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No heart, no Gospel

Everywhere I go right now I see wounded hearts where I used to see only sinful acts.

An African sister who has gone from one sexual relationship to another despite her deep faith in God reveals not too far below the surface wounds from the death of her father when she was a child. With just a little digging we realized that each sexual affair followed a moment in her life when she feared having no one to take care of her.

A North African Muslim man, now in homosexual prostitution, talks of his painfully distant relationship with his father. This wasn't a therapy session, by the way. It just comes out in normal conversation. When his father wasn't distant, he was violent. And so the young boy clung to his mother and sisters for love, they became his models in life. Oh and His god, like his father, is also distant and often angry.

A French brother struggles with cutting and biting judgments of others, and an inability to accept leadership and authority figures in his life. He believes the Bible and prays for change and contentment in his life, but nothing changes. ... Again, in the normal course of the conversation, he talks of a father for whom he has no respect. A father who left his mother for another woman and who does almost nothing the way it should be done. Do you see the wounds on his heart like I do? They're screaming at me.

And not just with individuals.

While talking with a brother about needs and plans in Africa, I even saw the hearts of Tutsi and Hutu tribes in Rwanda and Burundi. There's pain, resentment, anger, humiliation, self-hatred, etc., after years of racist politics and discrimination followed by bloodshed and genocidal attacks. And don't forget that for the most part, these acts were carried out by people who claim the name of Christ.

How do we discuss peace and reconciliation with wounds so deep? Just repent and trust Christ? They tried that, many will say.

But yes, surrounding their lives -- like mine -- there is clear sin. We can tell people to repent and trust God. But how?

It's clear that something has been missing from our point-by-point presentation of the Gospel that has brought so many to prayers of repentance but has sadly left so many deep needs unmet.

I can't believe that Christ went to all the trouble of the incarnation and pain of the cross to leave us broken, resentful and unhealed.

Especially when he said so clearly that he had come to set us free, to bind up the brokenhearted.

just a hopeless Parisian I suppose (Jen)

This weekend I was invited, along with my friend Marie, to the 40th birthday party of a friend of ours, Max. The party was in a big cottage not far from Le Mans. Max is a cameraman for channel 3 TV in Paris. I think that's cool. Anyway, I always know that when I'm invited to these weekend extravaganzas, that I'm going to be sort of like a fish out of water.

I've lived in an urban environment now for almost 10 years, and whenever I'm invited to get-togethers like this, I really feel a wimp. For 24 hours I tried not to be a wimp. First of all, everyone, upon arrival was oohing and aaahhing the "charming" little cottages we were to stay in. Ok, ok, the woods, the antique feeling of everything, the bonfire, the turn of the century wedding photos on the wall, the marble sinks and the amazingly picturesque countryside. Yeah, it was nice.

Upon arrival, I had a welcome committee of 8, yes count them 8 "frelons".. ......not sure of the spelling and not sure how to say it in English, due to the fact that I've never seen such incredible monsters. Like something out of the book of Revelation. Enormous bee-like creatures. All buzzing and droning around in my cozy little cottage room. I was then informed that they can be dangerous, even fatal, if one is allergic and if one is stung. Then I got to listen to all kinds of Ripley's Believe It or Not stories related to deaths and handicaps from frelons -- as a team of 6 men tried to rid my room of them.

There was also the fact that we had no running water or toilet anywhere nearby. It wasn't outside the cottage, but it was down two flights of steps and across the length of the building. Egads. Also, when I finally made it to bed I realized that the mattress was about as thick as a pancake, and it held me in a horizontal position just as well.

In the morning there was no more bread or coffee. Or anything for that matter. And I realized that I had been bitten by mosquitos on my head, the only thing poking out of the sleeping bag as I "slept", if that's what you want to call it.

As we packed our things and readied ourselves to leave this paradise, I saw that my purse had been neatly wrapped in a spider web during the night. Very weird and very Lord of the Rings-esque.

so we left this placed, called "La Daviere"........and I thanked God that I was leaving it and on my way back to my Paris. Behind me, I could hear the voices of all the others who were trying to figure out ways to eek out more time to stay SOMEHOW....I was hearing things like, "can your mom watch the kids for a few more hours? ......honey, we can eat on the way home that way we can stay longer.....oh, I guess all good things have to come to an end........blah blah blah blah blah.

And I'm thinking, thank you God that we also wake up from nightmares.

just a meatloaf if you ask me (Jen)

you know, I've lived here for almost 10 years now, and there are very few things left that make me feel like I'm in a culturally weird situation. But, um, there's one thing I just don't get. The other night I was out with some teacher friends at a cool restaurant in a cool arrondissement...enjoying each other's company and talking about the day. and so we all order. Goat cheese salads, veal, various pasta and legumes......and then it's my friend Philippe's turn. Steak tartare.

i froze. No, Philippe. Don't. You're sitting right in front of me. He laughs and says I'm showing my true American colors. Everyone has a laugh. When our serveur brought the food and I saw Philippe's steak tartare, it was my turn to laugh. Basically, it's my mom's meatloaf before it's cooked. an artistically sculpted mound of raw hamburger with a raw egg on top. Voila. Oh, c'est bon everyone is protesting -- trying to convince me that I really have missed out on the whole raw egg, raw hamburger scene.

So then I tell them that not only is it nasty to look at, but it must be unhealthy. Must be. Raw eggs? Salmonella!!! Raw hamburger? Probably a myriad of diseases. Gotta be. Then again, French people live long lives and I've never heard of anyone dying of eating steak tartare. There are no warnings on any menu in any restaurant that I've ever been to -- in all of Paris.

