I miss the Kerouac days...

It seems to me the more that I study the more I realize I am so hopelessly ignorant. In my ambition, I want to be able to read the most books, understand the most concepts and have the grades I find so appealing. And yet, that's not the point... For all my theological truth and all of my reason, I will not be changing the world. Of course, I think that there is value in education and learning, but if all I do is spend my time with books and papers, I will never see the truth, experience the truth I so avidly and passionately seek. It is in living the reasons I profess to believe that my life is changed and the lives around me are transformed.

I miss simplicity though. It feels like I am pressured to be able to name drop every famous philosopher and my favorite of their works. That's not why I study philosophy- it never has been. If the philosophy I know cannot teach what Jesus would have me say, it is useless. What are concepts and beliefs if they do not help me to die to myself a little bit more? What is my temporary pleasure and pride in the face of hopelessness that needs the solution I have? I read Kerouac, and for all his troubles and his pain, he had a simplicity of joy and contentment of being human about him. He was always running for the next thing, but his essence was alive, so human. He did not need the foundation of "intellectual snobbery" in order to change the lives around him, in order to grasp, understand, and be passionate about his purpose. What is it that I am missing?

I feel very affected by my culture, very oppressed by certain constructs and expectations. I feel I spend too much of my time defending why I do what I do, or say what I say, or even why I have such an outspoken character instead of being able to live these things. The burden of academia and society weigh heavy on my shoulders as I delve deeper into trying to understand the world around me. My hope is that I will be like Kerouac. May I dispose of society as a way of life and instead enjoy the beauty I find in it, as I freely continue my purposeful journey, running to whatever place will best help me to reflect Power in my weaknesses.

Avatar for real?

For too long we as an American population have chosen to be ignorant or silent in the face of issues involving companies in our own country. For the past 17 years, a lawsuit has been in trial against Chevron (Texaco) based on horrendous damage they did in the Amazon regions of Ecuador. Several indigenous tribes are on the brink of collapse due to contamination of water. Cancer is prevalent in their small groups, rancid 18-19 year old kids. Small children suffer from skin diseases because there is nowhere else to bathe but in water polluted with oil. Chevron designed a system which dumped crude waste right into riverbeds, streams, and pits dug in the areas. There is no clean water. There is no immediate access to healthcare for the poor living conditions and no money to pay for cancer treatments.

Each side has had their trials in presenting a clean case. Evidence the plaintiffs brought forward was not always supported by hard evidence. Their young lawyer, Pablo Fajardo, had only been a lawyer 1 year when he took the case over in 2003. More than 30,000 Ecuadorians are demanding that Chevron pay and clean up their damages. The defense has not argued a solid case either, and I have observed them using red herring after red herring to distract from the issue. The case which has been revealed to the public has Chevron pushing the blame all on the Ecuadorian oil company PetroEcuador (which partnered with Texaco and took over the oil company after they left the Amazon) and saying that the plaintiff only wants a profit. Which, ironically is what Chevron is being sued for.

This entire case breaks my heart. Because of the ambitions of American oil companies, the lives and cultures of the Ecuadorians have been exploited. Sure, the world runs on oil, but with such innovative means of preserving the environment we see propagated in the US, could we not have found a way to extract oil ethically? Is there not a way to avoid digging 627 pits to improperly dispose of waste in the rain forest? And why can companies not take responsibility for the damage they have done? Is the profit really worth so much more than the lives of the people who have succeeded in preserving a resource as precious as the Amazon for thousands of years? The trial is not finished yet, though the last judge involved in the case recommended that Chevron pay up to $27 billion in recompense. However, observers think that the case could go on for up to 8 more years, each side now attempting to undermine the case of the other. A new judge has yet to be appointed to rule on the case.

He who has no sin...

I watched a heart-wrenching movie last night titled The Stoning of Soraya M. It is the story of an Iranian woman with 4 children in an abusive marriage. I will not give away any "spoiler" details, but the woman, Soraya, is wrongly accused of cheating and stoned by her own family and town. The story was uncovered in 1994 by a French-Iranian journalist and turned into a book, later adapted into a movie. As I lay in bed and thought about the reality of oppression I cried. I thought about how many people in our reality are tortured by injustice and left to die.

