Welcome to the Real World

Some of you may know that I'm in San Francisco for the week; what you might not understand is what I'm doing here.

Right now I'm sitting in a classroom listening to Mark Dennis, the Cheif Investigator of Not For Sale and the Executive Director of Redeemed Ministries talking about various types of human trafficking and modern slavery. I'm one of 14 people attending a conference put on by Not For Sale called the Investigator Academy, where participants learn to recognize and report human trafficking cases in their own communities and are given other information and skills for increasing awareness and taking action to end modern slavery. 

Some of you may say, "H, you live in Summerville, South Carolina. What kind of human trafficking could possibly be happening there?"

If you think that, I will point you here. Recently, there was a documented case of sex and labor trafficking in North Charleston, South Carolina. It's everywhere. It's real.  And the horror is that these criminals are some of the smartest and well-financed in the world whereas these victims get the least help and aftercare and rescue. The worst part of it is that the laws are outdated and traffickers can use our own ill-worded laws to continue their work.

Throughout the week, I will try to update and share the information I learn. By the end of the week, I will be hopefully be certified as a citizen investigator, and even if all I do with it in the beginning is start a club at school or lead Freedom Sunday at church or take care to be a smart consumer, that is all well and good. Though I would like to work more actively in this realm once I finish teaching and while I'm in grad school, I am not unaware that some of my most important engagement with this cause will be bringing more people on board, small steps at a time.

I invite you all to follow my blog as I continue this week, and I look forward to sharing my experience with you when I return.

H

www.notforsalecampaign.org

www.nfsacademy.org

Intellectual Christian (not an oxymoron)

I know. I’m a high school English teacher. Whether or not my students define it correctly on assessments, I know oxymorons, and despite the perceptions of the skeptical and the seeking and even the insistence of the saved, “Intellectual Christian” is not one of them.

From an early age, I loved to read. I would hide novels behind my textbooks as early as grade school, and it only worked because I was quiet, made excellent grades, and always put the book away if asked. As a teacher myself, I know now that every single one of my teachers knew what I was doing. I only thought that I was sneaky. No, they encouraged my reading, my hunger for stories and for knowledge (as long as I kept my grades high.) In education, we sometimes call this “enrichment.” If a gifted student is bored because they are not being challenged, they often become behavior problems. I amused myself quite well, and my teachers often recommended books for me to read or had me do reports on them for extra grades. I was a teacher’s dream—curious and eager to learn (and well-behaved), of course. I loved school for that reason—my teachers encouraged me to question.

I also grew up going to school on Sundays, but the atmosphere here was just a little different. I was encouraged to read and to learn. And I did! I read my children’s Bible cover to cover. As I grew older, I delved into every part of the Bible, relishing the comfort of the words of Christ, of the Psalms and Proverbs, but not shying from cryptic passages in the Old Testament nor some of Paul’s more troubling statements in his letters.

However, unlike at school, I was not encouraged to question at church. I was taught that only those that doubted asked questions, and if you had doubts, your faith was weak and suddenly, older people begin to hover and ask questions and call your parents after church. I started my journey with Jesus at the age of 10, and I wanted nothing more than to be a good follower. I was young; I looked up the older. They told me to stop questioning—to stop questioning the evolutionary theory I was being taught at school, first off. To stop questioning the violence of the Old Testament and the lack of female faces in front of the church. To stop questioning other faith-systems in the world. And after a few very troubling years in middle-school when science and friends from other faiths and my own unguided readings in the forgotten parts of Scripture attacked my psyche. Describing my inner turmoil would be the biggest mistake of a promising young Christian, a leader in her youth group. So I said nothing, leaking out only the rarest emotional question in the midst of invitation.

I reached what I viewed as peace after several years of spiritual agony. I had secretly read about other religions (such study had to be secret or put under the guise of evangelism), and I had concluded that nothing else in the world made sense except Jesus. Despite my leaning towards the poetic and artistic and the magical, even at a young age, I have always been analytical and logical to a fault. And if Jesus made sense, I didn’t need to figure out the rest of the world. And it was a genuine kind of peace. “To live is Christ, and to die is gain,” I often cited. I knew Jesus walked with me; no other question needed be answered more than that one, and that one had been answered with the most illogical and irrefutable certainty.

