What We Don't Remember on 9/11

On this eve of 9/11, I am overcome with sadness.  Not only because this day, 9 years ago, was so painful for my country, but because 9/11's anniversary sparks an overwhelming wave of patriotism... and patriotism can be very frightening.  

The simple definition of patriotism is love of one's country - and there's absolutely nothing wrong with appreciating your national identity and heritage.  But why don't we see a surge of this type of patriotism on July 2?  It's the anniversary of the Civil Rights Act of 1964, a monumental piece of legislation that proved democracy works when people band together to boycott unjust systems and march peacefully to our nation's capital.  Why don't we wave our flags proudly every August 18th?  On that day in 1920, women in this country were given the right to cast their ballots alongside their husbands, fathers, and brothers.  These are the moments in our country's history where we see American ideals like equality and freedom truly triumph over oppression and ignorance.

But, despite the fact that these dates ought to make us "proud to be an American", they mean nothing to the majority of our citizens.  We would rather wave our flags on the 4th of July or D-Day or, as of late, 9/11.  In my opinion, this is where we need to be careful.  When the days that define us are days characterized by bloodshed, war, and terror... who does that say that we are as a people?  Our national memory, like all nation's, is skewed: we are always, always the good guys.  Unfortunately, the facts of history do not always align with our perception of it.

When we think of the 4th of July, we envision a small group of determined colonists who, against all odds, overthrew an empire.  This is partially true... but we conveniently forget that, in the eyes of the Native Americans who already inhabited our "colonies", we were the empire.  The US government put the Native American death toll conservatively between 1 and 4 million during those years.  Other experts describe a genocide of greater magnitude than the Holocaust.  We look to Hollywood films starring attractive actors for our perspective on the 2,500 or so Americans killed at Pearl Harbor, yet I doubt we would pay to see high-definition footage of the over 200,000 charred bodies that blanketed the ground in Hiroshima and Nagasaki after we dropped not one, but two atomic bombs.  We also conveniently forget the 110,000 Japanese Americans that we forced to live in internment camps following the attack.  

And then there's 9/11 - a day when 2,996 Americans were suddenly and tragically killed.  I remember watching the news footage in my high school classroom and seeing the streets of New York coated with ash and tears and death.  It was traumatic.  Psychologists have even done studies on the effect that 9/11 had on my entire generation.  This is why I can't even conceive what it would be like to live in Iraq and watch as 100,000 of your civilians are killed - not in one tragic day, but over the course of many tragic days and years.  The majority of these men, women, and children do not receive news footage or memorials built in their honor.  They are merely collateral damage.  They are the "price of freedom"... or so we say.

I do love my fellow Americans, including quite a few soldiers.  They are in my family, in my neighborhood, and among my facebook friends.  But we're supposed to be honest with the people we love.  Maybe, just maybe, instead of blindly supporting our troops on this day, we should gently question them.  Maybe we should grab our young engineers by the shoulders and say, "Don't work for Lockheed Martin and devote your talents to building smarter bombs!  Design devices that make dirty water drinkable!  Show us how to make strong and safe houses that the poor can afford!"  Maybe we should go into our churches and say, "Love your enemies and pray for those who persecute you!   When evil men come to destroy you, put your hope in God - not horses or chariots!  You may be fed to a lion, you may be thrown in jail, but you'll be in good company!"  In light of all the "God Bless America" stickers I see, I can't help but think of the Amish school shooting a few years back.  Within a few hours of that soul-destroying event, members of the community reached out to the shooter's family and extended forgiveness to them.  They even set up a charitable fund for the family of the shooter.  Can you imagine?  How would the world react to that foreign policy?  If Jesus was a radical, and we are a self-proclaimed "Christian" nation, why do we continue to follow the worn tracks of anger and violence?  Even the "eye for an eye and tooth for a tooth" mandate was intended to keep justice restrained so that we do not respond to a few thousand murders by committing a few hundred thousand more.  

And, so, on this day, I remember.  I remember the brokenness of humanity and the wounds we inflict on each other.  I remember my own capacity for hatred and violence.  I remember my nation's history, both the noble and the obscene, so that I do not repeat its mistakes.  I remember that a willingness to die for something does not require a willingness to kill for it.  I remember the 1 in 8 American soldiers who have returned from war with PTSD.  I remember all of this on this day... and I pray for peace.