I thought about the church, and I wondered where we have been. And, then I wondered if we can even do anything. I looked at the world and the way that we have twisted beauty and the things that used to be good, and I wondered if we can even do anything at all. I was overwhelmed by the amount of pain. But, most of all, I thought about the women. It's not that there are not men who are unjustly imprisoned and beaten. It's not that there are not men who are manipulated and pushed around. It's just that I am a woman, and I am free. And there are so many women who aren't. I lay in bed and I wondered about how many women have cried out to Allah to help them as they are stoned even today, how many women dig in trash piles to try to provide for their homeless families. I thought about the thousands of women roaming the streets in Red Light Districts and the women who climb up the corporate ladder just to rise above their lack of identity. And my heart breaks. What are we to do, in a society where it is acceptable and even expected that women are a sexual icon and a household hero? What are we to do when religion promises that women are inferior and deserve to be punished for their gender? What are we to do when there are no men to intervene and to protect the beautifully created woman from cultural slaughter?

I don't know.

And my last thoughts before I fell asleep were, what would Jesus have done if He had been there with Soraya M.? He was there, with a different woman, thousands of years ago. And he stood there, and He declared that the man without sin should throw the first stone. He delivered the "adulterous" woman from death, to life. He crossed the culture, and He stepped between her and the stones. He intervened. When, how, will we stand in between the stones and the condemned and not simply be horrified at the sight of blood?

I don't know. May God have mercy on me when I see, feel, and understand and do not move.

Ragged role models

Sometimes I forget I have a blog... In other news:

I think I need to be more like the homeless men I saw.

Last Tuesday, I was at the bus stop in San Jose, California. It was Spring Break and Rachel and I were on our way to Santa Cruz to enjoy the sun and watch the surfers. While checking the times for the arrival of the next bus, we passed a young man who was evidently homeless. We passed him again on our way to sit down and he asked me if I had any spare change. He had a soft face, he couldn’t have been more than 28. He had various tattoos on his hands and dirty clothes. Of course I was carrying cash, I had to pay to get on the bus. But I wasn’t trusting him with any of it. I watched him chase down a cigarette from a young kid and he sat back down on his ratty blanket. His face had no blemishes at all and I wondered who he was and where he was trying to go. He must have had an interesting story. Another man sauntered up. He too was evidently homeless. He was older, with a big beard and brght blue eyes. He wore navy Chucks and seemed real relaxed. He sat down a few feet away and I watched his shaky hand as he smoked a cigarette. I wondered what made his hand shake, if it was drugs, if he’d ever overdosed. Our bus cam and we got up to board. Both guys got in line behind us. The young man must have asked for change from the older man because he pulled out a wad of 5’s and 1’s and a handful of quarters. He gave the young man the bus fare he needed. I tried not to cry.

I think I need to be more like these homeless men.

Two lessons that I cannot seem to learn I saw come alive today in the lives of two of “the least of these.” I cannot fit through the eye of a needle. We admire people like the man on the train behind me. He announced loudly that he had just gotten out of jail for a minor offense: statutory rape. As he told his story to a girl who listened I heard him accept no responsibility, assume no guilt. He blamed society and circumstances instead. Or, we want to be like th shrewd business man behind him on the bus. He makes money, hates taxes, despises when people ask him for money. He provides only for those closest to him; his white collar life is starched and organized.

I’d rather be like the homeless men. Each of them are a lesson. The older man was generous. He had nothing more than the wad of cash in his pocket. He was selfless and compassionate on the young man. He could empathize with him, he lived on the same streets and searched the same alleys. Asked the same people for spare change. Yet, the young man is not pitiful or weak. He had faith that someone would provide for him. He trusted that he would be able to get to where he needed to go. In confidence and faith he asked each passerby if they could just give a little bit, only a small amount of the great wealth that lines our pockets. He had patience, I wonder what percentage of people really provided for him that day. He waited until he had it all, and he waited without being anxious.

Yes, I’d rather be like the homeless men.

