Like a Sock in the Stomach

It is my privilege and honor to be a new member on the NETWORK Education Program board.  For forty years, NETWORK has been a faithful witness to Gospel justice in Washington, D.C.  Originally founded by 47 Catholic nuns, this organization is now a leading prophetic voice on Capital Hill.  Specifically, NETWORK (and NEP) educates, organizes, and lobbies for economic justice, peace, and care for the environment.  It is among the most prominent examples of lived Catholic Social Teaching TODAY, upholding the dignity of life through fostering solidarity with the poor and vulnerable.  After recently spending just four days with the staff and board of NETWORK, largely made up of women religious, I am inspired to continue my own work for peace and justice in the Catholic faith.

Imagine, then, my shock and grief at the release of a Vatican report, targeting the Leadership Conference of Women Religious (LCWR), as well as NETWORK.  The report states that these organizations pose doctrinal threats to the Catholic faith through the promotion of "radical feminism" and through their silence on moral issues, such as homosexuality and abortion.  An archbishop will further investigate, as well as attempt to implement changes to the LCWR, which represents 80% of nuns in the United States.  Is it hyperbole to suggest that this echoes gender-based persecutions like witch hunts?  And this time, those being hunted are the very backbone of the American Catholic church: its teachers, lobbyists, pastoral associates, religious education directors, nurses, lawyers, and social workers.  For the Catholic church to attack these women is for the church to attack itself.  And a house divided amongst itself ... well, who knows?  I can only pray for dialogue instead of authoritative mandates.

Executive Director of NETWORK, Sr. Simone Campbell, has been making headlines.  If you'd like to follow the story further, listen to this great story from NPR.  And if you'd like to show your support, you can visit their homepage to become a member or get more information.

Here is the press release from NETWORK: We are deeply puzzled by the findings in the Assessment of the Leadership Conference of Women Religious (LCWR), which were just released by the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith. Despite its references to NETWORK, we were never asked to provide any information about our mission or activities.

Since our founding by 47 Catholic Sisters, NETWORK’s mission of lobbying, organizing and educating for social and economic justice has been rooted in the Gospel and Catholic Social Teaching. We have just celebrated our 40^thanniversary, the theme of which was Faithful to the Gospel: Then and Now, and we are grateful for our close relationship with LCWR throughout our history. We honor LCWR for its service and faith commitment, and because it nurtures women religious in their commitment to their faith and religious life.

We are very grateful for the many expressions of support and hope we have received. We also hold everyone in prayer during this difficult time, and we look forward to future dialogue.

For the LCWR and NETWORK, two organizations that advocate for the persecuted and marginalized, it breaks my heart that they are now those facing persecution.  Let us pray that this passes quickly, so these lovely women can continue the Gospel work to which they are called.  The poor need them too much.

The Lenten Hope for Home

Lent has been for me a time of deep reflection on the notion of home.  As part of my work in ministry, I shared a personal story about homecoming on Ash Wednesday with the participants of the Lenten Retreat.  Lent is a journey home, I said, a journey home back into the heart of God.  I talked about Lent as analogous to a road trip I took long ago, from the desert lands of New Mexico to the spring-green hills of Tennessee.  Lent requires us to pack up the essentials, but it also requires us to pare down.  What can we do without?  What just won't possibly fit in my car for the next 1200 miles?  What is the clutter that keeps me from God?  But more importantly, my dad was with me for this road trip back to Nashville, and my mom was there awaiting me, ready to welcome me home.  God with us on the journey, God the open arms ready to embrace.  This is our hope; this is our joy.  Although the analogy wasn't perfect, it reminded me that Lent is the journey and Easter is the WELCOME HOME banner that hangs over the empty tomb (or the warm fireplace, in my own case).

Yet it's been a struggle for me to integrate my analogy into my own life, and at first I couldn't figure out why.  I now think it has everything to do with the necessary, healthy, painfully hard work of word choice.  You see, for the past few months, I have been very deliberate in calling my place of origin (Franklin, Tennessee) just that.  I speak of returning to Tennessee to see my family, of visiting my friends back in Nashville.  It is inevitable and frequently the case that I slip up and talk of "going home," but I always correct myself.  

