scripture would ever justify such expressions of animosity and hopelessness in a time of great pain and loss?

In Romans 8, as he and the Roman Christians around him suffered incredibly, Paul’s words were not condemning and judgmental. Rather, the apostle called everyone’s attention to hope. The hope of glory that lies beyond this fallen and broken world with its imperial persecutions, hurricanes, and fires. We, as the body of Christ, ought to radiate hope in all circumstances, and uniquely in times of national pain. We must keep our eyes focused on “the glory that is to be revealed” and call others to match our gaze.

Two years later, Katrina’s effects continue on. Continue to pray for the city and people of New Orleans, especially areas such as the Lower Ninth Ward which still lie in shambles. Similarly, California will feel the effects of these fires for years. Continue to pray for the people of Southern California, many of whom face a long road back to normalcy. Two thousand years later, the Church is still wrestling with what it means to be light in the darkness. Continue to pray for the Church, that we would take our role as imago Dei seriously, and represent well the God of love, mercy, and hope in this desperately painful world in which we live.

The playoffs...

I'm not usually one to attempt to trumpet my own humor (that would be a rather infrequent endeavor). But the other day, I was actually pretty funny.

My blessed wife wrote me the following email on behalf of her office:

"Hi,

Can you give us a brief summary of the Indians, Rockies, Sox, and DBacks play-off and/or World Series History? We'd like to make some informed decisions about who we support based on under-dog status."

I replied as follows:

"Here are your brief histories:

The Diamondbacks came into the league as an expansion franchise in 1998. Although they revealed the type of poor taste that could only be accepted by doddering retirees in Arizona when they named the franchise after a venomous beast first made famous by embodying the Prince of Darkness, nonetheless, God granted them mercy and allowed them to win the NL West in only their second season in the league. Stunningly, the D-Backs won the World Series in 2001, led by future Yankees-washout Randy Johnson and future Boston loser Curt "I Love Being in the Limelight and Will Say Anything Necessary to Anyone Around in order to Keep Myself There" Schilling. In that series, they beat the New York Yankees, 4 games to 3. Although they likely cheated to do so, investigations have yet to uncover any wrongdoing. Clearly, the D-Backs are not a team that fans should support, given their already obvious run of success and shameless tactics of bringing in pricey free agents in order to compete.

The Rockies came into the league as an expansion franchise in 1993. They originally played in Mile High Stadium, home to the NFL's Broncos. The spacious setting allowed them to set somewhat dubious attendance records early in their existence. In 1995, the Rockies moved into Coors Field, a beautiful park disgracefully named after the devil's drink. They first made the playoffs in 1995, winning the National League wild card. They were subsequently beaten by the Atlanta Braves. Pitching has always proven tricky in the Mile High City, given that baseballs tend to fly very far in thin air. In response, the Rockies began to place baseballs in humidors in hopes of keeping them in the park. It has produced favorable results, although too late for once promising pitchers whose careers have gone to Denver to die (see: Neagle, Denny; Hampton, Mike; Kile, Daryl). It seems logical, given the options, that the Rockies are the preferred choice in the National League, although since they play an inferior brand of baseball in which the pitcher bats, thereby sacrificing quality for a weak attempt at a bunt once every nine batters, that's not saying much.

The Cleveland Indigenous People Group were a charter member of the American League in 1901. They have a long, if not very successful history. Originally named the Cleveland Blues, they later switched to the completely insensitive and geographically ignorant nickname Indians (the racially offensive mascot/logo was still to come). Since the Indigenous People Group has such a long history, it would follow that there would be much success to celebrate throughout the years. Unfortunately, this is Cleveland we're talking about, and such success is rare. Speculation remains that the city was built on a landfill, but soil samples are inconclusive. Cleveland first played in the World Series in 1920, defeating the Brooklyn Dodgers. The team's only other World Series win came in 1948, giving them the second-longest span since World Series victories of any team in baseball. Their place is safe, however, since the longest such streak belongs to the Cubs (1908), who are an entirely awful impersonation of a baseball franchise. Although the Indigenous People Group had an opportunity to end their years of misery in 1995 and 1997, instead they lost to the Atlanta Braves and the Florida Marlins, respectively, thereby besmirching the World Series crown by allowing it to be worn by a team from the vastly inferior National League. Cleveland, given its history of losing and racial insensitivity, would not seem to be a good candidate for your American League support, however...

Boston sucks.

Hope this helps,

Benj"

A change of demeanor...

I realize that this blog has lacked my attention lately, and I have a great explanation for that: my job has kept me super busy.

Yes, after two months of unemployment—the first of which was welcome and very restful, incidentally—I have found another employer crazy enough to hire me. This time, it’s Westmont College.

Actually, my job is an incredible mixture of things that I really love and care about. The type that only God could come up with. I serve at the College as the Campus Life Coordinator. In that capacity, I get to serve as an adviser for three student groups. In no particular order, the groups are:

Potter’s Clay: PC is a ministry that sends around 300 students to Ensenada, Mexico, every spring break for ministry and service. They also participate in a service trip in the fall that includes assistance with Ensenada’s Special Olympics.

Spring Break in the City: Exactly what it sounds like. Students go to San Francisco over spring break and serve predominantly in the homeless and AIDS communities.

Emmaus Road: ER sends Westmont students on overseas mission trips each summer. Past locations have included Uganda, Ukraine, India, and Japan.

