Interview

You can see an interview that I did sitting on Peter Dishman's couch here.

The View From Up Here

As of late (a.k.a. since I got back from NYC in early August), my Bible reading and prayer time have been given much more structure due to The Book of Common Prayer. If you don't know what that is, as was my position before some great people recommended it to me at Pre-Field Training, the book is published by the Anglican church and contains both some liturgical prayers and scriptures that follow the church calendar. For those of you, like myself, who grew up outside of a denomination that uses the church calendar for Bible reading, this can be a very helpful thing. At the end of the book is a Bible reading schedule to help you read the entire Bible in 2 years. Every day there are 2 or more Psalms, and Old Testament passage, a New Testament passage, and a passage from the Gospels. I'm loving it, and I highly recommend you head over to Amazon.com and purchase a copy if you feel like you need a little more structure in your Bible reading.

I say all of that to lead up to this little nugget of information. Every morning, as I head out to read my Bible, I am blown away as I walk out of Peter's door, take one flight of stairs up, climb a latter, and see this...

When was the last time you prayed for your city with a birds eye view of it? It's a pretty amazing feeling.

Doing It Big in MEXICO.

These are my breakfast weapons here south of the border, and, as I hope is evident in this picture, they are big. What can I say--I'm proud of my breakfast food.

Well, I've been in Mexico for 5 days now, and it's been a whirlwind, a meticulously self-aware, culture-shocked whirlwind. It's weird because I had forgotten almost completely about this part of my time in Puebla. Basically, I go through various emotional stages every day. However, everyday they get less intense. If you got my update/prayer email, you were made aware of this, and I greatly appreciate anyone who is praying for my adjustment to life here. I look forward to being comfortable here and falling in love with the city. It's quite different from Puebla, and I'm fighting the urge to get nostalgic about my time there.

I'm still staying with the missionary here, Peter Dishman, but it looks like an apartment may have finally fallen into place. I originally wanted to live with a family, but it looks like I will have an apartment and possibly share it with 2 guys from our RUF group (the only 2 guys in our RUF group in fact) which would be super sweet. I've met both of them and they are really great guys with a sincere desire for honest community and edifying relationships--wow, what a blessing.

Speaking of blessings and people who want honest community, today we had our RUF (which we call CUR) core group planning meeting. It was supposed to last from 3pm-6pm but instead went from 3pm to 9pm. Great times. These students are very excited about what God is doing on their campus, and they shared their ideas very freely. In addition to their fervor, I have been blown away by the spiritual maturity of these students. It turns out the CUR group is far smaller than I thought, actually just 15-20 people at this point. However, we have a solid group of believers to grow from. Praise God! Most of these students have just recently come to the Christian faith.

One girl, Monce, comes from a family in which the father is part of a pluralistic cult which teaches that no religion should be dwelt on. Instead, each religion should catapult you to another, so that you are constantly climbing a religious ladder of world cultures and beliefs. In addition, her "faculty" (major) here is one of great Communist thought and presence. So, she comes most recently from that worldview. It was wonderful to hear her reflections on Sundays sermon (at a student gathering we do every week here at Peter's house). She talked about how she longs for her family to come to know Jesus. She also talked about the great fear she has as she goes into a Communist faculty as a representative of Jesus. This year in the CUR we will continue to preach the gospel to her...only it can calm her fears and give her rest in the power of Jesus to change her Communist peers' hearts.

Hero or Villain? Liberator or Murderer?

In this article, Alvaro Vargas Llosa (who I have come to admire a great deal as a Latin American thinker and politician) examines the true history behind the world-wide icon, Che Guevara. One of my favorite parts in relation to Che's role as the head of a political prison called La Cabaña:

“Which brings us back to Carlos Santana and his chic Che gear. In an open letter published in El Nuevo Herald on March 31 of this year, the great jazz musician Paquito D’Rivera castigated Santana for his costume at the Oscars, and added: “One of those Cubans [at La Cabaña] was my cousin Bebo, who was imprisoned there precisely for being a Christian. He recounts to me with infinite bitterness how he could hear from his cell in the early hours of dawn the executions, without trial or process of law, of the many who died shouting, ‘Long live Christ the King!"

Ethnography of 25th Street Harlem from 9:30-10:30pm

Having finished what I thought were my ethnographic observations in front of the Apollo Theatre on 25th Street in Harlem, myself, along with Ben and Bonnie, headed back the way we had come. We hadn’t gone far when Bonnie noticed a small group of black men standing on the other side of the street. They looked like they were setting up for some kind of event, possibly a band preparing to play, so we headed across the street to see what the commotion was about.

We walked up on the men and quickly realized they were street preachers. They were dressed in what I can only describe as camouflage tunics. The material flowed like a dress from the men’s shoulders to their feet. Each had on a camouflage hat shaped like that of Malcolm X to match the tunic. Many of the men had well-groomed beards, making them look more Middle Eastern than they would have without facial hair. The man preaching would dictate various scripture references to his peers, and they would frantically flip to the passages and read them aloud. The preacher would then stop them after almost every phrase to interject either his own re-wording of the passage, or a word-for-word hyper-inflected mimic of what his friend had just said.

After just a few minutes, our efforts of hiding behind all the blacks and remaining unnoticed came to an abrupt halt. The preacher pulled out the infamous picture of Jesus (the headshot) which we have all seen a million times and thus recognize as a depiction of Christ. This version, however, had drawn-in horns and the number 666 written on his forehead. The man held up the picture passionately. Looking at me he spoke:
“Step forward my brother. Who were you taught that this is a picture of?”
“Jesus,” I replied assertively.
“Exactly,” the man continued, “this is what is being taught—that this man is Jesus.”

I was confused as to his point. After all, I didn’t believe Jesus really looked like the picture. Actually, I was offended by the picture as well! The man continued, making me into the bad guy with every thrust of his argument. He quickly shouted to his readers, “Revelation chapta 1, versus 12 through 15.”

A shorter man shouted from the King James Version, “And I turned to see the voice that spake with me. And being turned, I saw seven golden candlesticks; and in the midst of the seven candlesticks one like unto the Son of man.”

“A son like who? Who is this son of man?” The preacher asked me.

I replied, “Jesus.”



The reader continued, “Clothed with a garment down to the foot, and girt about the paps with a golden girdle. His head and his hairs were white like wool as white as snow.”

“Hair like what?” The preacher questioned the crowd.
“Wool!” They responded.
“Now, who has hair like wool?” He asked me. I hesitated.
“Is this hair like wool?” He asked as he indicated the hair in the picture of Jesus.
“No,” I replied as I smirked and laughed nervously.
“That hair is wooly!” The preacher remarked, pointing to a black man standing beside me. “Your brother has wooly hair!”


The reader yelled again, “And his eyes were as a flame of fire; and his feet like unto fine brass.”

“What color is brass?” He questioned, looking me in the eyes.
”It’s like gold,” I replied nervously.
The crowd burst into laughter. Smirking, one man told me that he works in a printing factory and that brass is 3 shades lighter than dark brown.
“So, brass is brown,” the preacher concluded.

At this point I realized that the men were making an argument for a black Jesus, but I did not realize the implications of that theological distinction. Their agenda would not remain hidden for long.

The men pulled out pictures of lynchings in the 1950’s. They pointed to the smiling white men in the background and made statements about how my people had oppressed their people. They were right. I told them that I agreed; it was sickening and wrong for whites to oppress blacks. The preacher went into a rage of passion.

“Don’t you think you should pay for that? Should whites not be oppressed for what they did to us?”

A man who had walked up behind me just minutes before voiced his opinion loud enough for it to be heard: “Hell yes they should.”

“When are they gonna pay?” The preacher asked.

“I’ll make ‘em pay right now,” The man behind me prodded. “String ‘em up right here.”

I realized then what was happening—racism in the name of religion. After the men had vented their hatred, they began to make demands: “If you’re sorry, kiss my boots,” one man told me.

I told the leader that I believed Christianity to be about love and not hatred. Looking him in the eyes, I told him that I loved him and asked him if he loved me. He stared into the whites of my eyes and said sternly, “No I don’t love you, I hate you.” He communicated clearly; his Christianity was not about loving me. In fact, he was only out to make me pay for what my people had done to his people (and other oppressed people groups) in the past.

The discussion continued in an organized manner, hinging mostly on random verses from the Bible all of which were about God’s love for Israel. The men insisted continuously that they were the true Israel. They brought out a chart of all the 12 lost tribes of Israel. On it were many oppressed people groups ranging from Africans to Dominicans.

They insisted I get out my Bible and the scripture wars were on. I brought up Acts 10 where Peter is praying on his rooftop and has a vision from the Lord that he should eat of animals that the Jews consider to be unclean. The preacher tried to focus on verses 11 and 12 which talk about the actual sheet being lowered. I urged the people to keep reading. I read from verse 34: “Then Peter began to speak: “I now realize how true it is that God does not show favoritism but accepts men from every nation who fear him and do what is right.”

I thought I had stifled them. The preacher quickly assigned a few new verses (never passages, just verses) to his readers. They wanted to return to verses about Israel the nation. At what was perhaps the pinnacle of the conversation we began to talk about hope and salvation. The preacher asked me what the power of God was. I responded that the power of God is Christ which I have inside of me through faith. He continued to look me straight in the eye (which he did throughout the debate) and I sensed a rage I had not sensed before: “You don’t have the spirit of God in you! You don’t have Jesus. Jesus called you a dog!” I couldn’t believe it. No one had ever made such heretical statements to me before. I was more sad for my brother than I was hurt. How could he say these things in the name of Christianity?