This linguistic transition is not without the real pain of separation.  To consciously claim that Tennessee is not my home, at least in every way, feels isolating, too independent, foreign, and sometimes just plain wrong.  It is not without doubts.  Am I so quickly willing to let go of my former home to invest in a new one?  Surely I will always feel at home there - that is without doubt.  So why not just call my childhood home "home," without qualification or equivocation?

To put it simply: because I desperately long for the Easter hope of a home that is not over 2000 miles away.  In the midst of doubt, I need hope that is right beneath my feet.  I want investment in the present.  In the Now.  In the Here.  In the This.  I know that home is starting to be built here, just like I know hope is here, because I feel it beneath my fingertips.  I see it in the real, intimate friendships I am blessed by.  I hear it in the cries of those in need - those in my city, in my work, in my life.  Christian hope doesn't look like waiting to return to places of comfort that I know and love.  Rather, the hope of home looks like grounding myself in places of discomfort that I am learning to love through the painful work of relinquishment and the joyful blessings of new beginnings.

Maybe the promise of Lent, and the promise of Easter, is not stability.  Maybe it's not life without change.  The disciples sure didn't receive that come Easter morning!  Maybe it's not even the notion of a new home that will somehow replace another.  Rather, the promise of Lent is captured in one of my favorite song lyrics: "Home is on the journey there with you."  Ron Rohlheiser talks about God as being in what is most deeply home.  And this is the incarnation's promise - that we are already home, really.  That we don't have to get in the car or on the plane and travel back to our roots.  That we don't have to buy a house or rent a certain apartment.  That we don't have to look outside ourselves for the elusive hope of Christ. No.  Christ's idea of home is Now.  Here.  This.

Kony 2012

A video was released last week by Invisible Children called Kony 2012 - perhaps you've heard of it.  Either that or you live under a rock.  The instant success of the online film, and the subsequent public mental breakdown of its creator, Jason Russell, fascinate me.  The public discourse intrigues me even more.  Across the world, people are not just talking about the Ugandan warlord Joseph Kony, and his army of child soldiers.  They are not just talking about the atrocities he's committed or his position as the International Criminal Court's most wanted human rights abuser.  They are also talking about the morality of a documentary that is deemed decidedly simplistic and narrow in its aim and content.  They are also asking the conversation to allow for nuance and critique.  The film proposes U.S. military intervention to arrest Kony, whom the filmmaker calls the "bad guy."  Is this the solution to Uganda's ills?  Is this the task of young people today?

Not just because of its far-reaching effects but also because of its various assumptions, Kony 2012 is quite complex in its simplicity.  It seeks to mobilize young people across the world in a very basic way - with social media, posters, and bracelets that say "Kony 2012," so that this man might be truly infamous, so that the world might know his name, his face, and his crimes.  Then, and only then, the argument goes, will he be arrested and will all the child soldiers be able to "return to their families."  I am not surprised that the mission of Invisible Children is best captured in a film - it is a mission that seems more Hollywood than anything else.

Like Harry Potter, Lord of the Rings, or any number of other fantasy movies that I love oh-so-much, Kony 2012 proposes the elimination of one man, a man termed the "bad guy" and even directly equated with the bad guys from Star Wars.  Never could I disagree that Kony is a bad guy, the villian in the story of the kidnapping, oppression, and killing of thousands of Ugandan children.  If the ICC says he's bad, he's got to be bad.  But aren't other things bad too?  Things like former British colonialism in Uganda, the evangelization of patronizing Christian missionaries, and the fact that over a million Ugandans are currently HIV positive?  I know very little about Ugandans or their daily lives.  But I do know that the removal of one man from a position of authority cannot be a fix-all.  I do know that military intervention is never the solution I seek.

