Chacocente Well Celebration

Rachael asked me to post this video of a celebration of Chacocente's new well. It's still Advent, and Jesus is coming. (Chacocente is the project where Rachael worked in Nicaragua. There's a lot more information about it elsewhere in the blog.)



bonus: cepillarse los dientes

come thou fount of revolution

I was singing Come Thou Fount of Every Blessing in the shower yesterday. It made me want to write some new words. So I did.

Here's what I have so far: (in no particular order)

Come thou fount of every blessing, give me courage to resist.
Oh dear God they came and killed you, to stay dead you were too pissed.
Make me clever like the steward, make me angry like the poor,
teach me to unbind the captive, teach me to unbar the door.

O dear God, I have such power, that I never toiled to earn
Help me wield it for liberation, may the fires of your justice burn
Guide me God to read you truly, give me your truth like a sword
When I read the holy scripture, help me God to hear your Word.

Moving Wind, your seed of justice, grows into a mustard tree-
it is so big, and obnoxious, is there room there, God, for me?
O my Jesus, come like leaven, infiltrate our hearts and minds
as we struggle to be human, help us to decolonize.

When the powers stand against us, when we join hands with the meek,
help us God against their fury; reveal the weapons of the weak.
As we stand up to oppression, as we speak the truth to power-
Holy One, you walk beside us: we need you every hour.

While I struggle with my hatred, with my fear and bigotry:
help me Lord to join your struggle, help me dance this way with thee.
Give me prophets to confront me, give me comrades in the call!
Give me visions of that day when we will see the powers fall!



Let me know if you try it in church. Take it easy but take it.

a word from claus

Last night, on the advice of my spiritual direction group (no kidding) rachael and i went on a date. We later figured out that it was the first time we went out to dinner (just the two of us) in over a year. Too long.

Anyway, first we went to the Museum of Contemporary Art, which was great. If you live in Chicago: it's free til November 14th, and after that you can get a pass from the Chicago Public Library. I suppose you could even pay, if you had to.

The thing I want to post is a quote from Claus Oldenberg, which was the body of one of the descriptive plates by a work of his in the museum.

Here goes:

"I am for an art that is political-erotic-mystical, that does something other than sit on its ass in a museum.
I am for an art that grows up not knowing it is art at all, an art given the chance to have a starting point of zero.
I am for an art that embroils itself with the everyday crap & still comes out on top.
I am for an art that imitates the human, that is comic, if necessary, or violent, or whatever is necessary.
I am for an art that takes its form from the lines of life itself, that twists, and extends, and accumulates, and spits and drips, and is heavy and coarse and blunt and sweet and stupid as life itself."

So: swap "theology" for "art", and that's pretty much how I'm feeling these days.

Below: Rachael with my favorite Oldenberg piece. Oberlin, Ohio.

Nicaragua: flooding by my house

One Sunday afternoon in late August or early September, a young woman about my age in my church invited me over to do my nails. While she was giving me a home-done French manicure (!), it started to rain. By the time she was done, not only was it raining hard, but the neighborhood dirt paths outside her house were filling with puddles. The family suggested I stay until the water went down, and having spent several months in Nicaragua by that point, I took their advice without quite understanding why. In the United States, a few puddles wouldn't stop anyone from walking home.

When Nanieska and I finally did walk back to the church/my host family's house, I saw why we had waited. The street in front of my house had flooded to knee level and was flowing in a strong current. A neighbor let us cut through her backyard so we wouldn't have to wade home through the current.

When I had picked my way home, being careful not to ruin Nanieska's work on my feet, I learned that the church had flooded. This turned out to mean that a passing truck had caused water to splash through the gate and sweep across the tiled floor of the church, all the way to the altar. Lots of youth in the church were helping move pews and sweep or mop the water out. Norvin posed in front of the make-shift barricades that had been placed instead of sandbags in front of the gate. In addition to mopping and sweeping, they were sliding on their knees across the slick floor, and as you can see, dog-piling.






In order to cross the 20 feet from house to church, we had to go all the way around on a little bridge of higher ground. Worship was canceled, but there were tacos already prepared for the after-church youth fundraiser dinner (an almost every Sunday event). When my host sister told me that sometimes they stayed up all night to make sure the house didn't flood, I got nervous. Her grandmother was fretting over her two sons who were out in their trucks. We called them to tell them not to drive home by the front road. Some kids were caught on the other side of the rushing water, so some of our youth waded across and carried them over. A man in an ox-cart pulled up on the opposite bank to wait for the water to go down. A car floated by, maybe touching its wheels down every so often. Our neighbors sent coffee and food across to the ox-cart driver. "He drives by every afternoon," they said to me.

