Perdoname, nunca lo haré mas. These words ought to haunt anyone who thinks to say them. They are the words of the overly confident disciple: “Even if all fall away on account of you, I never will” (Matthew 26:33). Most people, if they promise that way at all, do so sparingly. I guess we sense, among other things, that words like that have the power to make oneself plunge downward into an abyss of failed meaning or intention. For myself, there have been only two times that I’ve proclaimed this “plea and promise” and, surprisingly, both times were about the same sort of failure.

Part One

During the mid 1990s my white upper-middle-class family was breaking apart because of the stereotypical greed, self-preservation, and spiritual dis-ease that “life in the suburbs” has been known for. My father had made an unethical trade as a stock broker (before it became popular to do so), which led to the many subsequent forclosures of our stuff. It was there that I began to realize our “usefulness” in the world was shrinking fast.

Following this realization, as a 16 year-old kid, I gravitated toward a group of Latino peers who had learned to live a low-class position in our city without shame (or humility). I was attracted to them precisely because they almost always fought for their respect, something I had always been taught made you look ridiculous and rude. They bullied people that showed signs of fear—no matter what self-conscious adults or their privileged offspring would say. With them I began to feel powerful in a way that never seemed possible for me back in the suburban White crowd.

So when one of my new best-friends, Alex, told me about two female co-workers who had invited us to a party, I didn’t think twice about saying yes. They were older by a couple of years, probably 19 or 20, which looking back I can see heightened our already distorted judgment. Nevertheless, we threw back an extra shot of machismo and piled into my parent’s Jeep Grand Cherokee, hoping our adventure would lead to (among other things) sexual exploits. But that’s another story.

The party resided on the rural outskirts of our small Northern California city. Alex and I walked through the front door of the ranch-style house, while the two others stayed outside. Passing through the entryway, I looked around and may have been first to notice an over-sized Nazi flag on the wall, above the fire place. From there things started to slow down in my head. Then several guys in the crowded room gave us the Hitler salute and a territorial shout-out: “You down with White Power!”

Of course, somewhere around those foreboding alerts I realized that we had been mistaken—definitely about coming to the party and probably also about the women who had brought us there. I remember feeling a bit jarred and tried to cover over my reaction, that is, until Alex caught my eye and reverberated under his breath, “Fuck this place!”

Turning back the other way, now heading out of the house, the whole group seemed to take notice of us, apparently deciding whether or not to grab us by our neck and drag us back in. Thankfully, aside from menacing looks, no one really tried to get in our way. But Alex must have thought differently about our exit. When we got outside, with about half the party in earshot, he defiantly yelled toward a tall White Prider: “Fuck White Power!” Over and over again, he shouted this and, before anyone had a clue, he had already swung at his opponent.

The party then surrounded Alex, myself, and our two friends as the brawl moved out into the street, but surprisingly they kept it one-on-one. I threw a few half-hearted licks, preoccupied internally with our dwindling opportunity to escape. Around that time, I finally resorted to something fearful and embarrassing, something I had never thought would be possible for me to say. Instead of losing the fight with my Latino comerades, I argued with the bigger White Supremacist punching me: “Dude, I’m white! I’m white!”

Even though I felt worse saying it than I did getting hit, it just came out. Loudly too. All of them heard it, both the group of White racists as well as my best friends. The individual fights finished after several long minutes of fists and exhaustion. Believe it or not, our female co-workers actually helped us get to our vehicle. Everyone was fine. We left the party with our typical adrenaline rush, but this time no one talked about it.

On the way home, I thought to myself: I just wanted to make them stop, right? For everyone to stop?? I don’t actually remember if I went ahead and said that to Alex or the others, but I do remember the sad expression on Alex’s face and the detached way he put his disappointment to me when we got home: “I heard what you said, J. And I’m going to forget you said it.” His reply suddenly cut through my bullshit and brought up the shame I had put between us. All I could think to say was “I’m sorry, man. I won’t ever do it again.”

To be continued here…

Writing now, I think about when we first met.
I can recall your body language, of all things.
Your face and teeth, to be more precise,
and that smile. Your smile is some kind of magic.

This has been a good reminder from St. Paul that weakness is not to be lived in shame, even though this is what many in our society have taught us to feel. Instead, Paul demonstrated from his own experiences how one can embrace and rejoice in their weaknesses, knowing that God’s power is perfected there. Here’s a long (edited) section I’ve pulled from the end of 2 Corinthians (starting in chapter 11):

I repeat, let no one think me foolish. But even if you do, accept me as a fool, so that I too may boast a little. What I am saying with this boastful confidence, I say not with the Lord’s authority but as a fool. Since many boast according to the flesh, I too will boast. For you gladly bear with fools, being wise yourselves! For you bear it if someone makes slaves of you, or devours you, or takes advantage of you, or puts on airs, or strikes you in the face. To my shame, I must say, we were too weak for that!