After that point, I decided that I needed to try and make an exit at the next opportunity I could. I now noticed many different people than the ones who had been around at the beginning of the debate. A middle-aged woman stood close and to my left. She got excited about what the preacher said, but did not show me any form of hate. In fact, I sensed a bit of compassion in her demeanor. An older man to my right fought desperately against my points and was one of the readers at times. He also looked directly in my eyes and spoke very politely to me. At one point, I put my hand on his arm, and he didn’t seem to mind. One of the few who remained from the beginning was an older gentleman sitting on a folding chair. He had been hidden from my view by the small crowd of people at times, but I noticed his composed manner once again. If anyone had a reason to hate whites, I knew it was him. I imagined the past degradation he must have received in the 50’s.

Our argument moved to a debate over Galatians. The preacher quoted a verse from chapter 2 and refused to admit that Christianity was for Gentiles. He told some elaborate history of how Galatians isn’t really about salvation for Gentiles, but rather Paul was actually a missionary to Israelites who weren’t worshiping in spirit and truth. Since this nation wasn’t a Christian nation, Paul had to disguise his writing as not to expose his underlying purpose. Thus Galatians is really about the news that salvation is for Israel only coming to a people who were not living in the truth of that reality.

I got very frustrated with trying to argue scripture with the men and told them I really needed to go (I had done this various times throughout the debate). An older man stepped up to the front and asked them to let him say something. He looked me in the eyes and spouted off a Hebrew sentence that sounded something like, “Ahem dofu alec tubaw shada.” At that point, I saw a window of opportunity and I backtracked out of the circle that had gathered around me. Ben, Bonnie, and I turned our backs on the men and women as they arose in victory claps and taunts.

Man's Fall in Adam, and the Remedy in Christ

By Ralph Erskine (1685-1752)

I found this jem-of-an-excerpt through some free online resources. I love its eloquent, profound communication of the heart of the gospel.


"O! unexampled love! so vast, so strong,
So great, so high, so deep, so broad, so long!
Can finite thought this ocean huge explore,
Unconscious of a bottom or a shore?
His love admits no parallel; for why,
At one great draught of love he drank hell dry.
No drop of wrathful gall he left behind,
No dreg to witness that he was unkind.
The sword of awful justice pierc'd his side,
That mercy thence might gush upon the bride.
The meritorious labours of his life,
And glorious conquests of his dying strife;
Her debt of doing, suff'ring, both cancell'd,
And broke the bars his lawful captive held.
Down to the ground the hellish hosts he threw,
Then mounting high, the trump of triumph blew,
Attended with a bright seraphic band,
Sat down enthron'd sublime on God's right hand;
Where glorious choirs their various harps employ
To sound his praises with confed'rate joy.
There he, the bride's strong Intercessor sits,
And thence the blessings of his blood transmits,
Sprinkling all o'er the flaming throne of God,
Pleads for her pardon his atoning blood;
Sends down his holy co-eternal Dove,
To shew the wonders of incarnate love,
To woo and win the bride's reluctant heart,
And pierce it with his kindly killing dart:
By gospel-light to manifest that now
She has no further with the law to do;
That her new Lord has loos'd the fed'ral tie,
That once hard bound her to do or die;
That precepts, threats, no single mite can crave.
Thus for her former spouse he digg'd a grave;
The law fast to his cross did nail and pin,
Then bury'd the defunct his tomb within,
That he the lonely widow to himself might win."

NYC

This is the 2-day mark of my adventures in the Big Apple. If you don't already know, I'll be here all month as part of MTW's Pre-Field Training in which we learn more about engaging a city with the love of God, contextualizing the Gospel, church planting, cultural assimilation, and language acquisition.

Almost every person I talked to before my plane ride up told me the same thing--"I love New York!" I wasn't exactly sure what to expect from the Big Apple. I am pleased to report that after roughly 4 hours in the city--that's 1 taxi ride through Queens to Harlem to Manhattan, 1 fresh sushi meal of california and eel roles, 1 "sippy-cup" sized cup of Starbucks coffee, and approximately 30 minutes spent walking the streets of upper Manhattan--I declared boldly, "I love this city!" I know folks, that was quick. Maybe I'm rushing the relationship. But hey, I've heard a lot of positive stories of people jumping right into things and it working out fine. Let's just say that I now believe in love at first site. Perhaps my first Pre-Field Journal (we're supposed to write an entry a day) will enlighten you on my seduction by this city:

A few days before leaving for New York, my mom shared a quote with me that she read in the latest edition of The Network (MTW’s magazine). The quote was from Tim Keller in which he said something to the effect that global cities have more in common with each other than within small towns within their own nations. I had never heard anyone express that idea before, and it struck me as ideologically true.

After two days in NYC, I have had countless confirmations of the truth of Keller’s quote. The ethnic diversity and internationally-charged atmosphere spark memories of large international cities I have traveled to such as Rio de Janeiro, Brazil, Caracas, Venezuela, and Mexico City, Mexico. On every street corner I have found affirmation that globalization is not just an economic or political subject—it is alive and breathing here in the streets of New York City. A common thought when walking out of a building is, “Wow, this looks so much like Latin America. I can’t believe this is how New York City feels.” Perhaps in order to fit my mind around the NYC experience, I liken it to an infinitely more diverse Mexico City. Here are a few reasons why: Public transportation is the norm. Life does not restrict itself to the insides of buildings, but the streets abound with activity. Buildings (at least in Queens and upper Manhattan) are older and many are dilapidated. If you want groceries, you go to the local corner grocery, not Wal-Mart. Local businesses abound. Street vendors are not uncommon. Ethnicity is a point of great pride. Personal expression is seen as a key component of freedom. Strange smells linger in random spots on the street.

What I would describe as warmth which resonates from diversity excites me for ministry and learning how to love all of these different people groups. I am encouraged by MTW’s approach to learn how to contextualize the gospel without sacrificing our theology. Adversely, I am discouraged by Union Theological Seminary’s apparent approach of pluralistic faux-acceptance of all in an attempt to avoid conflict and simply “tolerate” everyone. I am thankful that the Lord has revealed to me that this is a very shallow means to acceptance in which we strive at the very most to avoid judging people. This leads to neutered love in which we have nothing but our own will-power to conjure up the goodness to accept people. But praise be to God that in the Gospel, Christ not only demands that we love our neighbors, but he enables us to do just that. Just as our sin was far worse than we ever thought, and just as Christ was far kinder to us than we ever imagined, we see that our neighbors are in need of this very same medicine. Oh that our sinful hearts would yield to goodness and have ever-present on our minds both our neighbors’ need for the Gospel and our own. Surely then we would live in shalom. Surely then we would live in the kingdom come.

Gems from a Reformission Rev.

I've been reading Mark Driscoll's book Confessions of a Reformission Rev. Driscoll is a Reformed pastor who started a successful church in Seattle. He's also "The Cussing Pastor" from Blue Like Jazz (gasp!). Admittedly, the first 70 pages or so only moderately kept my attention. But, the second half of the book sucked me in with some really intertaining stories and statements--what I hold to be some good insights on how to both do and not do ministry. I think the major thing that caught my attention, though, is the humor. Here are a few parts that either made me laugh out loud or made me think about the church in unconventional ways:

"Things were starting to get out of hand with the men, so I called a meeting and demanded that all of the men in our church attend. I preached for more than two hours about manhood and basically gave the dad talk to my men for looking at porno, sleeping witih young women, not serving Christ, not working hard at their jobs, and so on. I demanded that the men who were with me on our mission to change the city stay and that the rest leave the church and stop getting in the way....On their way out of that meeting, I handed each man two stones and told them that on this day God was giving them their balls back to get the courage to do kingdom work. Guys put them on their monitors at work or glued them to the dash of their truck and kept them like stones of remembrance from the Old Testament. The next week the offering doubled and the men caught fire. It was a surreal time, since I was basically fathering guys my own age and treating them more like a military unit than a church."

"We also began 'boot camps' for our young men, teaching them how to get a wife, have sex with that wife, get a job, budget money, buy a house, father a child, study the Bible, stop looking at porn, and brew decent beer."

"Next door to our church lived a very large, very loud, and very unpleasant woman. She went to another local church and often walked into our services to publicly cuss us all out. I nicknamed her 'the finger lady' because she often sat on her front porch giving our people the finger and calling them whores and bastards while they walked to the church, as she chain-smoked and perfected her self-induced Tourette's syndrome."

On having diarhhea and having to preach at four services in one day:
"Knowing that I had four services to preach and that each sermon lasted about an hour, I was feeling optimistic during the third service--until I crapped myself about fifteen minutes into the sermon and was left with a terrible dilemma. Do I finish the sermon and just not move much on the stage? Do I say something spiritual like the Holy Spirit just notified me that everyone is to break up into prayer groups, so I could sneak off and clean up the oil slick?
They don't cover this part of the job in seminary, and I was perplexed but chose to just keep going and finish the sermon, which took about another forty-five minutes, during which time I tried to breath out of my mouth to lessen the stench."

What I'm Reading

Lately, I find myself with an abundance of books. Actually, it's a bit overwhelming at times.