"Darkness cannot drive out darkness; only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate; only love can do that. Hate multiplies hate, violence multiplies violence, and toughness multiplies toughness in a descending spiral of destruction....The chain reaction of evil - hate begetting hate, wars producing more wars - must be broken, or we shall be plunged into the dark abyss of annihilation." - Martin Luther King, Jr

Amish response to hatred and violence

Albuquerque (posted late)

Today I got off the bus in Albuquerque, NM.  It is beautiful here, but I can’t seem to shake the feeling that I’m wandering around in a cheesy 1970s TV sitcom.   I keep expecting a police officer with aviators and too-tight pants to stop me on the street and say, “You’re not from around here are you, little lady?”

I’m spending the night at the Route 66 Hostel , a quaint and quirky little house a few blocks from the main strip.  So far, I have made two friends.  Stone, the lanky doorman that gave me a discount because I recognized his Philly Love T-shirt, and Cyrus, an out-of-town salesman who ate the last half of my chocolate cake after telling me never to move to Cleveland.  The hostel is quiet now, and I am sitting on the porch watching passers-by and smoking a clove.  I’ve smoked quite a bit on this trip.  Sometimes, it’s because I’m someplace seedy and I want to look less vulnerable and sometimes, like now, it’s my own shallow attempt at appearing mysterious and interesting.  My legs are tucked underneath me because the porch is crawling in beetles and, although I’d rather not come into contact with them directly, I sort of enjoy watching them wander.

I had quite a few interesting conversations while roaming the strip today – mainly with men.  I think I fall into a category that I like to call “approachably pretty.”  I’m attractive enough to turn a head or two, but not so attractive that your average run-of-the-mill dude considers me out of his league.  With my camera slung over my arm, it’s easy to strike up a conversation.  Is that for a class or something?...Why don’t you take my picture?...What kind of lens are you using?  Most of the time, I don’t mind.  Why not be friendly for 15 minutes and enjoy a free beer when you can?  The bartenders at the place where I had dinner tonight seemed sad.  They were all skinny and tattooed with unnaturally dark hair, and I wondered if they wrote poetry on their skin to make them feel more comfortable in it.

I passed by a greenhouse of sorts and bought myself a bouquet of mystery blossoms.  I’ve never been able to identify flowers outside of your generic tulip/carnation/rose variety, but these small blooms were red and orange and a little wild-looking – like they’d just moved up to the weight class above "weeds."  I took to them instantly.  Carrying them around the strip all afternoon made me feel feminine and free and grateful to be exactly who I am, exactly where I am… at least for today.

Holding Hands

I took a crowded bus home this evening.  So crowded, in fact, that there were multiple people standing and only one open seat.  That seat was the one directly next to a middle-aged, homeless black man wrapped in a blanket.  He stank horribly and shook violently from head to toe.  For reasons I still don't fully understand, I sat down next to him.

As the bus pulled away from the stop, I found myself staring at his hands.  They were worn, tired hands with dirty nail beds and permanent callouses.  He would clasp them in his lap, but as soon as he was still for a second or two, the shaking would begin... and it would get worse and worse until he unclasped them and adjusted himself into a new position.  Within seconds, more shaking.  It was was clear that he was trying to rest by leaning his head against the glass, but the shaking made it almost impossible.

"Hold his hand."

It took me off-guard, this prompt from God.  I'm always skeptical of people who say "God told me this" or "Jesus told me that."  All too often, people just drop God's name in the mix as a means of justifying doing whatever they please.  I can assure you, in this instance, that was not the case.  As a matter of fact, I was so appalled by the suggestion that I pulled a Gideon and decided to put God through a few quick tests to make sure I heard Him correctly.  (If you don't get the Gideon reference, read about it here.)  So I prayed, "Lord, if you want me to hold his hand, have him cross his legs right now."  He did.  "Lord, if you want me to hold his hand, have him turn his head and look at me right now."  He did that too.

Not the response I was hoping for.

Suddenly, I became very aware of my surroundings.  This bus was crowded.  What would it look like if I just reached over and grabbed this strange man?  And what would his reaction be?  I didn't understand why he was shaking.  Maybe he was an addict or maybe he was sick or maybe he was just mentally ill.  What if he was schizophrenic and when I touched him, he suddenly yelled at me or hit me or lunged at me or something?  A million scenarios, none of them positive, began to scroll through my head.

