One thing.

But the Lord answered her, "Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things; there is need of only one thing. Mary has chosen the better part, which will not be taken away from her."
Luke 10:41-42 NRSV

I met with a new mentor this week, and the conversation - and perhaps more precisely, the communion – that we shared is still trickling through my spirit; bringing new hope as it touches each brittle, fragmented part, softening me, and opening me again.

It wasn't that he gave me answers, though some of those were given, it was that he communed with me in my struggle and grief. He saw the spirit of God moving in me where others saw disobedience and rebellion. He leaned into my pain rather than trying to turn away, he believed me rather than attempting to make me question myself. In short, I suppose it would suffice to say, he loved me, he accepted me. Isn't that funny? We learn so much in church about right belief and right practice, and how to evangelize... yet, so many of us seem lacking in the skill of loving each other in truth.

I'd like to put down our whole conversation and all the new connections I made between experience and faith, the path I've forged in the question of the suffering of the world... and maybe someday I will, but for now I'd just like to share that the answer was: Love. The answer for me is love, as a noun and a verb, in all its complicated, all-consuming, unbelievable reality. Love. (You can be the judge as to whether this sentiment is of God or the Beatles)

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Last night I talked with a friend who is struggling to live an extremely counter-cultural life (NB: Of late I have become aware that I am excessively blessed with good friends. I confess I am a glutton of amity). As he conveyed to me how hard it has been and how people are constantly pushing him to get back on board with the "American Dream," he said, "Emily, I just want to do one thing well." It made me think of all the theological struggles I have had, well, forever. I have countless memories of myself in high school pouring through apologetics and Bible commentaries for hours on end to discover why you shouldn't take communion until after you are baptised, or what Paul really meant when he charged the single people to stay single; and what did it mean to be holy? and how should I pray? and who is saved?? So many questions; so many why-s; so many am I doing this right-s. I was the head of the search committee. Then yesterday I thought: I have no idea how to love my neighbor. I have no idea how to do the thing that Jesus commanded more than anything else; the thing that makes more sense to me than anything else, that is so clear and uncluttered by theological dissonance.

So in this fast-paced world that teaches us that we can know and do all, I've decided, that though maybe there is a place for all the other questions (and maybe not), for now, I'll just stick with this one thing, and try to do it well. So if you are interested in the place of feminism in the church; or whether or not there is a hell; or how many paths there are to God; then God bless you and may your search be fruitful, but don't ask me. For now, I am only pursuing one question and I am only doing one thing.

Speak to me not but of love.

Christmas Story numero dos:

But first, a couple of shining moments from my time with my family.

#1: A Health Conversation Gone Wrong with my Granddad

Granddad: It scares me all the obese people these days. I just can't believe it. We didn't used to have people so obese like this. You know what? I bet it was them who voted for Obama... he promised change - I bet they thought that meant more food.
(I search my Granddad's face for any sign that this is a joke... nothing)
Granddad: (turning to me) Emily, you are an Obama fan aren't you?
Me: (long pause) Yes sir, I am.
Granddad: Well - (long pause) - I guess I love you anyway.

#2: Nephew Bonding

My sister's 2 year old son Ezra gets in trouble and has to go to time out. This is my brother's 3 year old son Ethan's response.

Ethan: (very serious) Mommy, Daddy, I don't like Ezra.
My brother: (trying not to laugh) Son, that is not very nice.
Ethan: But really Daddy, I DO NOT like Ezra. I DO NOT LIKE EZRA!

Ah, holiday family fun.

Ok, and now moving on to the real story, numero dos.

Perhaps you've heard it before. Once there was a God, who chose to give up his godly form, and godly dwelling to become a man, and live as men do, to know them face to face, and love them.

The Christmas story was told to me twice as the holiday neared, but with a focus that was, if not completely new to me, unusual.

The first time was in a book by Henri Nouwen called The Selfless Way of Christ: Following Christ on the Road of Downward Mobility. The subtitle drew me in. I am yearning for a way out of the American productivity, cosumeristic obsession. I am yearning to join and help the meek.

His thesis was that as Christ stepped down from heaven to be with us, so we who follow him are called to give up our upward striving, to instead join the powerless. It is not a new take on the Christmas story really, but a different interpretation of what the implications are for us. Usually I think our reaction to the story is thankfulness. As in, "I'm so thankful Jesus came to save me," or, as I am asked so many times when people find out I lived in a third world country last year, "aren't you so much more thankful for what you have?" Well, truthfully, no. Truthfully thinking about what I have when others have not makes me angry and disgusted. Why should seeing starvation make me thankful when I am overly stuffed? The stark difference between my life and the lives of the multitudes in underdeveloped countries knocks the air out of my positive attitude, and pushes me not toward thankfulness, but toward (I hope) getting my fattened excesses trimmed away and put to use where they are desperately needed. It seems the Christ story should do the same.

