Reflecting Justice

This past week I had the incredible privilege to participate in powerful events and listen to convicting and encouraging conversations about ending slavery once and for all. Many of those conversations centered on the demand for sex trafficking in particular. If the demand didn't exist, the market wouldn't exist. But just as every little girl does not dream of growing up to become a prostitute, every little boy does not dream of growing up to buy sex with children or sell and exploit women’s bodies.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not pulling the forgive-and-forget card here. People will not be able to receive the Gospel without understanding the depth of their offence (Isaiah 26:10). It is critical that offenders pay severely. It is critical that the buying of sex is recognized as a degradation and a crime against humanity, and that this reality is reflected in our laws. But, we must also take responsibility for the culture we encourage which produces these perpetrators. In the words of Sir Thomas Moore, "For if you suffer your people to be ill-educated, and their manners to be corrupted from their infancy, and then punish them for those crimes to which their first education disposed them, what else is to be concluded from this, but that you first make thieves and then punish them?"

Yes, changing the law is one powerful way to change our exploitative culture, but it is not enough.

What part do we play in creating criminals? Look at the things with which we choose to entertain ourselves – Dr. Dre’s net worth is $750 million. His lyrics, and the lyrics of many popular music artists (male and female) are flooded with derogatory terms for woman, sexual exploitation, and sexual, physical, and verbal abuse. Grand Theft Auto sales amount to over $40 million worldwide, a videogame that not only allows but also encourages rape and murder. 50 Shades of Grey released on Valentine’s Day as the #1 date night movie. That’s just scratching the surface of the entertainment industry, but it goes so much further. Have you looked down a girls’ toys aisle recently and seen any human looking dolls mixed in with the highly sexualized Barbies, Brats, and Disney dolls? Have you ever opened a comic book? It’s easy to think about these things and say, “how dare our entertainment industry!” And yet we must not forget that WE are paying for this entertainment and are shaping our culture by the choices we make every day.

I’m not attempting to tell you how to make those choices. I’ve probably already offended to with the list I selected above. It will help no one for me to draw moral lines and tell you what to watch, what to read, what to wear, what to listen to, or what to buy, so please don’t let that be your take-away from this. What is needed is for you and me to get down on our faces and ask the Lord to search our hearts and convict us – and then we must get up and stand on those convictions and no longer be swayed by convenience and what is culturally acceptable. 

Justice starts with us. Reducing the demand for human trafficking starts with us. It starts when we humble ourselves and stop justifying conventional morality. We must no longer be people of convenience, but people of conviction.

Dead Hearts are Everywhere

What good is my broken heart?

My heart aches under the weight of so many hurting children in Ukraine. The emotion alone is enough to reduce breathing to strained gasps. Vova, the boy who changed everything for me and who ran alongside the van until we were out of sight. Vlad, who called me his mother. Yulia, who smiled for the first time. Sasha who pretended not to smoke. Ira whose black eyes were filled with light. Vanya, whose story shook my core beliefs, Sveta who swore she would never speak English again while sobbing in my arms the night we left. Dasha, Masha, Kolya, Nastia, Daniel, Denise, Alanna, Vovas, David, Oksanna.... so many faces, children. Children who would grow up and continue to face cruelty, rejection, abuse, despair. It rends my heart. But what good is my shredded heart? How I feel doesn't help these kids. Even if my guilt lifts with satisfaction in my own ability to sympathize, nothing is actually done for the kids. Yes, I can pray for them, and I do not value prayer lightly, and yes, I know I am not responsible for these kids' salvation, but I'm sick of dwelling on my own selfish sympathy. What does honestly and truly loving these kids look like?

