Softening his tone, Pastor politely added that James leads a congregation in Vancouver, Washington. I wondered if James was another black man, but I just waved my hand at Pastor while speaking tersely into my phone to anyone who would listen: "Do you know someone who could go with me on this trip? Someone not White?"

We were all on our way up to Seattle to participate in a racial reconciliation intensive in the form of a bus tour through the Pacific Northwest. Whites were required to partner with non-whites. Together, each team would walk through historical sites and hear from people who had survived oppression. Individually, and as a group, we would try to talk about a subject with so little middle ground.

My own partner inconveniently disappeared just before our drive North. If I could not thresh out another non-white participant on short notice, I would be stuck over 100 miles from home, dragging my luggage to the nearest cardboard box.

James appeared from around the back bumper of the SUV and pumped Pastor's fist in his own. Reluctantly, I watched him assume my former position in the cab. James and I traded a few pleasantries, while I carefully gleaned that he considers himself Hawaiian -American. Strangely, I felt surprised to hear that James was another "ethnic" member of our trip, because his skin was light like my own. I felt a little jealous that he could "play for both teams" while I might be forced to the sidelines. Annoyed, I concentrated on pounding out the next contact on my cell.

While the men talked softly in the front seats, I thought about my partner's sudden absence. Pastor and I had sat at our meeting point for over an hour, waiting for her to show. Growing impatient, I had turned to Pastor and told him I did not want to wait any longer. Without comment, he then started the engine and set his navigation system. In good conscience, I dialed one last time to leave a message with a friend to check up on her while I traveled across state alone. "Who knows, maybe God has something else up His big sleeve," I had joked between my teeth.

After bullying my friends to cough up a "colored" acquaintance for another hour into our trip, I slapped the phone shut and repented for not turning to God first in prayer. The conversations over the phone had been grueling. Trying to find the most politically correct words that the majority of my family, friends, and acquaintances would understand for an experience so foreign to them was a major obstacle. And with two non-White men in the car, it was embarrassing. Over the phone I labored with people I had known for years, referring to my immediate need to replace my non-White partner. They constantly asked me to clarify, and I found myself referring to words I hoped they knew, like black, ethnic, Afro, Spanish, Latino, Mexican, Asian, Pacific Islander, Samoan, Middle Eastern-American, or immigrant, and still had to explain what I really meant. They were all literate, just not used to hearing all those words in the same sentence as "partner." I had been learning about racial reconciliation for years, yet to them, I was just this weird White gal who lived in a "bad neighborhood." At least God would understand. So, I prayed. "Hi God. You are big, I am not. Duh. Sorry. Amen."

The men up front diligently watched the road until I apologized. Pastor and James both looked a bit uncertain as to why I was addressing either of them. Pastor took this opportunity to engage me in some chit chat, asking me if I got along with my parents, how many siblings I have, and whether or not I still talk to them.

"Sure I do, and one of my brothers even believes in God" I baited back.

James threw a movie glance at Pastor, hoping to convey a silent message. However, he did not know that Pastor and I had been down this path before. I suspected, based on past experience, that his questions were more directed towards testing James, his young protégé, than it was to learn more about my particular story. Out of the corner of my eye, James became unusually still.

I told them that my brother (who believes the King James Bible is more godly because it sounds more like how God would talk) wants me to get married. In fact, the whole family is keenly interested in getting me married off as soon as possible. They want me to be happy after the loss of my last relationship.

(During this conversation, James very politely found a way to tell me about his beautiful wife. Again.)

My family did not like this last guy, I told the men in the car. Over several phone calls, my family had decided that I needed help picking out men. Their list of requirements included someone caring, smart, hard working, and who could fix a car.

I described to Pastor and James how I had asked my brother what kind of guy he could see me with. A mechanic, an alarm installer, and a marijuana farmer all came enthusiastically recommended. My brother was relieved that I finally wanted to listen to reason.

I had asked what cultural heritage these men were from. He said one fellow was from the boonies, "like when we lived in Estacada," and that the pot fellow was from Gresham, but he was "real mellow" and was a lot like me, very caring about people in tough situations. Mom even thought so. The alarm guy was from Vancouver, and, other than drinking alone in the evenings, liked family. My brother went on to say that this particular fellow saw his daughter every weekend. But she didn't live with him, he had assured me, so I wouldn't have to worry "about a crazy ex using the kid against him, you know?"

I clarified for Pastor and James that I did not mean what area these guys were from, but explained that when I rephrased the question, my brother remained confused.
More to the point, I had asked my brother if these men were White.

"Yeah, they're White, just like normal guys. So?"

I took a deep breath, and told Pastor and James that I had asked if my brother thought I could find a normal guy for myself - maybe from church, or the bookstore, or a lecture, or the drag races, or through mutual friends? Maybe on this trip I am taking? That maybe, when I found the aforementioned man, I could reassure my family by inviting them all to dinner for a look over? My brother had frowned. Unconvinced, he had reminded me that they only had my best interests at heart; then indicated with his hand gesture that the rest world did not. This had left the steering wheel of his truck briefly unmanned, and I watched him deftly steer with his knees while simultaneously holding a large flame to the cigarette in his mouth.

I glanced at Pastor and James. They stared out the window and said nothing, but I could feel the barometric pressure drop in the cab. I continued, relaying how I had told my brother that I was glad the family cared so much. But I had wanted my brother to know that I had a church that cared about me, too, and that I might meet someone from there - how would he feel about that?

Pastor nodded his head affirmatively.

"Like who?" my brother had asked. I listed off a few names, after taking the customary precaution to remind Pastor and James that these people were not available. I had told my brother that I was looking for people like those named, smart, fun, caring, witty. Some of the names contained unusual syllables and consonants. This had elicited a concerned look from my brother.

I cheerfully added that my brother had listened to me propose marrying a person who's all these things, plus what the family had wanted, regardless of this man's White or non-whiteness. But my brother had turned away sharply, taking a drag and shooting his lit cigarette out the window. "Oh," he said, "you don't want to do that. It's against what's in the Bible." Then I tisked upon hearing, "And they are not as smart as us anyway. It's scientifically proven."

Shocked, I watched Pastor shoot out his clenched hand for a second. James winced. But the men still said nothing.