What I'm Reading:
-Liberty For Latin America: How to Undo Five Hundred Years of State Oppression-by Alvaro Vargas Llosa
-Less Than Two Dollars a Day: A Christian View of World Povery and the Free Market-by Kent A. Van Til
-La Capital: The Biography of Mexico City-Jonathan Kandell
-Confession of a Reformation Rev: Hard Lessons From an Emerging Missional Church-Mark Driscoll

What I Hope to Conquer Next:
-Bobos in Paradise-David Brooks (This one's been on my list forever!)
-Opening Mexico: The Making of a Democracy-Julia Preston and Samuel Dillon

We'll see how much progress I make before I head to Mexico. I suspect I will not get all of them read.

Eric Volz Poem

I wrote this poem a few months ago after a letter from Eric Volz was released as a Myspace bulletin. I took quotes of Eric's and responded to them.

The Eric Volz Tragedy: As Observed From 2,855.8 Miles Away

“I live in my head.”

No you don’t, Eric; you live in La Modelo.
You live in steel and grime, horror and danger.
You live in barred freedom, a shrieking silence—
revelatory darkness that blinds the eyes of sanity.
You live tucked away in a neat corner of foreign affairs.
And you are not alone.

Developmental projects.
Concern for future generations.
Sustainability.
Profitability.
Rape?
Murder?

“The best analogy I have come across for being locked up here is that it's like being buried alive.”

There are numerous ways to suffocate
when the oxygen of autonomy is smothered.
Your body copes with sleep.
And sleep is a science—
in this case, a merciful escape from tragedy.
The gracious oasis of God in a barren scene.


“My spirits rise and fall.”

Because injustice billows!
The guilty, free. The innocent, jailed.
Racism abounds, even convicts.
And you are left to be tossed by the sea
of public belief and skepticism—
and hatred. For we are creatures of hate.

“I send my deepest and purest love to every person that reads these lines.”

Perhaps, you do live apart from La Modelo.
To be treated with such contempt by the country
that you call home, by the mother of your
former lover. And yet to express such compassion.
You inhabit another place.

Your soul is a hospital for the wounded.

David Brainerd quote

"September 19, 1747. Near night, while I attempted to walk a little, my thoughts turned thus: How infinitely sweet it is to love God, and be all for him! Upon which it was suggested to me, 'You are not an angel, not lively and active.' To which my whole soul immediately replied, 'I as sincerely desire to love and glorify God as any angel in heaven.' Upon which it was suggested again, 'But you are filthy, not fit for heaven.' Hereupon instantly appeared the blessed robe of Christ's righteousness, which I could not but exult and triumph in." -David Brainerd

"True Saints, When Absent from the Body, Are Present with the Lord"

These quotes are from the sermon by Jonathan Edwards based on 2 Corinthians 5:8: "We are confident, I say, and willing rather to be absent from the body, and to be present with the Lord." -2 Corinthians 5:8.

"And when the souls of the saints leave their bodies, to go to be with Christ, they behold the marvelous glory of that great work of his, the work of redemption, and of the glorious way of salvation by him; desire to look into. They have a most clear view of teh unfathomable depths of the manifold wisdom and knowledge of God; and the most b right displays of the infinite purity and holiness of God, that do appear in that way and work; and see in a much clearer manner than the saints do here, what is the breadth and length, and depth and height of the grace and love of Christ, appearing in his redemption. And as they see the unspeakable riches and glory of the attribute of God's grace, so they most clearly behold and understand Christ's eternal and unmeasurable dying love to them in particular. And in short, they see ever thing in Christ that tends to kindle and inflame love, and every thing that tends to gratify love, and every thing that tends to satisfy them: and that in the most clear and glorious manner, wihtout any darkness or delusion, without any impediment or interruption. Now the saints, while in the body, see something of Christ's glory and love; as we, in the dawning of the morning, see something of the reflected light of the sun mingled with darkness; but when separated from the body, they see their glorious and loving Redeemer, as we see the sun when risen, and showing his whole disk above the horizon, by his direct beams, in a clear hemisphere, and with perfect day."

"...the souls of departed saints with Christ in heaven, shall ahve Christ as it were unbosomed unto them, manifesting those infinite riches of love towards them, that have been there from eternity; and they shall be enabled to express their love to him, in an infinitely better manner than ever they could while in the body. Thus they shall eat and drink abundantly, and swim in teh ocean of love, and be eternally swallowed up in teh infinitely bright, and infinitely mild and sweet beams of divine love; eternally receiving that light, eternally full of it, and eternally compassed round with it, and everlastingly reflecting it back again to the fountain of it."

The Subway is a Creepy Place for Sex.

By Jared Weatherholtz

(I was in the subway and I saw a couple making out.)
The subway is a creepy place for sex.

Stumbling fingers reach to strip bodies of
damp shirts. Heated grasps stretch for
weighty satisfaction—a means to an end. Pumping breasts
cannot find a common beat—don’t care to find
a common beat. One pulse chases another in a personal race
for communal pleasure. He will not stop until he has had
his fill. She will not stop until she has had her
unquenchable desires chipped away at. She will be back for more. He will
hunger again. I am always hungry.
The subway is a creepy place for sex. Tell that to the couple making out up front.


Guilt is not an honest way to make a wage. What sorry mother neglected to tell her daughter that? She left a 12-pack of basic Crayola Crayons in my lap. I stared down at the small, pleasant box from outside of my body. I felt connected. I could not be heartless and refuse to pay the old, misguided lady. After all, her mother forgot to teach her the basics: don’t put out until they pay. Or maybe she’d fooled us all: put out until they pay. The subway is the perfect place for life lessons.


A man prepares his blanket like a Japanese wife—submissive and honorable, kneeling to show respect. He lets each corner fall to its particular side from the center hold, straightening the fabric with the palms of his hands—carefully, so as not to disturb the shards. He lets out a warrior’s cry and begins the ritual beating, a self-inflicted pain for the pleasure of the world. (We are so fucked up.) The dance is rhythmic and smooth, contrasting with the heinous cuts he is inflicting. His torso swivels and strikes, swivels and strikes the green broken glass of the blanket. His back begins to bleed, small gashes like new coats of paint on the scars of old walls. He has no face, and no legs—only a bloody torso that cries poverty. The subway is the perfect place for tragedy.


This place is a dichotomy. I have never felt so alive in a landscape of death.
Steel structures and aged concrete make this jungle a vacuum.
Truth be told, I would go crazy being in here for too long.
And sometimes, at 2am, on my route home, I feel the palms of insanity massaging my column, creeping toward my cerebrum.
But on the landscape of death are lived the lives of thousands, no, millions of art’s master characters. Beauty is never more accentuated than when juxtaposed with its counterpart. Tonight I know that steel and concrete are great hosts of life. The subway is the perfect place for romance.

I am hungry.

To Frida (on repentance)

By Jared Weatherholtz
This is a response to "To Diego (on sorrow)" which is posted in my blog history.

To Frida (on repentance)

Mi vida,
El monstruo soy yo,
¡de verdad!,
con un apetito que nunca cesa.

I have always seen myself in my murals, and shuttered.
I am pregnant with guilt, writhing under your love,
bearing flowers of peace to my smiling wife.
I am weighed down by my own lusts.
Driven down!
I cannot get up, Frida!
I cannot get up.


You were a welcome babe in an ancient world,
the innocence and vigor of my life.
You are a bloody, beating heart among sharpening stones,
a martyr at my own hands.
You cover my infidelities in a pool of red,
and I rest—
while you writhe.
El monstruo soy yo.


We are the entire history of Mexico!
The revolution flowed from our love,
the people’s passion from our very bosoms.
In La Chingada, I painted you with a look of unbelief.
The tension of my body falling powerfully on yours
as I had my way is all too real for me now.
They say we cannot escape heritage,
and I have sealed ours in disloyalty.


I find myself kneeling reverently before a bed of carnations.
My people and your love are the only gods I have ever known.
But these flowers are my shrine.
Their beauty binds, enslaves.
Their shape is my best friend,
who has torn trust and thrown it to the diseased dogs on the street.
You are the innocent victim of an imperialist regime.

The monstrosity I am!
Yo soy el monstruo.

But, mi vida, don’t forget us.

I am you,
Friday. You
are me.

L=A=N=G=U=A=G=E Poetry

Poetry for the truly postmodern.

"On Gifts for Grace"
By Bernadette Mayer

I saw a great teapot.
I wanted to get you this stupendous
100% cotton royal blue and black checked shirt,
There was a red and black striped one too
Then I saw these boots at a place called Chuckles
They laced up to about two inches above your ankles
All leather and in red, black or purple
It was hard to have no money today
I won't even speak about the possible flowers and kinds of lingerie
All linen and silk with not-yet-perfumed laces
Brilliant enough for any of the Graces
Full of luxury, grace notes, prosperousness and charm
But I can only praise you with this poem--
It's being is the same as the meaning of your name

The Jesus Videos

Yes, I realize that I am VERY late in discovering these, but they are too funny not to post.

Poetry happens...

...like an accident, a mugging, a love affair, a crime; it happens every day, when, alone, a man's heart begins to think about life.

-Jaime Sabines

Free Grace.--Rom.iii.24; 1 Cor. xv.10; 1 Tim. i.14

Radford (?)

Self-righteous souls on works rely,
And boast their moral dignity;
But if I lisp a song of praise,
Each note shall echo, Grace, free grace!

'Twas grace that quickened me when dead;
'Twas grace my soul to Jesus led;
Grace brings a sense of pardoned sin,
And grace subdues my lusts within.

Grace reconciles to every loss,
And sweetens every painful cross;
Defends my soul when danger's near;
By grace alone I persevere.

When from this world my soul removes
To mansions of delight and love,
I'll cast my crown before his throne,
And shout, Free grace, free grace alone!

