Archive for June, 2012

Wrapping up The Other Face of God

I need to conclude my thoughts on this book, because, truth be told, I finished it a few weeks ago, and am now knee-deep in The Blue Parakeet, itself a fascinating book about how we read the Bible.  I have plenty of thoughts about that book, and I don’t want to forget them.  However, there are still a few more gems in The Other Face of God, over which I simply cannot pass.  Also, I want to emphasize that this series of blog posts is in no way a substitute or a summary of what Leddy has written.  Indeed, I thought the best parts of her book were the very moving stories of individual encounters with refugees and neighbors.  I haven’t mentioned any of those because I probably couldn’t do them justice here.  Thus, I have focused on her more general observations on ministry because they work better for conversation starters.  Plus, they tend to be very timely for me as a member of a church trying to do similar things as she is doing.

For example, it is so easy to become overwhelmed when I begin to fathom the amount of need in some of the kids at our church.  And I’m not really talking about physical needs; many of them have more gadgets and toys than my own children have, despite the fact that they are materially poor in other ways.  No, what overwhelms me is the depth of emotional need, the deep holes that come from not having a dad or a mom be there for them, or the needs that stem from abuse or neglect, or the heartache that comes from bad decisions and bad lifestyles.  There are so many scars that seem impossible to ever heal.  And so I get overwhelmed.  In her book, Leddy eloquently sums up the nature of this type of ministry, as well as the position that you have to take in these situations:

Yet, to really face another person who is in great suffering is to live with great risk.  The suffering can be overwhelming and lead to feelings of great powerlessness…

It seems like a risky way to live, and it is–unless, unless–we remember that there is a third person in the equation.  It is not only me and the refugee; it is not only me and the child…

There is the Spirit in-between us, walking along the border.  There is the Christ who lives between us and sustains us both. I think the most important thing we can do at the beginning and the end of the day is to place all those whom we will meet that day and ourselves into the hands of Christ, who holds and sustains us both.  And at the end of the day, turn over all the cares, works, and sufferings of the day into the hands of Christ.  Then go to sleep in peace  (125-126).

That’s so true to me.  I am only able to rest when I realize that I am not the Physician, the Shepherd, the Savior of these people.  Instead, we both rely on Christ to save us.  Only by putting myself and Him in proper perspective am I able to have peace in ministry.

Leddy also provides a simply call to neighborliness that I think echoes Matthew 25 a bit:

The invitation to be a good neighbor, to live beyond the forced opposites of friends or enemies, is open to all of us–clergy, religious, and laity.  Indeed, it is an invitation that makes all of these churchy categories somewhat secondary.  Perhaps there is only one distinction that matters:  those who are learning to love their neighbors, and those who remain indifferent to them.

The weaknesses of the church, of each of us, are usually quite obvious.  It is rather remarkable how accepting people are of most of these weaknesses.  However, I think there is one weakness that people cannot accept and that is indifference to suffering.  The church that walks by the one suffering by the side of the road has nothing significant to say about the meaning of the gospel (133).

Even though I do think those outside the church are often more critical than Leddy suggests, I definitely agree that we cannot be adequate witnesses to the gospel while we turn our back on suffering.

Speaking of being a good witness, I simply adore Leddy’s closing words about the nature of our witness for Christ.  I’ll end the post with these words because they so ably sum up my whole view of what it means to preach the gospel.  They provide a fitting end to a wonderful book:

Ultimately, the preaching of the good news today will have to rely primarily on the text of our lives, on the witness of those whose lives give weight to their words.  There is no shortcut, no easier way to make “sense” of the gospel message.

In the midst of the dissatisfied cravings of this culture, the witness of people living with gratitude, with a joyful sense of having enough, is a powerful statement.

In the midst of the weakening structures of political meaning and purpose, the testimony of those who nevertheless have a sense of meaning and purpose is powerful, persuasive.

In the midst of the clutter and fragmentation of the times, the witness of lives that are concentrated and whole is simply eloquent (139).

Quotes taken from:  Leddy, Mary Jo.  The Other Face of God.  Maryknoll, NY:  Orbis Books, 2011. 92.

“Nothing unifies like a common enemy…”

“We can’t go around measuring our goodness by what we don’t do, by what we deny ourselves, what we resist and who we exclude.”


These words from the final sermon in the movie, Chocolat, resonate deeply with me.  Part of the reason why, I guess, is because it seems so inherently logical.  One can not define oneself by negativity, by what one is not.  For example, if I were trying to define a tree, I would not start by listing all the qualities that a tree doesn’t have; that would be silly!  How much easier and more precise is it to define the tree by the qualities which it possesses.