Unsure how to proceed, I told them that I had spent the next hour patiently explaining to my brother that this notion was not from the Bible, but a misguided attempt by Francis Galton, the cousin of Charles Darwin, to link race to separate species of humans through the study of eugenics. However, the modern study of hereditary genetics, as outlined in the The Genographic Project, revealed that, compared to other species of animals, humans are the most genetically similar beings on Earth. They are so similar, in fact, as to indicate a single source of origin for all people.

"Holy Adam and Eve! Maybe we do all come from the same two people," I had exclaimed, hoping a little cheese might lighten the mood. Then I excitedly proceeded to tell my brother that there were only a few tiny differences in the DNA chain which barely determine our skin color and physical appearances. But my brother had interrupted me by flipping on the radio. He didn't have any interest in knowing how small the differences were.

Driving past the Bremerton exit, Pastor broke his silence and angrily bit off a scripture from the Bible often used to erroneously justify the eugenics conversation. I can't remember it, and don't want to, but he rattled it off like the combination to his gym locker. Frustrated, Pastor and James waited for my reaction. Unexpectedly self-conscious, I tried to make myself smaller.

Remembering how the classic rock had filled the empty space between my brother's cigarette smoke and the truck cab, and how I had looked at my brother staring into traffic, I thought how most of us do not consider our beliefs about race in so many words. Perhaps like him, to be White is to think we know more than we do. It is to assume that what is normal and common sense must also be true.

We were almost to our first stop in Tacoma, Washington.

The longer I watched it, the more I wanted to dance, twirl, swoop, and race through the air like the kite. I longed to be unencumbered, but I was anchored far below, chained to the cold earth. If only I were free to follow the wild sea winds, I thought, to leave everything behind and soar.

I let the line go slack, eager for the kite to disappear in the clouds. But to my surprise, it turned earthward and plunged helplessly into the surf. And so it was that I understood a little more of what it means to be human.

You see, for years I've struggled with terrible confusion over what God made us to be, and how we should live as a result. I've read the Scriptures and the biographies of great people who've encountered the Father and experienced the miraculous. I too have heard the voice of God and felt his Spirit call me to wild adventure. But I also have a family, and a dog, and a job, with responsibilities and pressures and the problems of life. And yet again, all around me is suffering, and injustice, and poverty. What does God want from me? And who am I really?

It depends on the person I ask. Some would tell me that I'm a physical being, and that thinking I'm spiritual only brings an inner tension that destroys me. I should live for my family, my job, and my self.

Others would tell me that it's a matter of timing. I am earthly now and should focus on solving the problems of the world. But when I die, I can live in the Spirit whose call I can hear in the winds and the night. Like Jesus, I must sacrifice the joys of Heaven to live for a season in the wasteland of the world.

Still others would tell me that I'm a spiritual being trapped in the earthly world for a time. They would tell me the tension I feel between heaven and earth comes from an ungodly attachment to worldly things. If I would just sever all ties to 'the flesh', I'd be free to soar in the Spirit.

But on the beach that day, I understood what God intended. Like the kite, I am made to fly, made to spread my wings and soar the heavens. But I cannot fly as a citizen of heaven unless, like the kite, I am also anchored firmly to this world. I am not either physical or spiritual--I'm both-and. And the tension I feel between heaven and earth is not a problem to be solved, it is an identity to be embraced. It is the essence of being human, to be an animal, but more than an animal, to be flesh, but more than mere flesh, to be spirit, but more than spirit. It is to embrace my place in the created world and yet partake in the very nature of God.

This is the lesson of the kite.

Entering into a congregation, the message of pro-life as being against abortion is quite common, rolling off the proverbial tongue of Christian subculture. It is rare, I find, to hear a sermon calling attention to our nation's health care crisis, the starvation occurring across the world, and the sadly lawful institution of capital punishment, among other issues. Dare I say it, but maybe we are beginning to find more truth in our media than within our community of believers.

The National Coalition on Health Care reports nearly 47 million Americans, or 16 percent of the population, were without health insurance in 2005, with the number of uninsured rising 1.3 million between 2004 and 2005 and increasing by almost 7 million people since 2000. Studies do not show that this trend will cease anytime soon, under current legislation. With our health care crisis becoming more and more apparent, and certainly relevant, it shames me to say that political affiliations have even latched to this crisis much more seriously than a body of people, the Body if you will, seeking compassion for the fellow man, God's creation.

The American Civil Liberties Union reports that social science research shows no deterrence of crime brought forth because of the death penalty, while also noting that states that have death penalty laws do not have lower crime rates or murder rates than states without such laws. States that have abolished capital punishment do not even show significant changes in either crime or murder rates. It is possible that we are not administering justice or giving a fair trial. Our society may reap no benefit, while prisoners still pay the ultimate price. Call me radical, but I believe our society has come to believe, and validate, death as a form of justice.

Speaking at Wheaton College, Tony Campolo once had great opposition to his words (which have been quoted various times, various ways, with the meaning still valid), "I have three things I'd like to say today. First, while you were sleeping last night, 30,000 kids died of starvation or diseases related to malnutrition. Second, most of you don't give a shit. What's worse is that you're more upset with the fact that I said shit than the fact that 30,000 kids died last night." Not only do I find truth in his words, but also in the reaction. Crowds were shocked, just as he knew they would be. And, though I can speak for no one's heart, I believe that those people were far more concerned with a four letter word uttered in church than 30,000 deaths. To make things a bit more real, 17 million children, just children, die from malnutrition and starvation each year, and I do believe that we as a society cannot bring ourselves to show enough compassion for these children and, as Campolo noted frankly - give a shit.

N.T. Wright expresses in his lecture "The Bible and Christian Imagination" that our world wrestles between the beauty of God's creation and the atrocities that our world finds so common. Wright speaks of the trademark of our fallen world: the world created for paradise, yet existing otherwise. It is because of this war between viewpoints that it becomes so imperative that society, regardless of religious affiliation, embraces a desire to preserve that which is unquestioningly sacred. As a bridegroom should view his bride, so must society view life: precious, beautiful, and worthy. Society must embrace life, whether infantile or grown, whether child or lover, innocent or convicted, so as to begin to bring to an end that which is in the world that disgusts, and increase that which is in the world that pleases.

