Life, the Universe, and everything

A friend stayed the night at our house. The electricity was shut off at his place. We watched "The Hitchhiker's Guide to the Galaxy" which I'd borrowed from Matt. I enjoyed the book series in high school, twelve years ago. It was, I think, influential. The movie, however, we found mostly unamusing. The absurdity was all nonsense and occasional sacrilege. It presented accurately man's attempts to overthrow or negate God. The answer to "life, the universe, and everything?" Forty-two, of course.
The next morning, before heading out for church, my friend and I had an interesting conversation, the one I'd prayed for. We were discussing the practical origins of superstitions, which transitioned into the supernatural. While in a relationship with a girl who was Wiccan, he'd experienced some strange moments of extra-sensory perception, and even perceived something sinister in it. He thinks there is too much going on behind the scenes, so to speak, for there to be no spiritual power. He is not sure what that power would be like, and in the event that it were to include Supreme Being, that Being would seem to be uninvolved and distant, as in the deist's perspective of God. And so my friend is not atheist, but firmly agnostic. He views religion as a pleasant thought, a way to order our cosmos and create some meaning to our existence.
I remember when someone I love told me over the telephone that she could see in religion a calming, stabilizing effect through the familiarity of ritual and the comfort of mythology, which she may someday be ready to have in her life.
I think they are both very right about religion. Religion is the last thing I wish for anyone to find. At least in lostness and uncertainty people may still be able to recognize their own need for God's truth and mercy, to recognize the necessity for something more. But religion is so often the end of the search. In religion we are justified to ourselves and before men. We accept the answer to life, the universe and everything as it is dictated to us through the institution and are perhaps ushered complacently into hell surrounded by our little idols of Sunday morning familiarity.
My friend expects that he must choose between reality and happiness, and I understand completely that sentiment. The greatest impedance to my acceptance of Jesus as Lord and Savior was the nagging suspicion that perhaps I was being tricked. But what is the alternative? What have we to lose? What if, just what if, we can have both reality and happiness? What if the Son of God really did die to buy us complete freedom and peace, and what if He really did conquer death through resurrection?

A turn for the even more interesting.

I got laid off from my place of employment of eight years. They called me into the manager's office one afternoon and told me business was slow, and they had to make some difficult decisions. It was classic. I'm grateful to have had this authenticating experience that would further identify me with the disenfranchised. Although at that point in my window service career I was praying almost daily that God would release me from my drudgery, getting canned was nevertheless disappointing.
As it turns out, the Almighty Ruler of the Universe knew what He was doing again, because I needed almost all my time off to finish strong in my spanish classes this semester. I barely finished all my papers and homework, even without a job. There is one girl who tends the language lab who would let me stay past closing time, clandestinely, and so I would be there typing reports in spanish all alone with the doors locked and the lights out until ten o'clock at night. Afterwards I would hike the half mile back to my van in the dark. Crime is frequent on and around our urban campus but I never saw anyone. And I looked. I don't practice karate on my punching bag every day merely for excercise. Neither was my van ever disturbed. There must be something about a window propped up by a screwdriver that deters the curiosity of thieves. Really, I thank God for protecting me. "If you make the Most High your dwelling- even the Lord, who is my refuge- then no harm will befall you, no disaster will come near your tent. For He will command His angels concerning you to guard you in all your ways"(psalm 91.9-11).
I finished the last month of school tiding myself over with odd jobs. I made A's in my classes. This also I attribute to the grace of God. Clearly he has made my professors favorably disposed toward me.
I've since taken a job with a heat and air company owned by someone from my church family. I spend my days assisting one of his two servicemen, either a sixty-two year old country boy with a curly mullet who can trouble-shoot a condenser unit just by listening to it, or a young, heavily tattooed pentecostal cage-fighter. I really enjoy them both. Also, I had no idea that the science of heating and air conditioning was so fascinating. My life has taken a turn for the even more interesting.