Throughout college, the peace I had found became attractive to my peers, who struggled with the doubts and questions. They came to me with questions, and I answered them as best as I knew how, always admitting that I didn’t always know the right answer or have the right verse. But not knowing didn’t bother me because I was confident in the one answer that mattered.

I kept learning, reading, praying, trusting.

In college, several things happened. Firstly, I began to work at a Christian camp during my summers, where I continue to frequent as much as possible. There I met mentors and friends who not only believed but questioned too. At the same time. From everything to music to sexuality to teaching…we questioned, talked, prayed. And no one thought less of anyone who wondered.

Second, I left this country and went deep into the jungles of Peru on mission. But instead of building houses or teaching children or anything tangible, I spent my days with other college missionaries teaching Bible stories. We recited stories that we memorized from Genesis and Exodus, and the villagers listened to Spanish and native translations over and over until they had the stories memorized, too. In this tiny village in the middle of nowhere, where all they had were bamboo huts with mud floors and the chicken and rice and fruit they grew themselves. The preacher was paralyzed because he slipped on a wet rock in a river landed on his back. For days, he was fine, but one day, he fell the ground and never walked again. He had no wheelchair. But yet, all any one of these people wanted from me was for me to repeat the story of Moses receiving the ten commandments over and over so that they could tell it to their children.

Lastly, in college, I made several close friends in college—smart, funny, loving, respectable friends—with alternate sexual orientation. I was raised in a conservative Baptist tradition; these friends shaped my beliefs unstoppably. Some had a true desire to seek God, even know Jesus specifically, but the worst hurts of their lives had been inflicted upon them by Christians. And they were afraid that I would be the same, make the same judgment as the ones before me. That they expected and dreaded this reaction from me was one of the most heartbreaking moments in my life, and it continues to haunt me. Because I called myself a follower of Jesus, they expected me to abandon them, condemn them, hate them. But because I follow Jesus and believe God is love, I absolutely could not hate or condemn my friends, fellow people with feelings and hurts and priceless intrinsic value.

These three moments occurred when I was pursuing knowledge and training to be a teacher, learning and learning and teaching unless I was asleep. And I could no longer keep my questions swallowed. Certainly, my absolute and continued certainty in the existence of God, the reality of Jesus, and the presence of the Spirit were more than enough to give me peace, to keep me content. Jesus is more than enough for me.

For me. There, as Shakespeare would say, is the rub.

Working at camp and going to Peru and knowing my friends were hurting finally showed me why I still wanted to question, even though my faith was enough for me.

I am not alone.

It is not enough that I can simply be satisfied that I, though I, despite my love for learning, will never know all that God knows while I live on this earth. Elsewhere, other Christians are asking questions, the same questions, and like I didn’t as a teenager, have no one to talk to about them.

It is not enough that I can read the Bible in the safety and comfort of my middle-class American existence with little knowledge or concern for the rest of the world. There is a paralyzed pastor in a tiny, impoverished village in Peru who has no Bible in his language and no wheelchair with which to work and minister to his village and feed his family. But yet, all he asks for, with more bravery than I have seen in my life, is for us to pray for the village to embrace the Scriptures when the stories are retold around a fire or a meal.

It is not enough that I can date and marry and create a family in love and happiness with only the most trifling interrogation from my male relatives. There are others in the world struggling with their sexuality being attacked by the church in the name of God. What we believe about alternate sexuality becomes irrelevant if we stand by and watch (or participate!) in the cruel and unjust dehumanization of our brothers and sisters whether it is for their sexuality or race or ideology or gender.

Perhaps I would be happier if I didn’t ask questions. I wouldn’t be up late at night writing blogs and personal essays or reading when I should be asleep. I wouldn’t face judgment or concern from friends and family in the church if I did not question. I could keep hold of that fragile peace I found as a teenager in knowing that if Christ walked with me, nothing else could shake it. Nothing else mattered. That is just as absolutely true as it is wrong.