Gustavo Perez Firmat quote

In researching for my thesis, I've come to love Gustavo Perez Firmat, a professor, literary critic, and author who was exiled from Cuba to the U.S. as a child. Aside from caring about the experience of living between two cultures (which is simply fascinating), the man loves books. Here's a quote that validates and feeds my desire to build a personal library.

"el que tenga 2500 libros en casa no quiere decir que los haya leído. Me gusta comprar libros que nunca tendré la oportunidad, ni siquiera las ganas, de leer. Siempre he creído que la compañía de un libro puede ser tan beneficiosa como su lectura. "

"Having a library of 2,500 books in my house doesn't mean that I have read them all. I like to buy books that I'll never have the opportunity, nor the desire, to read. I have always believed that the company of a book can be as beneficial as reading it."

quote on justification by faith alone

This is an excerpt from Martin Luther's On Chrisitan Liberty, a fantastic little book explorating the doctrine of justification by faith alone that you should go buy if you don't already have it.

"The third incomparable benefit of faith is that it unites the soul with Christ as a bride is united with her bridegroom. By this mystery, as the Apostle teaches, Christ and the soul become one flesh [Eph. 5:31-32]. And if they are one flesh and there is between them a true marriage--indeed the most perfect of all marriages, since human marriages are but poor examples of this one true marriage--it follows that everything they have they hold in common, the good as well as the evil. Accordingly the believing soul can boast of and glorify in whatever Christ has as though it were its own, and whatever the soul has Christ claims as his own. Let us compare these and we shall see inestimable benefits. Christ is full of grace, life, and salvation. The soul is full of sins, death, and damnation. Now let faith come between them and sins, death, and damnation will be Christ's, while grace, life, and salvation will be the soul's; for if Christ is a bridegroom, he must take upon himself the things which are his bride's and bestow upon her the things that are his. If he gives her his body and very self, how shall he not give her all that is his? And if he takes the body of the bride, how shall he not take all that is hers?

A Palm Sunday Post

"In the Cross of Christ I Glory"
Words by John Browning

In the cross of Christ I glory,
Towering o'er the wrecks of time.
All the light of sacred story,
Gathers round its head sublime.

Eric Volz

You may have heard about a man named Eric Volz who has been unjustly sentenced to 30 years in prison in Nicaragua. Eric was born and raised in Nashville and, after earning a degree in Latin American Studies in California, moved to Nicaragua to work as an editor for EP magazine. His ex-girlfriend was recently killed 2 hours from where 10 witnesses say that Eric was. However, Eric has been tried and convicted of the murder. The judge threw out all testimonies placing Eric 2 hours away from the murder and convicted Eric with no evidence linking him in any way to the crime.

This was all just a story to me until I found out that Eric's stepfather recently resigned from his position as Dean of Students at Belmont University. After seeing photos of Eric's parents, I realized that I actually went to their house as an entering freshman. The students were broken down into small groups and we all went to visit a faculty member's house. I remember being very encouraged by Eric's parents' comments about the Belmont Spanish Department. I also remember them talking about their son who had studied Latin American Studies in California. We are connected to this.

Please pray for this terrible injustice. Please research this more at these websites:
www.myspace.com/freeericvolz
http://www.friendsofericvolz.com

If you don't know who this man is, you need to...

Francis Shaeffer is well-known for his philosophical and theological thought, his teachings on connecting faith and culture, and the establishment of L'Abri Fellowship, a welcoming retreat-type set-up where people can come to seek honest answers about faith and Christianity. This article is a great introduction to the strides of Shaeffer to spread a thinking, weeping Christianity.

The Three Amigos?

I just found out that Che Guevara and Fidel Castro had a very close friend named Mario Chanes de Armas who accompanied them in early Revolution talks and activities. This obituary is a glimpse into the Castro regime and the tragedy of crossing a dictator. It is also an interesting gauge of the transformation of the Cuban Revolution from a democratic ideal for the people to a Communist push for dictatorial power.

A Post-Ecuador Thought

We are far too comfortable.

Mexico City Pics

Thanks to my friend Trey for sending me this link to some incredible (and overwhelming!) pics of Mexico City, where I will spend the next two years of my life!

http://www.mustangevolution.com/forum/t26103
(scroll down cause the first pics are a little weird)

How to Kill a Chicken (Mother to Daughter)

By Jared Weatherholtz

Ain’t no shame in killin’
for the sake o’ sustenance.
We gotta eat, baby,
and this here farm
is our supply.

So go out back behind the shed,
and corner Lucy at the edge of the fence.
I know she’s your favorite, baby,
but we raised her for food.
Ain’t no animal deserves life over humans.

So say your goodbyes to Lucy,
and when ya through,
pick her up gently,
just like when you pet
her to calm her nerves in thunderstorms.

Make your way to the
Bloody Stump,
stretch her neck taut
over the splintered surface,
close your eyes,

And swing. Swing hard, baby, and swift.
And turn your head, cause bloods a’gonna spurt.
But we gotta eat, baby. Remember that.
We gotta eat.

When the body falls to the ground,
Lucy’s gonna raise cane, baby.
I mean, she’s gonna run ‘round with no head on.
But don’t worry, cause Lucy’s gone then.
She don’t feel no pain.

That’s just her spirit, makin’ one final lap.
Lucy’s lived a good life, baby.
Most chicken’s don’t have half of what she has.
But a family’s gotta eat.
And you gotta learn to be a woman.

New Poems

I recently watched the movie Frida about the life of Mexican painter/feminist/politician Frida Kahlo. I can't stop thinking about the tragedy involved in this woman's dealings with life, love and art. These poems are the outcome of those thoughts. I hope you enjoy.

It was just a fuck. I've given more affection in a handshake.
–Diego Rivera

To Diego (on sorrow)

¡La cogiste!
My God, Diego,
anyone but my sister!
¡La cogiste!

I am a vessel, used and tragically tied to my loss.
Married to inconsistency.
Shackled to sorrow.
Subdued by abortion.
And there is nothing you can do now to make it all seem right.

So I will hack the blackness,
And shape feminine growth,
Into emasculated pride.
A statement of what was and what is.

It's like the accident all over again,
A steel rod is shoved through my back,
And takes my virginity.
Oh, how I wanted it to be yours!

I am a wounded deer. A running, wounded deer.
The arrows are all women that have no faces,
Only perfume that rubs off in the act of crashing.
I thought you would stop with them. With loyalty!

I am the sister of a whore.
You were you,
And she was she.
But now you are an adulterous one.

I am the sister of a goddess.
Whose very heart rushes blood through my veins.
And spurts stains on my white dress.
I could not live but for her. I could not die but for her.

I am a stark Roman column!
Who has found hope in the bodies of other men (and women)!
Who has weathered the rains of tragedy, and pain, and loss,
And refuses to shed a single hope to the disappointment of nature!

You are not I,
And I am not You,
Yet when I find me, I
Am hopelessly entangled in us.

La cogiste.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Frida Kahlo
(as played by Selma Hayek)

This corpse is still breathing.

Tragedy, pure tragedy, does not strike often.
And if it does, it runs like a demon cast out by the Lord himself,
to find the next innocent victim.
I, however, have a history of such demons.
They nest in my bones,
caress my very column with the arousing fingers of death.

This corpse is still healing.

Diego says my scar is immaculate.
It runs from the small of my back,
around the hip and into my garden.
I told the doctors that the pipe stole my virginity.
It’s not true though. I was fucking boys in my closet a year before the accident.

This corpse is still lusting.

There’s really no beauty like that of the female body.
To have breasts--big, weighty breasts--is to have honey,
That all the gods want and need.
Even the goddesses want to drink from my supply.

This corpse is still needing.

Diego is my sustenance
in a dying world--my dying world.
To be with him is to sup--
to dine with God in art and passion and sex.

This corpse is still leaving.

I painted myself in a mirror today.
I looked proud like the Romans.
My eyebrows grown together like the wings of a sparrow.
One day they’ll carry me away, away from this tragedy.

This corpse is still breathing.

Screwtape Letters movie and more

Check out the second half of this article for the 411 on a possible C.S. Lewis The Screwtape Letters movie, Rick Warren's The Purpose Driven Life in movie form (comparitive to Crash somehow, wtf), and some interesting thoughts on the Christmas film release The Nativity.

http://www.infuzemag.com/interviews/archives/2007/02/ralph_winter.html

Checkenlo!

Women Missionaries in India Beaten

I can't help but think about the fallen state of our world as I read this news I received by email from the organization Gospel for Asia.

It's hard to really sympathize with the persecuted church. I think it's because we can't really imagine what it must be like. I mean, we hear about it plenty. We say it's tragic. But we really don't feel the sorrow of the weight of Christ's church being persecuted.

I think for me, the fact that those being persecuted were women really helped me to see the injustice of persecution for what it is.

Anyway, this is mainly just to post the article. I just started writing some of my thoughts.

An Elegy to My Best Friend

Jared Weatherholtz

It’s been almost six months since you left. The vibrant sting of newness has stranded me with a numb gap and a bent towards filling that space with something—anything. You see, you were my best friend. And, at least I hope, you still are. But when you forsook what meant so much to me and what we both thought meant so much to you, things changed. With the air of assurance and promise left life and eternity and hope.

At first, a mix of misunderstood emotions clamored for my attention. Of the more prominent and implicit feelings were anger and sadness—anger that you had left me alone and sadness that you were gone. I was mad. No, I am mad. I’m mad that you forsook what you knew and trusted in. I’m mad that I am left with no source of comfort or support, except of course the One you kissed. But here in this shell I am left to cry and flare and wonder at your death. At the pronouncement, I almost didn’t take it seriously. It was announced with such life that it seemed impossible. I wanted to laugh it off and be the same. But the only life left in you was a memory and a relic.