Randy Harris, the most insightful, humble (and humorous but that is straying from the point) theologian I have ever had the great blessing of hearing speak, took a similar stance on the story of Christ's coming in a sermon I heard the Sunday before Christmas. He pointed out that Jesus gave up his home for us, and defined home has people - I guess in this case God-people... angels maybe? - and feelings of security and comfort. In doing this, Harris said, he extended home to us. And once again, in following, we are called to give up what we are most driven to protect, our homes, our security. Harris posited that in giving up our homes - in loving our poor, needy neighbors; our international neighbors; our enemy neighbors, rather than protecting ourselves from them - we are in fact, extending our home. Thus the beautiful paradox becomes that by giving up our home we gain a home which cannot be taken because it has no bounds.

I love these takes on this story. They make my heart beat faster and bring tears to my eyes. Yes, I think, this is what I have been called to do, and I love the God who calls me. But after the sermon has ended and I've finished the last page of the book I find myself at a loss. A loss for the how. I can't tell if all this searching, weeping, writing, and railing is going anywhere. Passion is simply a child's tantrum if it has no road to travel.

Harris' sermon, though pointed, did not contain practical steps, but only a challenge. Nouwen's book, on the other hand, was very practical about the way he believes one should endeavour to follow the road of downward mobility, namely: go to church, read the Bible, and pray. Those of you who have had religious conversations with me recently can probably see my problem with this. What can someone like me, who has been jaded by a life in a conservative middle-class church and a year in a 3rd world Muslim nation, do with this command? No. No Nouwen, I need to do something besides these things that I've been doing my whole life. I've gone to church, I've read the Bible, I've prayed. Now give me action.

Even as I type and my zeal against the passivity of the American church rises, I know there is truth in Nouwen's words. From my youthful perspective, the truth has something to do with living a life that is somehow above this world, above its endless running and needing, above the voices who tell us what to do. He is saying that pursuing these disciplines transforms us into people who walk a different path. I just haven't had the experience he had, and I see few others who have. I don't know how to follow his wisdom.

A sinking feeling of hopelessness is rolling over me as I write this. I am tired; the Christmas break wore on my heart and spirit. A friend challenged me recently to be more forward in my words about the state of the world that I saw in Bangladesh and my condemnation of the way we Americans go about life in spite of it. The challenge was deeply validating to my grief, and yet, I can't follow it. I can't because I have no answers. I know many of you, my dear friends, yearn to see the kingdom come for all humans as fervently as I do (and more so), and thus it is simply... well, I can't find stronger words than I have used before, it is heart-wrenching to look on the reality of the world when you have faith in another way. Many times it paralyzes rather than inspires. Where is the road to the kingdom? I'm not ready to try to put anyone else on my path till I have some idea of whether or not it is leading to something good. Perhaps it is a road to a cross of salvation for all mankind, or maybe it is the railings of a silly, emotional girl with too much time on her hands and verbal ammunition.

I am tired. This is my second Christmas story.

Two Christmas Stories

This has been an interesting Christmas, to say the least. The season was rung in by my increasing anxiety over American consumerism, and following paralysis in the face the pressure to buy and receive gifts, when neither I, nor the people I would give to, had any need. I resolved this dilemma by buying inexpensive, unthoughtful gifts at the last minute only for those who I knew would be hurt if I didn't. I consider this choice a dismal failure. I'm hoping to find a better resolution next year... perhaps that can be my New Year's resolution: In 2010 I will resolve the gift giving/receiving dilemma... except I never actually do New Year's resolutions... hmmm new dilemma...

Christmas story numero uno:

Despite wide spread skepticism of the weather forecast I emerged from my home in Abilene Christmas Eve morning to discover a few inches of snow covering the earth as far as the eye could see (so, to my neighbor's house). Since I was about to drive to my parent's home in Fort Worth, this charming holiday surprise was not welcome. However, after listening to the radio for a while to hear the road conditions and no one mentioning any problems, I set out with confidence (for those of you confused by this action who are thinking, "why not just check the weather on your computer, or the weather channel, or your iphone?" I have access to none of these fancy technological advances in my home. I know, try to contain your awe and wonder at my Quaker-like life).