I encourage not only a sense of sanctity of life, but also, sanctity of reality. I encourage knowledge of the societal plagues that have befallen us. Rather than an attitude that singles out one form of death as far more worthy of mourning than the other, I yearn for a single reaction to death. I hope for a universal reaction: that of heartbreak, regardless. Donald Miller includes in Searching for God Knows What, a quote from a man he knows: "Reality is like a fine wine; it doesn't appeal to children." Christian society often finds itself in a profoundly infantile mindset regarding some of the issues that are very real, and very influential to the way we, as people, live. I encourage the Christian society to see what occurs worldwide, but not just in the sense of being knowledgeable about something, by keeping up with current events. Instead, to see in such a way that births a passion for meeting the needs of people; a passion that mimics Christ's view of - and reaction to - the fallen world.

I realize that in writing I express a personal view that is pro-life, and within that, still anti-abortion. With that said, I do not write to condemn anyone who is pro-choice, but instead to widen the horizons of how a society views life, regardless of faith issues. We live in a sacred reality; a here-and-now that is treasured by its Creator. In much the same way we should respect this reality with a mature attitude, a shedding of the childlike affinity we have for avoiding the uncomfortable. I desire to reveal a deeper more uncomfortable story, a story that goes far beyond terminology and judgment: a story of a society that has lost love for its fellow man, a society that has begun to believe that the most important thing is to say to themselves: "I AM."

While relatively few are called to such an intimate cross-cultural partnership, all Christians have a responsibility to seek reconciliation across barriers. In an increasingly diverse society, our ability to establish unity across cultural boundaries is rapidly becoming a key factor in the strength of the church. Because we practice these skills daily, I have found our relationship to be a microcosm for cross-cultural relations at large.

Here are some skills we find useful in seeking unity across our own cultural differences:

Pay attention, be intentional

Sri Lanka is half way around the world from the U.S. At times, it feels very far away. Being so far removed from our lives, it is easy to fall into an "out-of-sight, out-of-mind" mentality with this part of Rukshan's life. This has, at times, caused division between us because an essential part of his personhood lies neglected. Therefore, it is essential to pay close attention to the Sri Lankan part of him, and to seek to incorporate it in our daily lives. We both read the news and follow current events on a regular basis. Our home is filled with reminders of Sri Lanka, from batik wall hangings to photos of sari-clad relatives. We visit Sri Lanka as often as we can afford, prioritizing this over other options, even when inconvenient or complicated. We maintain regular contact with my husband's family through phone calls, email, and pictures.

In the same way, many live in isolated communities and interact little with other cultures. People in these communities can make intentional efforts to consider differing perspectives by reading books or watching films, as well as by traveling to places where they interact across cultures. Just as I must intentionally seek to pay attention to my husband's culture, so can people pay attention to cultures outside their own as an effort toward unity. As current events, dialogue, and perspectives from other cultures are encountered, a broader way of thinking and interacting with others naturally develops.

Share honestly, listen carefully

Romance, while breath-taking, is not particularly characterized by honesty. As the passionate romance of our relationship has settled into a committed, deeper love, we have shared many moments of intense honesty. At times, it is simpler to avoid such conversations, for we each have our own interpretation of "normal" and fear looking ignorant or prejudiced. However, this kind of honesty brings about true compromise, and ultimately, inner change.

Having grown up in a wealthy, stable, and efficient country, I struggle with certain aspects of Sri Lanka's developing and conflict-filled environment. My husband has experienced these aspects as "normal" for much of his life. Because these perspectives form an integral part of our core-beings, we feel strongly vulnerable when sharing our fears. This fear creates a reluctance to relinquish my expectations of order, cleanliness, and safety, causing me to shut out a cherished part of Rukshan's life.

In a similar vain, Rukshan has experienced certain "looks", discomfort, and ignorance when interacting with people from my home. While I hold deep affinity for my home, it is helpful to separate from my personal attachments in order to hear his emotions. In doing this, I listen without defense, letting him process his feelings honestly.

Ultimately, honesty between cultures is not about being right or wrong. It's about listening and considering another's experience without defense or justification. In order to create a safe place for trustworthy relationships, people need to feel they will be heard when sharing honestly.

Be salad, not soup

The idea of a "melting pot" denies the individual characteristics that exist within cultures. A mixed salad is a more accurate comparison, as it contains various ingredients that compose one dish, yet retains unique qualities rather than dissolving everything into the majority flavor. Likewise, in our marriage, we attempt to value the individuality of each other's cultures.

One way we love each other is by knowing about each other's homes. For example, Rukshan knows things about my small hometown that only "insiders" know. He knows where the locals eat a hot breakfast, and the names of high school basketball players. Because he pays attention to my cultural background, I sense a deep love for who I am and where I come from. In the same way, I don shalwar kameez (a traditional Sri Lankan dress) every so often, can cook a mean curry, and enjoy building relationships with his family and friends. We go to Sri Lanka as often as we can afford, and each trip increases my understanding of who my husband is.

When the majority culture blindly expects others to follow their lead without knowledge of other perspectives, they subtly send the message, "You are not important to me. Your importance is to make me comfortable." Loving across cultures means that both sides release their grip on familiarity in order to experience deeper flavors of diversity.

---

While many waters could not quench our love, their rough waves have certainly smoothed our rough edges. In all of these ways, we embrace our own culture while keeping our arms open to the other. Guided by our great Jehovah each step of the way, we find deep richness in loving across cultural boundaries. Our hope remains that the church will deepen in its ability to love across such boundaries as well.

Anur longs to break away from a social structure in Saudi Arabia that places his nationality at the bottom of the list. Saudi Arabia relies on about 7 million migrant workers from southern Asia (about 12% of Saudi Arabia's total population) to make up most of its unskilled and semiskilled labor force. Bangladesh represents 1 million of these, and its people seem mostly involved in menial grounds-keeping and waste management jobs. In a fortunate series of circumstances, Anur was able to find himself in a driving school that placed him in one of the highest paying jobs a Bangladeshi can enjoy in Saudi Arabia. His future has a glimmer of hope, unlike most other migrant workers, but he has to work extremely hard to keep this hope alive.

I live on the compound that he serves and have enjoyed his friendship and the conversations we often have as he gets me around. This is a compound of about 11,000 Western expatriates just like me; a compound that rests comfortably on the backs of South Asian laborers. Anur feels much more fortunate than the average citizen in Bangladesh. He was fighting a fever the night he told me that the average worker in Bangladesh makes about $2 a day. Most school teachers are lucky to make $100 a month. Yet he still wants to go back. It's his home, the place he wants to get married, have kids, and raise a family. He has his eye on a fish and dairy farm that he'd like to buy one day. Maybe one day his kids might get the education he wasn't able to. Maybe some day his child might stand a chance of having a better life.