Did it hurt? Did it hurt to know that I would know? I hope so. I hope you dreaded the day I would know. After all, that’s the true test of friendship isn’t it—for you to care if I knew? I think you hated the day I would find out. I think caring about that day almost changed the history of your life. I think it almost made you hang on. But I’ll never know. I can only hope that I meant enough to you to almost change your mind, because, obviously, I didn’t mean enough to you to truly change your mind.

But isn’t that how life goes? Only the individual in question can really have the final say in his life—and God. As for God, the questions that used to be offered to him have now turned to pleading. On a regular basis, and I desire that it might be more frequent, I pray for you. I pray that God might bring you back to life. I want him to give you the life we thought you had before. Some may be skeptics. But isn’t that what all of the living have to be thankful for, being brought to life from the dead? I pray that God would bring you back to life. O God, bring Brandon back to life! I can’t stand the phone calls knowing that you’re gone.

Cholulandia

By Jared Weatherholtz

Metal clanks with metal as the handle turns and stops,
The door swings and the box is unleashed. I am unleashed.
The chill of a morning just born has my body hair at attention,
And I can honestly say there is nowhere I’d rather be.

Mornings in Mexico catapult a man into life,
He doesn’t need the comfort of fancy cars and big houses,
What he needs is the chill of high altitude, a horizon of ancestry,
And a street full of vibrant life that cannot be conquered.

My yellow Veloci is steel. Stainless Steel. And she’s a real beaut.
As I straddle her, I can’t help but remember how we’ve been there for each other,
When she is hurt, I mend her (or at least take her to Jorge who mends her),
And when I am hurt, she carries me through beauty that salts my wounds, and kisses.

Aztecs perform sacred rituals on Popocatepetl and Iztaccihuatl,
Or at least they did a thousand years ago,
But I’m pretty sure they still bury dogs over there,
To keep their children company.

But what I see this morning is a silhouette of perfection,
The chill paints a veil for the volcano, gilding the lifeless warrior,
Connected houses painted pink and yellow and blue blur past,
I have never felt so free, so free to live and to work. And to ride.

Poverty abounds. It’s not swelled-stomach-poverty,
It’s more like I-make-six-dollars-a-day-and-can-barely-feed-my-kids poverty,
Somehow the bare-foot woman selling seeds and nuts missed the message,
The look in her eyes says she’s content. Maybe it’s the morning air. Maybe it’s not.

["I like your handsome drugs. Your pleasant..."]

By Joshua Beckman

I like your handsome drugs. Your pleasant
drugs. You frozen fingernails. Your painted
fingernails. That man screamed out. "The
karate chop of love," before tackling that woman.
The breeze. Your sort of quiet happy voices.
The karate chop of love. Your handsome drugs.
If you, in all your sexiness, could just bring that
over here. A barrel of fried chicken. That girl
named Katie. A birthday party. Yeah. I go
running in, all ready to show everyone the
karate chop of love. And that girl named Katie.
A barrel of chicken. The breeze. This
birthday party is fucked without the karate
chop of love. Your handsome drugs.

Identity Theft

My Spanish professor recently had her identity stolen! How crazy is that? She is Spanish (i.e. actually from Spain, not Mexico). Before teaching here in Nashville, she taught in the Spanish department in a university in Cincinnati. One of her ex-colleagues (and now ex-friends!) apparently had access to all the teachers' social security numbers. So, he stole a bunch of them, her's included, and sold them to the Mexican Mofia to traffic immigrants into the U.S. The crazy thing is that he is Colombian. So, here you have this immigrant who steals a fellow immigrant's (my teacher's) identity. Lame. Luckily they caught the guy and he is going to jail.

My teacher's thoughts: "Frankly, I hope he spends a long, long time in jail."

Justice.

Yo shawty, I'm from da south cadillac!

So, this http://www.urbandictionary.com is pretty much the coolest thing i've ever seen.

The reason?

You find out stuff like this http://www.urbandictionary.com/define.php?term=south+cadillac.

2 of my favs...

These are two of my favorite songs as of late.

"Jesus Christ" by Brand New--this song has brilliant insights

Jesus Christ, that's a pretty face
The kind you'd find on someone that could save
If they don't put me away
It'll be a miracle

Do you believe you're missing out
That everything good is happening somewhere else?
But with nobody in your bed
The night's hard to get through

And I will die all alone
And when I arrive I won't know anyone


Well Jesus Christ, I'm alone again
So what did you do those three days you were dead?
Cause this problem's gonna last more than the weekend.

Well Jesus Christ, I'm not scared to die,
I'm a little bit scared of what comes after
Do I get the gold chariot?
Do I float through the ceiling?

Do I divide and fall apart?
Cause my bright is too slight to hold back all my dark
And the ship went down in sight of land
And at the gates does Thomas ask to see my hands

I know you'll come in the night like a thief
But I've had some time, O Lord, to hone my lying technique
I know you think that I'm someone you can trust
But I'm scared I'll get scared and I swear I'll try to nail you back up

So do you think that we could work out a sign
So I'll know it's you and that it's over so I won't even try
I know you're coming for the people like me
But we all got wood and nails
And we turn out hate in factories
But we all got wood and nails
And we turn out hate in factories
And we all got wood and nails
And we sleep inside of this machine.


"Monring Yearning" by Ben Harper


My fingers touch upon my lips
It’s a morning yearning
It’s a morning yearning
Pull the curtains shut try to keep it dark
But the sun is burning The sun is burning
The world awakens on the run
And we’ll soon be earning We’ll soon be earning
With hopes of better days to come
That’s a morning yearning Morning yearning Morning yearning…

Another day another chance to get it right
Must I still be learning?
Must I still be learning?
Baby crying kept us up all night
With her morning yearning
With her morning yearning Morning yearning…

Like a summer rose I’m a victim of the fall
But am soon returning
Soon returning
You’re love’s the warmest place the sun ever shines
My morning yearning
My morning yearning
Morning yearning…

El Dia de la Virgen de Guadalupe

Today commemorates the day in which Juan Diego crossed the hill of Tepeyac in order to attend Mass when he was met by the Virgen of Guadalupe. You can check out the story here http://www.mexconnect.com/mex_/guadalupe.html.

It's a holiday called The Day of the Virgen of Guadalupe and I'm saddened by the mysticism and straight up idol worship that has crept into Christianity. I'm speaking particularly of Latin American Catholicism, but in light of some discussions I have had with some people this week, it's applicable to various "Christian" sects out there right now. It's not a new thing. I'm thinking about Galatians and how Paul is passionate that the people have forsaken "Sola Gratia" (although not in Reformation terminology). His plea is a return to true Christianity where Christ alone cures our sin through Grace alone.

I'm watching a celebration on Univision that has different musical acts perform songs to the Virgen (a worship service to the Virgen, basically). In between, a priest reads scripture (and has a terrible Spanish accent I might add). Earlier they showed different Catholic church locations around North America and interviewed people who had come from all over. People were filled with gratitude for the miracles the Virgen had granted them. I'm reminded of the celebration to the Virgen in Cholula, where I was in Mexico. It was terribly saddening to see so many people, so many religious people, take something true and tweak it to something untrue.

*Right now one of the singers is taking a vocal break in the song to thank a picture of the Virgen for loving here and being with her always.

Some of you may have heard me say this before, but one of my first days in Puebla, I found myself in a cathedral. In the front right of the church was a statue of the Virgen with the words "Come to me all you who are weary and heavy laden, and I will give you rest" written above her. I think that about sums it up.

Such a beautiful people. A people I am downright in love with. And yet they are caught up in idols in the very religion we share in name. I'm gonna go pray for them.

drugs, guns, and glam-shots...we are pop-culture icons.

A few days ago The Jubilee Year had its second band photo shoot ever. It was the first one with the newly re-formed band. There was a lot of living up to do since our first shoot, that took place about 2 years ago, was one of the funnest things we've probably ever done together as a band. But, alas, the shoot lived up.

It started with everyone harrasing everyone else about some insignificant thing. For instance, our drummer, Casey, wanted to wear this bright green "Cuban Soul Revival" shirt. He was insistent (in a joking way), and it was pretty dang funny to give him a hard time about it.

But the fun really started as we were staking out spots to "do our thang." We were in some part of Nashville I'd never been to (where the Yazoo Brewing plant is) and we noticed this awesome old green house/store. We continued past and set up shop elsewhere, but on the return, we decided it would make for some awesome photos. So, we are about to turn right at this local grocery which backed up to the green house, when we noticed five fairly scandalous individuals seemingly doing nothing. I'm not sure if you know this, but it's not normal to do nothing on a street corner in the "hood." We're roling slowly at this point, about to make the turn past them, when a car turns in front of us, rolls down the passenger side window, and asks them a short question, which they then respond to, and an exchange of some sort. Now, from my experience watching cops, I know that every drug deal in the world which involves a street corner and a car looks the same--JUST LIKE THAT! So, we all freak out and yell things like, "HOLY CRAP, GO!" and "DUDE, THAT WAS A FREAKIN' DRUG DEAL!" Needless to say, we took our business elsewhere. Not the end.