Thanks be to God, the rain stopped and the water went down. The ox-cart driver passed by, my grandmother's sons came home safely (albeit not by the road), and we were able to go to sleep.





PS Another time, a lightning and rain storm came up during a Sunday evening church. The power came on and off, the sermon was occasionally drowned out by thunder... and my awe at the storm was colored by my knowledge that flooding was a real possibility. Much to my own relief, the water never reached ankle level.

an american liturgy

I wrote this little liturgy for a group project on Matthew and Empire, by Warren Carter. It came after two other liturgies: first a reconstructed/made up Roman liturgy, which featured readings from Virgil and the like about the greatness of Rome and its Emperors. The second was a counter-imperial liturgy drawing on language and ideas from the Gospel of Matthew (and a little of the Gospel of Luke, because I wanted to use the Canticle of the Turning.) This third liturgy was designed to underscore the ways that contemporary political theologies, implicit and explicit, mirror that of the Romans, that Jesus directly challenges in the Gospel of Matthew.

It begins with a reading from Romans, ch. 13: 1-7. The liturgy should be read alternating between one speaker and several/many speakers. All of the speakers should be straight white men. American flag backdrop is optional.

We lift our eyes up, up to your standard.


Where does our help come from?


Our help comes from you, the sweet land of liberty, to thee we sing praises.


Who will guide us through the darkness? Who will lead us through our fear?


Only you, our nation, our protector. You have the power and the might to disrupt the forces of evil, to turn our weeping into dancing.


You have bathed the world in peace; your power has assured the righteous of their safety.


You protect us from the wicked, you save us from the time of trial.


For this safety, for our homes, we remember you and turn to you. We give you offerings; not just a tithe but more than a tithe we provide back to you. You bless us so that we may bless you; you provide us with the security to earn, to start families: we return our blessings to you, to help house your children, to help fill your armies. It is our duty and our right to support you.


These are the benefits you offer the children of light, and the children of darkness you will vanquish. You will undo their evil deeds by your power and might. You will fill their lands with the light of your liberty and justice.


You were chosen by God, you are the anointed nation, to lead the world to a new era of justice and peace. And God appoints your leaders; they are the ambassadors of God to us. We do not worship you; we worship God through you.


The gathered community will repeat the words of our creed:

(together)
You, the state, will save us.

You will save your people from their sin.

You will protect us and secure us.

You fulfill our hope.

Your leader is our leader; in our land and in our hearts.

We submit to your will; in you we place our trust.


Glory to you, and to God, who protects and sustains our nation.


God bless America.

Nicaragua: the new preschool teacher

This is a picture of Miguel, the new preschool teacher. He's reading to Eva while Michael puts a yellow ring on his head. He just left it there after she climbed down and wandered off to play. I think this communicates what a great companion and guide I think he is for my students. He has studied teaching in Nicaragua (he lives in the same community as the 5th & 6th grade teacher), so he knew some things I didn't about early childhood development. I feel great about him taking over with my kids. He was able to start on the first of September, so the kids had both of us in the classroom for two weeks before I left. That way they could get used to him and he could get used to our schedule. He is very respectful and patient with them. I am thankful to God for providing such a wonderful teacher for those 14 beautiful children.

A Student Lost

I was folding laundry and calling Leah when my phone beeped. I quickly finished my message on Leah’s voicemail and flashed over to the other call. It was Adam.

“How are you?” He said hastily.

“Fine,” I replied. It wasn’t odd that he was calling me after being out of touch for several weeks. We call each other to check-in every once in a while. He tells me what’s going on at my old school and we exchange advice and encouragement.

“You busy?” He asked.

“Nope,” I responded.

“Really?” He questioned.

“Really,” I said. “I just got home, took a shower, and now I’m folding laundry. I’m actually not busy, it’s amazing.” I laughed.

He hesitated.

“What is it?” I pushed.

“Do you remember Brittany Jaques? White girl, kind of nerdy…”

I went through the Rolodex of my former students’ pictures in my head.

“I think so,” I said, unsure of her exact identity.

“You know, white girl,” he knew that if he pushed, I could narrow it down just by race. “Glasses, she’s a 7th grader now.”