I want to give him money. Maybe trim a bit of the fat off of my life, or solicit some support from others to get this man on his feet. But charity is complicated. What do we do with the other drivers (Anjun, Golan and Eron)? What about the other million Bangladeshis in the Kingdom? What about the rest of the 6 million migrant workers from other South Asian countries that struggle to make a living? My mind quickly forms a grid lock, and I feel powerless. I think about the fish farmer in Bangladesh that might someday find himself in an unfair competition with Anur , whose own fish farm would be backed by American support. I can't just hand this guy a bunch of money.

But then I think about the injustice of paying a man a little over a dollar an hour, in a place where the cost of living is the same as the U.S., only because his company was the lowest bidder. Do I help him start a union? Do I arrange a strike? Do I create my own militia and usher in a coup? Or how about I call a bunch of celebrities to come together to hold hands, sway and sing to the music of cheesy song?

These questions bring up even more: what about my own personal values? At what cost do I insist on protecting the environment? Does biodiesel really raise the cost of food? What about organic foods? Must I choose between the environment and the poor? I value them both.

And what about personal spending? The U.S. government is insisting I spend more to help the global economy. But this will only cause me to go more in debt. Isn't it bad to be in debt?

These questions remind me that there was plenty of need during the time of Jesus. People found out he could help and so came to him and asked for it. As I read through the gospels, it becomes obvious to me that needs were very important to Jesus. He spent a lot of time helping people, and he did so one person at a time. He also loved them, listened to them and forgave their sins. But what is interesting is that he never started a charity or social program. There continued to be need after he left, and there still is. In fact, God has allowed need, and it could be argued, is the source of it. He is fully capable of taking it all away, but he has allowed tremendous need. People who give of themselves to others in need, in the name of God, find themselves in a web of absurdity. What they do for God, wouldn't even need to be done if it weren't for God. Why does he allow so much need?

Although from a global perspective my needs are minimal, I have to admit their affect on me is often positive. Need creates a void that puts me in a place of dependence. If it weren't for need, love would be shallow, trust would be meaningless, and miracles would just be for my entertainment. But when I have no alternative, I find myself asking for help and trusting in God to bring it about. If I am able to trust God and let go of my anxiety despite my circumstances, I am able to taste the kind of real peace I would have otherwise never had. Suddenly the love of God and others has some real substance, miracles become the stories I cherish forever, and my connection to the creator and his creation develops into something deep and vibrant.

In my fog of uncertainty, I'm not really sure how to respond to Anur's need. His hand goes to his heart after he shakes mine, which I have found out is a way to say "I greet you warmly from my heart." He smiles thankfully when I share an apple with him. I notice his shoulders drop a bit when I look into his eyes as he vents his frustrations. He knows I'm listening and I feel a bit of his pain with him. He feels my love and I feel his, and I feel the hand of God on us both in that moment.

He was in our drug and alcohol program - but only for a few weeks. I can't remember his name, but I recall parts of his story. He had several lingering, and eventually fatal diseases; Hepatitis C among many others. Probably HIV/AIDS as well.

He's homeless now, and I see him and two or three companions at the same intersection occasionally as my wife and I do our weekend errands. I wouldn't call his companions friends - and I'm sure he wouldn't either, but at least he's not alone under a bridge - or wherever he stays.

Somehow, when I don't know these people, when I can treat them like any other abandoned object alongside the road, like a box or a broken shopping cart, I can just keep going and not think about them. But if I know their name, his name...there's something there, some kind of ethereal linkage. I may keep driving, but his name, his story, sticks to me like some unwelcome gum on my shoe.

At a basic level, one of the first things we do when we have a child, or even a pet, is to give it a name. It makes it ours - one of us.

A name gives us a core for our memories .

I am a citizen of a different country when my memories include these homeless stragglers. In an odd way, they are of my world. And even worse, or perhaps in God's eyes, even better, I am of their world.

I'd rather blandly do my errands and drive by.

I don't want to be a citizen of that world. Or perhaps, more precisely, I don't want to be a citizen of a world that allows its people to be so adrift.

Who, or what, have we become when we roll up our windows, lock our doors, shift our gaze and add another layer of indifference over hearts?

And for those of us who call ourselves Christians, suddenly Jesus' words seem colder and more personal, no longer a theological abstraction: 'I tell you the truth, whatever you did not do for one of the least of these, you did not do for me.' Matthew 25:45 (New International Version)

I don't want to face these people. But I also don't want to face Jesus in the barren light of Matthew 25.

And yet, somehow, at least if we take Jesus seriously, these scruffy, dirty people; many with major mental problems, are, in abstruse yet practical way, in the economy of Matthew 25, central to our salvation in the eyes of God.

Yes, that is it. They are there for us. We are not here for them.

Or if we are, it is only in the most superficial way. We may feed them for a moment. Or pass them by.

Their stake is eternal. Jesus says that our redemption rests on moments like this. I can't say that I like this equation. Many of the sayings of Jesus are fairly open to interpretation, but where is ambiguity when I really want it? Certainly not in Matthew 25.

Perhaps this is the nature of every divine encounter: Jesus isn't playing games. And I just want to be left alone.

The truly frightening part is, God just might give me what I want. He just might let me be alone, truly, fully, eternally alone. Separation from God is a working definition of Hell. Some of us have been there, if only for a few moments, or have seen the walking disconnection of mind, body and soul in the stilted movements and blank eyes. There are few things more scary than a moving, vacant human being.

His name leaves a shadow across my memory. Yet there is only a shadow because of the light behind him.

On a human (or perhaps inhuman) level, we forget, or don't want to acknowledge, that each of these people, the ones holding the signs, the homeless, these marginal people, they all have names, histories and stories.

Each one of them is a human barometer telling us that something is deeply wrong here: with our legal system, our housing programs, our mental health care system.

There is something wrong with our priorities, our economy, us.

There is something deeply wrong with us when people stand in the cold and rain, in public with their personal dislocation and shame.

It is too painful, too humiliating, to dehumanizing. And, truth be told, for most of us, if we lost two or three paychecks, it could be us out there.

And we would want those people in their warm and safe cars, those people going about their business, doing errands and seeing friends, we too used to have cars, friends and errands.

We too, used to have - no, still have - names.