My zeal to be homeward bound was heightened after talking to my mom and finding out that my sister had had a problem when she got to the DFW airport the night before and had to be rushed to the hospital, where she still was. The snow was blowing hard but there didn't seem to be any build up on the road. I nestled myself in for a long drive, turned on my new Brandi Carlie cd (thank you Amy), got my coffee thermos situated and thought "I dare you to try and stop me storm! I will be home for Christmas!" Oh the arrogance of 20 somethings. To make a long story (sadly lacking grand drama) short, the storm took me up on the challenge. About 20 minutes down the freeway I hit some ice on the road, lost control, and skidded off into the center guardrail. Stupid stupid stupid girl.

The police officer who came to help me was not nearly so kind or helpful as the Bangladeshi boys who helped me out of the ditch in my second bicycle accident. First of all he didn't get me off the road like they did, but left me to sit there in my handicapped jeep and wait until some other vehicle hit the ice and skidded my way; and secondly rather than being in awe of my beauty, eager to do all he could to make me comfortable, he gave me a speech about reckless driving that ended in a citation (though speaking the same language has its advantages, I'm starting to wonder if I shouldn't have taken one of those Bangladeshi men up on their marital offers). So eventually I was removed from the freeway, as was my vehicle and some dear friends risked life and limb in the worsening storm to bring me back to Abilene to celebrate Christmas with them.

At some point during all of this I called my mom to let her know that her other daughter wouldn't be making it home either, only to find out that my brother's flights had been cancelled and he was stuck in Nevada. If you see my mom any time soon, give her a good long hug.

Though the time with my friends was the joyfullest, accidental, home away from home Christmas that anyone could ask for, when I finally stepped through the door of my parent's house a day later and saw all my siblings and nephews I was overcome with relief and thankfulness. Who cared about about "gifts"? We all made it home for Christmas. After a few heartfelt hugs and thoughtful looks, my siblings and I got to the serious holiday business of making fun of each other and our parents as extensively and cleverly as possible.

So, that first story was a smidgen longer than I anticipated. Rather than going through the trouble of changing my title (arduous work it is) I will end this entry here, and will get #2 to you at my earliest convenience.

How are you?

I talked to Rina recently and found out that no one in her family has had a job for the past couple of months. They are all living in one room in Dhaka, surviving on rice.

"How are you?" she asks me.

What would you say?

"Well, I've got more stuff than I know what to do with and am getting more by the minute (since it's Christmas and all). I've got so much in fact that I have to spend significant chunks of time organizing and ridding myself of it. I'm prospering and can be almost certain that I will never see a day of real need in my life. I have so many friends and family that I'm currently pretty stressed out trying to figure out how to stay in contact with them all. Lately, since I am off school for a month, I've been spending a lot of time sitting around thinking and drinking coffee."

Good thing I have no idea how to say anything like that in Bangla.

I tell her I am well. I tell her I am so sorry things are so hard for her. She says, with her fearless (or powerless might be a better characterization) optimism, "astay astay bhalo hobe" [slowly slowly things will be well]. I say that I love her, feeling very much like the hypocrite who tells the starving to be well fed. She she asks when I am coming back to Bangladesh. I don't know. I don't know. She reminds me (as was our joke while I was there) that I need to get married, have a baby, then move back so she can cook for me and take care of my child. Yes Rina, I'm working on that.

I think, "forgive me, forgive me for abandoning you, my sister."

I think, "I have to get off the phone so I can go buy Christmas presents..."

Fear-defying Love

Today as I sat around enjoying the company of my family, laughing, eating, and chasing nephews, slowly but surely a darkness crept in around the edges of my joy.

Perhaps it is the fact that coming home for the holidays is one of the few times I am able to give my mind a clear break from the relentless processing of ever-looming projects, or perhaps it is the reminiscing that is inevitable with a return to the people and the place I grew up in, but something about these stays always turns me inward and convicts me. The experience seems to force one to ask questions like: "What have I done with all I've been given? This is where I came from, how will I ever endeavour to deserve it?"

Escaping from my family and going on a walk, I allowed my thoughts to wander where they would. I soon came to the quandary I have countless times since I went to Bangladesh. The quandary of love and fear.

You know that verse about love conquering fear? I believe it, or at least have an ardent hope that it is true... at least, if there is anything that overcomes fear, it cannot be but love.

There are different kinds of fear though. The fear I mainly experienced before this past year was one that sits in the back of your mind, usually just out of your conscious awareness and gives you a dull ache, stealing bits of joy and contentment as you go through your day. This is an important kind of fear, but if it is all you have experienced, it gives you (or, it gave me) a skewed comprehension of the power of that verse. In Bangladesh, for the first time in my safe little life, I experienced physical fear. A real and immediate fear (taking no imagination, and extremely practical) that I could be seriously, physically harmed. The feeling is like nothing I had known before, and I quickly realized it trumped all that I have ever learned in thousands of sermons, Bible classes, and heartfelt devotionals about how to do what is right when it's hard.