How do you live, Philippe asks me. You've not lived, he says, until you've had steak tartare.

Non merci I tell him.

No longer an alien

After nine years this was the last thing we were expecting to get in the mail.

It was in an envelope from the police commissioner's office, which made us wonder whether we had some unpaid parking ticket from five years ago when we actually had a car.

This is going to be a bill for a hundred kazillion euros. Man. Just what we need now.

Anyway, cool surprise. We open it up and it's from the immigration office. They were informing us of the acceptance of our request to have me, Madalyn and Benjamin regrouped with Jenny as full French residents.

This is big for two reasons.

First off, it opens the door to a load of financial rights that we never had before. You see, this is a socialist country. So taxes are very high but the money is redistributed to people through various programs and allocations.

We've always paid the taxes, but because Maddie, Ben and I were considered mere visitors (nine years is a heckuva lot of time to see the Eiffel tower and the Louvre!) we didn't have the right to any of this stuff.

We were 0-for-the-decade when it came to trying to get stuff. Family allocation? No. Only for Olivia who was born here. And sense the allocation starts giving substantial amounts when you have three kids, it wasn't worth doing. ... Back-to-school allocation. Same deal. ... Help for large families. No deal. Dad's an alien. ... The kids say that's still true.

Anyway, now, pending a physical, we will be able to receive these and other amounts. Unfortunately we can't get back pay for any of it. We literally missed out on thousands of euros over the years, and while paying the taxes!

Second big plus. I will now have the right to work. This creates possibilities for us other than "go back to the States" for getting out of the financial hole we've been steadily sinking into ever since the dollar went south against the euro.

I would prefer to continue full-time with what I'm doing -- so many relationship doors are already open -- but it's nice to have some options to increasing our income if necessary. Even while continuing full-time making disciples, there are jobs that I can do.

Of course, let's not get ahead of ourselves. They still have to call us to schedule that physical, and then to give us the results and the official papers. ... That could take, say, another two years!

Thanks for praying about this!

emerging letters

I've decided that I'm typing with upper and lower-case letters from now.

After reading the blogs of others and linking around and seeing all the cool sights from a bunch of really cool young bloggers -- especially those in the emerging church world -- i (there I go again) started wanting to type everything in lower-case letters like them.

It seemed like a part of blogging. So, despite years of quick typing with upper and lower-case letters, honed as a newspaper journalist and then later as a simple computer-user, I started trying to break the capital-letter habit.

You can see the schizophrenic attemps on my past entries. Sometimes up, sometimes down.

It struck me this morning as I was thinking about the different forms of church we're discovering and developing here in Paris that what people are looking for is space to be real and to be themselves -- with others and with God. What they're not looking for -- or at least what they don't NEED -- is just a new one-size fits all method.

We can't say that THIS or THAT is the new way to do church now, or else we fall right back into the cycle that so many are running from, unsatisfied at the many different methods that lead to the same nowhere instead of leading them to God.

So it is with blogging, I think. It's free, it's fresh. It's a world of discovery and wonder. Some of the stuff you discover you want to run from. Other things challenge you to keep moving forward. Often, it's just boring life, connecting with people.

I like that. It's teaching me a lot about community and what people are looking for in this world. Connections. They're not looking for everyone to be the same, though.

And so, I will be upper-lower case. Love me as I am, blogging brothers.

My God does. If you don't like it, take it up with him. ...

And feel free to type his name without the capital g if you must.

someone once told me (Jen)

An Algerian friend once told me that Paris is like a woman. Sometimes you are totally in love. Can't get enough. Everything about her is exciting and charming and unique. And then sometimes you can't stand her. Monotonous and banal. Draining. Lifeless. I feel the same way, except I don't compare paris to a woman, maybe because I am one. Not to my husband either, because, well, that comparison just doesn't ring true with me. But to a new bag, or a new outfit that you've been drooling over for weeks, and then you finally get it. It's yours and it's a part of you now. And you're so excited to have it and you feel so special and chosen and sort of, like you could meet any social challenge with that thing. And then after awhile you start to become bored and you see the thread starting to pull in certain areas, and the color just isn't what it was. The leather wears in ways you wish it wouldn't. It's not the same. More bland and predictable.

Paris is like that. Sometimes. So's my faith. Sometimes.

Potter's perspective

Not sure if i mentioned that theaster is first and foremost a potter. before coming here he had just spent several weeks on an exclusive pottery internship in Tokoname, Japan.

before leaving here yesterday we were walking through the many ethnic neighborhoods surrounding our apartment here and theaster started talking about pottery.

while he was in japan, he said, he held a very expensive work in his hands and, after having learned about all that goes into making it ... mixing just the right ingredients to make the clay, balancing, heating, spinning, etc., ... he held this little bowl and he "shared the value the potter had put into this thing.''

in other words, because he understood ...

Theaster in Translation

We had a great night last night with Theaster Gates, a multi-talented artist from Chicago. About 35 people showed up at the Zango, a restaurant/cafe/bar in the heart of Paris.

it was the most eclectic group of people i've seen yet. and that's saying something in this diverse city.

we had africans, brits, people from madagascar, a guy from new zealand who jammed with Theaster on a blues tune, americans and french, of course ...
Here's Theaster with our kids

Theaster did mostly gospel stuff, but also some of his poetic songs about life in general. perhaps the most shocking was a song about a child who had been sexually abused. it was a song out of theaster's past as a social worker.

anyway, it had a particularly violent ending that he described in his introduction as a victory for the child. a few people were shocked at this, and my translation didn't help because