Abortion is Mean?

I was pretty hesitant to write this article, because I'm convinced the blog world has no place for journaling and confessions. The blog world shouldn't be a place of relationship, its instead a place of ideas and we share our ideas in an impersonal and disconnected way, and we talk about them as though its of extreme importance, but we all know that real life happens when we are looking at each other.

All that to say I'm going to be fairly confessional for a moment. My family has been in some measure of disarray for a bit because my Aunt found out that she was pregnant with a child who had down syndrome. More so, my Aunt was at risk in the pregnancy, and thus they were forced to choose between risking the death of my aunt, leaving my baby cousin and Uncle alone, or having an abortion. The other day they had an abortion. The little boy died 5 months before he entered a very hard a cruel place, much less comforting then the womb of my Aunt.

After I found out the news I walked down a path at school and saw a girl wearing a sweatshirt that said "Abortion is mean." I had a sudden urge to tackle her into the bushes, or to say, "You don't know people's stories. The last thing someone who is having an abortion needs is some self-righteous evangelical telling them they are mean." But I walked on in a melancholy and nodded hello to her. I'm sure she means well.

Suddenly it occured to me- when we get to touch and smell real suffering, ours or someone else's, all catagories break down. Suddenly, the distinction between pro-life and pro-choice, no longer matter. Ethics breaks down, theology breaks down, politics breaks down, and we are left with a cruel realization that this world is messed up, and we have no choice but to just hold on for dear life, love the best we can, and hope that we find the pearly gates to be filled with a good measure of grace.

Suffering and Discipleship

The problem of why God allows suffering in the world has been wrestled with by theologians and human beings since the beginning of suffering itself (I'm assuming). As far as I'm concerned its never been answered to peoples satisfaction, and more so has caused many people to question and even lose their faith in God.

I'm one of these people. I lost my faith, at least under the guise that I couldn't understand suffering, and ironically started to find it again when I actually saw suffering. It seems the idea of suffering without a God in the world is more perplexing than the thought of there being suffering and a God, though I could never fully rationalize this, and complete it to its theological end.

I guess the place I have come to lately, is one of looking at the problem of suffering, not through the lens of explanation, but through the lens of discipleship. What this means is that I've not given up asking the question of why people suffer, in fact I only ask it more. But at the end of this asking I've decided to fall on my knees in front of a paradoxical God and say, "I don't understand this, or you, and I'm tired of trying to, but this life is sad and often times full of evil and I wish it would go away."

Albert Camus writes in The Plague, when Dr. Rieux is talking about Father Paneloux's attempts at finding goodness in suffering, "Paneloux is a man of learning, a scholar. He hasn't come in contact with death; that's why he can speak with such assurance of the truth-with a capital T. But every country priest who visits his parishioners and has heard a man gasping for breath on his deathbed thinks as I do. He'd try to relieve human suffering before trying to point out its goodness."

I think this is the task of people, especially Christians, in looking at suffering. Embrace it with a discipleship that is more concerned with fighting against suffering than explaining it. Sure, it may be a crutch for weak-minded folk like myself, and it may even be a way of avoiding the question. But I think the question only makes sense when we enter into a relationship with it.

Art, The Novel, and Guns

I have a tendency to focus all of my energies in being suspicious of white academics (ignoring the absurd irony that I fit into this catagory), under the idealistic assumption that all of my learning needs to come from outside of my own cultural situation. There might be some merit found in this, but lately I've also attempted to redeem my appreciation of things coming out of white academia. This redemption has not come with a renewed interest in systematic theology or philosophical inquiry. What has instead been redeemed for me is the power of art and the novel. To be more precise I have become convinced that, as Mary Oliver says, "stories are more beautiful than answers."

What brought about this realization, which I suspect I'm a little behind in, was a question by a great professor at Eastern, Betsy Morgan. In a formal discussion on the place of the church and America five years after 9/11, she asked a simple and intriging question: does art have any place here?

It seems that in my particular life it has been novels that have been most instrumental in my thinking. Notes from the Underground allowed me to see humanity in its most raw and existential form. Snow by Orhan Pamuk, allowed me to understand better what is beautiful, and what questions I'm really interested in. The Brothers K by David James Duncan, allowed me to see the humanity of supposed enemies, and the meaning of families. Kite Runner forever changed the way I view immigration.

All of these relationships we develop with books creates a subtle and powerful change that systematic thought is incapable of doing. Whether it be Yoder, Barth, Chesterton, or any other theologian, they will never be able to grasp the ambiguity and speechless truth that is captured in a story.

