Big ideas and Metro vertigo

Goal: I'm not checking my work e-mail from home. I decided that before I came to D.C. and thus far, am perfectly on track.

I'm just not "important" enough for that kind of behavior. I understand the striving here, in all its historical glorification; the ingenuity that pulsated through the veins of a young nation, and how, against many odds, its roots gripped the soil of freedom with grit, resolve and fearlessness.

 But was it not, deep down, the wearied soul in search of rest behind it all? A sanctuary where the demands of outsiders were stopped, and life continued as it were, with appropriate work, appropriate rest. That is my theory on why the Founders were so experimental and and dangerous in their time. Temperance and moderation.

I'm terribly tempted to go on with a word study on "equality" or something, but I really am not qualified and frankly, research is my day job.

So. The news on mute casts a bleary glow over the room, my feet are warm for the first time I can remember, and I'm looking out over rooftops with just the right amount of snow. I own the exact items I longed to shelve my refrigerator with, from the mecca that is Trader Joe's. I have once described it as "God's gift to single people" and now, more accurately as manna.

But it wasn't that easy for me, fetching this manna. All the Israelites had to do was whine a little, ok a lot, and God rained down the mother lode. Who knows if He was trying to feed them, or maybe accidentally knock a few in the head with the convenient mode of delivery, but either way--simple sustenance for the Israelites. 

You have no idea where I'm going with this. But I do. I'm going to the corner of 25th and L, up to my ankle height Banana Republic booties in slush, rosy cheeked from snow-flaked gusts, and joyful. With an intern friend by my side, we discussed the importance of commitment to action even when the outlook seems bleak. You could have stuck us on a Perseverance poster. One of the advantages of being those"young people" often mentioned with an undertone of rebuke, is that we usually follow through with our silly ideas.

The idea of Trader Joe's burned so desiringly in my mind that I hardly noticed my heel not gripping the cement so well, until the perpetual shrieks of my colleague forced me to consider the possibility of falling, very gracelessly, wet, on my butt, in the snow. Still, full throttle ahead we commenced, arms interlocked, until the Promise Land appeared, the Trader Joe's sign, deliciously red.

Bursting forth from the doors with an armful of goodies and an afterglow from conversation with an exceptionally gracious check-out clerk, we had done it. In my bag, 2-buck-Chuck (which in actuality was 2.99 buck-chuck) and not a penny more, to spare its namesake, dark Hot Chocolate Peppermint Mix for the shivery evenings ahead and fresh asparagus for good measure (remember moderation?) 

The atmosphere of the street had yet to crush this hope welling up within me, though in the atmosphere of blasting car horns I threatened a scolding to those "impatient" people in their impatient cars with every where to go in their 2 hours early leave from work, cursing the inclement weather. And there we hobbled in front of them in the barely visible crosswalk, myself high-heeled and in a skirt suit, pencil-skirt, mind you, which restricts forward motion to movements of a stick figure on stilts. The issues of "heated seat" man/woman honking at other "heated seat" man/woman in the next car really didn't ramp up compassion within me at the moment.

Then I looked up, and saw what never appears less than miraculous all my years of snow watching, a sky releasing gentleness, unending and impossible to discern from which point its beauty originates. Gentleness reigning on chaos, provision for want, grace for relentless people, including myself.  I should have said, "Thank you." But I think it came out more like "It's beautiful." I think He understood what I meant.

On the Metro home, I kept wondering how a country farm could sprout a city weed like myself; how the whoosh of a train coming so close and quickly before me meant endless adventures ahead. I'm romanticizing, its true, but the moment deserves reflection, when settling in to a certain place just seems more than fine and better than ok. 

I'm casting my lot in with the Fed's calling my day off tomorrow, and not feeling too premature about it, as it is 12 am. Then you shall find me at Busboys, in the steam cloud of my Chai and self-correcting any movements of rocking back-and-forth in place, as I did at the dinner table, and braced myself for the "earthquake." But alas, Metro vertigo.

Just Us

God's concern for the oppressed did not materialize at the moment the scales fell off my eyes in order to see it. Yet in many respects, I continue to fight this egocentric impulse.



http://thejusticeconference.com/


I'm a human being, riled by emotion and circumstance, quick to comprehend and slow to change. But it is with new understanding that I approach a gift I have handled somewhat haphazardly, and quite selfishly before.
The gift of my neighbor.


Is it strange though, that I hardly think of my neighbor as a gift?
Jesus centered the gravity of all the Old Testament law, those tireless remembrances for Israel, upon two commandments: love the Lord Your God with all your heart, mind, soul and strength, and love your neighbor as yourself.


The sincerity with which I ought to love my neighbor is to be elevated above all knowledge, accomplishment and personal gain. Love always wins. The apostle Paul depicted loveless action as the arbitrary clanging of pots and pans, a senseless act to a King who came to serve.


To my neighbor, God requires an expression of bleeding and sincere human love, however flawed I am in the attempt.


 In the Weight of Glory, C.S. Lewis renders the individual a creature of fantastic eternal significance. People are investments of immortality.

The load, or weight, or burden of my

neighbour’s glory should be laid daily on

my back, a load so heavy that only

humility can carry it, and the backs of the

proud will be broken.

There are no ordinary people. You have

never talked to a mere mortal. Nations,

cultures, arts, civilization—these are

mortal, and their life is to ours as the life of

a gnat. But it is immortals whom we joke

with, work with, marry, snub, and

exploit—immortal horrors or everlasting

splendours.

Next to the Blessed Sacrament

itself, your neighbour is the holiest object

presented to your senses. If he is your

Christian neighbour he is holy in almost

the same way, for in him also Christ vere

latitat—the glorifier and the glorified

 Glory Himself, is truly hidden

What a horrific tragedy, then, injustice appears. A blasphemous act by those who forsake the glory of God, hidden in the very fabric of each person. As we all know, injustice is not a self-correcting problem. It is a problem that when ignored, manifests in carnage and terror.


The most shocking part about the Rwandan genocide of 1994 was not the capacity of the average person to perpetrate wholesale slaughter. It was an international community excusing itself from it's neighbors. Excusing itself from acting on behalf of every innocent man, woman and child subjected to a sword wielded in fearful hysteria.


It's strange though, how the problem of neglect begins in my own heart. The echoes of Cain abide in my soul and I too ask, "Am I my brother's keeper?"  How I can carry the weight of my brother's glory while finding difficulty in stooping to care from my lofty comforts, from my rights in a developed world that serve my every conceivable whim of entitlement . I must ask and receive compassion from its truest source, the God of justice and mercy. I must politely, defer entitlement for more pressing concerns: a world writhing with the pleadings of the mercilessly oppressed.


Please understand that what I share is more than empty pathos. It is the movement from just me, to just us.


My calling stands in the moment of recognition, that I have seen my neighbor. When I do not see my neighbor, I will not love him. I submit that my knowledge acquired, my possessions upon the altar of sacrifice, all profit me nothing without love for my neighbor.


The words of Isaiah 58, inspired by a God who has served his people perfectly in the life of Jesus, baptized my conscience with this searing reality:

Is this not the fast that I have chosen:

To loose the bonds of wickedness,

To undo the heavy burdens,

To let the oppressed go free,

And that you break every yoke?

7 Is it not to share your bread with the hungry,

And that you bring to your house the poor who are cast out;

When you see the naked, that you cover him,

And not hide yourself from your own flesh?

I am commissioned to action in the fight against injustice, but without love, all slips forgotten into the void. Let my life and love be as the sweet perfume Mary spilled before the feet  Jesus, rising to exalt Him who spared not the highest personal cost.