The Governing Factor of Financial Limitation

Ten dollars won't lift the needle on my fuel gauge even past the yellow. I've demonstrated this to myself repetitiously, always somehow hoping for different results. But springtime is near, and daylight is increasing, so I plan to be commuting by bicycle again soon. I know it's good for my body and for the environment and such, but economic necessity is still the best motivator. In fact, almost none of my high-minded ideals have ever made me as conscientious as has my poverty, if I may call it such. As much as I would like to be pious, and I have been, about using cloth diapers, not having cable television, not buying fast-food, or commuting via bicycle, what I regard as a shortage of funds has often been the most significant governing factor over my lifestyle. The question that arises is, "Do I really believe my life is richer just the way it is?" Only time, and increased economic viability, will tell. Someday I'll graduate from college, and the time may come when I have more money at my disposal. Whether or not I am disciplined enough to then maintain my current lifestyle will reveal if I have truly learned contentment. And I expect that I have. There is nothing I desire more than the presence and wisdom of God, and to see His name glorified. Late-model transportation and full-coverage insurance does not even compare. The only reason I think I would use my Spanish degree to land a nine-to-five, rather than go to the mission field, is that I "may have something to share with those in need" (Eph 4:28b). There is no shortage of ministries that I would like to lend more support, and no shortage of people who need help.
Then again, there is no shortage of stuff I want. Drum kit, skimboard, new van, backpacking gear, karate classes...all for the sake of the kingdom of course. "The heart is deceitful above all things," (Jer 17:9). How many times did I imagine just last month how pleasant it would be to be able to sit down in a restaurant and fill my belly? If I am only reluctantly faithful with little, how can I expect to be faithful with much? So it could be a concern that my financial limitations govern me, discipline me, more than the Spirit of God. But in actuality, the Spirit of God is not at all limited to asserting Himself only through a guilty conscience. He has all things at His disposal. "But when you are tempted, He will also provide a way out so that you can stand up under it" (1 Cor 10:12). His deliverance may appear in the form of an empty wallet, and we should praise Him and give Him the credit all the same. It is always God who delivers the Christian, Father who disciplines His child, and I invite Him to use whatever means necessary, that is, should I ever begin to forget to discipline myself.

Campus police cruised up on me while skating in a parking lot, and informed me that skateboarding was not permitted. "Really," I commented. He reiterated to me that this was university policy. "Okay," I said sadly. I almost forgot and rode away on my skateboard, but caught myself, picked up my board and walked back to my van. I'd been skateboarding in that parking lot occasionally since I started going to school there 3 years ago and while I always avoided security because of the common knowledge that police harrass skateboarders, I never knew there was an anti-skateboarding policy in place. Regardless, it's understandable. Skateboarding is inherently destructive. We take chunks out of concrete and bricks and mortar when we ollie onto or grind our metal trucks over curbs and such. Playing rock and roll is also inherently destructive. A little bit won't hurt you but in the long run it impairs your hearing. As one who expresses exuberance through both skateboarding and hard rock, and as a Christian, it has occurred to me to consider my liberty to practice such noisy activities. We do, afterall, follow the one who "a bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out" (Isaiah 42:3). I've since concluded that living is inherently destructive. To exist at minimum is to consume resources, create waste, and inevitably to inconvenience someone else and occasionally break things. Furthermore, a sedentary, risk-free life will almost always eventually be more destructive to the self than skateboarding will ever be to a sidewalk. An isolated life of never offending anyone would be far more detrimental to the soul than noisy rock music with a message intended to provoke thoughts of God would be to ringing ears. "Whatever you do, whether in word or deed, do it all in the name of the Lord Jesus, giving thanks to God the Father through Him" (Colossians 3:17). Just don't skateboard on campus.