I live in Kenya. Quiet, peaceful, Kenya, which has suddenly descended into violence and unrest in the last few months and which is regularly making international headlines. The world watches as angry men burn things and kill each other. These images are real and don't begin to capture all the suffering in this country right now. But they also don't represent the entire picture, of course, as the people in my Nairobi neighborhood are working, shopping, going to movies, and, like me in just a few hours, sitting by the pool. I realize that sounds rather bourgeois and uncaring considering what's going on around us. I can imagine if I were sitting in North America watching the horrors in Kenya I'd be saddened and concerned, but pretty detached, knowing there was nothing I could do. Now if I lived in Kenya, I'd muse, well then of course I could help the suffering people.

Well, I do live here. Right here in Nairobi, and although there's a part of me that would love desperately to help, there's also a part of me that would like to pack my bags and hop on the next plane to rural Manitoba. And there's another part of me that just wants to go to the pool and then take a nap. And there's a very big part of me that first and foremost wants to protect and care for my family, and to heck with everyone else - there are other people to care for them. Because I have a little 16 month old daughter with big blue eyes and pigtails and a perpetually scraped face because she can't contain her exuberance when running around outside. And I'm also 6 months pregnant with a tiny baby in my belly who already promises to be hyperactive considering the non-stop gymnastics going on in there. And right now every instinct in every cell of my body just wants to focus on these two little lives, which is why I don't feel like going to the church down the road and serving food to the hundreds of displaced people sleeping there; it's much easier to just send some cash with a friend and be done with it. And it's why I've already packed my money belt and made my evacuation list and would leave in a heartbeat if I felt my family might be in danger.

But then I keep hearing these other voices. Like my friend who gave a homily at church about loving people by being in solidarity with them. And the missionaries I talked to who wouldn't even think of leaving when this is the country they've come to call home. And my husband's students, who have seen more violence already than I probably ever will and are desperate to help out in refugee camps.

And then, of course, there's Jesus and his teaching about who we should be loving and who our families really are and how we may need to leave our families for His work. Truthfully, I don't know what he meant by that. Should I be caring more for the grieving and scared people in Nairobi's slums than I do for my own daughter? Somehow I don't think those should have to be exclusive. But then who should I love more in this moment, this crisis? Because right now it feels like I have to choose, and I want so badly to be following the teaching of Jesus, but I don't know how to do that in real life. I suppose this is always the dilemma when it comes to following Jesus. It's just that it's so much harder when it hits so close to home.

Usually the first impact is the smell. Everything that human beings eat, sleep in (or on) wear, or excrete, is public. There is no privacy - and certainly no plumbing.

Every scrap and residue of human appetite or survival is on display.

Everything in a homeless camp is on the surface. There are no pipes or wires to deliver - or take away - electricity, water or waste.

In fact, to a large degree, nothing moves. Everything, tents, blankets, piles of garbage - even people - just get dirtier and more broken.

Everything seems meticulously coated with a weary filthiness. There is an almost tangible momentum of degradation. Real or not, there is a prevailing sense of muddy finality - as if there is no escape.

Each of the camps I have seen has felt like a living monument to the opposite of freedom.

There is no nobility there.

And not much humanity either.

And yet sometimes...

Once in a while, among the food scraps, broken bottles, torn up tarps and ripped and moldy blankets, a treasure is found; the ultimate human treasure that glistens like living gold among the squalor and clutter.

That treasure is beyond description - and even, somehow beyond most of us who live our sheltered lives with heat and plumbing and privacy.

That treasure that resonates with the fire and fury of eternity and seethes with the steely faith and authority of the divine burnished by unspeakable desperation, that treasure is one that one person in a thousand my find, though it is everywhere if we could see it. But for that one who finds it, it is a treasure that burns through every barrier or discouragement or broken dream.

I got to know one woman (I'll call her "Rainy") who lived in a series of these camps for at least two full years. She spoke of the tents and shelters as if they were apartments. They were scavenged, hand-built huts or roped off tarps on brush-filled muddy hillsides, instead of identical rooms terraced around a parking lot or pool.

She was from another state and had been molested as a child. She had run away from home - to nowhere in particular. She, like most people who are homeless, had a fractured beginning that was compounded by a series of poor decisions. In short, like many others, she had embraced the cruel momentum of self-destruction.

She had one main guy she lived with most of the time. Except when other opportunities - or difficulties - arose.

Or when her main man had other ideas.

One time he "needed" some crack cocaine and didn't have any money, so he followed the dictates of the earthy economy of the streets. He traded a night with her for some crack.

Or at least that was her side of the story. He was gone on a crack fueled binge for the next week or two.

When he finally came back, his story was that she had been cheating on him, so he went off by himself for a while. And he insisted that she ran off with the crack dealer for her own crack and sex binge.

Truth is one of the rarest commodities on the streets - you'd think it was the ultimate controlled substance.

Rainy got her mail delivered at the rescue mission. Sometimes my job was to collect the mail for our office and the people we could track down. I noticed that she subscribed to one of the thick glossy bridal magazines.

I grabbed all the mail to bring up to where she was. I didn't know if I should laugh or cry as I handed her the bridal magazine.

Was it her wedding fantasy I should admire because it persisted through her bleak and bedraggled circumstances? Or was her delusion so total that she couldn't see the immense - and unbridgeable - gap between her meth and crack based homeless scene, not to mention almost certain exposure to HIV/AIDS and hepatitis, in stark contrast to the glistening virginal brides in their thousand dollar gowns and entourage?

Many of my students were delusional in different ways, but Rainy's delusions made me the saddest.

I can only hope that Rainy will one day see the treasure I see, and through her many struggles this newfound secret will get her through:

"I am better than this."

The last week in March, a group of individuals will be biking their way from Phoenix to the Grand Canyon and back again. This 8 day, 450 miles round-trip bike ride will also include a 20 mile hike through the Canyon itself. Sounds a bit crazy I know, but the purpose of the journey is found beyond the bikers' personal gain - it lies in furthering the Kingdom of God. The goal: to raise awareness about Modern Day Slavery that will motivate a generation to action. It's a call for the body to step up and fight for justice.

Two participants, Eric Hanson and myself, Stephanie Fisk, have just finished serving a year abroad with a program called The World Race. During this experience, our eyes were not only opened to a hurt and broken world, but our hearts and souls awoke to a God who heals and restores. A God who's heart beats through his body here on earth - a heart that wakes up individuals to their passions and dreams. The raw beauty that explodes when our passions meet the needs of the world is breath-taking. (Please visit www.theworldrace.org to find out more about this ministry.)