We're continuing to another "locale" (photo lingo), up 8th avenue and behind Greer Stadium. As we are turning onto the Greer Stadium road, P.J. yells, "Dude, real bullet holes!" We all notice a car turning beside us that has two REAL bullet holes in the driver side door. These were not to be mistaken for those bullet hole stickers that the "cool" kids put on their cars. Yeah, that's the way the day was going. Also not the end.

We continued to the spot behind Greer Stadium, which none of us minus the photographer had ever been to before, and decided to set up in an "alley," which was really a walkway that led to an entrance to some sort of porch/cement company (I don't know either). So, we're shooting some photos, looking voluptuous when a woman wearing all camouflage comes out and stairs. We keep shooting, cause if you ignore something uncomfortable, it will go away. She finally says, "Whatcha doin' guys?" as if she had just caught us in the midst of the worst crime ever.

"Just taking some band pictures," we responded. She made her way slyly toward us.

"I coulda shot you!" she said. (We all laugh nervously) "It's not funny. I know it sounds extreme, but I could have. We don't have many people come around here. I could've shot you thinking you were up to no good!"

At this point w'ere all thinking, "Man, she's actually serious."

"Next time," she says, "just come in and ask first."

Ok, so, I may be alone on this one, but if she was going to shoot us for posing for photos on the walkway, would she not be more prone to shoot us if we come INSIDE the plant uninvited. Just a thought.

Needless to say, she did not shoot us. In fact, she let us keep taking photos. I think Casey pood his pants though.

And that is the story of the Dec. 6th, Jubilee Year photo shoot.

You can check out some of the pics at www.myspace.com/thejubileeyear

cool missions quote

Some want to live within the sound of church or chapel bell; I want to run a rescue shop within a yard of hell.

-C.T. Studd

Identity Crisis

I just found out that there is another Jared Weatherholtz in this world (thanks to Google). That goes against everything I've ever known. Frankly, I feel violated.

Suffering

One problem in many Christian circles today is the approach to and the ideas surrounding suffering. I was searching through some blogs this morning and found this. It's from a 9/11 address given by Pastor Tim Keller in New York City. If you don't know who he is, I strongly recommend you check him out. You have to buy his sermons, but they are well worth it. Heck, I'll burn you one or send you the file if you've never heard him before.


"One of the great themes of the Hebrew Scriptures is that God identifies with the suffering. There are all these great texts that say things like this: If you oppress the poor, you oppress to me. I am a husband to the widow. I am father to the fatherless. I think the texts are saying God binds up his heart so closely with suffering people that he interprets any move against them as a move against him. This is powerful stuff! But Christianity says he goes even beyond that. Christians believe that in Jesus, God’s son, divinity became vulnerable to and involved in - suffering and death! He didn’t come as a general or emperor. He came as a carpenter. He was born in a manger, no room in the inn.

But it is on the Cross that we see the ultimate wonder. On the cross we sufferers finally see, to our shock that God now knows too what it is to lose a loved one in an unjust attack. And so you see what this means? John Stott puts it this way. John Stott wrote: 'I could never myself believe in God if it were not for the Cross. In the real world of pain, how could one worship a God who was immune to it?' Do you see what this means? Yes, we don’t know the reason God allows evil and suffering to continue, but we know what the reason isn’t, what it can’t be. It can’t be that he doesn’t love us! It can’t be that he doesn’t care. God so loved us and hates suffering that he was willing to come down and get involved in it. And therefore the Cross is an incredibly empowering hint. Ok, it’s only a hint, but if you grasp it, it can transform you. It can give you strength. "

The (Socialist) Three Little Pigs

The theme of my Senior Seminar in Writing is Fairy Tales, and, while that sounds lame, it has turned into something completely fascinating and interesting. We just read a parody of The Three Little Pigs from a book called Politically Correct Bedtime Stories. It's by James Finn Garner. Here are some highlights:

"Once there were three little pigs who lived together in mutual respect and in harmony with their environment. Using materials that were indigenous to the area, they each built a beautiful house....When they were finished,the pigs were satisfied with their work and settle back to live in peace and self-determination.
But their idyll was soon shattered. One day along came a big, bad wolf with expansionist ideas."

"At the house of sticks the wolf again banged on the door and shouted, 'Little pigs, little pigs, let me in!'
The pigs shouted back, 'Go to hell, you carnivorous, imperialistic oppressor!'"

"So he huffed and puffed, and huffed and puffed, then grabbed his chest and fell over dead from a massive heart attack brought on from eating too many fatty foods."

"They [the pigs] gathered together a band of other pigs who had been forced off their lands. This new brigade of porcinistas attacked the resort complex with machine guns and rocket launchers and slaughtered the cruel wolf oppressor, sending a clear signal to the rest of the hemisphere not to meddle in their internal affairs. Then the pigs set up a model socialist democracy with free education, universal health care, and affordable housing for everyone."

Brilliant.

Reformed Rapping?

I bet you've never heard the history of the PCA church in song. Jason Knox (whoever he is) deserves mad props for this.

Lame!

I got a package today (October 21st) that my parents sent me on June 3. 4 months! That is freakin' ridiculous!

Star Struck

I went to the nursing home (which was technically a retirement center) today for the first time in probably 5 years. That's strange because, growing up in the Southern Baptist Church, we went to a nursing home probably twice a month. I must admit, re-entry to the land of the aged found me intimidated and shy. But it wasn't long before I found an outgoing, healthy looking woman (except for a bandage on her leg and a walker) talking to a friend of mine. I kneeled with my friend and soon realized that this woman, while with more experience and much wiser, was the elderly me!

She told us that she had been an English as a Second Language teacher all of her life. Her profession carried her to Taiwan, China, and Bulgaria. She was quick to tell us that traveling the world opened her mind and cured her of many fears she sees in her peers. She loved to talk about how most of her peers were scared to death of us college kids. However, she boldly explained that she had been a leader with the Baptist Student Union for most of her life. We discussed the sociocultural reasons (if I can be as bold as to drop that in here) behind the character type that is satisfied with what she has known her whole like, a.k.a. her town, and the other end of the spectrum, where the person who wants to see the world resides. Both of us being the "see the world" types, we discussed the beauties of learning from other cultures and applying that knowledge to what we experience in our familiar cultures. Like I said, she was me in 60 years.

Now, I had a great time talking to this woman, don't get me wrong; and I learned a ton. But, if you don't already know, time absolutely crawls when you are out of your comfort zone in a steaming-hot room. So, after a good 35 minutes, and the loss of my college-age partner, I was at a loss for words. There was a group singing hymns to accompany an out-of-tune piano, and I began to focus more on what was going on with the elderly singing along. When I turned back to look at my conversation partner, there was a new lady sitting by us. And this is where it gets good (at least I think so).

I didn't know what to say to the new woman, and she seemed quite reserved, but eventually I worked up the courage to ask what her name was. She told me and, after I replied, her friend (me in 60 years) blurted out, "She knew Johnny Cash!" Now, I'm not going to pretend like I'm the biggest fan ever. But I do live in Nashville, TN, I was alive and well when Walk the Line came out, and I do listen to his records, soI was intrigued. I probed for details. The woman revealed that she was JOHNNY CASH'S SECRETARY FOR MORE THAN 20 YEARS! WHEREVER HE WENT, SHE WENT. In her humble, bright manner, she made sure I knew that she actually knew June Carter first and then met Johnny.

Now, I'm not sure if this strikes you as incredible, or even very cool, as many of the people I told this to today merely shrugged it off with an "Oh, wow." But, I will say that I thought it was unbelievable! I was actually star struck...by Johnny Cash's secretary. I didn't get to talk to her long because she was enjoying the hymns and I had to go, but I did get the since that she and Johnny had been very close. Crazy.

And thus, I met two very special people today. One led a life of service, building bridges between cultures with the tool of language. The other served an American legend for over 20 years. I stand in awe of both.

I want these movies...

I don't buy many movies. But, I consider these movies to be worth it and can't wait to own them:

Amor es perros--Mexican film about dog fighting and love. (They go together more naturally than you would think! haha) Also, a great representation of Mexican culture.

The Motorcycle Diaries--Story of the early life of the revolutionary Che Guevara. It chronicles his trek through South America with nothing but a friend and a motorcycle.

Man on Fire--you can't beat Denzel and Dakota Fanning in this movie. Also, Mark Anthony has a surprisingly strong performance. Plus, it takes place in Mexico City and shows the volcano I used to see every morning going to school in Puebla.

Crash--I only saw this film once; in fact, it was the first movie I saw in Mexico, and it blew me away. I remember feeling distinctly uncomfortable throughout the whole thing. And that's good. Probably the best movie addressing racial tension I've ever seen.

Born Into Brothels--This is a documentary about a teacher from the Non-Profit organization Kids With Cameras, who goes into the red-light district of Calcutta, India. Children of prostitues are destined to prostitution in what becomes a continual ring of destruction. The point of this "project" (for lack of a better word), is to provide a way for these children to break out of what destines them to prostitution through art. Since children of prostitutes are not allowed in schools, Kids With Cameras eventually starts a boarding school for some of the children to attend. The redemption in this movie is incredible. And it's real!

Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs

I just finished the increasingly popular analysis of pop-culture entitled Sex, Drugs, and Cocoa Puffs by the brilliant Chuck Klosterman. If you haven't heard of or read this book and you enjoy pop culture, or even just learning from the American culture, you must check out this book. It's memoir style, and it's one of those books that you really can't put down.