It's curious when people point out that they have a black friend. If ethnicity isn't an issue, why then the need to justify yourself by bringing it up? This is a joke between Gilbert and I, and we exchanged glances and smirks while yet another customer pointed out his own disregard for so-called racial barriers in an attempt to, I suppose, make Gilbert feel more welcome. This customer was a retired high school teacher and college professor who favored math and science, and Gilbert and I were changing some glass on his house. "When we die," he asked, "what color will our souls be?" This was what he confronted racist people with to help them see past their shallowness. While I expect, based on the prophet Daniel and much of the NT, that one day God will resurrect our physical bodies and we won't be disembodied souls for long, and furthermore while I don't think God made a mistake in designing the spectrum of pigment variations displayed in the human race, I felt that the man's point was mostly rhetorical and generally good, so I didn't dispute the technicalities with him. I think I did, however, ask him what colors our souls were, just for fun. I asked him if he believed in Jesus Christ, and he said he did, that "It's only logical," but then went almost directly into an espousal of evolution, insisting that the bible didn't contradict the theory. "There is no reason that any educated person shouldn't accept evolution." I wasn't being much help to Gilbert at this point. With the customer's permission, I pointed out that we understand from Genesis and Romans that death is the resulting curse of sin, specifically Adam's disobedience in the Garden of Eden. So how, I asked, do we account for the generations upon generations of death, killing and suffering through natural selection which evolutionary theory demands to have occurred before Adam and Eve could have existed as they are presented in the creation account? At this, the professor embarked on a two or three minute recounting of Jesus' parable about the men who'd received varying amounts of money or talents, at the end of which he asked, "What was the question?" I reminded him, and he concluded his monologue with the explanation that Genesis is a parable not unlike the one he'd just rephrased, and finally ending with the connection between the differing talents of the parable and the differing levels of scientific prowess and educational opportunities of people today. I sensed that I was being patronized. He asked me what I believe about creation and evolution. "I believe God," I said, "and I believe that what He said in His word is true." I expect that when I stand before Holy God, it will really be better for me to have given Him the benefit of the doubt on world history. Surely He won't chastise me with something like, "Why didn't you believe what your teachers told you? You should have known the Bible wasn't literal." "Abram believed the Lord, and He credited it to him as righteousness." Genesis 15:6

Ernie was holed up in his house in Africa and running out of food and water because of all the political turmoil and violence outside. He is a missionary. He bought me an old book, one that had been a great resource to him, called Defense of the Faith, and it has been an invaluable reference source for me over the years. I had a conversation with Ernie about living the straight and narrow life. For instance, the things he learned in seminary, he said, were worth cutting off his long hair. I pointed out, however, that he had not at all settled for the conventional life. He'd gone to live in Africa, afterall. I have long suspected, and expected, that a life of close obedience to Jesus would be any life but typical. The paradox, I have found, is the stability and consistency and lasting contentment that have accompanied a life of being no longer conformed to the world (Rom 12:2). While He keeps me ever mindful that I am not to rely on things or even people, because they are fast to come and go, He has also been patient and gentle and careful in many of the ways He prepares me for what lies ahead. Hearing about Ernie being in some peril is a stark reminder to me, even as I enjoy the cityscape from the bar on my screened-in deck, that our safety and security are not guaranteed. Chaos and genocide feel not nearly so far away as I look at the note Ernie wrote inside the cover of the book he left me.

My New Year's resolution is to stop procrastinating, I think, but I haven't really decided yet.


I mentioned starting an underground fighting ring to someone from Sunday School class. I think it would be a great way to attract new people to church who might not ordinarily come. He agreed that it would probably do that, and then returned to his ping-pong game.


On Christmas I had a too-long conversation with someone about hairstyle. I simply mentioned that he was looking nicely trimmed, as he is usually fairly shaggy in between haircuts. He told me I should get a haircut too. I had been considering shaving my head, though it usually takes me some months either to get around to it or to be sure I don't want to start dreadlocks. I usually go at least a year between shearings. Once I went two years and donated 12 inches to Locks of Love. King David's son Absalom would grow about five pounds of hair before cutting it. I don't know if he donated it. My recently trimmed interlocutor told me it took him only two days to get sick of his long hair and have it cut. He informed me that not only is long hair impractical, but that I shouldn't shave my head either, because we must take into account social normatives. I considered cutting my hair into a mohawk, knocking on his door and telling him this was an intervention.

