Missing Immanuel

Maybe I'll make it an annual tradition to write an Advent post. Because God taught me something wonderful, yet sobering today...

So, it's been a hard couple weeks. The pressures of marriage prep, wedding planning, preparing to move and working have been weighing heavy on me. A few victories here and there, but I feel as though discouragement has become an all too familiar companion. And my seeking of God has become an all too distant memory.

But this morning, while reminded that "Worship is how we fight," I decided to do just that - worship God. And as I sang, prayed, and read, I thought again about this reality of "Immanuel"... God with us in the flesh; God with us in our hearts; God with us forever. I was beginning to pray that I would experience Jesus coming in my heart when I stopped short - Christ already is in my heart. I experience Advent everyday. It's a bit redundant to pray that, right?

But here is the truth I was told... I can miss it - like I've been missing it. I can be totally oblivious to the fact that Christ has come.

...Just like 2,000 years ago.

Nevermind the dozens of Messianic prophecies - the majority of the people in Bethlehem that night had NO CLUE that their God had been born in their city... As promised. The only ones aware of that magnificent truth - that so easily accessible truth - that blessed, life-giving truth - were a handful of shepherds.

There He was, God in the flesh... And the majority of people missed it. And as He grew up, that would be the theme... Even with all the miracles, all the teaching, all the eating, drinking, living and loving... Most people missed it.

But hey, can't be too judgmental can we? Because I for one miss Him pretty much everyday. There He is - Christ. Christ in my mind, my heart, my body, my soul - the Holy Spirit dwelling in freakin every part of me - and what do I do? I hurry along anxiously to the next task. I embrace my pet sins to comfort me. I choose sleep as an escape. I snap and bite at the people I love - or I distance myself. I look over the Word with a cursory, dutiful glance.

I miss His coming. He's there alright - but my mind's eye doesn't see Him.

So I changed my prayer to a request to give me eyes that see Him; a soul that senses Him; a heart that cares about this reality. Immanuel - God with us. Every day. Right now.

I just pray we don't miss it.

Adventures of Black Girl in Chinatown

For a little bit I thought I should rename my blog the title of this post. You see, I write most of my blogs in my head - sadly, most of them never make it to the outside world. But anyways, most of my blogs are about my hilarious misadventures where I spend 75% of my day - Chicago's Chinatown. I get there 8 in the morning, and don't leave till nearly 8 at night. In a sense, Chinatown has become my home.

Eh, except... You know...

So I knew going into this job would be a bit... Hard for me. To put it plainly: Chinese don't like Black folk, and Black folk don't like Chinese (except for the food). Thanks to some stupid Blacks who have robbed and murdered, now most Chinese are afraid of any Black person. For us who aren't homicidal or cleptos, we become embittered as we're followed around stores and given furtive, distrusting glances on the street.

Now, being one who loves the idea of racial reconciliation, I saw the God-given opportunity to be a bridge. God made me for this - He made me to be a cultural ambassador, to "integrate." So when little things happened, I tried to take it in stride. It was an awesome opportunity to correct a student's opinion that I was an anomaly as far as nice Black people go; no, it wasn't a bad thing that a lot of black people are at Malcolm X College; no, I'm not necessarily an exceptional speaking Black person, I just wasn't raised in the ghetto; no, I'm not a receptionist, I'm an ESL teacher. Teachable moments.

But I think this last episode has me questioning again what the heck I'm doing...

My fiance and I decided we wanted to live in Chinatown to be closer to my work. And I was thrilled with the idea of being IN the community of my students - shopping at the same grocery stores, bumping into them on the block. I also wanted to be near to my awesome new friends who are feeling more and more like family that I work with. And here was a golden opportunity - an apartment with dirt cheap rent, across from one of my dear coworkers, a block away from another.

The landlady seemed nice. A former student recommended me to her, as did another. She assured us that she "didn't discriminate" (where did that come from?). We told her we'd make a decision and call her soon. We called her the next day (WeD) and let her know that we'd be getting the apartment and giving her the security deposit when I was back to work on Monday (since I was sick on Thursday). Her husband was worried we might be "party animals" (wtf?), but his wife assured him we were good Christian kids (...right).