I think that’s one of the many reasons I am bothered when Christians define themselves by what they are not, or by what they don’t do.  It’s fine to oppose certain things (I oppose all sorts of things!), but should opposition really be the essence of our being?  Shouldn’t there also be something that we do, something that we are?

In her book, The Other Face of God, Mary Jo Leddy offers further insight into the danger of defining ourselves in terms of our enemies instead of in positive terms.  Here’s what she says:

It is a sad and simple truth that we become like what we fight against.  It is simply true that if we look at an enemy long enough we begin to replicate its patterns within ourselves.

When we spent decades fighting the materialism and lack of freedom in communism, we became more materialistic and less democratic.  So too, in fighting terrorism, we become more accustomed to disregarding the innocent, in justifying torture.

This dynamic, in which we become like what we fight against, is also (let us confess) present in groups working for justice and peace.  In our struggles against racism, there is a good chance we will become racist.  We may struggle against patriarchy and become more dogmatic than the pope.  If we are simply against violence, we are likely to replicate patterns of violence within our groups.  What a difference to be not only against violence, but also for peace.

So Jesus commanded us then as now to love our enemies.  He understood that otherwise we will become like the enemies we struggle against.

Now, I think she paints history with a really broad brush there in the middle, and I for one can not speak to the accuracy of her statements on communism’s impact on our society.  However, I can say that I have been appalled by the things that have come out of Christians’ mouths in defense of torture as a legitimate means to fight terrorism.  Sometimes I shudder to think of the effect that the terrorist threat has had not only on our safety, but on our nation’s collective soul.  In that way, her words ring true to me.

And they remind me that my goal is not just to “fight” brokenness; my goal is also to seek, to embrace, to model wholeness.  I am not simply to stand against child abuse and neglect in “our” neighborhood; I am also to love the children in our church and at Y.E.S.  My job is to make them feel like the cherished, special, remarkable people that they are.  I can’t just be against child slavery; I should also be for more education and resources to vulnerable areas of the globe.

This line of thinking helps me because darkness easily overwhelms me.  The other day, I made the mistake of reading a depiction of some of the horrors that go on in Uganda.  Naturally, the idea of a child being forced to kill his mother with a hammer threw me into a pit of despair.  What helped me recover functionality was not to fixate on how much I hated that that happened.  Instead, what helped me stop hyperventilating was to click over to Amazima’s website and read about the positivity and light and love that was flowing from that organization into Uganda.

God knows I have seen some darkness in ministering to teens.  There were times in college that I would leave Y.E.S. and have to pull over before I got home just to cry at the heartbreaking things I heard from those kids.  I will never forget some of their stories.  However, if I fixated on the hate and ugliness and despair that I heard in their stories, I know I would have become hateful and ugly and despairing.  Instead, I had to focus on the positive.  I had to keep my eyes on God and on His will for these kids.

One more little sidenote to these thoughts:  Part of the problem of spending all my time “fighting darkness” is because usually I try to do so by externalizing it, by putting it into the “them” category of “us and them.”  In the meantime, I ignore the obvious truth that my own heart is full of darkness.  The title to this post is from a Derek Webb song that illustrates that truth quite well:

“Nothing unifies like a common enemy
And we’ve got one sure as hell
He may be living in your house
He may be raising up your kids
He may be sleeping with your wife
Oh he may not look like you think”

Change the gender of the speaker, and you get a picture that is closer to the truth than the idea of “darkness” being “out there.”  So ultimately, I can’t fight darkness without destroying myself.  Instead, I have to seek, and to be, light.  That’s how you take a stand against darkness.

At least, that’s my current theory.

What’s your theory?


Leddy, Mary Jo.  The Other Face of God.  Maryknoll, NY:  Orbis Books, 2011. 92.

The Struggle to Embrace Limitations

Last week, I shared an excerpt from The Other Face of God, in continuation of my summer reading project.  The excerpt praised the notion of a limited ministry; indeed, it maintained that such a ministry was rooted in reality.  After all, we can’t go everywhere and do everything; it is time for us center-worlders to embrace the fact that, like everybody else, our abilities to change the world are limited in scope.

I get that.  I really do.

And yet, sometimes my actions seem so tiny…too tiny.  They are so insignificant that they make me want to scream at my own impotence to do anything of of worth.  For example…

…on Friday, I had plans to watch my niece, who was in town with her family at the same church camp my husband was attending.  I was to babysit her while her parents taught one of the classes.  Then, Greg, Anna, and I had big plans to go see Brave, as all of us wanted to see it except for Luke, and he was out of town with grandparents.  Those two plans were supposed to take up most of my morning, and I was looking forward to them.  I hadn’t gotten to spend any real time with my niece, Tatum, in so long, and I was excited for the chance.