I also struggle to fully support Kony 2012 because it places young Americans in the role of Superman instead of Jesus Christ.  By simply wearing a bracelet, a t-shirt, or plastering posters up in the middle of the night, the young college student is made to feel good and feel like a true changemaker.  "I am helping poor Africans," the student is invited to think.  "Every life is worth the same, and I am showing that to the world."  Then, this student can go back to her dorm room, to her Range Rover, to her designer clothes, without ever interacting with the poor or marginalized.  Her worldview never has to change, her heart never has to be cracked open.  Kony 2012 allows students to become activists without even meeting, or loving, the people for whom they advocate.  And worst of all, the student is left believing that she is, and has always been, a part of the solution.  Kony is the problem, and she is not.  This is not what my faith invites me to, not at all.  

The Kony 2012 video points out that, because of globalization and social media, we are all more connected than ever.  What it doesn't want to also acknowledge is that this very globalization puts US citizens on the side of the oppressor.  We buy cell phones or laptops made with conflict minerals like coltan that currently fuel violent conflict in central Africa.  We buy diamonds with the same story.  We throw away food while Ugandans starve.  Sorry Invisible Children, but I cannot put on a magic bracelet and pretend to be Superman against the evil Kony.  My radical work of social justice from a Christian perspective must begin with confession - confession that leads to incarnational suffering.  The more I understand that I am a perpetrator, the more I seek to side with those I have indirectly or directly oppressed.

The social justice work that I invite young students into at USD, though I usually fail, is about humble listening, radical relationship, and true solidarity.  I believe that students (and I) need to enter into the lives of the marginalized over and over again, so that our hearts can break.  Do I hope that Kony 2012 succeeds in capturing a man who has caused so much suffering?  Absolutely.  But my deeper hope is that students can then put down the posters, the bracelets, the dualism of good and evil, the Superman mentality, and the idea that the military can bring about peace.  It is my wild and impossible hope that Kony 2012 can invite students to reflect not on how they can save others but on how they too need to be saved.  And salvation can only come with humble confession and relationships of solidarity.  No 30 minute video can do that...

The Privilege of Amnesia

I've been thinking about race lately.  And ethnicity, heritage, origin.  But mostly, I've been thinking about privilege.  I think of these things as I teach an Emerging Leaders course to college freshmen.  I think of them when I hear a student's story as a Chicana immigrant.  I think of them when I spend time with people who aren't fair skinned or blue-eyed, who aren't from a safe suburban neighborhood or suffering from horrible amnesia, as so many of us seem to be.

I didn't always remember my race, because I didn't have to.  For the majority of my life, I guess I believed that being white meant being without much ethnicity, without much culture, even without race.  It's true that, to this day, I don't know the names of my ancestors, even my great-grandparents.  I always forget that I'm about 50% Irish, even on St. Patrick's Day.  I have been a woman without history - but living without a history is a dangerous thing.  Yet this is the privilege of white privilege: the ability to live without memory.  We don't want to remember white people's various historical roles as oppressors.  Somehow, the oppressed don't have the luxury of forgetfulness that comes so easily to people like me.

I never owned slaves.  I never turned in an undocumented immigrant, and never would.  I never was a segregationist.  I never use racist language.  I vote for political candidates who I believe will include all people at the table.  Yet I am, nonetheless, the recipient of countless advantages in every aspect of my life.  I am the recipient of a life that I have not fully earned that comes from the pigment of my skin.  My whiteness is not neutral.  It's not the non-factor I used to believe it to be.  Being white means much more than I wish it did.  Here's a great video version of a recent article I've read, "Unpacking the Invisible Knapsack" by Peggy McIntosh, that speaks much more to this than I can.  It's well worth the 5 minutes.  

So I've come to believe that white privilege is the ability to forget, deny, or ignore my privilege.  Therefore, I believe the beginning of racial equality (or one possible beginning) is remembering, admitting, and paying attention to my own skin.  Until we live in a post-racial America (and we are damnably far from it), my whiteness should not, cannot, will not be forgotten.  It's not metaphor to say that privilege is written on my very skin.  

Papal Praise...

Here's a great little reflection to get you thinking... 

