My daughter came home from school the other day.  As she does every day she pulled out her homework and got right to it.  While we were sitting at the kitchen table she started to share with me her writing assignment which was given to her by her teacher and entitled, “My World Dreams”.  

She let me know that she had listed her ideas and didn’t really need any help with the assignment and so I took a peek at what she wrote and it included the following and I quote:

1) The Homeless always have food

2) Everybody has a house

3) Everybody has at least 20 bucks

4) No one is left out

5) Love= Love your family, Love your world

6) Peace= No war, No guns

My initial reaction to reading her writing was sheer pride!  My heart was about to burst at what was right before me– my beautiful daughter with desires to see justice and love in the world and experienced by all people.  Simply wonderful!

As I stepped away and began reflecting more I realized that I had a second reaction and it was in the form of a question.  This question being:

How do I continue encouraging hope in my child knowing that as she grows she will face her own sufferings, as well as that of the worlds?  How do I shield her from cynicism or disappointment when she faces the reality that our world is broken?

It’s one of those burning questions and desires that I think we all have as parents.  We want to see our kids hope, dream and invest in the world around and figure out ways in which we can encourage that in them, especially when they face difficulty.

When I was honest enough with myself I realized I was feeling fear at the potential of my daughter feeling discouraged, let down or hurt because the world can be a cold place and as pure and lovely as her dreams may be amongst our brokenness it is an uphill battle that we fight to live into more inclusivity, acceptance, justice and peace.

And then came the truth– the truth being that–  I can’t shield my daughters from disappointment and pain.  They will experience those realities (which touch on levels of insecurity– but that’s for another day).  It’ll be part of their process as they grow into their fully integrated womanhood and learn ways to incorporate their passions, their dreams and their hopes in order to live authentically.

Although I can’t completely protect them from feeling disillusioned or experiencing disappointment what I can do is continue to encourage them in growing towards a place of continual hope

by

allowing them to honestly feel whatever it is they are feeling– discouraged, hopeless, helpless and frustrated, etc.  Giving them the space to express that those feelings are real and have meaning, too.

Authentic living requires honesty to feel whatever it is that we feel in response to the ever-constant- moving stimuli that surround us.

And it’s from that place in which hope can be re-engaged.

I have a dream and that is to guide my daughters in a way that gives them a foundation in which they are always able to engage the world with bold, creative, wildly courageous hope.

For those of you who haven’t caught the new Florence and the Machine video: No Light, No Light – let me just say it’s causing quite a stir, as it should.  Reviewers of the video have been using the “R” word to describe the disturbing images depicted throughout.

I’ve been a fan of Florence and the Machine for some time.  No one can deny that Florence’s vocals stir and haunt you in a very good way so when I watched this video I was really hoping that all the reviews I read were some how inaccurate.  As I watched I kept hoping that at the end there would be some redemptive resolve, but alas there was not.  I can’t help but feel very disappointed in an artist I’ve admired and I keep asking myself the questions:

“Was this purposeful?

and

“Was Florence trying to tell a bigger story or was she simply ignorant/naive to the story she was telling and how harmful her interpretation of lightness and darkness could be”?

In any case, whether it was an intentional move on her part to tell a particular story or she stumbled upon a thread of racist depictions in order to juxtapose the dimensions of lightness & darkness– goodness & evil the fact is (in either scenario) the story was not told well and ultimately the artist needs to be accountable to being a responsible story teller and to understand the dynamics and nuances of the story she is telling and what larger implications it may have.

If you haven’t seen it.  I recommend you check it out on your own.  Here’s a recap of some of the imagery:

• Scene one opens to a radiant Florence singing at the top of a building.  Her face is illuminating against the back drop of the sky and the contrast of her fiery hair.  Her voice is clear and resounds like a bell, but she is clearly troubled.
• The contrasting scene is of a black man in a full face and head covering.  His body is writhing on the ground while he is sticking pins into a voodoo doll.  The connection here is that it seems that the voodoo doll symbolizes Florence– every time he pokes the doll Florence rises in pain– she is being tortured by what seems to be voodoo/witchcraft.
• The next scene is in a church sanctuary where a choir of white boys sing.  At some point Florence begins to fall off the side of the building and she is plunging towards the ground while the choir boys lift their arms towards the sky…  Florence crashes through the roof of the church and into the boys’ hands where they save her from the fall and ultimately from the haunting inflictions placed on her from the voodoo witchcraft.