The night before, I got a text from a young mom of  a newborn daughter.  This mom does not have transportation and has been needing rides to the hospital downtown for doctor’s appointments for her baby, who was born with complications.  At this time, I don’t really have a relationship with the mom, but she has asked me several times for rides to her doctor’s appointments.  And I can never do it.  This was the third or fourth time she had asked, and she needed a ride for the next morning.  She usually calls me last minute, as I am a bit down on her list.  Thus, I get the call when others have backed out, leaving her stranded without a ride.

Her request brought me face to face with my limitations.  I could not spend time with Tatum and take her to the hospital.  And I could not keep saying no to her in her hour of need and still hope to form a relationship.

I thought about it, and I decided to see if Greg could cover for me, since he was already at camp, and then I would take the woman.  He could.

The next morning, I dropped Anna off with Greg so that at least one of us girls could have some Tatum-time, and then I went to pick up the woman.  The next two hours of my time was spent taking her to the hospital to fill out some insurance forms and then taking her back home.  And…it felt so useless.

For one thing, when it was all over, it turned out that there was a miscommunication between her and the hospital, and she didn’t actually have to go and fill out the forms.  Thus, I sacrificed my morning for a pointless trip.  Useless.

And here is where I’m supposed to tell you that it was all worth it, though, because of the great conversation we had in the car on the way, right?  All that relationship-building that happened made it worthwhile, you know?

Except…we didn’t really have great conversation on the way.  Or much of any conversation, despite my best efforts.  I guess she was in a quiet mood.  I did try, though.

But, but…it is the effort that counts, right?  Mother Teresa says that we can do no great things, but just small things with great love, you know?  So as little as my effort was, as little as it amounted to, I did it with love in my heart, which brought me closer to God.

Except…I didn’t really have love in my heart.  No, I was more perturbed by the ruffling of my well-laid plans, to be honest.  I tried my very hardest not to let that show, and was very cheerful throughout the whole process, but in my heart, I was not exactly filled with warm-fuzzies.

And there was a moment, while I sat in the hot car and waited for her to be finished inside, where I looked around and pondered my own finite nature.  I thought about all the kids starving around the world, all the orphans, all the injustice, and atrocity that just breaks my heart.  I thought about my new favorite verse in the Bible, Jesus’ prayer that God’s kingdom come, His will be done, in earth as it is in heaven.  I thought about my earnest desire to do something, anything to help bring that kingdom, as impossible as it is.  And in all those big-picture thoughts, this silly little effort seemed so…useless.  So fruitless.

I know that here is where there should be a “but.”  Here is the place where I explain to you that it wasn’t fruitless, that it was somehow meaningful.  And I could say something like that, if I wanted to.  But I wouldn’t believe it, so what’s the point?  The truth is, I am so limited in what I can do.  So finite.  I can sacrifice a morning, sacrifice time with loved ones, and see no dividends at all from it.  It happens.  But we don’t really do things for “dividends,” do we?  We do things because they are the right things to do.  And we trust God for the rest.

Those rather morose reflections bring me to my excerpt from Leddy today.  Here, she speaks about the hard, slow, laborious work of trying to minister to a specific community.  My insignificant actions on Friday was part of that process for us.  In light of that experience, I find her passion-tempering thoughts here to be helpful:

There are many books on community development, and I have read some of them.  However, I now know that it does not work the way it is usually described in the books.  The literature on community development makes it appear as if it is possible to go into an area, identify an issue, and organize around it, and voila, a neighborhood.  According to the experts, this can be done in a year or two.

Wrong and wrong.  Building a neighborhood takes a very long time.  It takes at least twenty years and then some.  It takes every day.  Like a garden, a neighborhood must be tended regularly and by many people.  There are seeds to be sown, little plants to water.  And yes, every day there are weeds to be pulled, small problems to be solved before they overwhelm what is good.  It is a humble task, and it is never over.  There are days when you think the slightest storm could blow all this loveliness away.

From my own experience working in this neighborhood in college and now, and from the church’s collective experience of the almost ten years we have been here, I generally agree with Leddy’s assessment.  Building a neighborhood, a community, takes a long time and a lot of effort–lots of little and big sacrifices, by lots of people.  And yes, some of those efforts seem wasted.  I’m not saying that Friday’s effort was a waste, but it definitely wasn’t rewarding in any way.  And that’s okay.  That’s how ministry is sometimes.  That’s how it is when you are trying to do something of worth in this world.

I am glad I had read this book, though, because it gave me a framework in which to process my disappointment.

And on the plus side, we did get to see Brave.

Have you ever been disappointed in your efforts to help others?


Quote taken from:

Leddy, Mary Jo.  The Other Face of God.  Maryknoll, NY:  Orbis Books, 2011. 80.