"It approaches dishonesty when Catholic Bishops, neo-conservative Catholics, and the ordinary press almost never quote the Popes 
when they say anything critical of capitalism or the Western economic system."  - Richard Rohr

Thrifty Hipster

I'm not sure where or when my obsession with thrift stores began - probably somewhere in the men's department of Goodwill, as I bought my very own itchy polyester pants as part of my "Two Wild and Crazy Guys" Halloween costume at the age of 16.  There may or may not have been stains in the crotch, but no matter.  After such a stylish and inexpensive purchase, I was hooked.  Since that Halloween night, thrift stores have provided me the following costumes: an 80s prom dress, the Golden Snitch, Dobby the House Elf (confused?  Read Harry Potter), Snow White, and many more.

But thrift stores aren't just for fun and games.  Soon, jeans followed, and skirts, shirts, dresses, and no less than 4 pairs of Converse and countless other shoes.  With the exception of school books, I haven't bought a full price book in over 10 years.  As I look at my wardrobe and bookshelves today, it is not hyperbole to say that Goodwill and other thrift stores keep me dressed and, arguably, smart.  Books for $1, 50 cents, even 10 cents?  Yes please.

Before I give the novice thrifty hipster a few words of veteran wisdom, I have to get all social justice-y for a bit.  I began my shopping sprees with the dual intention of saving money and being hip.  Check, and check (see photo, left).  But I now shop at thrift stores (to the exclusion of other places) with a truly religious fervor.  The more I learn about free trade, NAFTA (not to mention CAFTA), sweatshops, and much of globalization, the more I want to keep my money out of a market that includes the poor only when it benefits the rich.  When I teach about social justice, I often ask students to check out their t-shirt labels - not to see what designer brands they can afford but to see where their shirt was made.  So go for it.  Check it out right now.  I'll wait...

When I buy from a thrift store, I know that my clothes are still made in Cambodia, Guatemala, or China.  But I also know that my money does not directly support sweatshops or poor working conditions there.  Folks sometimes argue that a sweatshop is better than no job at all - but a few days in Juarez, Mexico showed me that even "humane" maquiladoras keep their workers in the squalor of desolate poverty.  Do I sometimes find adorable shoes at Target impossible to resist?  Even the 20+ pairs of shoes already in my closet can't stop me from such purchases.  But now I try to at least look at the label and think about the person behind the shoe - what is her factory like?  How old is she?  Does she have children?

Now that I've been a bit Debbie Downer, here are a few must-try tips for thrift store shopping to help you manage the piles of dusty VHS tapes, bins of smelly shoes, and books that are neither alphabetized nor sorted by subject...

1. Do NOT, I repeat do NOT, go with the intention of finding a very specific item.  If you are insistent upon finding a little black dress, size 6, with a slit up the back, preferably from J. Crew, I am afraid you will be sorely disappointed every time.  Rather, go with the intention of finding something new and unique that you weren't planning on buying but can use.  (Emphasize on "can use."  I have learned that the hard way - the BCBG sweater was only $1, so I ignored the fact it didn't fit and would never be worn...)

2. Give yourself an estimated dollar amount to spend - otherwise, I get a bit too spendy.  Granted, "spendy" at a thrift store means $11 for 1 shirt, 1 skirt, 3 books, and a pair of shoes.  But still.

That's me, center, with thrift store shirt and jeans 

3. If you are wary of germs, a great place to start is the book department.  At thrift stores, I have found everything from Kurt Vonnegut, Alice Walker, and Barbara Kingsolver to theologians like Thomas Merton and Henri Nouwen.  Amen to that!  And I challenge you to get over a sense of excessive hygiene - after 12 years of wearing clothes and shoes from thrift stores, drinking out of thrift store mugs, and using thrift store purses, I am fit and healthy.  So give it go - but I guess you should wash things first.


4. When you do dive into the clothing department, try sticking to thrift stores that organize by both color and size.  Because let's admit that not all of us always follow suggestion #1, and we are still secretly looking for that little black dress.