As someone who loves college students and has thoroughly enjoyed serving numerous times in Mexico, once in Romania and twice in inner city settings (St. Louis, 2006; Chicago, 2007), this job is pretty much just what I would dream of.

I met my student leaders this weekend as we went on a retreat. I’ve had tons to do to get ready and tons to do before school begins next week. In short, I’m super busy, my students are great, and God is so faithful.

The process was something only God could have arranged. Funny how things go better that way.

The psalms also include declarative praise psalms that tell of God’s response to a lament. Consider me praising.

Left Coast Lament...

I feel guilty even posting this, but if lament was a legit expression for the psalmists, who am I to quibble?


I’ve wandered down this path you pointed out,
asking few questions, trusting you to guide.
Now, it seems we’re lost, or,
rather, I’m lost and you took off.
Where am I? How did I get here?
How can I get back to where I should be, wherever that is?

You made this trip seem appealing, but it’s sucked.
Sure, great weather and all,
but so what?
Where have you brought me?
I know where you brought her;
that we can all see clearly.
Am I an afterthought? A tag along?
Feels like it.

I probably shouldn’t blame you, but I do.
Hate to admit it, but what’s the use in lying about it?

Where have you gone?
When are you coming back?
Your silence is thick like the fog in the harbor.
I hate to hear the nothing,
but nothing’s what I’ve got.
Nothing but her, and a promise from you.

I guess you want me to wait, to trust.
Honestly? That sucks.
I feel like you owe me.
I busted my ass. For what, exactly?
A series of rejections? Data entry? Sounds swell.

I am proud past arrogant. Disgusting.
Show me what you want me to see.
Teach me what I didn’t learn in the books.
Make me who I need to be.
Past faithfulness should create some trust in me.
But I’ve only got frustration.
Please be faithful now.
Please be faithful soon.
I hate being
lost.

Dancing with the Elephant...

I went to the DMV yesterday. (No, this will not be a DMV rant.) I don’t particularly care for trips to the DMV, but, all things considered, yesterday’s wasn’t too bad.

I had to take the written test for renewals. I knew of this test. I chose not to study. I am, after all, simply a native Californian returning home from the front lines of theological conflict. I failed the first time.

I missed two questions that I hesitated on and chose against my original instinct. (I know, I know. The original instinct is usually the one to go with. Unless you’re George Costanza, in which case every instinct you’ve ever had is wrong, and, therefore, you should do the opposite.) You can take the test up to three times without paying again. I passed the second one.

But it isn’t the test or anything else about the DMV experience itself that causes me to write about it. Rather, the paperwork I filled out previous to my appointment is sticking in my mind.

While filling out the paperwork, I made two decisions that caused me a little deliberation (three if you count the question: “Weight?”). The first was whether I wished to register as an organ donor. Ever since Mickey Mantle campaigned for people to become organ donors in the wake of his life-threatening issues in the mid-90s, I had always contemplated it. Yet, there is something totally different about officially designating it on my driver’s license. Facing that blank box, I wrestled with some significant questions. A little glimpse at my fragile psyche as I weighed my options:

What if I die and other people get all my pieces? Will they all have to give my parts back to me at the resurrection? If so, will they get stuck with their defective parts again? Could I really do that to someone? (These are the actual concerns that crossed my mind. I couldn’t make this stuff up.)

In the end, I concluded that everyone will be okay once they get their glorified body, so I might as well make someone’s life better prior to all that. I checked the “Yes! I want to be an organ donor box” and felt like that was the “pro-life” thing to do.

The second question was not as easily resolved. In fact, I’m still thinking about my decision. As I registered to vote, one section asked if I wished to claim affiliation with a political party, and, if I did, which would be my party of choice.

Understand, that at almost any other time in my 29 years previous to this moment, I would never have hesitated on this question. Yet, recently, my affiliation with the elephant has caused me a little concern, a little embarrassment, and not a little head shaking.

For the first time in my life, I thought seriously about turning my back on the Republicans and checking the “I do not wish to claim affiliation with any political party” box. That would teach them a lesson, right? When the long-time faithful begin turning away, they notice, right? They stop doing stupid and embarrassing stuff, right? As I debated, I envisioned me leaving the party, followed within hours by a pleading, if nearly unintelligible phone call from Governor Schwarzenegger begging me to return. I also envisioned a congratulatory phone call from Michael Moore, a rather chilling thought, to be honest.

The choice was tough: does the situation call for me to behave like Luther and break all ties, or like Wesley and seek to be a catalyst for change from within?

In the end, I decided I was more Wesley than Luther: I checked the “Republican” box. I concluded four things—See? Luther would have had 95!—that helped me make my decision:

1. Nobody in the GOP would notice if I left.
2. Since my convictions aren’t determined by party affiliation and I choose to vote my convictions rather than the party line, I wasn’t selling out by staying with the party.
3. Remaining in the party, seeking to change it from within, seemed the more honorable thing to do. This party—like Gotham City—is not beyond saving.
4. If I switched, what uncomfortable topic could come up at dinner parties that could possibly parallel the tension introduced whenever the divided political affiliations in my home are mentioned?

I decided to dance with the one that brought me, no matter how ugly her behavior after we arrived at the dance. Maybe someday I’ll want a different dance partner, but for now I’m content to straighten my bow tie and head back out to the floor. Hopefully soon, she’ll learn a new dance step or two. Maybe I can help.