You see the video did tell a story.  And whether or not Florence intended to tell this particular story– the video shared the story of our history and the painful truth that historically the church has used Christianity as a justification to elevate one class of people over another based on race, socio-economics, gender, etc.

As we approach MLK day on Monday we remember the painful reality that the church has been a place where divisions around race have been perpetuated, sustained and normalized.

This is why Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr stated that Sunday at 10 am was the most segregated hour in America.

This segregated state comes out of history where Christian mission to evangelize and disciple incorporated a world view that those that were ‘other’ due to skin color were considered savages and uncivilized.  These ideas maintained a system where white Christians and the culture at large benefitted from the structure of slavery which became indispensable for survival.

In Divided by Faith by Emerson and Smith they speak to the ideology of savagery by stating:

“Traditionally, white Christians paid little attention to slaves’ souls.  The pre-1700 views that black slaves were less than fully human, did not possess souls, and were incapable of learning, as well as simple indifference by white Christians all led to a lack of interest in proselytizing slaves”.  

This division around black and white also solidified a belief that white equals good, righteousness and salvation and black is equivalent to evil and bad.  Therefore, the black individual is something to fear and the white person(s) is a place of safety and salvation.  Florence’s video supported these ideas by depicting her being tortured by this voodoo worshiping black man and the salvation she finds in the church and these white choir boys who rescue her.

The video also paints a scene that contrasts innocence and beauty against evil and darkness.  Innocence and beauty seemed to be connected to Florence, while darkness and evil connected to this black man.

My mind couldn’t help but return to an idea that helped perpetuate and sustain a racialized society in slavery and the Jim Crow era where the white woman was epitimozed as innocent and untouchable.

In the Jim Crow era  bi-racial relationships were unacceptable especially involving a white woman and a black man.  In the event that relationships of this nature occurred the African-American person would find themselves face to face with violence, torture and lynchings, though the same standards did not occur for white men who were involved with African-American women.

This led me to think of the story of Emmett Till, a 14 year old black boy who on a visit to the south allegedly whistled at a white woman at a grocery store.  Several hours after the incident Roy Bryant and two other men show up at the door of Till’s uncle’s house and demand to see the boy.  They take Emmett from his uncle’s house and over the rest of the night they beat this boy unrecognizable and leave his body in a river.

These are the stories that were re-opened and re-told through the video No light, No light.  Perhaps this is the story that Florence meant to tell…  I don’t know.  Unfortunately, what the video did do was re-glamourize and send a message that such images like these are okay and even normal.

As we move closer to MLK day, I reflect once more on these painful realities and histories and I hope that we all do the labor intensive work of understanding our story so that we can live into a community that values healing, re-imagines diversity in a way that tells every story and reflects the dignity of every human life.

If you have a review on this video please share!

She was a compassionate soul.  Her gentle nature immediately comforted those around her.  She was easy to be with and to converse with.  She was quiet but her tenderness was evident and touched those around.  

I knew that Kara had suffered greatly.  At our meetings I would notice her hanging her head low.  She didn’t describe many of her circumstances but it was clear that life had been oppressive at its extreme.    

While I was in Thailand I learned of Kara’s death.  The more I learned of her death, the deeper my sorrow, for Kara had died alone.  After years of ridicule, oppression, homelessness and pain Kara died alone in her camp and was found hours later.

Today her companion of twenty years held a memorial in her honor.  There were only five of us there.  I felt privileged to be one of the few invited to this sacred occasion.  As we began to share stories of Kara, a tapestry was woven together of a woman, a mother, a companion, a friend who loved people.  She had faced abuse and discrimination with grace, dignity and strength.  Though Kara was misunderstood she found a way to draw those in– those who would otherwise be cast out.  Due to her great compassion and care her friends called her, “The Keeper of the Throw Aways”.  

This gathering was powerful.  I feel changed for having known her.  I feel changed for having the opportunity to remember together her beautiful life– to celebrate her existence.  