But, if I never question, I will never learn. If I never learn, I will never teach. I must do these two things; it is at the core of who I am as an intellectual, as a human being with frailties and passions. I will question. But I know one thing for certain.

Because Jesus walks with me, everything matters.

Time to Live, Time to Die

 

I have always thought that death was not something to be feared. On the other side of death, I believe, waits an indescribable joy and fellowship about which I will dream until I reach it. However, the older I get, the more and more I see that my view of death was very selfish. Certainly, if I were to die tomorrow in a car accident, from a sudden illness, or as a victim of violence, I believe I would awake in the midst of heavenly fellowship. But my family and friends would be left behind asking painful questions, questions I find myself asking now.

I admit to having few brushes with death in my short life. I had all four grandparents until I was a freshman in college, and now, at twenty-three, three are still living. One, my paternal grandfather, sleeps in a hospital bed as I write this, and I pause my typing often to think on him and his wife, to chase my tears with a trembling hand.

Another brush I had with death (thankfully, a more distant one) came when my close friend, Lee, was diagnosed with leukemia at the age of 18. Now, at 22, he has beat it once, relapsed, and is now (thankfully!) recovering from a bone marrow transplant with very favorable progress. I pray daily that Lee continues to heal and grow strong and that he will live to be a hundred and change the world before he leaves it.

This weekend, I went to the visitation and funeral for an elderly lady who did more for the world and for her community than many could ever hope to. I found I had nothing but feeble words for her family in their grief.

What can I say to ease their sadness? What now can they say to me to ease mine? It pains me, as a person who has made her life and passions all about the power of words, to admit their uselessness in the face of death.

When my mom’s father died, so many people came through the visitation line and told me to be strong for my mom. Their words, though kindly intended, served only to burden me and create a temporary rift between my mother and myself when she confronted me about the lack of emotion I showed about Grandpa’s death. I had tried hard to swallow my tears in her presence and save them for when I was alone, and she, in her grief, thought my composure callous and unfeeling. What words can I offer to anyone who is suffering when their effect could be harmful even when I intend the opposite?

For years I have faced my own death with little fear or concern. For me, to live is Christ and to die is gain, I agree with Paul. But that outlook is selfish, inwardly-focused.

Now I allow myself to ask questions that no one on this earth can answer, that I always thought showed a lack of strength, a weak faith even to think.

Why would God allow someone as kind and unselfish and as young as Lee to face cancer? Why would God not take my grandfather quietly in his sleep four years ago rather than let him suffer?

(Note here that I do not question why there is death at all. To me, this has never been a point of contention. This life must end so that we can experience the greater reality of the Kingdom. The time we grieve for those we lose in this life will quickly fade in the time we have to celebrate in the Kingdom.)

Why can’t my grandfather, suffering now in a hospital bed of dementia, pneumonia, and heart problems, be given peace? Why can’t I or anyone have any words to comfort grieving families?

Perhaps I am weak and of little faith to think these questions and weaker still to type them for others to see. Will they be concerned for me? Will they wonder if I’m falling away? I hope they will ignore such concerns and instead pray for my grandfather and for Lee and for the Shivers family as they mourn a beloved grandmother. Will anyone think less of me for questioning God?

I do know the church answer to such questions. When we ask why? in the face of death, pain, tragic shootings, natural disasters, or acts of war, we are often led to believe that such things happen for the glory of God. I say such trite, thoughtless responses are offensive. Violence and pain and anger give little glory to the Savior I love. Instead, responses to pain, to death, to violence, to tragedy have the potential to glorify.

I think God has gloried little in my confused and heart-broken ramblings, but that God will glory greatly in the grace and comfort that I and my family, and other families like ours struggling with grief, receive from others out of love.

If I meet death before I expect to, I hope my family and friends will find grace and peace from God and from each other. I also hope that when that time does come, as it does for us all, that I will have said or written or done something worth remembering.