. . . .

If I must boast, I will boast of the things that show my weakness. The God and Father of the Lord Jesus, he who is blessed forever, knows that I am not lying…But [the Lord] said to me, “My grace is sufficient for you, for my power is made perfect in weakness.” Therefore I will boast all the more gladly of my weaknesses, so that the power of Christ may rest upon me. For the sake of Christ, then, I am content with weaknesses, insults, hardships, persecutions, and calamities. For when I am weak, then I am strong.

. . . .

I warned those who sinned before and all the others, and I warn them now while absent, as I did when present on my second visit, that if I come again I will not spare them–since you seek proof that Christ is speaking in me. He is not weak in dealing with you, but is powerful among you. For he was crucified in weakness, but lives by the power of God. For we also are weak in him, but in dealing with you we will live with him by the power of God.

But we pray to God that you may not do wrong–not that we may appear to have met the test, but that you may do what is right, though we may seem to have failed. For we cannot do anything against the truth, but only for the truth. For we are glad when we are weak and you are strong. Your restoration is what we pray for.

—Paul of Tarsus

This week has been full of grief in the wake of another school shooting. This time the victims were mostly very young children. The incomprehensible reality of such violence. The sadness is almost too much. And it will not quickly subside. Even forgiveness does not seem to promise very much rest.

I remember the radical actions taken by this Amish community when a killer took the lives of their children. NPR reported about Jonas Beiler, an Amish mental health counselor, who reflected these thoughts one year after the attack:

“Tragedy changes you. You can’t stay the same,” Beiler says. “Where that lands you don’t always know. But what I found out in my own experience if you bring what little pieces you have left to God, he somehow helps you make good out of it. And I see that happening in this school shooting as well. One just simple thing that the whole world got to see was this simple message of forgiveness.”

Beiler says that because the Amish can express that forgiveness, and because they hold no grudges, they are better able to concentrate on the work of their own healing.

For all those who said goodbye unwillingly, I want to stand with them and pray for the miracle of rest:

May [God] surround each adult and child, so tragically departed and those still holding to life, with pure and complete light. May pain flee the body and all anguish fly from the soul. May each victim know himself or herself to be fiercely loved, tenderly held, wholly healed.

May you descend in ways and miracles I cannot imagine on the families whose fabric has been ripped, whose security shattered, whose hearts feel burned to ash. Do not ask us to hold in our anger. While we ultimately hope for the redemption only you can bring about, do not let us speak of such too soon. Would each family today experience nothing but compassion. Would the gross tragedy of their loss be matched by the overwhelming kindness of those near and far. Would Peace arrive, however slowly, and descend upon Newtown: each family, each hospital room, each parent, child, student, teacher, brother, sister.

Read the entire prayer here.

Please make these words come true:

Praise the Lord!
Praise the Lord, O my soul!
I will praise the Lord as long as I live;
I will sing praises to my God while I have my being.

From the Apostle Paul:

Already you have all you want! Already you have become rich! Without us you have become kings! And would that you did reign, so that we might share the rule with you! For I think that God has exhibited us apostles as last of all, like men sentenced to death, because we have become a spectacle to the world, to angels, and to men. We are fools for Christ’s sake, but you are wise in Christ. We are weak, but you are strong. You are held in honor, but we in disrepute. To the present hour we hunger and thirst, we are poorly dressed and buffeted and homeless, and we labor, working with our own hands. When reviled, we bless; when persecuted, we endure; when slandered, we entreat. We have become, and are still, like the scum of the world, the refuse of all things.