And now I ponder, “how will she be remembered”?

I am all too aware of the fact that people die on the streets in Seattle all of the time.  Many die and are not remembered.  They are not celebrated.  I think of Kara and wonder, “how is that we (a society) allowed her to go through this life invisible, undefended and unloved”?  As I listened to her story I can’t help but ask myself, “how is this okay”?  

As I drove away I’ll be honest I wondered, I angsted over what more could have been done for Kara.  How could I have established more trust so that I could have known about her health conditions?  Maybe she would still be alive if she had received the proper care for her diminishing health.  And then I am reminded that there are far too many politics that go into who gets medical help or not…  How do I play a role in those politics?

It is clearer to me today that we are not passionate enough about those that literally sit on the fringes of our communities.  We go to our places of privilege– our churches, our workplaces, our coffee shops– passing those that go invisible right under our nose and we take no notice.  We get too uncomfortable to talk about the disparities, the inequities, the unfairness of our neighborhoods and so we silence ourselves and look the other way.  It’s too awkward to acknowledge the reality that people are beat down, abused and mocked at daily because of their status in life.  Maybe we do what we can within the system but we have difficulty advocating more strongly the need for justice to those that we have deemed to have no voice.   

Folks, why are we not more passionate about people?  

As a pastor, people often ask me about life after death.  I have great comfort in saying that I believe that Kara is at peace now.  After years of suffering and struggle, I believe with all of my heart that Kara is resting with her maker.  In reflection of her today, I remembered that God’s love had always been with her.  It is that love that gave her the strength to be the mom that she was, to love others and to not condemn.  After all she had been through, she was open and engaging of all those around her.  

God’s love endures in her and in her memory.

At her memorial we read aloud Psalm 136.  Here is an excerpt from this passage:

He remembered us in our low estate 
            His love endures forever. 
and freed us from our enemies. 
            His love endures forever. 
He gives food to every creature. 
            His love endures forever.

 Give thanks to the God of heaven. 
            His love endures forever.

As is the case whenever such topics are explored there were a wide spectrum of comments and philosophies on how it is we should engage the homeless. There was a comment made that I still cannot shake from my mind and it was in response to the question as to why it is folks become homeless…

Here it is: A cause of homelessness is part of a cultural condition of nihilism where the individual just stops caring.

Now please keep in mind that there were folks that addressed the causes of homelessness from the delicate and complicated standpoint that there are a wide range of reasons why people become homeless which include: domestic violence and abuse, unemployment, mental health, systemic poverty and addiction. I especially appreciated a speaker who spoke to the reality that sometimes it’s hard to tell what comes first addiction or homelessness, as often times addiction is a symptom of becoming homeless to cope with depression and despair. However, it must be said that someone did make note that nihilism plays a part in homelessness.

I completely disagree with that notion. It’s an oversimplification of a very complicated social problem.

In 10+ years of working with the homeless and displaced I have yet to meet an individual that does not care. Believe me– they care.

I have countless conversations with people sharing how they care about where they will end up– they care about where their families are–they care about how it is they can contribute to their communities– they care about where they will sleep, they care about where their next meal will come from– they care about their health– they care.

When I sense apathy it is usually in response or the need to defend and protect because the reality is– to be homeless is to be oppressed.

In just the past month, I have had conversation after conversation where someone was yelled at, spit at, swore at, kicked while sleeping and the cycle of abuse continues.

This abuse goes completely justified because we find it entirely acceptable to tell a homeless person that it is their fault that they are homeless. If they can get it together– get that shower, make themselves presentable, pull themselves out of their despairing circumstances then maybe they can find themselves in our inner circles where we do church and life and relationships.

To be homeless in our society is to be an untouchable.

Folks care about the fate of their existences and to be homeless is to live under the most fundamental mode of operandi which is survival.

A few years ago I worked with a homeless woman, Christina who came to me black and blue. Her wounds looked fresh but it had actually been an entire week after the incident where she was beaten, raped and left to die in an alley. She had turned to other churches, to the police, to other organizations and had been turned away partly due to the fact that people didn’t know what to do for her. Luckily, we had began a relationship months before this situation and so she felt safe enough to turn to us.