I cannot now imagine myself possessing, living, being a love so great that it would overcome this type of fear. I was shocked and am now simply ashamed to admit that I am completely paralyzed in the face of it. Or not paralyzed really. I am able to run away, protect myself. When I was a child I used to think how I would like to be a martyr. I know the idea was the product of an appropriately childish dramatic mind, but I cannot help contrasting that with my feelings now. Now, when I can bring those few moments clear enough into memory, I wonder... I wonder what there might be (a person, ideal, cause) that could give me the courage to submit myself to physical harm. Writing this brings back the disgust I had for myself after those moments, and yet, so much of what I learned last year was that people in general (not only myself) are much weaker than I had imagined before. Or... perhaps I simply never gave all those who are so courageous enough credit, thinking I deserved a place in their ranks, not realizing I was just an actress dreaming of a heroic role.

But I have so much more compassion now for those who live lives of cruelty. Are they blameless? I don't know. I guess I can't be the judge, but what I know is that they are probably afraid; afraid in a way that I have only had terrifying glimpses of. Living in a society filled with metaphysical, intellectual jargon, I think we underestimate the power of physical fear, and from our comfortable thrones judge too quickly those whose lives we cannot comprehend.

I am writing tonight because I have failed miserably in the cause of love, and because the darkness broke through my joy today. This is a resounding theme in my life lately: joy showing up in the midst of pain, and sorrow sneaking up on me in the midst of rejoicing. And lately, (inconvenient as their arrivals often are) I've taken to opening my arms to both when they choose to present themselves. I am regularly labeled as either morbid or inappropriately ecstatic (usually there may be some sort of drug related joke here), but I think my problem is hope. I have hope in these thoughts, perpetuated by this complicated, inconvenient heart of mine. I dare to hope that these leadings (as some of you have so graciously helped me consider) may be the workings of that holy spirit I've heard discussed in vague, and usually incomprehensibly meaningless, terms for so many years. I have hope that listening to these voices will guide me to what I seek: a life of real, fear-defying, love.

Oh friends, is it possible?

If you've made it to the end of this dauntingly wordy and dark message, I ask for your help. You see, I am good at theorizing and confession. I am good at loving with words, but I struggle to no end with action. So if you have won any battles (as I know you have) with learning to live a life of real, practical love, please continue to share with me.

If you'll help teach me, I promise to do my best to return the favor.

A Leaf Story

Today I went jogging while autumn leaves glided down around me. I would not be exaggerating to say the experience was idyllic. I recommend the activity to anyone who… well, now that I think about it, just anyone.

Lately I’ve noticed that more than ever before, the outdoors seem to minister to my soul, connecting me to God in ways I haven’t found words for yet. I’ve honestly started leaving my house earlier and earlier to walk places because it has become inevitable that I will be distracted by the beauty and walk progressively slower trying to take it all in. Being on time seems quite insignificant when you are confronted with such splendor. The earth cares not for schedules, and it sucks you into its defiance. Sometimes I fear that if I ever live somewhere more beautiful than Abilene (hold back the derogatory comments please) my senses won’t be able to endure all the stimulation, and I’ll eventually be rendered catatonic with ecstasy. Perhaps a blindfold would be in order… I always thought using a guide dog would be fun…

Though I’ve always had a special affection for trees and the leaves that emanate from them, I’ve been especially enamored with them lately. Their shapes and colors; the silhouettes they make against the sky; bright yellow bunches of pecan leaves and colorful sycamore leaves as big as my face… often I feel compelled to pick them up when I spot especially wonderous ones. But what does one do with a leaf, I wonder? Were I just a little more courageous and less imprisoned by socially dictated norms, I think it would be delightful to give them to people I cross on the path. Not say anything, just run up, place one in their hands, smile, and walk away. Then, I imagine they would look down and discover a red and green oak leaf perhaps, and laugh out loud at this unexpected gift. They’d stop and contemplate it for a moment, then find themselves also compelled to pass the gift on to the next unsuspecting passerby.

And thus my dear leaf would go on its merry way, spreading the seeds of peace and hope with a new awareness that beauty surrounds us and begs us to recognize that the earth reverberates with the love from which it was surely formed.

Big job for a leaf I suppose.
I imagine their up for it though. We’ll talk.

How American Men are Different from Bangladeshi Men.

Last Friday night after eating dinner with a friend I decided to stay at a cafe and read. Yes, I was alone with a book on a Friday evening, and (though I admit this is not always the case), I was absolutely content.