You will hear thunder and remember me,

and think: she wanted storms.
-Anna Akhmatova

Four ice cubes clinked, echoed, and settled in a moist mason jar on the corner of a glass table-top where two kids sat slumped on stiff patio chairs. Her chin rested precariously on the cap of one knee as she stretched her opposite leg onto the table in front of them.
"Don't knock your water over."
"I see it."
Both of his feet remained parallel to each other on the tiled deck.  His left forearm drooped across the arm rest toward her chair next to him. The blue veins in his wrist seemed to glow under the florescent patio light buzzing on the wall behind them next to the sliding glass door. She often studied those veins, imagining them as lightning bolts shooting electricity through his body, the symbol of a superpower he had to cover up with a secret identity.
Thick with the smell of threatening rain, the Florida air strained against their breath, weighing on their lungs.  Silence blanketed the rich darkness of the empty golf course beyond the patio.  Only the faint outline of a distant clump of trees was visible in the violet light.  The stars hid behind clouds that hid behind the darkness.  The moon was new and not yet ready to make an appearance.  Breaking the stillness, the girl's chair screeched across the floor as she heaved herself forward, letting her knee slide down the chair as she stretched her fingers toward the mason jar.  Gently, she began wiping beads of condensation with her index finger down the sides of the jar.  The ice had melted.
The boy allowed the slightest movement of his head in order to stare at the red spot imprinted on her chin from resting it on her knee for so long.
Thunder cracked through the silence.
A smile rippled over her face.  His face remained withdrawn to a center point somewhere between his eyes.  He scratched the nape of his neck where his dark feathered hair faded and disappeared at the beginning tip of his spine, then pushed his glasses back onto the ridge above his nose.
"We should probably go inside now," his mumbled words were for her but his eyes were on the mason jar.  The water in it tremored slightly with another peal of thunder. The wind that had been playing in the trees beyond the golf course came charging over the children as if the sky was drawing breath.
"What?" she asked between the sky's increasing guttural chant.
"Nothing." His eyes never left the jar.
"I want to stay.  You can go in if you want."
He scratched a mosquito bite on his ankle with his toe.
Lightening.  Thunder.
"Just look at it!"
He didn't respond.
She reached for him, imprinting her thumb into the hollow of his rounded shoulder and pointed him toward the gathering storm beyond the trees which trembled out of reach.
Five beautiful bolts of lightning suddenly veined through the purple sky.  She sucked in her breath and turned toward him to find the same condensed look molded into his face -- not blank, but unmoved. The rain thrummed and built to a roar as drops of water charged into the ground and splattered under the over-hang unto the patio floor.  The wind danced, maneuvering the rain like a murmuration of birds, redirecting its course.
She climbed out of her chair and stepped out from under the protection of the patio.
"What do you think you're doing?" He shouted over the storm.
"This is the kind of weather people die in!" She squealed, lifting her hands palms up; water sparked off them.
More lightning jagged across the sky like pulsing blood veins, illuminating a lonely palm tree in the middle of the golf course. Peeling his eyes from the mason jar, the boy caught sight of the tree swaying in the storm with the power of letting go.

What does one do when one is too tired to sleep? Rewrite old poems

“No,” said the starling—“I can’t get out—I can’t get out,” said the starling."

Bastille

A starling confined inside my heart escaped
on the arched back
of a sudden sigh I carelessly
relinquished
It battered through my chest
through capilary walls
It turned
my inner set awry

Fresh air blowing cooly through
my trachea brushed
the bird's dotted feathers
The starling paused
twitched
and burst toward a spot of bright blueshine

I swallowed hard
and squeezed my breath
until the bird slid
slow
as
death
behind my rib
clasped back in place with a click.

СПАСИ И СОХРАНИ

My mind is full, but my hope is secure.  God is faithful.  Today He proved it yet again.
"An anchor for us is something that when you see it and encounter it, everything in your life changes, not for a day or a week, or years, but forever -- everything in your life is changed by it." -Louie Giglio

Jesus changed me. period.  He is the anchor for my tottering, storm-tossed soul.  It's a holy, sweet place to be, resting in His faithfulness.  Not easy, not clean, not rational, not comfortable, but oh, so sweet.

This morning, I wondered if I'm heading the right way, if it would be worth it, if it's just all in my head.
Go grab a Bible, read Romans 15.
So I did...

“We who are strong have an obligation to bear with the failings of the weak, and not to please ourselves.  Let each of us please his neighbor for his good, to build him up.  For Christ did not please himself, but as it is written, “The reproaches of those who reproached you fell on me.”  For whatever was written in former days was written for our instruction, that through endurance and through the encouragement of the Scriptures we might have hope.  May the God of endurance and encouragement grant you to live in such harmony with one another, in accord with Christ Jesus, that together you may with one voice glorify the God and Father of our Lord Jesus Christ.  Therefore welcome one another as Christ has welcomed you, for the glory of God.

 For I tell you that Christ became a servant to the circumcised to show God's truthfulness, in order to confirm the promises given to the patriarchs,  and in order that the Gentiles might glorify God for his mercy…. May the God of hope fill you with all joy and peace in believing, so that by the power of the Holy Spirit you may abound in hope.”

I am called to bear with the failings of the weak.

I can because Christ did.  He bore MY failings.

He is building endurance and hope in me.

Abraham's stars are now my promises too.

God is true.

Good is merciful.

I will abound in authentic, weighty, powerful, Christ-filled hope.

hello 24

Broken Bread

May I be broken bread, may I be poured out wine

May I incarnate, Your kindness Lord

Spend my life Jesus, anyway You please

Whether on great things, or what seems small

Your will done your way

Your will done your way

Your will done your way

I will not fight You

Take me past the line that my heart draws

I will not fight You

Take me beyond the laziness of my thoughts

I will not fight

Lead me further than I've gone before

I will not fight You

I'm abandoned to Your call

Do not let there be, any part of me

That’s untouchable, unreachable

Let my delight be, living out Your dreams

Washing dirty feet, and kissing yours

God let Your dreams come true, dream through us

God let Your dreams come true through us