Pretty unclear thoughts at the moment. But it could be going somewhere.

Praying with Muslims

I was hoping to wait until my mind went away from Islam before I wrote again, but my mind seems stuck on the idea of Christianity and Islam. I had class again last night, and the questions and comments went back again to "how to convert Muslims." The general assumption is that if we could just sit down with Muslims and "prove" to them that their religion is wrong, then they will be converted into "the faith."

It would be pointless to say all the ridiculous things about this line of thinking, and I will try to avoid the temptation. But I think the fundamental assumption doesn't have to be a bad one. To want to convert Muslims to Christianity could actually be an act of love...especially for people who believe all Muslims will spend eternity in hell if they don't convert.

This lies the confusion for me. At the core of the questions and comments in my Islam class, is not love but fear. Many evangelical Christians seem to be pretty scared of Islam. I'm not sure if the fear stems from thinking all Muslims are terrorits that are destorying the world, or whether it has something to do with the fears and doubts in their own hearts about their own faith. I shouldn't make assumptions.

Whatever it is, I'm pretty uninterested in proving Muslims wrong. I think it could be exciting to discover some commonality between Christianity and Islam. For example, could Christians begin to pray Muslim prayers? Christians pray Judaic prayers often, even contemporary ones, and at the heart of Judaism is a greater rejection of Christ than that of Islam.

I've attempted to pray Muslim prayers as a Christian. Is it so absurd to pray the poetry that comes out of Islam to Jesus? What is hard for me is wondering whether this could be a place of reconcilation for Christianity and Islam, or whether my prayers are actually a great disrespect to Islam. Thoughts?

Encountering Islam

I am currently taking a class titled "The Heritage of Islam" at Eastern University. My class is predominately composed of people who are hoping to evangelize to Muslims or understand terrorism. I noticed this particularly in my class tonight as we discussed our reading for the week.

The reading was mostly informative. The book, written by Muslims, was about the basics of Muslim belief, how Islam got started, the life of Muhammed, and so on. When the professor asked the class what they thought of the reading, students one by one would bring up places in the reading where Muslim beliefs were contradictory or "historically wrong."

Eventually it got to the point that I was so disgusted by people's comments I contemplated becoming a Muslim. The problem with people's comments was that they were engaging in a conversation with a Muslim, and as that Muslim was talking they were listening for loophools and inconsitencies. Granted it was a book, but I think this model carries over to the way in which many evangelicals "evangelize" to Muslims. They are engaging with Muslims for the sole purpose of proving them wrong.

Martin Buber writes that all means are an obstacle to encounter. When we engage in conversation as a means to an end we miss the encounter all together. Thus, we really have no concept of what Islam is, because we are too busy waiting to prove them wrong; to listen to what they are actually saying. Thus, the engagement becomes entirely selfish. It is then the Christian dicating the conversation, the purpose, and ideally the end. Why are Christians so threatened historically and presently by Islam?

Life is Beautiful

I decided it was ok to love Jesus in a town called Soroti, in the east of Uganda. I was, or should have been a junior in college, but decided instead to take some time away from school for reasons I can't remember. I think I wanted to be in solidarity with the poor or something. Anyway, off I went to Uganda, for an undecided amount of time, to I guess think for awhile. I was not a "christian."

Turns out Uganda had lots of refugees, and some crazy war in the north. It seemed interesting so I decided that maybe I would go to one of these refugee areas, and explore for a bit. I was a bit gloomy in these days, and probably went to the camps to confirm my suspicion that life was hell.

Unfortunately for my ego, I found the refugee camps to be beautiful. Heart-wrenching and sad; but beautiful. The kids were "sledding" down a mountain of sand, on some pieces of plastic stolen from a UN food container. The adults were laughing at my awkwardness. And I, well, I wanted to cry, but I kept smiling like a big idiot.

It would be some time later before I realized this, but I did not decide it was okay to love Jesus because I thought it was Truth, or right, or radical, or whatever. I decided it was okay to love Jesus because he is beautiful. When I see beautiful things I'm reminded of him. Granted my love is always marked with some measure of heresy and vulgarity. But its love just the same.

That's why I think its easier for me to love Jesus in autumn. I think the fall is beautiful, and it reminds me of Jesus. I don't know if that's good enough to get me into heaven or not. I guess I hope to die when the leaves fall. Otherwise I might have some trouble at the pearly gates.