The Beauty of Our Limited Ministry

Yesterday, I related Mary Jo Leddy’s analysis of the “center of the world” mentality of North Americans, which, in her opinion, even permeates our spirituality.  This analysis, which she relates in her book, The Other Face of God, is somewhat critical of the way North American Christians…well…the way we tend to see ourselves as more important than we are.  And honestly, I’m okay with critical…IF there is a constructive element to the criticism.  Thankfully, Leddy’s book contains that positive corollary.  In contrast to a delusional, “imperial” spirituality, she portrays a Christian life that is aware of its limitations and that seeks to act within its sphere of influence.  Here is what she says:

What form of holiness is appropriate for this moment?  What can make our lives whole, can save us from the empire of self?

The search for such a spirituality will have to begin with more modesty, more humility, with the willingness to accept the limitations of what is possible at an in-between time such as this.  And to find this worthy and significant.

My reflections thus far suggest that we must listen for the calls that summon us out of our self-centeredness:

  • The cry of a child.
  • The call of the stranger and the newcomer focuses our lives.
  • The call to do good work.
  • The craft or art or sport that can discipline a life and shape it according to its material.

A spirituality that saves us from an imperial religion will have to involve a spirituality of limits, of modesty and humility.  This will not be easy, for it goes against some of our dearest dreams:  the hope of becoming better, the hope of more, the hope of changing the world, the big hopes for the transformation of the church.

To become centered and focused is also to choose limitations joyfully, willingly.  It is the choice to locate your life.  Not just for a moment, but forever, it seems.  Your life can no longer float around the universe, jet around the globe in the name of justice or peace or “the environment.”  It is easy to walk away from justice as a cause but much harder to walk away from the person who has knocked at the door (67-68).

In many ways, this passage stepped on my toes, and in other ways, it gave me great comfort.  Her comment on our dearest dreams falls in the toe-stepping department; the fact remains that I do  hope to become better, and I do think that God has prepared good works for me that do have a purpose and that will make a difference.  At the same time, I really believe that I understand the limits of idealism, even though I am sometimes “accused” of being an idealist.  I maintain instead that I am a realist, albeit one with idealistic yearnings.  I long for God’s kingdom to come, His will to be done on earth as it is in heaven.  I fantasize about it, I pray for it, I try to imagine what it would look like.  However (and this is where her comfort comes in), I am learning to content myself with my little lot of life that God has given me.  I find great meaning in my physical church body, in our little neighborhood of saints and sinners, among our wonderful, rowdy “Y.E.S. kids.”  It is so small, just a little wisp of Nashville, but embracing this limited, physical neighborhood has helped center my life.

Furthermore, even though she tends to focus on a physically limited sphere of influence, I also think of my few little Compassion kids in the same way.  Even though we are spread out among the Americas, I see our choice to sponsor them as embracing my limitedness.  Of course, I would love to save all the children, and I do pray for all the children.  But since I can’t save all…since I can’t save any, in fact…perhaps I can make a small bit of difference for three.  And while I pray for all the children, I will sponsor three.  While I dream wonderful dreams for all the children, I will write letters to three.  It’s tiny (sometimes I even believe that it is too tiny), but more and more these days, I rejoice in the fact that I can do this little bit.

Leddy goes on to describe the life and philosophy of Wendell Berry, a man who has greatly influenced her beliefs.  She sums up his outlook this way:

What he has articulated is a spirituality of knowing our place in the world, in creation.  It is a spirituality of being in place, of knowing one’s particular contribution, of seeing oneself as part of something greater, as a participant rather than as a master and captain of the universe…

This is not someone who is out to change the whole world.  It is someone who remains faithful to a particular place and a people.  It is a slow way.  And it does make a difference (70).

I love that description of ministry.  Like Berry and Leddy, I long to “remain faithful to a particular place and a people.”  I don’t mind that it is a slow way.  And I do believe that it makes a difference.  My prayer to God is that our little church in our little neighborhood can be that place and that people for me.

And if I can also help a few kids in other countries along the way, that would be great, too.

What is your ministry?


Leddy, Mary Jo.  The Other Face of God.  Maryknoll, NY:  Orbis Books, 2011.

First World Problems

In her book, The Other Face of God, Mary Jo Leddy (who, by all appearances, is Canadian) offers this analysis of America:

We are the center of the world.