And that's when I remembered Peter - the disciple who said he would never leave Christ on the eve of his arrest only to deny Him in the face of difficulty.  How often do I imagine myself accomplishing great things for God's kingdom?  Sacrificing my money, my comfort, my time, my very life to honor my Savior.   Yet, there I was, afraid to risk looking even remotely foolish in front of a small group of strangers that I would likely never see again.  Was this too great a sacrifice for the One who sacrificed all for me?  How could I claim to love Christ and deny Him in His poor?

That's when I reached over and placed my hand on top of his.  He looked at me, expressionless, and I gave him a slight squeeze.  For the next 10 minutes or so, we just rode on the bus next to each other, staring straight ahead, while I held his hand and did my best to calm his shaking.  I kept praying, "What now, Lord?  What do you want me to say?  Do I talk to him?  Do I tell him about You?"... nothing.  So I just continued to sit with him in silence and watch the raindrops trail across the window.

When we arrived at my stop, I let go of his hand and he looked at me with eyes full of an emotion I can't quite pinpoint.  The moment felt oddly poignant.  As I walked home, I wondered how long it had been since he had been touched compassionately by another human being.  I wondered if, like so many of DC's homeless, he had been invisible, despised, alienated for days and months and years... enough time for it to erode away his sense of human dignity and inherent worth.  As someone who relies a lot on her words, it was strange to sit in silence on the bus with this man, but I think that, more than anything that I could say or any amount of money that I could give, he just needed to be touched.

Lord, have mercy.

Blood on My Hands

Sometimes I am paralyzed by the degree that I am blessed.  Why am I tempted by excess when so many go to bed hungry?  Why do I stir up conflict when I have never known war?  Why do I deal harshly with others when God has dealt so gently with me?

I sat on the bus on the way to work this morning and cried.  I couldn't help it, and it was embarrassing.  More often than I care to admit as of late, I find that I am unable to keep myself from tears.  I looked at the Starbucks cup in my hands, and I thought of the farmers who are exploited for their labor so that Americans like me can avoid inconvenience.  I looked at my pants, and I wondered if a child without shoes made them.  I looked at the homeless men that we passed on the street and considered the times that I have avoided their gaze, ashamed at my lack of compassion for the very poor so loved by Christ.

I realize that God has been granting me the blessing and the curse of stripping my heart.  I find that I am raw, disturbed, outraged, grieved yet also blissful, calm, brave, and, in fleeting moments, compassionate.  He has paid us the terrible compliment of engineering us for the heroic - not for solitary, mighty acts once in awhile but the great and awful burden of daily walking with justice and mercy in a world wrought with unspeakable terror and abuse.  How can I possibly avoid slipping into the ease of comfort that always perpetuates injustice?  Moreover, why do I get to know Him at all?  Why am I one of the few, the fortunate few, in this broken land that can call Him Abba, Father?  As I consider the blood on my hands and on my legs and on my feet, I cannot help but rejoice and mourn and rage and wonder at these things.

Maranatha, maranatha, maranatha...

My First Meeting with Greg

I've never done adult education before, and I'm not entirely sure what I was expecting when I sauntered up to the Mission at 6pm yesterday.  I know the building itself quite well - I go there once a week for church.  The men that live there, on the other hand, have remained a mystery to me for the most part.  I smile when I come in and smile when I walk out because I am, after all, a caring Christian.  How will they know our love if we don't nod politely as we breeze by and go about our way?

It's bothered me for the past few months, that distance.  The way I claim to be an advocate of social justice, yet rarely spend quality time with those outside of my socioeconomic circle.  The way I avoid eye contact with the homeless of DC, convinced I am too busy bustling around and saving the world to make time to have a short conversation with another struggling sojourner.

I think, when I'm honest, I was expecting to feel pretty heroic working with Greg.  Here I am, the educated young professional, choosing to forego a happy hour and help you, illiterate homeless man, get your life back on track!  Wow!  What a noble person I am.

I suppose it just goes to show that even our best motives are deeply polluted.

Greg does not fit into the box I had mentally prepared for him.  At 47-years-old, he is a former Marine and father of three.  One of his children is in college studying education.  He was born in DC and attended mediocre-to-bad public schools all his life.  He graduated from high school, joined the military and, somewhere down the line, got married and divorced.  I don't know why his children and wife are now far from him or why he lives at the Mission, but I assume that whatever caused the former led to the latter as well.