on violence

A lady security guard shot someone who had come into a church and started shooting people because he didn't like Christians. Her account was heroic, and has been for me conciliatory in the dilemma of violence and faith. As a practitioner, self-proclaimed, of the martial arts, I consider at least as frequently as I work out on my punching bag what a rare occasion it would be that I should be justified, much less that I would bring glory to God, in fighting. I believe a person has not only a right but an obligation to defend his family, others who are defenseless, even himself against random violence. However, I've often wondered if it would be a true testimony to Jesus Christ to defend oneself with violence when one has been targeted specifically for faith in Christ. I feel that the security guard in the recent incident resolved this matter well, with objectivity, and not only without compromising her faith but even perhaps glorifying God in cutting short mass murder and in recognizing God's calling in her life. She did mention, after all, seeking God's purpose in her life in a three day fast just preceding the incident. The only question that remains for me is the amount of satisfaction I'm allowed in kungfuing somebody. I've sometimes had the impression that Christians should be reluctant warriors at best. Then I read in the psalms, "The righteous will be glad when they are avenged, when they bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked. Then men will say, 'Surely the righteous still are rewarded; surely there is a God who judges the earth'".
"What I cannot understand," wrote C.S. Lewis, "is this sort of semi-pacifism you get nowadays which gives people the idea that though you have to fight, you ought to do it with a long face as though you were ashamed of it. It is that feeling that robs lots of magnificent young Christians in the services of something they have a right to, something which is the natural accompaniment of courage- a kind of gaiety and wholeheartedness" (Mere Christianity ch 7).

I sprained my ankle skateboarding in a 12 foot bowl. I fell off and my leg folded up underneath me and went numb. I lay there and whimpered a minute, then Dirk helped me stand up. I asked the Lord to please let me be alright, though I knew I didn't deserve it. It is reasonable that I should suffer for trying to learn vert at age thirty. "Do not put the Lord your God to the test" (Duet 6:16). After resting a minute and talking to Dirk about gravitational time dilation and the creation of the universe, I drove home with my uninjured left foot. My right ankle meanwhile swelled up and turned purple and I was on crutches for two days. Then I had to go back to work. I limped for a month. Two months later I can almost run normally again but I still can't ollie. God spared me any serious consequences but he did leave me with enough to remind me to take some previously ignored factors into consideration, such as age or lack of AFLAC insurance, when assessing the risk involved in my self-amusement. I remember hobbling away from campus after class one night and hearing suddenly the noisy clacking of skate wheels rushing over the sidewalk, echoing ominously between the buildings on the empty campus. It's one of those ugly noises, like underground hardcore, or sportbikes, that awakens a craving inside of me. I looked back just in time to see him catch big air over a sidewalk ramp. For just a moment he hung in the air like spiderman in silence, then the wheels were clacking and rushing over the sidewalk again. I resumed limping to my van, now with some vicarious exuberance but also with some envy, wishing I hadn't gotten hurt.

church buildings

Once at a gas station a Mexican lady asked me, "How do I get to that big historic church?" She was talking about the Pentecostal church beside the interstate, actually two church buildings side by side. One is huge, the other is more huge. They also have a large, color animated LED sign. The place is fairly new, so the word "historic" was probably mischosen. However, it did make me realize that someday it might be. Hers was perhaps the first really positive reference to the place that I'd encountered from an outsider. Most people call it "Six Flags over Jesus" or something like that. I too viewed the place with some contempt; It is afterall somewhat imposing, and doesn't help that some Pentecostal people act so scared of people like me who don't tuck their shirts into their pants. Aren't church buildings like this simply arrogant displays of personal prosperity? A fellow college student said indignantly, "All of that money should have been given to the poor." Judas Iscariot, the apostle who never really loved Jesus and ultimately betrayed him said something like that when a woman anointed him with some very expensive perfume (John 12:5), to which Jesus responded, "You will always have the poor among you, but you will not always have me" (John 12:8). These verses helped to break me free from judging church activities, the most conspicuous perhaps being building projects. Only God knows our motives and for all we can see, these are legitimate attempts to honor Him. I cringe as others pass judgement on the church, and not because I don't know what they're talking about. It's because they may just be passing judgement on the Bride of Christ, and one day we'll all stand before her Husband.