Because she attributes our centrality largely to our imperialistic tendencies, Greg viewed this section of the book as needlessly political.  For her purposes, however, I understood what she was saying.  I don’t think that she was so much trying to provide a political critique as she was trying to describe a spiritual phenomenon.  She does not question the fact that we are the “center of the world,” or accuse us of merely thinking it–she maintains that, for all intents and purposes, it is very true.  Then, she explores the effect that being in the center of the world has on our spirituality.  She does this in a bullet list, describing various characteristics of the “center-worlder” mindset:

  • To live in the center of the world is to see the self  as the source of much that is good and evil in the world.
  • To live in the center of the world is to assume that we can and should change the world.
  • To live in the center of the world is to be constantly disappointed when things don’t get better.
  • To live in the center of the world is to assume that our problems are the most important in the world.
  • To live in the center of the world is to assume that we must have our act together before we can help others.
  • To live in the center of the world is to assume that we have the capacity and resources to solve our problems.
  • To live in the church in North America is to assume that our critique of the church is most important, that our problems are the most significant problems in the universal church.
  • To live in the center of the world is to assume that we are responsible for what happens in other parts of the world.

Now, here’s how I know that what she says has a lot of truth to it:

I read that list and think, “And that’s…bad???”  (Sidenote:  What movie is that quote from?  It’s driving me crazy!  It might be a Pixar one.  I’m picturing Mike Wazowski.)

I mean, I get the part about thinking our problems, whether in our nation or in our church, are the most important part of the world, and I’m like, “Touche.”  However, part of feeling that Americans bear this huge burden of global responsibility is that everyone keeps telling us that we have this huge burden of global responsibility!  Perhaps this is not the most accurate view, but the sentiment I glean from foreign commentators on the news and the internet is that, whenever there is a crisis, everyone’s like, “Where is America???  Why don’t they DO something about this?”  

(Until we intervene, of course, and then it’s like, “America needs to keep its big nose out of other people’s business!!”)

I know, I know…Boo-hoo.  Poor us.

The fact is, though, whether my sentiment is accurate or not (and I’m holding out the possibility that it is not), I readily admit that I as an American DO feel a responsibility to the world.  Furthermore, I acknowledge that that feeling of responsibility shapes my spirituality.  It especially shapes my understanding of the Great Commission and of the concept of “Love Thy Neighbor.”  After all, in such a global world in which we have so much power, how can we deny that anyone is our neighbor?

I see all too well how this view is naive and that it has the potential to be damaging…but my “center of the world” self also questions the degree to which we should repudiate this outlook.  Are we to deny responsibility for everyone else?  That kind of seems willfully selfish.

What do you guys think?  I’m feeling very culturally limited on this one.


Leddy, Mary Jo.  The Other Face of God.  Maryknoll, NY:  Orbis Books, 2011.

Man of Action, People of Action

It is fitting that in my first memory of my father, he is running.

I am about four years old, and he is running toward me with a weird smile on his face.  I don’t understand why he is coming toward me so fast, but he is smiling that strange smile, so I can only assume that he is happy and wants to hug me or something.  He doesn’t slow down as he approaches, and I tense up, both confused and anticipating.

He runs right past me.

He runs to his pickup truck and grabs something out of it.

Then, he disappears through the bushes into our neighbor’s yard.

I stand there, trying to piece it all together.  My mom walks out.  She looks in the direction my father went.  She looks worried.

“Why was Dad running?”  I ask.

“There is a fire at our neighbor’s house,” comes the reply.

I ponder this.  “But why was he smiling?”

She stares at me.  “He wasn’t smiling.”

Years later, I learn what a grimace is.  And years later, I can tell you what he grabbed out of the back of his truck:  it was a fire extinguisher.  I know that because he carries one in the back of his truck to this day.

I say that this is a fitting memory for my father because it is how I see him:  He is a man of action.

Here is another memory:

I am about twelve years old.  My family is walking through the mall one evening.  We are on the second floor, near Sears, and we stop at Baskin Robbins for some ice cream.  We sit on one of the benches that overlook the bottom floor of the mall while we eat our ice cream.  We hear a commotion across the way, on the other side of the second floor.  A fight has broken out in the mall.  I have never seen a fight before, and I look up in time to see one man throw another man into a store front.  The plexiglass undulates with the impact.  People are lining the railing around the second floor watching.  No one is moving except the two men.

Well, no one is moving except the two men and my father.  I do even know my father has left us until I see him across the way, pulling one of the men off of the other one.  Another man, with silver hair, also intervenes and stands between the two fighters, his arms outstretched toward each one, trying to keep them apart.  Together, my father and this other man break up the fight.  Strangely, I am horribly embarrassed by all of this.  In my self-centered, self-conscious little world, I am embarrassed that my dad is part of such a public spectacle.  Dad rejoins our family, and people watch us as we walk out of the mall.  My embarrassment deepens.

Looking back, I am proud of him.

Another story:

I am approximately seventeen.  My brother and I are sitting in our trailer way back in the woods on our church’s property, of which my parents are caretakers.  He and I are sitting up late, talking.  Dad is asleep on the couch.  I start to say something, and Mike shushes me.  He hears a noise.  I laugh at his scaredy-cat nature, but he gets up and looks out the back window, the one closest to the road.  I hear him wake Dad.