That was a very long night.

We went to an ER where a rape kit and report was conducted.

Unfortunately, this assault had not been the first for Christina– it came in a long line of abusive relationships and assaults.

I can assure you that she cared a great deal about what would happen to her– where she would go– where she would stay for the night.

But her story represented what we see so often– a cycle of abuse that begins in childhood and continues throughout the course of a lifetime.

When I speak to abuse I am not just addressing the horrific violence of physical assault, but I also speak to the day-in and day-out reality of social abuse that one who is homeless experiences in the sneers and jeers of people who pass by.

No one wanted to speak to Christina cause it was clear that she was homeless and struggled with mental health issues and addictions.

The whole housing first model is in response to the reality that human beings deserve the basic human right of housing… of shelter… of stability.

It’s a controversial model because inevitably people believe that to address homelessness one must first address the ills of addiction and individual responsibility.

Housing first comes from the perspective that if we can provide the stability maybe the message of individual change & transformation has more of a chance of reaching the person because the basic instinct to survive is being addressed.

Do I believe in housing first? Absolutely.

Call me a liberal I’ve been called worse things, but folks I don’t think we can be too liberal about the basic human rights to make accessible for every human being– food, shelter and clothing.

What say you?

There are a great deal of risks to those that are homeless.  So many face the harsh conditions of living outdoors and succomb to dangers of all kinds.  This morning we learned that a dear friend of ours passed away due to pneumonia.  Her passing went quickly and was a tremendous surprise to so many of her family, friends and community here in Ballard.

We remember her today as a sweet and gentle spirit.  She was a consistent support and friend to so many here.  She passionately loved the people around her and sought to be a place of refuge.  I know she will be greatly missed.  I am personally grateful to have known her for the past 8 years and will miss being met by her welcoming smile.  The dream catcher above was a gift to us from Margie.  You are loved and remembered, Margie.

Today after listening to a sermon given by Dan Allender on the call to suffering kindness I was reminded of the beautiful story of Babette’s Feast.  Allender ultimately challenged the listener to consider her allegiance to envy and the reality that envy robs us of generosity.  How easy it is for us to be more intuitively comfortable with a covetous spirit then with invitation and openness.  Suffering kindness can only lead us to relenting our desire of comparisons and lamenting of our ever-growing dissatisfaction.

And what can generosity mean?

Which leads me to my initial memory of Babette’s Feast.  For those who are unfamiliar with it– Babette’s Feast is set in the home of two elderly sisters who at one time had glorious and glamourous lives.  Now in their fifties they devote their lives to being caregivers of a small church community in their hometown.  One day they receive a knock on their door by a refugee woman from France and they agree to allow her to take refuge in their home.  They know very little about Babette, about her background and what she had done in her former life.  After some time, Babette shares with them the desire to make them a feast in gratitude for their accomodations and out of a desire to serve the entire community.  They finally agree not knowing exactly what this feast will entail.  Babette spends a great deal of time preparing for this meal.  Over several days she travels to Paris to be sure to have the exact supplies for this meal.  When the meal is finally served and enjoyed the guests of honor learn just how luxurious and finely detailed Babette’s feast is when it is revealed that Babette had used the entirety of her life savings, 10,000 francs, to supply the feast.

The juxtaposition that you see in the paralleled lives of these servants is service out of duty versus service out of delight. Babette’s efforts were done out of a desire to not just simply feed a few friends, instead her gesture was to shower her guests with pleasure.  Her generosity took into account the drain that giving can have when done out of sheer, rote operation and infuses the hope to capture each beloved recipient with all their senses and sensations.

What would happen if we operated in our lives every day with this kind of generosity– this kind of hope– this kind of kindness?  It’s so easy to take the trash out or pick up that pair of socks for the thousandth time all the while cursing under our breaths.

This is a form of mercy.  The mercy to see that to be human is to be on a complicated path that often leaves us conflicted and worn down.  Imagine the life and love that can be shared when we take the risk to see one another and love each other in brokenness?  That is the life of suffering kindness and invitation.