So that's it, folks.  It's as easy as that.  Just don't follow my example of buying a book you already own simply because "it was only $1."  Two (or three) copies of Pride and Prejudice is a bit excessive.  

Talking About "Them" / Ignoring "Them" at the Same Time

She was a brunette, with straight, brushed hair and average clothing.  From behind, she looked a bit like a college professor or a graduate student.  I never saw her face or her expressions, and I can only imagine my own facial expression, full of deep shock, distain, frustration.  If this woman had been a professor, a student, or any average working professional, her concerns would have been heard.  Her indignation would have been recognized.  Her story would have been deemed worthy of hearing.  But this woman was homeless.  And so two men, and an entire auditorium, could render her story a fabrication.  An entire university could make her disappear.

Last Thursday, I attended an event on campus called "Solutions to Homelessness."  Being new to town, I was eager to learn about the homeless in San Diego.  And learn I did - over 9000 counted homeless, including about 3000 school-aged children, live in my city.  There are literally hundreds of agencies, non-profit and government-run, to meet the needs of these men, women, and children.  I am grateful for each one of them.  Truly, I am.  They are doing the work of God.

Then why was I immediately unsettled by the panel of service-providers before me?  Nine men and women dressed in suits, speaking of the clients whom they serve.  Nine voices, none of whom had ever been homeless.  Nine voices that spoke of the collective poor without once sharing a specific story or face of poverty.  Somehow, at such an event, the only faces of homelessness were an artist's photographs to preface the panel.  The artist pointed out that, if the stigma on homelessness wasn't so severe, perhaps some homeless individuals would have joined in the conversation.  My cynical side immediately thought: "If there wasn't such a stigma, maybe we would have thought to invite them in the first place."  Amongst the business suits and talk about "clients," somehow the homeless didn't seem to fit at the expansive table.

So, back to this woman - sitting near the front, with a loud, clear voice and a story to tell.  After the panelists had done a sufficient job of complimenting themselves and each other on the work they do, she raised her fist in the air during the time for Q & A.  "I have been homeless since October," she said.  "I joined with the Occupy movement for months, where I was included and well-fed until the police forced us to leave."  She went on to explain more of her plight, culminating in a horrific morning of being woken up by the police, along with the dozens of people around her, at 5 a.m.  She was sleeping near the train tracks with no other place to go (San Diego has less than half of the shelter beds it would need to house all their homeless population).  She was mistreated and belittled, told to move on, and given a citation which she can't afford to pay.  "So I want to ask each one of you here," she concluded her plea, "what you are going to do about the treatment of the homeless by the police here in San Diego."  A just question, followed by (thank God!) a smattering of applause.  Having seen and heard of the criminalization of the homeless in Nashville, I felt my soul sit right next to this woman's.  Christ stands with her, so I do too.

A middle-aged male panelist immediately responded with barely concealed anger and paternalism.  "Respectfully, I complete disagree with you."  Um, disagree with what, exactly?  With her personal testimony?  With her pain?  With the fact that she deserves respect?  He went on to lecture her, asking her to imagine this department that is short on funds and people, just doing the best they can.  "You should ride around with a police officer one night, just to see how hard their job is.  Besides, we can't judge an entire department on one bad apple."

There was a one-second pause in which every other panelist averted their eyes from the woman sitting not 10 feet in front of them, and then the moderator moved on to a final, unrelated question, referencing our limited time for this event.  USD students sat and watched the whole thing - students who are supposed to be formed and shaped into compassionate servants and global citizens.        

Maybe the panelist is right - maybe the San Diego Police Department is a leader in our nation of the just treatment of the homeless.  To me, their website indicates otherwise, telling me not to give the homeless food (that's not exactly what Christ tells me) or permission to "loiter on my property."  That isn't really the issue, though, is it?

The conversation, and the panel, that took place last Thursday is about authenticity (or perhaps hypocrisy).  Do we listen to the poor, or do we talk about "them" without including them in the conversation?  Do we provide charity to the homeless, while denying them justice?  Lord, have mercy.  Christ, have mercy.  Lord, have mercy.