“Dad, Dad!  There’s a car coming, and it’s driving all crazy, slinging gravel and stuff!”  It is awfully late for a car way back here, especially one driving out of control.

From a dead sleep, my Dad leaps off the couch and shoots out the front door.  Stunned at Dad’s failure to grab a gun or to consider notifying the authorities, Mike nevertheless plunges after him, always loyal.  Dad and Mike leap past the porch stairs and disappear around the side of the house.  Beams from headlights bounce crazily into the trees.  Mike yells, “They’re coming through the yard!”  And then…

And then, I hear Dad let out a war cry and Mike follow suit.  Lightning flashes across the sky, and thunder rumbles (it really does).  Mom walks out on the porch, and says, “I’m calling the police.”  Icy fear grips me in this completely surreal moment.

Brakes squeal.  An engine roars again.  The headlights turn away.  I run back through the house and out the other side to see what has happened.  Gravel is spraying everywhere as the car beats a hasty retreat.  Mike is screaming expletives and throwing fistfuls of gravel after it.  “Let’s go after them, Dad!”  he yells.  But now that the immediate danger is averted, Dad is calm again.  “No, no, go inside.  We are not going to ‘go after them,'” he chuckles.

After he has calmed us kids down, Dad  and Mom go after them.  Long story short, they find them and report them to the police.

(Later, I learn that in the moment that Dad let out his fearsome yell, he charged the car.  On foot.  With no weapons.  I ask him, “Dad, what were you thinking?”  He answers, “I’ll tell you what I was thinking.  I was thinking, ‘If I can just get one hand onto that door handle.  Just one hand…”)

One more story:

Dad and I are sitting in a Toyota dealership in early 2009, buying a Sienna.  The man who has sold us the car is filling out the loan information, and he reveals that he recognizes Dad.  He says, “You live on the lake, right?”

“Yes,” Dad chuckles, “How do you know that?”

The man grins sheepishly.  “I was stranded on the water, and you gave me a tow.”  Dad and I laugh, too.  I know that Dad always helps people who are stranded on the lake.  Strangely, the man also knows this.  “You are always giving people tows,” he says.

I could tell so many more stories, but those four do well to exemplify my father.  When people are in need or in danger, he does not hesitate to intervene.  And when his family is in trouble, he will walk through fire to save them from danger.  Perhaps many people will do the latter (although probably not with Dad’s gusto),  but I don’t know too many people who faithfully practice the former.  For example, when I was in college minoring in Psychology, I learned about the Kitty Genovese case.  To summarize it, Kitty Genovese was a woman in New York who was stabbed in three separate attacks by the same man one evening over an extended period of time.  Although she screamed for help, no one in the apartment complex called the police until it was too late.  According to the Wikipedia article in the link, some of the facts surrounding the case have recently come into question, but the shocking reality remains that many people heard Genovese’s cries and assumed that someone else would do something about it.  In light of this case, psychologists started researching what they called “the bystander effect.”  In large crowds of people, they found that individual intervention into problems was actually less likely, since, for a variety of reasons, everyone tends to assume that someone else will handle the situation.

I think of the bystander effect when I think of all those people at the mall, watching the two men brawling.

I think of the bystander effect when the jet ski I’m riding has broken down on the lake, and all the boats continue to zip by as I wave my arms for help.  I am always shocked at the lack of response.

My Dad doesn’t stand and watch people beat each other. 

My Dad doesn’t pass by when someone is waving for help.

My Dad will charge a coming car if he has to.

And my Dad is the man I’ve watched my whole life.

I think it is because of my dad that when I hear about an issue, such as child slavery, I feel the need to do something to intervene.  Or I hear about a situation at church and feel actual discomfort if I don’t do something, however small, to impact the situation.  It has to be my dad’s influence, because my own natural impulse is to shy away from such problems.  It is easy for me to hear about a problem in the world, like human trafficking, or, for that matter, to hear about a problem in the local church, like a young mom who is having a really hard time, and think, “Why should I be the one to get involved?  What can I do?”  It is easy for me to let self-doubt and second-guessing and even plain selfishness get in the way of helping the victim bleeding on the side of the road.  Like the priest and the Levite in Jesus’ story, I am tempted to cross to the other side, away from the messiness of intervention.  But that’s not how I was raised.  That’s not how my Dad is.

Instead of, “Why me?” he thinks, “Why not me?”

Instead of, “Someone else will handle this,” he thinks, “I need to handle this.”

He is a man of action.  And I want to be a woman of action.  And my dream is for the church to be a people of action, to be  the type of people who, when they see atrocity, or injustice, or desperate human need, say, “Not on our watch.”