**********

December 2010

The beginning of any story is an important marker and as I ponder it occurs to me that though I’d like to think with assurance that the start of my story was marked on December 17, 1973 the reality is that it started somewhere before that– that in fact, the start of my story was being woven and generated even before my entrance into this world.

A few weeks ago I had a profound conversation with my mother that continued me on this journey of catching sight of my start.  My mom is a Filipina woman.  She was born and raised in Hawaii and met my father in Hilo, her hometown.  They had a torrent love affair to which I was the product of their passions and 9 months later I was brought into this world.  They were married sometime before I was born and they ended up moving to Minnesota.  My mom left all of her family behind and all of her comforts and familiarities and began a painful process of assimilation and inclusion.  You see, I am a person of biracial identity and the fusion of my parents backgrounds, histories and ethnicities were kind of stuffed into a package– the package of their tiny daughter, me.

There was always a level of distance between me and my mom.  We were strained and broken and though we wanted to move closer we didn’t know how to cross a growing reef divide that perpetuated misunderstandings and miscommunication. However, as I’ve come to process and face my story, my beginnings, my existence I’ve come to realize that where my story starts is precisely with her and with her mom.  Our communication is still difficult sometimes due to broken english and broken translation, generational gaps, lagging processes, missed opportunities and so on…  Yet, even with all of that, I have come to realize that I start with her– that my story, my flesh, my blood, my bones are intricately woven into hers and hers into mine.  This is a connection that goes beyond words. It is a connection of roots.

This advent as I spend some time reading Matthew I slowly go through the genealogy of Christ.  I have often wondered to myself, as I in boredom read through the extensive list, “What is the purpose of this”?

It occurs to me that we need to know where we come from. We need to know the larger tapestry of our lives.  We need to know we have roots and substance that go beyond our existence.  The genealogy serves to remind us of the people who go before and who we are intricately linked to– we are not isolated in one singular moment of time and space instead we live into the legacy of those who have gone before.

Proximity is important to me these days, though words fail and misunderstandings ensue, nearness to my mother has become such a beautiful and unfettered desire.  I have found that my questions of belonging began within my mother, my struggle to be included are embedded in the recesses of my mother’s memory and hope, my fervor to overcome and not just survive are buried in my mother’s strength and the ever turning process of acceptance and release are held in a faith that my mother shared in truth that poverty, lack of resource, loss of opportunity, disease, neglect and abuse do not have to win.

This is my renewed hope– a hope that moves beyond circumstance and situations but that ultimately ground us in love.

Today I attended a presentation by Professor Alexander on her new book: The New Jim Crow.  It was a brilliant talk.  One of Alexander’s points of introduction was around the reality of: who we hear and who we see in our society.  Her argument was that the moment we hear felony we immediately turn our ears off and we turn away from the individual while systemically those labeled as felons are banned and discriminated against in every sector of our communities.  If you are a felon you do not have access to public housing, you are banned from receiving food stamps, you cannot receive financial aid for an education, your rights to vote are revoked, employment, to name a few.  These systemic legal discriminations affirm our beliefs that someone with a felony is unworthy to be heard.

Much of what Alexander said today intersected with similar themes and trends I see in the community I work with who are homeless.  We find ourselves with similar responses when we learn of someone being homeless– we no longer hear and we no longer see.  We think that this response is okay because what we believe about the homeless is that they are dangerous, they are criminal thus, making them unworthy of acknowledgement or the basic human rights of dignity.

Professor Alexander closed her conversation with the need for a great awakening. As much as this has to happen on a large societal scale, the awakening process has to begin with the individual– what keeps us from being awake?  Or from wanting to wake up?

Alexander’s findings are alarming, but they should be.  We should be alarmed by a system that has legally maintained the segregation and discrimination of so many people in our society.  I hope our alarm can compel us towards that great awakening and then lead us to places of change.

This past week we started the renovation/refresh process of the ‘care center’ we’re starting through the Justice & Compassion ministries at Quest.  Now let me just say it has been a whirlwind.  A year ago, I proposed an idea to Quest in regards to starting a center where we could have office spaces to provide deeper friendship and support for those of our brothers and sisters who are homeless, low-income and in need in the Ballard area.  We began the process of looking for office space in Ballard in October/November and then through some conversations and connections a company called Jubilee Fisheries extended an office space to us– rent FREE!