No Pain

Rocky is my hero. I find myself day dreaming about boxing and Philly accents. But really, what is it that makes Rocky so different than the other boxers he stands beside or stands against. He has heart. In facing the machine Ivan Drago the Russian champion amateur boxer in Rocky IV, Adrienne, who never steps away from Rocky's side insists "You can't win!" Drago is the Michael Phelps of boxing, his genetic perfection and inhuman strength makes him essentially impossible to beat. And initially, Rocky has no interest in fighting Drago. But, the death of his friend, the boxer who led him to a huge victory is killed by the enemy in the ring. And what other choice is there? His heart is what makes him better, what gives him the edge. Rocky's no wimp, are you kidding me?! That man is a MAN. But he loves. The way he treasures Adrienne and fathers his son are the passions behind his fighting.

And, that's what I'm always missing. I want to be a hero, I want to fight the people and circumstances that hurt the people around me. I want to stand between ideas that have no consideration for the conditions of humankind. I want to go with courage and to finish the task that has been left for me. I want to do, and I want to fight. Yet, I am no better than Drago if I have no heart. What is the purpose in me fighting? Glory fades so quickly, human accomplishments can always be outdone by the next ambitious activist. And so what is it if I fight for my sake? It isn't about fighting so that I can fulfill my own individual purpose, so that my life is satisfied by my skills. Even if I can be victorious over the force which attacks everything I stand for, it means nothing if I turn and become just another heartless force.

I want to be active in stopping pain, I want to stand in the gap of injustice, I want to interfere on behalf of the weak and helpless. Without a heart purpose that expresses a living connection to a God who envisions the world how He designed it to be, any results I achieve are only finite and temporary. How does it matter if I relieve pain only in the here and now in a dying world, and yet abandon humankind to suffer unimaginable pain for eternity. I must not forget the heart, the why, the reason why I intercede. My God, who is the ultimate necessary being, and who is the living, active, highest form of Love, expresses this love in many ways, one being JUSTICE. This matters to me. May I learn to fight and to bleed, to sweat, to fall, to lose, to surround myself with people who love me, and to let my Heart be my passion. May I be like Rocky.

Breathing and Disbelieving

I understand that life moves in seasons. But, I quickly moved from a vibrant, colorful summer into what feels like a very long winter, with no sign of a thaw in the next few months. I understand that I am learning, but it feels very monotonous sometimes. In comparison to the fast paced, ever fluctuating experiences I had last year, I'm stuck in a bit of a rut where I'm at right now. I can't deny that I've changed, and I've progressed in achieving my goals, but discouragement has never ceased to hold my hand. A friend said a beautiful thing to me the other day, and it was so simple. As I relapsed into complaining about my oh-so-difficult life, he said to me nonchalantly,

"You're not being unproductive, you're just taking a breather."

After a year of hyperventilation and severe oxygen deprivation, this season has provided the rest and rehabilitation I need. The stress I feel in my lungs is only building strength. I will run again. And as much as I feel at times that God wants to see me miserable, I also know that my own assumptions about His motives have always been disproved by my experience of His grace. I was listening to a song, and the simplicity of this statement spoke volumes to my perspective on my current state of following God's will:

"If you believe me, it means you have to disbelieve yourself."

At first I thought that was really stupid. But I realized that all too often I value my bold opinions over God's merciful whispers. I've got to learn to disbelieve myself sometimes in order to grasp a vision that is bigger than the parameters of my theories.

As usual, Jack Kerouac has echoed my life in his writing. My memories often resonate with his passages and observations on life. In his book the Big Sur, Kerouac describes his beatnik friends all living together in a flat in Frisco. It was like looking into a mirror of my partners in crime in Roxburgh Place. We lived like the moment was all we had, like the bottle would disintegrate were it not consumed immediately, like sunrise and sunset were inconsequential to our actions. The road came at us.

"It's a wonderful place but at the same time a little maddening, in fact a whole lot maddening... and at night there are bottlecrashing parties usually supervised by wild Pascal who is a sweet kid but crazy when he drinks... the kitchen was also the main talking room where everybody sat in a clutter of dishes and ashtrays and all kinds of visitors came-...the phone rang consistently- even wild hepcats from around the corner came in with bottles... there was Zen, jazz, booze, pot and all the works but it was somehow obviated (as a supposedly degenerate idea) by the sight of a 'beatnik' carefully painting the wall of his room."

As the dripping blue spray-paint on the wall in my brother's Brooklyn apartment reads "Look at us, young Bohemians just trying to find our way in the world." And so we do.