Personally, I am passionate about women and kids who are lured into the sex industry and a generation that is searching for purpose. The Lord calls us to intercede on behalf of his children, and this bike ride is just that. Not only are we physically biking to raise awareness on human trafficking, but spiritually we are engaging prayer warriors to fight in the heavenly realms.

So, how can you get involved? You are more than welcome to join us on the bike ride, even if only for a day or two. But if you are not able to make it down to Arizona, you still play an integral role in this adventure. March 23rd (Easter night) through March 31st, at 8pm CST [each night of the bike ride] we are hosting a nation-wide corporate prayer call. Each night, a guest speaker/organization that is currently combating human trafficking will share testimonies that will both raise awareness and motivate us to action. Stories will be followed by a time of Q&A and corporate prayer. Everyone is invited to participate on these prayer calls. To call in, dial 1-218-486-1600 followed by the access code 472085#.

More information about the bike ride, organizations involved with the prayer call and Modern Day Slavery in general please visit www.erichanson.theworldrace.org and www.stephaniefisk.theworldrace.org. These blogs will be updated regularly throughout the bike ride.

If you have and questions, please contact us.

While in Guatemala, I had the tremendous opportunity to get to know, and be blessed by several of these people. With some, the relationship consisted of a mere handshake and smile; with others I briefly entered their lives. I could sense a mixed sort of contentment within their lives. For many their daily activities rarely went beyond survival. They spent their days making sure they and their children had enough to eat. Even so, in one situation, I was offered juice and cake at the kitchen table of a home where I worked. For others, their situation demanded them taking a break from their difficult work (sifting through garbage) to walk nearly a mile to where we were handing out sandwiches. Our meager bean and bread sandwiches were worth the walk. Through tired smiles, they graciously accepted the meal. Gratitude was abundant and grace flowed from their faces. They are wonderful people. Amidst the smiles, I could not suppress the nagging feeling that their lives and mine are in some cruel way inextricably linked. The look in their eyes can only be interpreted through a deeper understanding of their country's history. I can only begin to peel back the layers.

For forty years a bloody civil war ravaged the Guatemalan countryside. The war began in 1954 during the height of the Cold War. At the time, the Guatemalan president was attempting to nationalize land held by an American corporation, the United Fruit Company, in order to redistribute that land to rural peasants. In response, the US government sponsored an overthrow of the Guatemalan president. The rural peasants fought back. The US government then backed military dictatorships for the next three decades - intermittently supplying them with weapons, funds, and training. Reports have since surfaced of horrific human rights abuses by the military during this period. They wiped entire villages off the map and tortured and killed thousands of civilians, including priests and nuns who supported the villagers. I was told the story of one priest, who epitomized incarnational ministry, in the bedroom where he was killed. Thousands of villagers fled the countryside - some of them ended up scavenging for survival in the very dump I was looking at. All of the people I met were touched in some terrible way by this war. The look in their eyes was marred by a history of violence. That history is also my history.

Now I realize it is a big step to implicate myself in their situation, but an experience like this demands reflection. More questions arise than answers. A wise high school student I was with stated how knowledge of this sort is a curse. Put another way - "ignorance is bliss". Abject poverty, massive garbage dumps, raw sewage, and a war-ravaged country are hard to ignore when they are right in front of you. Questions nag at me. Is my materialistic society somewhat responsible for the degradation of their countryside? Is my lifestyle propped up by their poverty? Is my ability to consume protected in ways I'd rather not know about?

Whew...nothing like spending time in an underdeveloped country to shake the foundations of my overdeveloped life. I love it.

Is there a proper response to an experience like this? Should I feel guilty? Angry? Overwhelmed? At this point, I feel disturbed. Disturbed enough to dig deeper, make a lasting connection, and change something about my life. The best response will be to give to others what so many Guatemalans gave to me. Love. I experienced the love of Christ while I walked the streets of Guatemala City, played soccer with kids whose parents work in the dump, fumbled with my Spanish, hugged prisoners, and listened to other's stories. We all need to find the least, forgotten, or rejected in our community and show them we care for them. We need to listen to their stories and attempt to satisfy their physical needs. Some people who come to my mind are the homeless guy by the mall, the migrant agricultural worker looking for a break, the depressed drug addict searching for a fix, the open-minded environmentalist who has written off religion, or the homosexual who feels that the Church doesn't want him. Jesus is already with them - we need to join Him.

I texted back, "Accepted?"

"Best education movie I've seen." This is a college professor, mind you.

My response: "The one with the Mac guy?"

"Yep. Watch it."

Now, this is a person I trust, so I went to a store (we'll call it "Best Buy") and I purchased the movie, despite more than a few misgivings. Seriously - it stars Justin Long, who will always be the dorky guy from "Ed" for me. And there's a kid in a hotdog suit, shouting "ask me about my wiener." However, trusting Bill as I do, I decided to give the movie a chance.

The beginning of the movie finds Mac Guy, aka Bartleby, in a desperate situation. His parents want him to go to college, but unfortunately, Bartleby has been unsuccessful in his attempts to get into college - in fact he's been rejected by all eight schools he applied to. The first 30 minutes follow Bartleby and his friends as they deal with their upcoming futures, or lack of them. For various reasons, all but one of Bartleby's friends seem to be in the same boat, with no real plans for the future after high school. And those first 30 minutes are pretty bad, in terms of cinematic quality. (Bill disagrees with this.) It does, however, set the context for the rest of the movie by characterizing traditional education as what amounts to a calculated system of exclusivity that self-perpetuates by keeping different people and ideas out of the mainstream mix.
While Bartleby and his friends are in the midst of creating their fake college to fool their parents about where they will be spending their next four years, we meet the dean of Harmon College, who makes every effort to preserve academic tradition. Anthony Heald, playing the dean of the college, characterizes the role of his college in the whole of the institution of education with: "Rejection: That's what makes a college great. The exclusivity of any university is judged primarily by the number of students it rejects." While this character couldn't be a more two dimensional bad guy if you rolled him flat with a steam roller, his megalo-maniacal attempt to keep knowledge in and ignorance out does paint an interesting picture of the end goal of today's Western systems of education (although few in education would admit it).