Well, lo and behold, today rolls around and guess what?

Our apartment was given to someone else.

Really? Really?

Now, I will be fair. We did ask her if we could take up the carpet. And since we wouldn't be living in the apartment for most of December, we asked for half rent that month (honeymooning, traveling, etc.). She agreed to both, but sure, if another couple comes and doesn't care about the carpet and will move it right away... Yeah, I can get that. Still extremely bogus since we had this verbal agreement and you knew we were going to move in, knew that we so desperately wanted to be close to my job... And the whole Christian brotherhood thing. But okay, whatever.

But I can't help but feel she was quicker to jilt us because of our melanin.

I almost feel like this is the last straw... Why am I working in this community where people hate my people? Why am I working in this place where people look at my fiance twice? Why am I even trying to live in a place where I need my former boss to "okay us" (bless his heart, I love him), and my students to assure future landlords about us. Why am I doing this?

*coughChristcough*

Oh yeah. The whole serving those who don't necessarily like you, being a light so people will be drawn to the Lord, being an example of the reconciliation that the Father so desperately wants (both racially and spiritually).

And I do love what I do. I love my students, I adore my coworkers... If I wasn't working here, some of the best people I've met in my life would not exist in it. And I do thrive in this foreign community. As I said before, God made me cross-culturally inclined.

Times like these, I just need to remember that. And I can't mimic the thinking that labels my sweet coworkers and students as "exceptions to the rule."

Pray for a sister, ya'll...

Changing Direction

So originally, I created this blog space to be a place where I aired out my feminism in yo face!!!

...Yes, I did just do that.

But seriously, I first decided to do a blog to be the beginnings of a grand work where all my thoughts on the Biblical view of women (their role, worth, etc.) could be collected. And I dreamed of various complementarians and hierachialists stumbling upon my site, only to be convicted by the Spirit of God, break down in tears, and allow women to use the full range of their gifts.

...Hey, you never know.

But that wasn't the only reason.

I wanted to write because I was angry. As thoughts about previous conversations, stories I heard about certain churches, things I read in certain books, memories of my years at Moody replayed in my head... I realized I was incredibly angry.

Now I realize I'm still incredibly angry. Not only at theological misogyny, but so many things. Like...

Good ol regular misogyny

The way the Church treats the LGBT community

The plight of Black people

Random theological issues I don't understand

Human trafficking

Etc., etc.

Lately, that anger has been ripping me up a bit more than usual.

And so, I need to write about a larger range of topics, if only for my sanity.

And I also need to just write about the random mundane (how's that for an oxymoron?). I learn so many little lessons here and there.

So let's see how this goes...

And the moral of the story is...

A little girl grows up seeing injustices done to her people day after day.

As a woman, she’s put into a position of having to help one she perceived as of the “enemy.”

As time goes on, a relationships blooms, and her heart is changed from reluctant assistance, to sincere care.

She matures from prejudice to reconciliation.

Beautiful.

How such a heartwarming story was twisted from being a story of a woman’s journey to reconciliation, to instead being “exhibit A” of the NAACP being racist, is beyond me.

Equally beyond me is how the government allowed themselves to be duped into believing a cut-and-paste version of Sherrod’s speech from a Tea Party enthusiast.

It’s also amazing that some are viewing this whole bru-ha-ha as a scheme by liberals to cast a doubtful light on Fox News and the Tea Party.

Astounding that some are complaining that such good treatment would never be given if a white person was in Sherrod’s shoes, and how it’s horrible that a closet racist is being catered to so lavishly.

Yep.

Welcome to post-racial America everyone.

A Brief Allegory

There once was a boy named Cory. Cory grew up in a big family - parents, grandparents, 3 sisters and 4 brothers. It was big, and a little crazy, but Cory wouldn't have traded them for any other family in the world.

...Although, there was one thing he longed for.

Cory loved to cook. As his mother would cook dinner, or his grandmother would make her famous banana pudding... He wanted to create such deliciousness with his own hands. And so, in those rare snatches of peace in the kitchen, he would experiment. A little bit of this, a little bit of that and voila! ...Eh, not so tasty. But he would try again... And slowly but surely he learned. And he loved it.