Faith and Reason

A friend of mine, a follower of Jesus and a philosophy student, told me once that reading Kierkegaard had helped his faith which had been plagued by questions, I suppose scientific. He paraphrased, "Anything you can reason yourself into, you can reason yourself out of." I accepted that, and so when God confronted me with John 6:62-69 after I prayed about some confusing information brought up in one of my secular religious classes, I interpreted those life-giving words in light of what I'd accepted about faith and reason. In those bright and shining verses that nourish my soul, Jesus asks his twelve disciples if they too want to leave him. Peter answers, "Lord, to whom shall we go? You have the words of eternal life. We believe and know that you are the Holy One of God" (John 6:68-69). For a while I thought that here was Peter making a choice and asserting faith in spite of reasoning that would tell him to run for it. But that's not the case at all. What Peter exhibits so beautifully is good, solid reasoning. His logic is pure and simple. Where's he gonna go? God worked in me with those verses, but not, upon reviewing my own faith, what I had thought. If my faith in Christ relied on my choosing to believe something that I thought would make me feel better, I'd have become a Taoist by now. My faith instead is hinged upon the unlikelihood of my being unconvinced that Jesus left behind an empty tomb and has been changing people's lives for 2000 years. If your faith is not inseparable from reason, from reality, then why keep it?

Unwavering Faith

Someone I love asked me during a visit how it is that my faith seems so unwavering. If she only knew. I felt suddenly guilty of being pretentious. There was a time, early on, when I wondered if my faith, no matter how much it grew, would always be just a step ahead of ravenous atheism, the voice in my head that said "Never underestimate the power of suggestion," or "You're talking to yourself." While those particular reservations have grown distant and ineffective, others have risen which are of course more relevant to where I am now. My faith seems to move in a frequency pattern, with wavelengths, and so to describe it as unwavering is inherently inaccurate. Each choice we make to believe or obey God brings us to a new set of choices to be made and consequently new doubts to overcome. With the right choices, we move from such questions as "How can people in Australia be raptured up?" and into questions like "Would God really ask me to compromise the security of my family in order to travel to a particular place or be involved with this political activity?" Faith wavers, and doubts change but remain the same, for there is always a part of us that would resist his divine work and cling to an easier way.

For my 30th birthday, my hands broke out in festering sores and scabbed over so that I could barely touch anything. I also got a fever. I suppose I had imagined myself out skateboarding for my 30th birthday, a demonstration of my Peter Pan-like defiance of aging and the accompanying social expectations. I was able to go wakeboarding the weekend before my birthday. Wakeboarding is the latest adaption to waterskiing; the difference is that you stand sideways on a single board, so it's more like skateboarding or snowboarding, and you can do more tricks. It was my first time, and the only trick I could do was slap my face on the lake repeatedly and forcefully. So my neck was stiff for days. None of these ailments were conducive to an age-defiant attitude. I am glad that God reminded me that my life and times are entirely in his hands. I understand that there is no amount of willpower or positive thinking that can deliver me from every ailment, but there is a more insidious theology that creeps up from within my desperation for longevity and health, and that is the expectation that God will honor my attempts at what I regard as a full life by, I suppose, allowing me to persist in my activities. A danger is that I would begin to redefine a full life, and abundant life, by the fun I have rather than by the God I know. My meager physical inconveniences were reminders as to where my joy must come.

What does God do all Day?