At some point three young men came in and positioned themselves at a table just in my line of "staring off while pondering" vision. I know this because in the midst of contemplating my eyes suddenly focused to become aware that I had locked gazes with one. I immediately realized my grievous error: girl sitting by herself on a Friday night starring at you - she must be lonely. I quickly attempt to correct this blunderous invitation by using extremely closed off body language (torso turned toward the wall, hand on forehead, face close to book), but it was too late. Next thing I know one is striding toward me. I think "perhaps he is just getting a refill?" I lean in closer to my book, and hug the wall. "May I sit with you for a moment?" Game over. I think "Not this. I'm not in Bangladesh anymore, leave me alone." I say "sure."

He introduces himself, asks my name, then plunges into a speech about how he and his friends like to find out if people know God, because they know God and he saved them, etc. I think "Oh even better, an evangelistic dater, that is so Abilene of you." I say "interesting." I am tense. What is this kid about to ask me? I hold my breath waiting for the inevitable "have you been saved?" But instead hear: "would you say that you believe in God?" Momentarily relieved, I respond "I most definitely believe in God."

Then, rather than going the next step and making sure I am a Christian, he surprises me again by beginning the next part of his sermon on how he hates evil and how he adamantly believes that all people who commit crimes against women and children should be publicly executed. He explains how he simply cannot understand why Obama is talking so much about health care when he should be focusing on keeping people safe. "You see," he said "the more politically left you become, the more you want to take over the world; the more politically right you become, you actually get closer to God."

Not what you expect to hear from someone who is try to save your soul, or date you. As he continues his aimless tirade a barrage of defensive statements and arguments come into my head. This kid has no idea what he is talking about, I could shut him down in no time. At the same time memories from my first suitor in Bangladesh come flooding back to me. Perhaps this is the moment to try out the "I am strong and happy" line again... or maybe in this context something more along the lines of "sorry to confuse you by looking like the girl next door, I am a liberal, feminist, passivist."

Just as I was on the verge of trying out something like this, he paused. He seemed to have lost his train of thought for a moment and nervously looked into my eyes. We looked into each others eyes. I stopped. What is it about the eyes that cut through our charades and lay us bare?
(When acting, until you come to accept the fact that there is always some reality to the fantasy that is being played out on stage, eye contact can really throw you off. There you are playing your role when reality suddenly breaks in. Sometimes it makes you laugh when you shouldn't, and other times you have this gut reaction, and it is like you are somehow suspended between two worlds... the eyes make the moment real somehow, even though you know it simultaneously isn't. You see the real other and see them seeing you, and you think "wait a minute what happened to the game?" You keep playing the part, but you walk off stage knowing a connection just took place with another human, and you wonder what it means. The eyes seem to reject our attempts to block ourselves off, like doors forever nailed open.)
I suddenly woke up to the fact that this man in front of me was not some pompous, imbecile that I needed to put in his place, but a brother, confused, struggling, biased by his background and history, and yearning for love and acceptance -- just like me.

And I thought to myself: "you are a judgemental, arrogant, fool." And I changed my tactic. Rather than trying to get rid of him (my first approach) or entice him (what I assumed he thought I was doing), I would instead try something novel, offering him real love.

I asked him how he came to care so much about protecting people. I asked him why he loved God. Then I found myself talking to him about how amazing Jesus is, and my own struggle between justice and mercy. I touched on the topic of criminals again, and rather than fighting for his point of view he said "you know, I never thought about it like this before, but I don't think God would want me to execute those criminals - he'd probably want me to love them... I could do that."

Just like that. I couldn't believe it.

Then he seemed to get back on track. I could see it a mile away. He began telling me about this other girl he was trying to convert and how frustrated he is that he can't have intelligent conversations with her. "I need intelligent conversation, I can't stand stupidity - I think it is a choice" he says. And I am certain his next move will be "and since we have such brilliant conversation together, how about you give me your number so we can talk some more..."

I restrain a smile. I talk about how amazed I have always been at the type of people Jesus chose to hang out with, uneducated and unrighteous, "how did he do it?" I wonder aloud.

He did a lot more talking and I asked more clarifying and deepening questions. Then for my final surprise of the night, he looks me straight in the eyes and says "Wow, this has been great, thank you so much." Then he shakes my hand and goes back to his table.

No asking for my number, no "can I see you next week," no "come meet my mother," and certainly no proposal. I then realize that not only am I judgemental and arrogant, I am also conceited.

Humbling as this moment was, I choose to blame my error in judgement on a year of having every man I pass stop to stare at me, and any who had the chance to talk to me moving quickly from "what is your country?" to "do you need a husband?"


You see, it's not me, it's just the re-acculturation process.