Meanwhile, our hapless high school grads are busy accidentally creating a real college that really admits students, much to their surprise. Admittedly, this is all very implausible. If you want to see flaws in Bartleby's plans, you don't have to look very far. You also have to ignore or enjoy a certain amount of sophomoric humor to get through the film's entirety. After the first 30 minutes, I was really wondering what my friend Bill had gotten me into and then Bartleby steps on the auditorium stage at the South Harmon Institute of Technology and begins to break the news to several hundred students who mistakenly believed they had been admitted to a real college, when in fact, they had been mislead by an overly realistic hoax. However, he is cut short by the grateful words of several students who had been rejected by traditional institutions, just as he had been. Bartleby finds sudden inspiration, and winds up giving a moving speech about finding acceptance and making education open to anyone who wants to learn.

I don't know what the creators of this movie intended when they made it. I doubt the purpose was to change the educational system or to make any real points about education reform. However, the purpose of the film is really secondary to the message that appears between the lines of sophomoric dialogue. I read a review that argued that the point of the movie was to show that it's more fun to hang around with slackers and losers than academic-types. Perhaps there was such a shallow target in mind, but I would recommend giving more weight to Bartleby's speech at the end of the movie when he applies for accreditation for the school. He says that schools rob students of their creativity and their passion.

It may seem harsh to say that schools kill creativity. And if you want to hear it done in a more eloquent and slightly funnier way, check out this site.

Children learn in school that flowers can't be black,that letters must be written within the lines. Children learn that there are right answers and there are wrong answers and they will pay a price for saying the wrong ones. They learn that it is easier to say nothing and risk nothing than to put themselves on the line. You need only walk into an elementary classroom to see this happening. Walk into a high school classroom and the problem is magnified. A student who is not sure of the answer would rather die than attempt to answer a question. Taking a risk isn't even feasible. That desire was drummed out of a child's head a long time before, and by the time they set foot in a college classroom (if they ever do), they learn that learning and knowledge are limited resources, that learning is not fun, and that instructors are people who first throw knowledge at us, then judge us to see if it sticks.

"Accepted" has another message which really comprises the majority of the movie, and it is that people should be allowed to spend their time learning what they want to learn. When Bartleby starts South Harmon I.T., he goes to the prestigious Harmon College to figure out how college works. He talks to his friend who is struggling to get classes she needs while she muddles through classes that are not meaningful to her. Bartleby goes to the "dean" of his made-up university (Lewis Black!) who is himself disappointed with the sad realities of education, to find out how to design a college experience for his students. When Black doesn't give him a clear-cut answer, Bartleby decides to ask the students themselves what they want to learn. And therein comes the crux of the movie. Instead of studying isolated facts and subjects that have no meaning for them, the students at South Harmon Institute of Technology study what they want to. Those subjects include some things that educators may not see as worthwhile, including skateboarding, clothing design and "walking around, thinking about stuff," but the students of South Harmon are quick to defend their subject matter by revealing the value of learning that takes place in authentic contexts.

Bartleby makes lots of salient points in this movie and many of them come in the last scene when the school is fighting to remain open. Bartleby tells the group of educators assembled that they don't need formal teachers or textbooks or fancy campuses. Real learning can take place without all of those things as long as there are people who want to better themselves. We are also reminded of the fact that everyone has something valuable to share or teach. The most powerful scene in the movie is the one that shows the students of South Harmon standing up in defense of this reality. These are points often lost on educators. I have heard one professor after another talk about classrooms where no learning takes place. This gives the impression that learning doesn't occur unless there is an instructor present doling out knowledge. The truth is, learning is always taking place. Whether it's the learning we as educators desire is another story entirely.

We as a society seem to have decided that there is good learning and bad learning - learning that we value and learning we see as a waste of time. The truth is, students will learn what they are motivated to learn. They can be motivated by a passion to learn and a desire to better themselves as they do in the movie, or they can be motivated to learn because they want good grades or don't want to disappoint their parents.

"Accepted" may not be Oscar-worthy, or even remotely realistic. But intentionally or not, it has something to say about education and learning:

1. Learning should be available to everyone regardless of any personal factor.
2. Knowledge is not a scarce resource - instead, it is a resource that grows more abundant the more it is shared.
3. Learning should be set in the context of the individual learner.
4. An ideal educational system strives to be inclusive - To find a space for people who don't fit the mold.
5. Everyone has something valuable to teach.
6. The culmination of all learning need not be a degree, as we currently recognize it.

At a time where America's education system is in a state of crisis, perhaps we should listen. At the very end of the movie, a conversation between the dean of Harmon College and Bartleby characterizes the problem in pursuing education reform:
Dean: Your phony school demeans real colleges everywhere.

Bartleby: Why? Why can't we both exist? You can have your grades and your rules, and your structure and your ivory towers, and we'll do things our way. Why do we have to conform to what you want?

Dean: Your curriculum is a joke, and you, sir, are a criminal.

Bartleby: You know what? You are a criminal. You rob these kids of their creativity and their passion. That's the real crime.

Bartleby then turns to the crowd of parents and students, and the accrediting board. He poses an important question for us to consider: Did the system work for you? Not in the sense of our society's definition of success, but in terms of fulfilling personal goals and passions, and enabling you to become what you want to be.

It is long past the time to begin thinking differently about success, education and learning. It is time to abandon exclusivity, conformity and rejection in favor of creativity, passion and inclusiveness in education. It is time to put a little bit of South Harmon Institute of Technology into our education. Be aware, though. If you try, then you should expect the same sort of fear-driven opposition that Bartleby and his friends encountered. The truth is, schools like South Harmon can't easily exist alongside "traditional" schools because they threaten the very existence of what we have come to call "tradition."

Also, I am not a fan of conflict. I hate for people to disagree with me to the point where they might want to argue with me or even fight me. I would hate for such unnecessary tension to exist. I want to be a Christian that is open to new ideas and varying viewpoints, but at some point, this desire has turned me into a devout fence-rider, never deciding one way or another how I truly feel about important issues - religious, social, philosophical or otherwise. I have thought that to be a progressive Christian I needed to never disagree with someone; that that was somehow a part of gracious acceptance.

I do not want to be labeled, and I have always feared that my opinions would give people license to box me into a category or demographic. I do not want to be condensed into an Evangelical, or a Republican, Democrat, Hippie, or anything else just based on a few statements I may make. But, more than anything else, I do not want to be labeled as close-minded. It seems to me, that as soon as I have an opinion about something particularly touchy (gay marriage, taxes, you name it) I'll get labeled as either a dogmatic fundamentalist or hippie-dippy relativist. I don't want to be defined by my opinions, so for the most part, I've just chosen to pretend I didn't have any.