He would dream of new marinades for meat. Cory would daydream of frosting and funnel cake, he'd doodle pictures of cupcakes and cobblers. His eyes were always glued on Food Network . He was positive now - he would one day become a chef.

And his family began to take notice.

"Sweetheart... Why are you watching Rachel Ray?"

"Mom!!! Dad!!! Cory's in the kitchen again!"

"Son, is that a smudge of frosting I see on your nose?"

This was getting out of hand... It was time to sit Cory down for a talk.

Everyone sat around the living room. His dad cleared his throat, hands clasped behind his back.

"So son... I hear you've become interested in... cooking."

Cory nervously scratched the back of his shin with his toes. "Uh, yeah Dad, I have."

"But Cory, why would you ever want to do that?" His grandfather asked, perplexed.

Cory's eyes lit up. "Because it's awesome! Being able to make something delicious from things you'd never eat by themselves - the mixing and the blending, the sweet smells... Being able to feed people, trying new recipes... It's amazing."

"You're certainly right about that," his mother nodded sympathetically. "That's what I love about cooking. But sweetie, me and your grandma and sisters always take care of the cooking."

"Even though Carissa really shouldn't," Cory's younger brother muttered. It was true. Mom and Grandma were great cooks - their skills were mind-blowing in the kitchen. Candace was well on her way to their level (she had a natural knack) - Connie couldn't cook apart from recipes, but her food still tasted alright. Carissa though shouldn't be allowed in the kitchen.

But that was how things were in Cory's home.

"But Mom - "

"Cory" his dad interuppted. "We just don't understand it - if we have so many women who are able to cook so well, why would we need you to? Why would you even want to?"

What would you say to Cory? I mean, he does live in a house full of women who can cook sooooo well (minus Carissa). Why would another hand in the kitchen be needed?

Would you agree with the family?

Or would you perhaps think that another cook couldn't hurt. Sure, apple pie is apple pie... But no two people make apple pie exactly the same. Cory's family is missing out on his unique take to food. And not only that - Cory loves to cook. He loves to cook, he's good at it, he loves feeding people - the question becomes slightly absurd.

It's like asking a med school student "Why are you trying to become a doctor? We already have a million in this state!"

Or asking a dancer, "Why are you becoming a ballerina? There are already so many..."

Or maybe asking an emcee, "Why do you rap? Don't you know there are way too many people trying to do that?"

They do it because they love it - because they are talented at it - and some do it because it's the gift God's placed in their life to bless others with.

I'm sure you've already gotten where I'm going with this.

About a year ago, I was asked by a brother "If we have solid, able men in the church teaching, why would we need women to teach?" I was so taken aback, I wasn't sure how to answer... And also, there are so many assumptions wrapped up in that question, you almost have to tackle those before you move on to anything else.

Here is one assumption... Ability and desire are enough to qualify a man, but not a woman. Because in my friend's question's scenario, if another solid, able man wanted to teach, it would be no problem - yes, there are plenty of teachers, but another couldn't hurt (if he is solid and a good teacher). However, if a woman wanted to teach, she is asked "Why?"

Well, here's my answer. I am first of all very much a proponent of a plurality of teachers in any gathering of believers, whether it be a Sunday morning church gathering, or a small group or a Bible study. Having just one person teach week after week is unhealthy. Why? Because you are only getting this person's particular point of view, this person's style, only the nuances in the text that this person would pick up.

But if you have two people teaching... Ah, you're getting a bit more variety. God is expressed in diversity, because each person's relationship with God is different. I learn somethings about God from my co-worker, for example, that I never learn from my boyfriend - and things I learn from my boyfriend about God, I've never heard from my pastor. And so it goes.

Now, there is variation from person to person - what about from group to group. If I'm only hearing teachers that are all Asian, what does that do to my understanding of God or His word? Or what about teachers that are only from Chicago? Or teachers that all have law degrees, or who are all... You get the picture. In hearing from people who are all the same, I lose something that I can learn of God.

So... What if all the teachers I hear are always all men?