“The Lord is close to the broken-hearted and saves those who are crushed in spirit.” (Psalm 34:18)

Little Successes

Today, I gave a book to a student who will likely be transferred to the alternative school. I can count the number of times this students has voluntarily done work in my class on one hand, but he was reading a book of mine in class and expressed disappointment that he wouldn't be able to come back and keep reading it if he got transferred. I told him he could keep it. He carried around with him all day. He came to school with no bookbag, no books, no pencil, but he carried around a copy of Monster by Walter Dean Myers to each of his classes and to a pep rally and to the bus.

So far, this is one of my greatest successes as a teacher.

Rebellion and Anticipation (Or, I'm a Narnia Obsessor)

Eventually I may professional enough to fill this blog with organized and edited personal essays, but until that point, I will continue to indulge myself by contemplating one of my favorite non-allegories in the majority of the entries that I post.

C.S. Lewis always said he wasn't writing an allegory. As quoted in Of Other Worlds,

Some people seem to think that I began by asking myself how I could say something about Christianity to children; then fixed on the fairy tale as an instrument, then collected information about child psychology and decided what age group I’d write for; then drew up a list of basic Christian truths and hammered out 'allegories' to embody them. This is all pure moonshine. I couldn’t write in that way. It all began with images; a faun carrying an umbrella, a queen on a sledge, a magnificent lion. At first there wasn't anything Christian about them; that element pushed itself in of its own accord.

So, I don't knock on the back of my closet (just in case) because of potential allegories to deconstruct, even though I certainly have this tendency as a recently-graduated English major; instead, I love to imagine Narnia as a place, a parallel universe just as Lewis did. He wrote it as an imaginative work, not as a tract-children's book cross breed. And my inner child loves to imagine a world with fauns and  lyres and children that can save the world. I'm a teacher; of course I think children can save worlds.

The most fascinating part about Narnia is the idea that God, as Aslan, walked physically among the Narnians and the Pevensies. How I long for that! And I believe in a God that, if God were magnificent lion, would let you ride on his back as he ran, roaring into the fray, or who would romp around with you like a giant kitten after tasting life again.

Also, you'll find that my favorite of the Pevensie children is not Peter, the noble, nor Edmund the clever and courageous, nor Lucy, the ever faithful. Instead, my favorite is Susan, the lost Queen, the one that never made it to the New Narnia. Instead, she survived. You'll find I write about her often.

As far as the title of this post is concerned, I'm convinced the latter choice was more appropriate. (See above.) However, to address the former: the rebellion here is simple: I bought a book called A Year with Aslan: Daily Reflections from The Chronicles of Narnia. The book has an excerpt for each day of the year taken from one of the 7 books followed by simple reflecting questions. I love reflecting; English majors and teachers are pretty much full-time mirrors, we love it so much. The rebellion lies in the fact that instead of starting to read it on January 1st, as one might do, I'm going to start today, November 1st.

As far as anticipation goes, I am highly anticipating a) my day off tomorrow. and b) the release of the newest Narnia film, Voyage of the Dawn Treader in December!

The first excerpt comes from The Last Battle, the toughest book for a Susan devotee to read. This excerpt however, is a poignant retelling (as I see it) of Christ's words when He separated the goats from the sheep. However, I have pontificated enough for tonight; the question and my answer are fairly simple.

Question: What makes the creatures react to Aslan either with fear and hatred or with love?  Why were they divided not by how Aslan treated them, but by how they reacted to Aslan?

Answer: The loveliest and harshest part of our humanity is the gift of choice; we choose whom to serve and when to rise. The creatures were divided by their reaction to Aslan because their reaction reflected their lives. Those that reacted with fear and hatred fear and hated the Lion they had not chosen to serve. Those that loved Aslan could still fear him and would be wise to do so (He is a Lion, after all), but their love overpowered their fear, as it always should.

There is beauty in Narnia, beauty and potential and truth and imagination. These, in the right quantity, keep me reading and keep me tapping on the back of my closet (just in case).