I was asked over lunch one day, "What does God do all day?" to which I replied, "He loves you, like you were the only one here." That has been my beautiful experience in walking with God, and I still am often surprised at it. The Creator of the universe not only loves the world full of people, but loves each person. He is bigger than time and space, and He bothers Himself with me, arranging circumstances and conversations and books and all of life that the Holy Spirit would use these things to teach me and guide me in all truth. In His tremendous grace He gives me chance after chance to live well before Him. It would be enough had the Son of God died to take away my sins, rose again to make certain our victory and hope in Him, and left us His word the Bible to show us the Way, and yet He even sends us His Holy Spirit to please us with His very presence. He is an intimate God. After all, "God is love," as many people like to quote. But the implications of this should transform our lives. If we understand that His church should be doing what He is doing, then we should also understand that to the world, God is doing what the church is doing. The question "What does God do all day?" becomes painfully poignant. We should search ourselves to ensure that the answer can never legitimately be mistaken for "Nothing," or even "Not much."
"Whoever does not love does not know God, because God is love" (1 John 4:8)

Communal Living

I packed everything I needed for the week in New Orleans into one backpack and strapped a sleeping bag to it, which was liberating. Everything, that is, except my guitar. If it came to it, I suppose I could trade the guitar for a ukulele. When I put my backpack on, I wanted to walk across town instead of just to the car. We worked hard each day but there was still energy in the evenings for playing guitar, and frisbee, and hackeysack, and for visiting with people. Some seemed rather engrossed in their own cliques but most were very friendly. The lady who asked us to be quiet the first night, Bridgett, worked in the same house as I, and she was radiantly friendly and funny and enthusiastic about Jesus. I realized later that she actually did have a real concern for silence on behalf of another in her group who revealed herself to be far less cooperative with the communal living arrangements. I'd underestimated this, but Bridgett, I think, must have known, and I hope that next time that sister in Christ will find a Motel 6. I personally enjoy living in community. That was one of my favorite parts of being in the army; there was egalitarianism and camaraderie. It was the perfect Marxist socialist society functioning to protect and propagate democracy and capitalism. At any rate, what I observed of the ongoing mission which I was so briefly a part of at Gentilly Baptist Church in New Orleans was the Kingdom of God coordinating in a way that was surely closer to the efficient ideal. People were coming together to give of themselves in order to be a blessing to a hurting community, inspired by our Lord who gave all to us.

A Flood Survivor

One day while hanging sheet rock in New Orleans, a dreadlocked rasta-type poked his head in the window and started talking to us. He lived in a FEMA trailer two feet away. He was 52 years old, but he also said he was two years old because he felt like he'd been given a new life when he survived the flood two years ago. His name was Christopher, he was chiseled and beautiful, with thick dreadlocks mushrooming off his head. He wore a flight suit. He said that when the flood came, some people were swept down the street, but he managed to just get around the corner of a house and therefore not to be caught by the current. "But I was wearing the wrong boots," he explained, for they were too heavy to swim in and his feet were planted to the ground. The water rose above his head, and he thought he was a goner, until he remembered a Sponge Bob Square Pants episode about a deep-sea diver and realized he could walk under water. He walked to his house. "If anyone had seen it, they'd have just seen a nose cruise by," he said. His arms were outstretched and his head was straight back as he demonstrated how he made this journey. "It was beautiful," he smiled. When he was underwater he became tragically aware of all of his life's regrets, and that he hadn't lived whole-heatedly for God. "One of the things that hurt me most was that I'd never married my old lady," he recounted sadly. He prayed that he would be given another chance, and his boot suddenly found the firm ledge of the sidewalk in front of his house. He pulled himself up on his porch. "The Lord saved me, and changed my whole outlook that day," Christopher told us. "That's why I say I'm two years old."