On January 1, we were given the keys and full access to the building and this past week we began our refresh process of cleaning, painting and rejuvenating the space. Here are some pics:

Before:

After with some paint:

You know, it’s very exciting to see the transformation unfold right before our eyes, but what truly excites me and motivates me is dreaming how the space will be used to love people who otherwise may go without the message that they are loved– valued–appreciated.

Through the small ways in which we’ve been able to serve through resource distribution or hosting a meal the feedback from folks has been a resounding feeling of gratefulness as they acknowledge that there are people in their community who cares.

I believe that the work of kindness can go a long way in transforming people’s lives and stories.  Take for instance the story of Ted Williams.  His story is a beautiful testament of hope, but if it hadn’t been for that person stopping to read his sign, say hello and record his voice– none of us would have ever even heard of Ted.

The work of compassion is recognition and acknowledgement.  It is the call to look up– to see and acknowledge someone else’s existence and dignity and then engage.

Today just happens to be my birthday.  Thirty-seven years ago today I was born and a few days after I was carried home in the stocking that has my name on it in the picture posted.  My parents, grandparents and my aunt always reminded me that I was a special gift that Christmas in 1973 and their stories, hopes and joys at my arrival ring in my ears even today.  Perhaps that is why I love this time of year because I am reminded of that joy and the joy I extended to my family even before I knew how to interact or speak into their lives– it was simply that I existed that brought to them an excitement and a hope.

Now I strain to remember those days and though my memory fails me to remember even the slightest detail of those early moments, days and years I can’t help but try to figure out how it all began.  How is it that my story intersected with time and space?

The beginning of any story is an important marker and as I ponder it occurs to me that though I’d like to think with assurance that the start of my story was marked on December 17, 1973 the reality is that it started somewhere before that– that in fact, the start of my story was being woven and generated even before my entrance into this world.

A few weeks ago I had a profound conversation with my mother that continued me on this journey of catching sight of my start.  My mom is a Filipina woman.  She was born and raised in Hawaii and met my father in Hilo, her hometown.  They had a torrent love affair to which I was the product of their passions and 9 months later I was brought into this world.  They were married sometime before I was born and they ended up moving to Minnesota.  My mom left all of her family behind and all of her comforts and familiarities and began a painful process of assimilation and inclusion.  You see, I am a person of biracial identity and the fusion of my parents backgrounds, histories and ethnicities were kind of stuffed into a package– the package of their tiny daughter, me.

There was always a level of distance between me and my mom.  We were strained and broken and though we wanted to move closer we didn’t know how to cross a growing reef divide that perpetuated misunderstandings and miscommunication. However, as I’ve come to process and face my story, my beginnings, my existence I’ve come to realize that where my story starts is precisely with her and with her mom.  Our communication is still difficult sometimes due to broken english and broken translation, generational gaps, lagging processes, missed opportunities and so on…  Yet, even with all of that, I have come to realize that I start with her– that my story, my flesh, my blood, my bones are intricately woven into hers and hers into mine.  This is a connection that goes beyond words. It is a connection of roots.

This advent as I spend some time reading Matthew I slowly go through the genealogy of Christ.  I have often wondered to myself, as I in boredom read through the extensive list, “What is the purpose of this”?

It occurs to me that we need to know where we come from. We need to know the larger tapestry of our lives.  We need to know we have roots and substance that go beyond our existence.  The genealogy serves to remind us of the people who go before and who we are intricately linked to– we are not isolated in one singular moment of time and space instead we live into the legacy of those who have gone before.

Proximity is important to me these days, though words fail and misunderstandings ensue, nearness to my mother has become such a beautiful and unfettered desire.  I have found that my questions of belonging began within my mother, my struggle to be included are embedded in the recesses of my mother’s memory and hope, my fervor to overcome and not just survive are buried in my mother’s strength and the ever turning process of acceptance and release are held in a faith that my mother shared in truth that poverty, lack of resource, loss of opportunity, disease, neglect and abuse do not have to win.

This is my renewed hope this advent– a hope that moves beyond circumstance and situations but that ultimately ground us in love.