When we had situated ourselves at the table, I asked Greg, "What made you decide to get a tutor?"  He looked at me and said, "I have a hard time understanding my Bible.  And I can't know Jesus if I can't read His word."  As I transitioned us into the battery of tests that would tell me what reading level Greg was on, he interrupted me and asked if we could pray a little before we started.  "I'm nervous," he said, "because I've never been good at reading - always better at drawing - and without the Holy Spirit, I'm not gonna be able to focus."  So we prayed.  For the next hour and a half, he prayed a lot more.  As a matter of fact, Greg seemed to talk to Jesus as much, if not more, than he talked to me in the course of our first lesson together.  He prayed in thanks, he prayed for strength, he prayed for focus, he prayed for me, he prayed, he prayed, he prayed...

Despite what I sometimes believe, my degree and elevated financial situation make me no less dependent on the Holy Spirit than Greg. Jesus pointed out in the Sermon on the Mount that we can't change the color of a single hair on our heads - no matter how much earthly power we accumulate.  As I sat there analyzing questions that assessed Greg's literacy skills, I couldn't help but notice his fluency in the only area that really counts.

Perhaps I am the one who will be getting tutored on Mondays.

When I Am Old

I am, by some standards, at that perfect age in life - where I am old enough to do everything but not too old for anything.  Many people, women in particular, seem to spend their whole lives longing to be (or at least appear to be) in this exact stage.

This week, a simple, but profoundly comforting thought has come to me: I think that I will like myself when I am old.  I like myself well enough right now, but, when I consider my trajectory, I think that I will find even more beauty, more to love in the person I am in the process of becoming.

At 50 or 70 or even 90, I know that Texas summers will have taken their toll on my skin - but I think those wrinkles will hold a great deal of wisdom.  My thighs will have inevitably grown larger, but I think my heart will have expanded even more.  My cool gray hair will hopefully be a sign that I, over the course of many years, have grown less hot-tempered and more inclined to be still, to contemplate, and to pray.

So be patient with me in the meantime.  When I am impulsive or selfish or mean or just plain stubborn, remember: I'm growing out of it... and, hopefully, you, too, will like the me I am when I am old.

Lent: A Time of Morning

Today is the first day of Lent, and everybody has been asking me what I'm "giving up" this year.  Last time around, I gave up alcohol which, although great for my cells, didn't really do that much for my soul.  Instead of repeating that process by arbitrarily picking something else I like and giving it up, I'm going to try to take on something new instead.

From this point forward (or, at the very least, till Easter), my mornings are sacred.  As much as I understand how necessary it is to be still and center myself on things of substance at the start of the day, I love to sleep... and I really love to snooze.  This is not conducive to morning prayer - especially when I tell myself that I will just pray in my bed... laying down... with my eyes closed... curled up in the fetal position.  It's time for a new routine.  For this Lenten season, I'm giving the first full hour of my day, everyday, to God.  I guess that means I'm giving up my snooze button for Lent this year...

Death by Practicality

Lately, I've been toying with a vision of what could be that inspires me. It's a world where the disenfranchised have a voice, the invisible are seen, and the exploited find rest. It requires a complete rejection of illegitimate power structures and a radical commitment to individual freedom and the dignity of all life. To steal a few words from Nelson Mandela, it's a society where "the oppressed and the oppressor alike" are restored.

When I've attempted to articulate these ideas to those around me, I've been bombarded with words like "utopian" and "unrealistic" and "Rachel, you have to be practical." Practical. Such an innocuous word - yet full of such poison. When people tell you to be practical, they mean that you should compromise. Lower your standards. Water down your ideals. Go repackage your suggestions and bring them back when they no longer require risk or sacrifice or even temporary discomfort.

Who decided that practicality should be our aim? Why is that word given any credence at all? Practicality has never once changed the course of history or awakened the thing in us that longs for the heroic. What is practical about signing a rebel declaration... or going to jail over a bus seat... or dying on a cross?

Idealism may very well leave you lonely, poor, oppressed, and despised - but only practicality will murder your soul. When I die, I hope they write on my tombstone "Here lies Rachel Evans who, despite our best efforts, remained hopelessly impractical all the days of her life."