Highlights for me:
The book opens with the line, "No woman will ever satisfy me." haha. Klosterman goes on to form this whole theory about how we are all miserable due to John Cusack. The evil of John Cusack is his role in the 80's blockbuster, Say Anything. So, Klosterman says that all women (and men) who were at least in their pre-teens in the 80's, have this ideal of love that they can never reach. We can't reach this ideal love, because it's not even real love. The love that Say Anything sold us on isn't realistic! So, we're all miserable because we're chasing a false love that we can never attain. I buy it.

There is a chapter where Klosterman follows this Guns 'N Roses cover band to a show. It's really amazing to see that subculture and how seriously the rock star clones take themselves. The highlight for me is when Klosterman explains that these guys used to have a tour bus, but they lost it. They literally lost it. haha. It broke down in Illinois, they took it to a mechanic, but the next day they couldn't remember where the mechanic was. They never found the place again. Apparently in Illinois there is a law that says you have 30 days to find your tour bus, and if you can't locate it, you can't get it back. Crazy.

The last three chapters were incredible. They were on the media, serial killers, and The Left Behind Series.

Do read this book if you like to laugh out loud at books. If you watch VH1, you have to read it. If you lived in the 80's, even if for a short time, you have to read it. Read it if you listen to rock music. Read it if you have played, wanted to play, or despised the idea of playing The Sims video game. If you like intelligent writing about culture, read this book.

Don't read this book if you are offended by the f-bomb. He drops it a lot. Don't read this book if you are offended by the word masturbation--he uses that a lot too. Don't read this book if The Left Behind Series are your favorite books ever.

Health and Wealth

I must admit that I found this article on a friend's blog. So, at the risk of being completely unoriginal, I'm posting it anyway because I think some of you would have an interest in this.

It's from TIME Magazine.

http://www.cnn.com/2006/US/09/10/time.cover.tm/index.html

A few thoughts:

We've been talking a lot about hymns in RUF lately--things like why we sing them and what value they hold. I can't help but wonder, if only the pastors in this article, who have sold great numbers of books and have huge churches, would preach a truly "rich" (in the sense of profound content) message, things would be so different. For starters, they probably wouldn't sell tons of books and have such huge followings in our society. That is sad (in a way); however, they would be communicating a real message, the gospel message of being poor and yet rich, of being a pauper yet being credited a prince, and the profound truth of failing miserably and yet being favored as one who overcame.

The implications of a true gospel, a God-glorifying gospel could change the world. The message of health and wealth will change nothing but the number of people who are willing to suffer in the Christian life (by reducing it). We need a renewed sense of the depth of the gospel, and, while not the only way, hymns meet us where we are. They challenge us to truly believe Christ, to see Christ as more beautiful (which they actually help us to do!), and to understand the Christian life as not about riches and blessing, but about Christ (in whom we have more riches and blessing than we could ever dream of).

Something that has always saddened me, and which is touched upon in this article, is the lack of racial diversity in the average, evangelical church as compared with these prosperity-centered churches. I really believe that, as Christians, we must be about uniting people of different races. We must improve upon this aspect of American churchlife, and the gospel is the very thing that compels us (and qualifies us!) to do this. We must be about redeeming the effects of the fall. The implications of the gospel extend to the great reversal of the tower of babel, uniting people of different cultures and languages under one head, Christ.

I'm not sure enough people read this to make this happen, but I would love to get a conversation started if you would care to comment.

you should read this article!

This is an immigration article that I just stumbled upon in a forum. One of the best I've read in a long time--maybe ever! It's pretty short, so go read it.

http://www.oregonlive.com/search/index.ssf?/base/editorial/1156465520263170.xml?oregonian?ede&coll=7

my immigration thoughts/research..an essay

I am posting for two reasons. 1) I am proud of it. 2) I think it is relevant and hope that it will lead to conversations and newfound knowledge. If you can make it all the way through, I hope you'll let me know what you think.

Immigration: the Immigrant’s Perspective

"If one wants to study what it means to be a human being, it is crucial to include the history of immigration. There are many tragic stories and everyone comes for different reasons."
–Gabriela Perez, illegal immigrant