Sometimes, when I see a problem, I honestly don’t know what to do.  Sometimes, I can do precious little.  But I do know one thing:  Doing nothing is not an option.

My Dad taught me that.

Another View of Moses

Recently, I was listening to a speaker talk about Sonlight curriculum at a homeschool convention.  She was making the point that learning through “great books” is more effective than learning through text books, and so she asked the audience to think of their favorite book.  Most people had no trouble doing this.  Next, she asked the audience to think of their favorite textbook.  This request elicited laughter, and the point was made:  no one remembers textbooks.

Except for me, apparently.  Not only could I easily name my favorite textbook, I can even remember my second favorite.  Even though, I can’t remember it’s name, but I can remember which one it was:  my 6th grade Social Studies book.

It’s the one that talked about Moses.

Now, I went to a public school, so this wasn’t a religious textbook; it was just telling ancient history.  We also learned about the Code of Hammurabi and stuff like that.  But there was something so thrilling to me about seeing Moses in a new way, from a different perspective.  It was cool to see a biblical figure through historical eyes.

Maybe it is because I have read the Bible (or had it read to me) so. much. throughout my life that the characters therein are just so close to me, such a part of my identity.  Thus, seeing them through the lens of history has the same effect as reading about myself through the objective lens of a personality test.  It is at once disorienting and thrilling and even baffling.

That’s why I love Paul Johnson’s description of Moses in A History of the Jews:

This overwhelming event [the Exodus] was matched by the extraordinary man who made himself leader of the Israelite revolt.  Moses is the fulcrum-figure in Jewish history, the hinge around which it all turns.  If Abraham was the ancestor of the race, Moses was the essentially creative force, the moulder of the people; under him and through him, they became a distinctive people, with a future as a nation.  He was a Jewish archetype, like Joseph, but quite different and far more formidable.  He was a prophet and a leader; a man of decisive actions and electric presence, capable of huge wrath and ruthless resolve; but also a man of intense spirituality, loving solitary communion with himself and God in the remote countryside, seeing visions and epiphanies and apocalypses; and yet not a hermit or anchorite but an active spiritual force in the world, hating injustice, fervently seeking to create a Utopia, a man who not only acted as intermediary between God and man but sought to translate the most intense idealism into practical statesmanship, and noble concepts into details of everyday life.  Above all, he was a lawmaker and judge, the engineer of a mighty framework  to enclose in a structure of rectitude every aspect of public and private conduct–a totalitarian of the spirit.

(I put my favorite parts in bold.)

Now, not being familiar with Johnson’s book, you might be reading all this thinking, “but, but, but…”  Clearly, in taking a modern, historical view, Johnson leaves out the part of the Bible’s version of events which claims that God directly led and determined Moses’ life, and that God wrote the Law.  To me, though, it is fascinating to see an “outside” perspective on this man.  Even someone who does not believe in God (though it should be noted that Johnson is a Christian) cannot help but acknowledge that this man made an incredible difference in this world.  And when I see him from this essentially godless angle, I marvel at the way that God uses even deeply flawed people like Moses.  As a deeply flawed person myself, I find encouragement and hope through that awareness.

What do you think of this picture of Moses?


Quote taken from:

Johnson, Paul.  A History of the Jews.  New York:  Harper and Row, 1987. 27.

Mercy vs. Justice

Greg is having the summer interns read The Other Face of God, by Mary Jo Leddy.  Leddy has lived with refugees in Toronto, Canada, for about twenty years.  Her book is a reflection of the spiritual effect that “the stranger” has on a person and the way such encounters help us to better understand ourselves and our place in God’s kingdom.  So far, it has been really fascinating…especially because she includes a lot of stories!

In the first chapter, Leddy speaks of “the summons,” that thing that calls us past ourselves and into service for God’s kingdom.  Her “summons” came from specific refugees she encountered while living in a group home for refugees, called Romero House.  In speaking of such “summonses,” she says,

It is in these moments that issues of ‘justice’ or ‘the environment’ dissolve and become refocused so sharply that they are heartfelt.  There is no walking away; there is no going back.  The way ahead is not clear, but the road has closed behind you.  Justice is no longer a sometime thing, but a lifelong task.

I have participated in many earnest discussions in church groups about the difference between charity and justice, the works of mercy and the works of justice.  The works of mercy are often described as hands-on, one-on-one, direct service of those in need.  In contrast, the work for justice involves struggling  for systematic change so that there will be less need for charitable activities.