I was assigned to hanging sheetrock with Keith and Cody and a multitude of brothers and sisters from other churches. I was glad for the opportunity to practice something I hadn't done much of, and so to learn some new things. Keith fortunately was familiar with the science of hanging sheetrock, having done it for a living for a while, though commercially rather than residentially. The shotgun house we were remodeling may have been 600 square feet. We didn't meet the homeowner, but others who did said she was staying in an apartment and working, and eagerly awaiting the day when her 13 grandkids could come stay with her again in her house. There was a sleeping loft for them in the room where my group was working, which probably was a carport before. The house was charmingly minimalistic to me, but some were of the opinion that it should have been razed. Many whom we were with were inexperienced with manual labor and unaccustomed to the heat, which set the work at a rather leisurely pace. Keith was aggressive about his work and I could tell this frustrated him somewhat. It crossed my mind, purely as an observation and with no malice attached, that some people really can serve better by staying at home and donating money. Money, however, is such an impersonal and easily abused solution. At the end of the week, no one would have mistaken my work for professional either; it was done by amateurs for free. It was a beautiful thing to see children of God gathering from far away because they'd been shown a need, and given an opportunity to share a burden and love our neighbors, as Jesus commands.

Prayer

I woke up early with a gray light from a narrow window by my head illuminating my cot. I was almost a blank slate in regards to my expectations of the mission, but already in sacrificing my paycheck, and the politics and usefulness of the program. I propped up on my knees to pray about all this, entrusting myself again to what I believed God had called me to do. I had forsaken a Mexico mission, which I had hoped since the year before to attend, because I didn't feel the Holy Spirit's perfect peace about going after just the first meeting. It had seemed like a good idea to me, as I am a Spanish major and need the practice. Later I learned of the New Orleans trip and, with almost no further analysis, put my faith in God and went. I dare say I obeyed God and went. And so, for a moment, somewhere in mid-air between the leap an the palm of God's hand, I wavered. But the landing was beautiful. The serenity, the perfect stillness of thought that I experienced before God that morning was supernaturally sublime, nothing less than divine assurance that I'd found myself in the center of his will. "For we are God's workmanship, created in Christ Jesus to do good works, which God prepared in advance for us to do" (Eph 2:10). I didn't know what the day would hold, but my God knew exactly what to expect. He'd seen that place and the peole with whom I'd be working with long ago, and He'd made all the arrangements for me.

New Orleans

At a moderately nice restaurant some customers left a large hunk of chocolate cake and an almost untouched scoop of ice cream at a booth near my table. I eyed it and considered swooping for it like Crucial Mike. My apall at waste, my primal appetite, and my carefully calculated budget combine to bring me great pleasure in free food. I've never eaten after strangers though. It remains disappetizing to me. I almost grabbed a Burger King bag out of the trash one night on campus, but I didn't do it either. Stuff goes into the garbage for a reason. I let the cake go, but I did clean up some left over quesadillas from someone in our group. We drove the rest of the way to New Orleans laughing and joking deliriously, at last arriving at a dark and looming church building at almost midnight in a neighborhood that seemed much abandoned. We met Jackie the head coordinator who debriefed us somewhat as to what the next day's schedule would be like, and we were shown our cots. A lady from another group requested politely more than once that we be quiet because people were sleeping after a hard day's work. "After you've worked here a day, you'll understand," she said. I was thinking, if you're so tired, go to sleep.

Expenditures

We were able to go to the beach by splitting costs with gracious extended family. So, for a few days I was able to skimboard and listen to waves break and breathe ocean air and marvel at the beauty and expanse of God's sea, the ancient waters out of which the earth was formed (2 Peter 3:5). When we came home, we were able to purchase wood floor for our new place of residence at a discounted price from my place of employment, and with skillful leadership of our dear friend Terry, we were able to lay the floor ourselves throughout the house. I feel mostly justified about large expenditures when I am able to cut costs in any creative or fortunate ways, but I still agonize to some degree over every decision regarding where my money will go. In fact I feel a need to justify my expenses because I'm sometimes embarrassed of my standard of living in light of global conditions. I am quite torn about my modern needs, and I think the tension is biblical. Jesus says, "If anyone would come after me, he must deny himself and take up his cross daily and follow me" (Luke 9:23) while Paul reasons, "He who did not spare His own Son, but gave Him up for us all- how will He not also, along with Him, graciously give us all things?" (Rom 8:32). This is part of the careful balancing act that keeps us walking on the narrow path, and entering through the small gate (Matt 7:14).