But, no more. I have realized that I cannot let myself be defined by my opinions. My individualism is not lost because what I think might line up with Billy Graham or Karl Marx. Having opinions does not make me close-minded, as long as the motivation for those opinions is right and justified.

Sometime I run into the mistake of forming my opinions around what others think. My thoughts become nothing but an anti-opinion - an opposition for opposition's sake. This is not genuine and gives no real attention to the actual issue. I have formed opinions just to set my worldview against my father or anyone who wears a suit, combs his hair, or has at any point belonged to Promise Keepers. The inverse has been true as well. I have agreed with rock starts, artists, writers, or anyone with a beard, just because they are a rock star, because they can paint, because they rebel by growing hair off their chin. But, I have discovered, this is not a valid way to form an opinion.

I need to also ask myself if I am making my opinion simply to justify a behavior I know is wrong. Do I agree with relativism and the absence of moral truth just to ignore conviction? Do I support the decriminalization of marijuana because I wouldn't mind taking a hit of the Great Green Mellow Maker? The way that I form opinions is just as important as the opinions I form.

I need to ask myself: Does what I think line up with what I know of God? Does it line up with what I know of reality, the way the world actually exists? Is it MY opinion - not my pastor's, not the author's of the book I just read, not Thom Yorke's, not anyone else's. Sure, these people may influence my opinions, I may even agree wholeheartedly with them, but in the end they will be MY opinions, internalized with sincere deliberation and not thoughtless adherence. I'll give my opinions with unashamed zeal.

But, I have asked myself, what if my opinions change? What if some new information comes along and forces me to rethink and even alter my prior convictions? Does this make me a hypocrite, or worse yet, a flip-flopper! I have decided that there can be no wrong, no hypocrisy, no flip-floppery done if I change my mind based on new information. That is the spirit of rational thought: being able to investigate the facts and truths of the world and forming your opinions around that, and it is a constant process. I used to think that at this time in my life, I would have the questions of life solved. I am realizing that I'll most likely spend the rest of my life trying to figure it out. It seems only natural to me that my opinions will change over time as I learn and grow in the vastness of my self and the universe.

But again, I must interrogate my motivation for changing my mind. I must not change my mind for acceptance, for the sake of reactionary rebellion, or to feel "progressive." If I learn something new about God, something new about reality, and my motivations are pure, I will not be afraid of the fresh outlook. I'll give my new opinions with just as must enthusiasm as my last.

With so many different worldview to weigh in our present culture, with so much information available to everyone, it is crucial for the Christian community not to become a philosophical cloister and stand away from the discussion with ready-made answers handed down and recycled without a thought. (I am not saying that this necessarily the case in the church, but it is a danger that accompanies tradition) There must be conversation happening. But, what good is a conversation if no one has a stance, or if one person speaks and the other nods in "compassionate" agreement? Yes, it is absolutely necessary that I am eager and ready to listen, but I also must not be afraid to speak.

I bring this up because a few weeks ago I had a great conversation with my friend Dave who is in school now to earn a master's degree. Eventually, he is going to be a pastor. He will be a master pastor. Dave has great thoughts and ideas about justice and compassion and what the Church should be doing when it comes to these things. I had kind of pegged justice and compassion as being approximately the same thing, or, more accurately, had not really given much thought to what either of those things really are. I just figured they were one of a number of things on that invisible list a lot of churches have, that list that says followers of Christ should exhibit these traits: justice, compassion, mercy, love, forgiveness, etc. Really, I just assumed these were all basically the same. Anyway, Dave said, "Compassion and justice are two different things. Compassion would be more like a work of mercy that one does because one's heart is bent toward a particular individual (or group) so much so that one can't help but do something, more or less in the moment, to help. So, like serving dinner in a soup kitchen. Letting a homeless guy use your cell phone so he can call somebody. Things like that. Justice, on the other hand, would be diving into the systems that create unfair gaps between groups of people, intending to make those systems fair for everybody. So, being involved in community development would be working for justice because it seeks to make a housing system that currently favors those with more money accessible and fair to those who are trapped in things like poverty and homelessness." At this point in the conversation, I definitely looked off to the side and nodded my head slightly. "Yeah, I know what you mean," I probably said.

I think compassion is probably the door way to justice. I think performing works of mercy helps people to see the need for justice. (By "works of mercy" I mean "compassion." I just chose the more Catholic term for it. Works of mercy. I think that's the term someone of my scholastic caliber...a master's degree candidate by proxy...would use.) For example, taking a small group from church to serve dinner at a homeless shelter exposes people in that small group to the reality of injustice in the world of homeless men, women and children. That exposure might look like any number of things. Maybe somebody in the small group has a great one on one conversation with a guest at the shelter who, because of a felony on his record, is continually discriminated against when it comes to finding a job. Maybe somebody else in that small group, and let's say this person is white, has a conversation with a guest who is black and that small group member learns more about what it feels like to be the victim of real, live racism. The point is that when a person performs a work of mercy he is offered the chance to look more deeply into existing systems which may have brought about the need for his compassionate action. If the person never had the chance to perform the work of mercy, perhaps the truth of injustice would never have made itself apparent to him. When that small group leaves the shelter after they finish serving, there's going to be an inevitable confrontation with injustice in the minds of the group members. That's uncomfortable, or at least can be, because now each of those group members have to place the truth of injustice somewhere in their own brains. Before coming to the shelter, nobody had to think about it. Of course, decisions about what to do next based on this new knowledge cover a wide spectrum...maybe it means coming back next month to serve again...maybe it means forcing the experience out of their minds...maybe it means a couple of the group members form a housing cooperative and invest in blighted neighborhoods.

The point is, as Christ-followers, I think we are supposed to walk through the door way of our compassion and explore what it means to do justice. (Micah 6:8.) There are probably about a thousand ways to be involved in bringing about justice. I will not list them all here. That's for doctoral students. I suppose what I can say about it is that doing justice probably requires creativity and an examination of one's particular gifts coupled with an examination of just what it is that inspires us to compassionate action. Or read my friend Dave's book about social justice when he finally writes one, which I bet he will do. That will probably have all the answers in it.