“Brittany,” I thought to myself. Then her picture flashed into my head. “Yea, Brittany!” I exclaimed. “I used to drive her home sometimes.” The truth is, sometimes is an understatement. By the end of the school year, she and Luis talked me into giving them a ride almost every day. Other teachers took students home, so I always agreed. It was a good chance to get to know them as they were both in the most difficult class in the school. Their presence in class was always overshadowed by the behavior problems of the other students.

“Well, she’s dead now.” He said solemnly.

“She’s what?” I stopped what I was doing.

“She’d dead, Megan.”

I was worried this would happen. That school is in such a rough area, I was sure that one day I would turn on the television and see that one of my students had been killed in gang activity or armed robbery. But of all the students on my mental Rolodex, she would be the last I would expect to be killed. Some of these students made me believe that they were safe…that they would make it through and go to college. Brittany and Luis were two of these students. I learned this about them while I drove them home every day. Their parents, teachers, the principal, we weren’t worried about them.

At 3:00 a.m. Tuesday morning, Brittany, still in pink pajamas, put on her tennis shoes and her glasses and walked out her front door. She took nothing but house keys, locking the door behind her, and ventured 2-3 miles through empty lots and fields or busy roads to the highway. Around 3:30 a.m. she stepped in front of a car that had just entered the highway and was hit and killed instantly.

I was silent. “I’m sorry to ruin your evening,” Adam said.

I ran down the stairs and grabbed my computer. “I don’t understand,” I said, assuming Adam had the details wrong. This didn’t make sense. I scanned local news websites and read the short stories finally identifying the child that on the 5:00 a.m. news was listed as “unidentified.” Adam’s details matched the news.

“How are things?” He tried to change the subject.

“I’m sorry, I don’t feel like talking anymore.” I said bluntly. “I’ll call you later this week. I’ll text you or something,” I said, afraid to break into tears on the phone.

“Okay,” he said.

I watched the online video of the 5:00 a.m. news that broke the story about Brittany. They were still saying that a “woman” or possibly a “late adolescent” was killed on the highway early this morning. This must have been what Brittany’s mom was watching, shaking her head sadly and thanking God for her own child. It wasn’t until she opened her daughter’s bedroom door to wake her up that she realized this unidentified “woman” might be her daughter.

After rereading the stories online, I sat and stared at the computer. I tried to remember every memory of her. Every moment she was in my car. Did I take her home in my car? No, not always. Sometimes it was my dad’s truck or my grandpa’s car. She and Luis couldn’t stop talking about how they thought my grandpa’s 10-year-old Grand Marquee was the nicest car they had ever seen. I thought about where she sat in my class. Three seats in on the long row. In a class full of students throwing chairs, fighting, saying and doing terrible things, she sat there and followed directions. While her friends, mostly boys, were somewhat bullied, the students seemed to like her. She never seemed frustrated or unhappy. Though I might classify her as an outcast, it seemed that she was mostly an introvert. She was comfortable in her awkwardness. As I got to know her in the car, her sarcastic sense of humor made her seem well adjusted and able-to-cope. She talked about a loving mother encouraging her to do her homework. She spoke fondly about her brother.

This is why the details didn’t make sense. Was she sleepwalking? Then why did she put on her shoes and glasses, and lock the front door behind her. Was she going somewhere? All of her friends and family lived away from the highway. Was she committing suicide? Honestly, she was too smart to use that as a method of killing herself. Was she running away? This seems likely, but she took nothing with her. No clothes, no money, and she stayed in her pajamas.

The details of how she got there don’t make sense either. The distance she had to walk in addition to the pathway she had to take. Did she take the bridge that didn’t accommodate walkers or did she work her way through fields?

I cried without knowing if I had a right to cry. For some reason, I felt guilty, like I wasn’t allowed to be upset because I was not her teacher anymore. But I could still see her in my car, in my classroom. And now her face is all over the internet, television and newspaper. I miss her, even though I had already left her.

This morning, I looked at all of my students differently. I looked at each one and began to memorize their faces. I thought about how they are all so much like Brittany, searching for something I don’t understand. Part of me has lost hope that my students are going to be all right. I look at the faces of those that I am sure will live forever, though now I am not so sure. But mostly, I look into their eyes and see the children, my children, that give so much to my classroom every day. I try to file away every moment, remember every time they make me laugh. Through my students, I celebrate Brittany’s memory, and I get to know each of them a little bit better.