As I have reflected on my twenty years at Romero House, I have come to understand that mercy is a dynamic response that begins when one’s heart and mind are touched by the need and suffering of another person.  We are summoned by mercy.  If one begins to act mercifully, as one’s compassion deepens and expands, then one is inevitably led to an awareness of the systematic causes of such suffering.  At the reach of mercy, one is moved to act with justice…

Without mercy, the categories of concern can also be oppressive, those categories that are only the mirror image of the categories of contempt that are so easily used:  the poor, the victims, the abused, the oppressed, the refugees, the marginalized.  Even when we use these categories in describing our concern and care, it ends up reducing real people to a category of concern.”

It’s funny that Greg and I are in Nashville now, working in close conjunction with Y.E.S., because I definitely felt my first true “summons” through the children I met in that ministry.  A couple of years ago, as Greg and I were reflecting on the purpose and direction of our lives, I even remarked to him, “The time of my life that I felt most alive was at Y.E.S.”  And I think that was because for once, “the less fortunate” were not simply a category of concern to be analyzed from a distance.  They were people with names and unique personal circumstances that I came to know well.  They were people with whom I played and ate, people whom I tutored and took on trips.  And working with them didn’t feel like “doing a good work”; it just felt like life.

My interaction with Y.E.S. started with acts of mercy, and yes, they did escalate to concerns about justice.  My feelings on immigration laws and the public education, for example, have been forever changed by the names and faces that made those issues concrete and immediate, not philosophical and abstract.

Regarding Leddy’s last paragraph, I must confess that sometimes I do feel uncomfortable when I sit around with a group of middle-class Christians–even Christians from my church–and philosophize on how to best help “the neighborhood” or “the poor.”  There does seem to be something slightly dehumanizing in lumping people into a generalized “category of concern,” even though, practically speaking, it seems hard to avoid.

What about you? Have you ever felt a “summons”?  And do you agree with Leddy’s sentiments about “categories of concern” and “categories of contempt”?

Quote is from:

Leddy, Mary Jo.  The Other Face of God.  Maryknoll, NY:  Orbis Books, 2011.  28-29.

Summer Reading 2012

Already, this summer has posed a conundrum for my blog:  as much as I love this space and as much as I love writing, I am finding that summer does not provide me with the time to think “full-blog-post-thoughts.”  I know that’s crazy, since a blog post is not exactly the paragon of complex thinking…and yet, I can’t seem to muster more than half a blog post worth of thought at a time.  Our family has been traveling, we are totally out of our routine, and we are currently in the middle of a three week marathon of camps!  Thus, the blog has been sadly neglected.

Also, I am feeling a strong need to unplug from the internet a bit.  Nothing like a full-on fast or anything, but I just want to try and limit my online activity much more than I do during my full blogging schedule.  Part of this urge to unplug stems from the growing guilt I am feeling over my unread book collection.  I have several books, for which I have actually paid money, that are currently languishing in my reading basket.  I really believe in reading the books I buy, and as a result, my current state of cognitive dissonance is reaching the breaking point.


My current plan for this summer is to unplug, read my books, and use this space to process them as I read.  I will share quotes and thoughts I have about the ideas in the books, and I would love to hear your thoughts, as well.

I hope that doesn’t sound too horrible for you, dear Reader.  I know that in my mind, nothing sounds quite so boring as discussing an idea from a book that I am not reading.

However, the content of these books is very much in line with the content of this site, and I will try to pick out interesting ideas that would appeal to anyone, whether they read the book or not.  In a way, you could consider these entries a Cliff Notes version of the books, so that you don’t actually have to read them yourself (oooh, and along those lines, would someone please do something similar for Augustine’s City of God??  Because I really want to “have read” that book!).

Okay, I think that’s all.  Why don’t we try to start this little project…um…



What’s on YOUR summer reading list?


The Civil Reader–3 June 2012

I am out of town, and my schedule is a bit crazy, but I did want to post something on here so that I don’t forget how.  I only have two articles to share this week, but I really enjoyed them both.


Why We Lie, by Dan Ariely

Okay, first of all, if you don’t find psychological studies fascinating, well…I don’t know what’s wrong with you.  Do you just not like interesting things??  Surely you do!  But even in the off chance that you a completely strange person who is not utterly riveted by such studies, KEEP READING until you get to the part about the Ten Commandments.  It is…just, wow.  I am sooo interested in fleshing out these implications.  Feel free to do so in the comments.


The Dark Side of Healthy Eating:  Diagnosing ‘Orthoexia’ Eating Disorders, at Her.meneutics

While this article is not as hit-you-in-the-face revelatory as the first, it did put words on some vague pseudo-thoughts swirling around in my head.  After reading 7, by Jen Hatmaker, my already budding interest in healthy eating was given an ethical dimension.  However, I can’t help but notice that the desire to eat in healthy, ethical ways often butts up against the als0-very-important practice of eating communally.  This article articulates that tension in helpful ways.

And that’s really all I have.  If you have something interesting that you read this week, please leave it in the comments!

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