On a bustling, September night in downtown Puebla, Mexico, I opted for the cheaper, more dangerous route of hailing a random cab off of the street rather than calling the recommended, more secure taxi whose price discourages rather adventurous (or maybe just cheap) travelers such as myself. I had waited only a few seconds, when the stop-light at which I was standing flamed red, and traffic thickened. After scanning the white and blue taxi cabs for only a matter of seconds, I boarded the backseat of a normal looking sedan and bid the driver, “To Cholula, please.” The driver was wearing a Puebla soccer Jersey complete with Volkswagen insignia and bright sun representing Sol beer. This was normal garb for what you might call, the taxi cab class—those in the lower class who have no other source of income but what they make driving. Although I would like to think that it was because of the clothes I was wearing or the color of my skin, the driver pegged me as an American by my South Carolina accent which bled through into my Spanish. A conversation that I would not forget ensued:
“Are you from the United States?” he probed.
“Yes,” I replied. “Have you been there?”
“I lived there for 3 years!”
My first Mexican immigrant! I had never actually talked to a person in Mexico who had immigrated to the States. This immigrant did not just want light conversation; he wanted me to know how he felt.
“Have you heard about the flood in New Orleans?” (He pronounced the city’s name more like “Niyu-Orleyans” in his Mexican-trying-to-say-a-word-in-English accent)
I returned, “Actually, my friend was just telling me that there is really terrible flooding there. He said that people had to leave everything that they owned and that pretty much everything got destroyed. It sounds really terrible.”
“Yes, it makes me very sad,” he stated.
You see, I didn’t watch much television while in Mexico, so the events surrounding the flooding of New Orleans had reached me late, and the news seemed very surreal and unbelievable. I couldn’t understand why the look in that man’s face said that he deeply hurt for what had happened in a place that wasn’t even his own.
“It makes me very sad to see this happen to people that I care about,” he said. “I lived in New York for three years working in a doughnut shop during the day and as a janitor at night. I care just as much for the American people as I do for my own Mexican people. This is a tragic event.”
“It is very tragic,” I replied, not really knowing how to empathize as he did since I still hadn’t even seen pictures.
I will never forget the level of paradox that riding in that cab left me with. We continued to talk about his stint in America and the fact that it was never his intention to stay there. He simply wanted to work to make a decent wage and then come back to his family. One thing, however, was clear. That man cared not only for what our country has to offer, but he honestly hurt and cared for the people who were his unknowing countrymen. To this day, I can’t help but think that he reached a deeper level of compassion for the people of New Orleans than I have. His sense of citizenship was something far deeper than myself and most people of our country will ever achieve.
And thus my interest in and concern for immigration from Latin and South America began. During my stint in Mexico, I discovered quite quickly that discussion was the easiest and surest way to learn; as the taxi driver taught me, a foreign culture can teach you and grasp you so that you never forget the person that you became after experiencing life there. Part of me guards America as my country, but the other part cares deeply for Latino immigrants. I have a duty (which I take on happily) to educate myself in what conversations are going on in our government and what the national sentiment is towards Hispanic people as a whole without disregarding the Hispanic perspective.
On the American front there has been quite a bit of action revolving around the topic of immigration with people like Bill O’Reilly supporting the stationing of armed American National Guard troops on the border and Tom Tancredo from Denver proposing that we build a giant wall, thus sealing immigration, across the entire U.S./Mexican border. President George Bush wants a Guest Worker program which would allow a controlled number of immigrants to enter our country for three to five years in order to work and then return to their homeland. Meanwhile, protestors who are pro-immigration have taken to non-violent marches. In Los Angeles, what you could consider a hub of immigration action, protestors tallied to over 500,000 people in a single march (LA Times).
The passing by the House of Representatives of an extremely controversial bill called H.R. 4437 has been the center of particular disagreement and uproar as of late. The bill, proposed by Colorado Congressman Tom Tancredo, calls for a large wall to be built across the entire boarder. It also cracks down on employers of undocumented immigrants, charging them $7,500 for a first offense, $15,000 for a second offense, and a whopping $40,000 for a third (“Immigration Enforcement Bill”). In addition, a convicted employer could face up to 25 years in a federal penitentiary. The bill also targets illegal immigrants, striving to deport all of those who do not have documentation (which will cost an estimated $3,000 to $5,000 per immigrant) (Ramos). To say the least, this bill, and much of the popular American opinion that is floating around currently, is not pro-immigrant.
If passed, H.R. 4437 will leave all illegal immigrants in paranoia as they will be persecuted as outlaws. Any documentation such as medical or legal help will leave the immigrant in serious danger of deportation and jail time. Many Hispanics in Nashville already fear this as there has been a great deal of difficulty in getting the community to step forward and provide evidence in the Aurelio Ceja murder case. Just last month Mr. Ceja, a senior citizen, was murdered in his apartment by an intruder who was looking for money. Due to the fact that in the 1990’s an illegal Hispanic male was taken to jail for reporting the murder of his wife and daughter for nothing more than the fact that he was undocumented, the Hispanic community still carries fear of prosecution even for providing evidence that could protect their community in the long run (Ramos).
Thus we must consider what the immigrant thinks about immigration. Through a local program that meets at Belmont called Hispanic Achievers, I have gotten to know quite a few immigrants, mostly illegal. Their stories have given me a better understanding of not just the American point of view, but the illegal immigrant’s point of view as well. The immigrant is concerned with surviving. He is concerned with providing his family with food, shelter, and education, something for which the wages in his country rarely provide. He is concerned with the American Dream—the opportunity for a better future for his family. You will not get this from the national media.
Gabriela Perez, mother of two, first came to the United States ten years ago from her pueblo en los Reyes la Paz, Mexico. In her country, she worked as a merchant selling blankets, coats, and an assortment of food. When her daughter began college in Mexico City to study Tourism, Gabriela realized that she could not make enough money in Mexico to support herself and her daughter’s college education. The average minimum wage in Mexico, which Gabriela was likely living well under, is a mere six American dollars a day. Thus, she searched for a guide to take her over the border. “Today,” she told me, “it is over a $1,000 to hire someone to get you over the border. It’s actually very scary. It’s hard to find someone trustworthy to lead you to cross—they’ll rob you or kill you. There is no completely safe and secure way. But back then, it was very cheap and very easy to cross.” As I said, her first time crossing was ten years ago; today, she counts five times that she has crossed between Mexico and America.
After crossing the border the first time by river and then going by bus to Nashville, she stayed only a year before she was forced to return for family support reasons. Gabriela made it clear to me that the one and only reason for coming to the U.S. is her children. Her daughter lacks only one year in college in Mexico to get her degree, while her son, who’s 14 years old, currently lives here in Nashville with her. However, her daughter may not be able to finish her degree if Gabriela does not start making more money soon. When I asked her how much longer she desired to stay in the U.S., she accounted, “If I can make enough money to get my daughter through school, and make a little bit more money to live on, I will go after that. This is not my country. I think I’ll only stay three more years at the most.” Gabriela made it quite clear to me that her desire is not to be in the U.S. Her home is Mexico where her past, memories, and family are. She is only here out of necessity.
When I explained that I was very interested in immigration and that I was actually interviewing a number of Hispanics in order to document their opinions, she replied with what I consider to be an incredibly profound statement: “If one wants to study what it means to be a human being, it is crucial to include the history of immigration. There are many tragic stories and everyone comes for different reasons.” Only the immigrant really knows what crossing cultures illegally is like, and for that reason, we must take interest in and seek to understand him or her. She then compared current Latinos in America with African Americans who come from a history of being treated as outsiders in a country in which they work and live. She takes hope in the fact that blacks used to be extremely disfavored, while now they have all the rights of other American citizens. One day, Gabriela hopes that immigrants will have all of the same privileges of their peers who simply have a birthright over them.
Gabriela also shared her views on the current political debate with me, expressing that she does not approve of a wall being built over the border, as this would provide even more of a parallel with the Berlin Wall in Germany. She believes that the border should remain immigrant friendly while implementing a Guest Worker Program. While she firmly advocates immigration, she also holds high standards for the immigrant saying, “If you are here, you must respect the law, respect the flag, and defend this country.” For Gabriela, immigration is not just an easy ticket to money; it is a story of family, struggle, and loyalty. She believes that the immigrant should not only have the privileges of American society, but that they should suffer the penalties as well; they should pay taxes, be accountable to laws, and ultimately be willing to fight for the land in which they live.
El Salvadorian Cecilia Hernandez is one of the more obscure Hispanic immigrants I have come into contact with, because she is now a United States citizen. Her story of immigration actually began 27 years ago after graduating from high school. She told me her account saying, “After finishing my studies in high school, I came to the U.S. illegally. It used to be a lot easier.” She told me that she simply crossed the border with a group of people, and they all headed for Los Angeles. I continued the conversation, probing for reasons behind her immigration. She responded: “I came to provide a better life for me and for my kids. The salary in El Salvador for the people who don’t have a profession is very low. Life there is very difficult. It’s not living; it’s surviving.” Cecilia’s case is very interesting because she did not have kids when she immigrated here. Rather, after finishing high school, she learned from the stories of other El Salvadorians about opportunity in the United States and decided to plan ahead. In comparison with most Mexicans, Cecilia’s planning was quite rare, as most other immigrants have tried to make ends meet in their countries of origin and been forced to move to the U.S. For Cecilia, the incredibly low wage of her country and the American Dream of opportunity for her children drove her to plan in advance and make her way to the States as a single woman fresh out of high school.
Twenty-seven years after crossing the border illegally, Cecilia has achieved her goal of raising a family with much greater opportunity for monetary gain and success. She is now a United States citizen. When questioned whether or not she saw it as a great boundary to become a citizen, she responded, “No, I don’t think it is really that hard. You just have to learn the history of the U.S. and speak a little bit of English. If one hasn’t broken the law [of course, with the exception of entering the country illegally] and respects the U.S., they can qualify.” I asked Cecilia, citizen of the United States for eight years now, if she sees immigration as a problem. She answered, “Immigration is not a problem for the U.S.; on the contrary. We are a race of workers and we’ll do jobs that Americans won’t.” She continued speaking of the pride she takes in the fact that her race of people are hard, honest workers. They are not coming to America because they see it as simply freer or, as some would like to believe, “just better.” Rather, they are in search of work for a decent wage. She supports an immigration plan that would provide amnesty or some way to work for Hispanics. She sees her people as a community of workers, the majority of which, unlike herself, want to come, work, and leave. Cecilia Hernandez is the perfect example of someone who would benefit from a program in which foreigners could apply to come and work with the possibility of applying for citizenship afterward.
Unfortunately, at this point in America, becoming a citizen does not seem to come as easily as it did for Cecilia. My best childhood friend, Andrea Stiles, for instance, married an illegal Mexican immigrant just three years ago. They recently had a daughter together. Despite Andrea and Guillermo's marriage and their daughter, Maria, the government will not grant Guillermo's citizenship, or even a Visa to work here with, due to the fact that he was already here working illegally before the marriage. For the illegal immigrant, there doesn’t seem to be a reasonable way to citizenship in our current system.
Perhaps the most unlikely story that I heard was that of Lilián Ceron, a woman in her mid-40’s from Santiago, Chile who actually came to the U.S. legally. However, the surreal feeling of meeting an actual legal citizen came to an abrupt halt when I found out that Lilián’s current status is not legal. She took great care to explain to me that it is very difficult to obtain all of the papers (visa, passport, green card, etc.) necessary to come to the U.S. legally from Chile, but that she had done it. She explained that one must come from a solid mid to upper-class economic situation and have a solid reason to return to Chile afterward. She recounted for me the history of one of her friends who had actually met all of the qualifications but whose two daughters were in college. She was denied permission because the government did not think she had a good enough reason to return to Chile, seeing as her daughters were almost independents.
Lilián, on the other hand, was granted permission to come to America for six months due to the fact that her daughter has a very serious heart condition which demanded medical attention from experts here. So she came to our country legally, but things turned illegal when she simply decided to stay. At first, she would only respond, “I came to only stay for six months, but then I really liked it. So I just stayed.” After a great deal of badgering and returning to the same question on my part, she finally expressed more: “It’s the culture. Chile is very similar to the United States. In fact, it’s the U.S. of Latin America. But in Chile you can’t walk around with nice things like this jewelry or this watch because they would get stolen.” In a list of likes about the U.S. that she later expounded, security, environment, and education topped the charts as positive aspects of our culture.
Lilián currently works as a nanny for a family here in Nashville where she is with the kids almost every day of the week and teaches them Spanish. Her life as a legal immigrant gone illegal seems to be tainted only with the language barrier as, after six years here, she still speaks very little English. I asked her about her thoughts on the border question, and she was not shy to answer: “They [the government and its current immigration policies] have their reasons. You should respect the law, it’s true. But it’s so hard to become a citizen.” The implication of Lilián’s words is that, if becoming a documented citizen of the U.S. was easier, she would have no problem going about the process legally. However, as it stands, it was far easier for her to come legally and simply stay where she was.
And thus the story of my taxi ride with a sympathetic Mexican does not stop at the moment that he dropped me off outside of my house. Rather, it extends to the stories of these three women who have all experienced, in very different ways, the cruelties and liberties of immigration. They have tasted what it is to be in need and to live in the midst of plenty, to want only happiness for family while living thousands of miles from loved ones. The immigration question is not an easy one to answer; that much is obvious. However, it is my hope that the stories of those who are actually immigrants will educate us and spur us on to further empathy for such a prominent people who we claim to know so much about but have so few conversations with.
These conversations matter because our immigration policy is, right now, on the line. The fact that 40% of Mexico’s national income is money sent from immigrants to the U.S. back to their families in Mexico should matter (Work in Mexico Lectures). The closing of the border (by way of wall or not) will result in poverty and devastation for our southern, Latino counterparts. People are not coming to our country based on the thought that it is simply better. The reality is that it is impossible to live on the three dollars a day that many farm laborers make in small-town Mexico (Work in Mexico Lectures). Our border thus becomes a portal of compassion. For the strictly politically-minded person, perhaps it does not make sense to continue to allow a process that lacks so much control go on. My hope, however, is that the stories of these actual immigrants, or better yet stories of people you know, will make the topic of immigration personal and immediate. I must admit, in the debate of immigration, I will side with the Latino, because I know him. He has a name.

Works Cited
Becerra, Hector and Watanabe, Teresa. Los Angeles Times. “500,000 Pack Streets to Protest Immigration Bills.” 26 March 2006. http://www.latimes.com/news/local/la-me-immig26mar26,0,7628611.story?coll=la-home-headline.
“House Passes Immigration Enforcement Bill H.R. 4437. What Does It Mean? What Does It Include?” 19 December 2005. http://www.diggersrealm.com/mt/archives/001446.html.
Gonzalez, Betty. “Lectures on Work in Mexico.” Mexican Culture class. La Universidad de las Américas, Puebla. October 2005.
Ramos, Mario. “Immigration.” Hispanics in the United States class. Belmont University. 28 February 2006.