I do not write these things to make you ashamed, but to admonish you as my beloved children.    (1 Corinthians 4:8-14)

From Twenty-Four Hours a Day:

I am not so envious of other people, nor am I so jealous of other people’s possessions and talents. When I was drinking [insert out-of-control behavior], I was secretly full of jealousy and envy of those people who could drink [insert moderate behavior] normally, who had the love and respect of their families, who lived a normal life and were accepted as equals by their friends. I pretended to myself that I was as good as they were, but I knew it wasn’t so. Now I don’t have to be envious anymore. I try not to want what I don’t deserve. I’m content with what I have earned by my efforts to live the right way. More power to those who have what I have not. At least, I’m trying. Have I got rid of the poison of envy? (Nov. 25th)

More from Homeboy Industries director, Father Greg Boyle:

If we choose to stand in the right place, God, through us, creates a community of resistance without our even realizing it. To embrace the strategy of Jesus is to be engaged in what Dean Brackly calls “downward mobility.” Our locating ourselves with those who have been endlessly excluded becomes an act of visible protest. For no amount of our screaming at the people in charge to change things can change them. The margins don’t get erased by simply insisting that the powers-that-be erase them. The trickle-down theory doesn’t really work here. The powers bent on waging war against the poor and the young and the “other” will only be moved to kinship when they observe it. Only when we can see a community where the outcast is valued and appreciated will we abandon the values that seek to exclude…

Funders sometimes say, “We don’t fund efforts; we fund outcomes.” We all hear this and think how sensible, practical, realistic, hard-nosed, and clear-eyed it is. But maybe Jesus doesn’t know why we’re nodding so vigorously. Without wanting to, we sometimes allow our preference for the poor to morph into a preference for the well-behaved and the most likely to succeed, even if you get better outcomes when you work with those folks. If success is our engine, we sidestep the difficult and belligerent and eventually abandon “the slow work of God.”

Failure and death become insurmountable.

I’m feeling inspired to write about our family life again, especially since I have some exciting news to share. Some hard stuff, too. So maybe the best way to get through it all is to just tell it.

First, back in May, we unexpectedly gave up the support of the Jesus Center in our community garden. The reasons for that decision probably need more context than I can honestly give here, so I’ll just say that it was a difficult decision to make. We are still trying to understand what that will mean for us in terms of the garden’s story. But for the time being, we call ourselves the 14^th Street Garden instead of our former name (the Jesus Center Community Garden). And we still give away a majority of our production to folks who can’t afford it.

Also, right around that time, new volunteers from the Jesus Center started coming to help out in the garden. A good thing, right? Well, yes! But the timing was difficult because they initially came when we were out of town. So I wasn’t able to give any orientation or welcome and some tough things happened before we got back. Someone took our greenhouse mentor’s plants and used them in the garden without asking. She tried to get them back and was rudely told to “shut up” by one of the men. On top of that, someone built a temporary campsite in the garden area while we were gone and then left a lot of junk/trash around the place, causing my alley-neighbor to call the police several times. I’m trying to maintain a sincere welcome for all (especially for the homeless and poor) in the midst of everything. Still, the chaos was very intense from the very first day we got back from our trip.

Together with other worries about our housing coming up around this time, we began to feel like we were getting way in over our heads. In all honesty, we started to panic a little. The pressure was more than we thought we could handle. We began asking ourselves, “Do we need to move from here? I mean, given all the problems in the garden, the unfinished landscaping project, the BIG water leak, and our increasingly small income?”

Many of our friends saw us floundering and wanted to help us figure it out. Housing options and invitations came in. The possibilities varied, but they all seemed to involve accepting the determination that we had our hands full now and wouldn’t be able to continue under these conditions. I kind of agreed, of course, but I thought it best to wait for some kind of “sign” from God since we had been caught off guard by most of what happened.

Then, seemingly out of nowhere, Julissa got a call from an old neighbor asking if we could help her find a room available to rent. We knew Lonnie Aguilera from when Santiago was just born (before we went up to Paradise) back in 2008. She lived in a big boarding house that shared the parking lot next to our cottage. She would bring us food, offered us kitchen supplies that we needed, and helped arrange for my in-laws to stay in that house for almost 3 months. Since moving away, she started participating in a food ministry for the street crowd in Chico’s downtown park. So when she asked Julissa if we could accommodate someone else in the house, our initial thought, even despite the cooking for close to 150 people, was overwhelmingly yes. Excited, we met with her that same evening and talked through the details.

So long story short, in July, Lonnie moved in and we are very pleased she is here. The added rental income is just about right for our budget. And at the same time we get to experiment with a shared living situation. I thought it might be difficult to find a good housemate, considering that we have two young children and we’re trying to live a semi-unconventional life (see our rule of faith).  But both aspects were “no brainers” for her. It’s a good feeling.

Another piece of good news is the possibility of me going to Pemba, Mozambique for a 12-day visit to Iris Ministries. I’m looking forward to the cross-cultural experiences I’ll have while serving there and also the learning I expect to receive from the people I meet. The arrangements for this trip have been kind of daunting—again, probably more than I can handle. But I’m learning to trust now even more through the Spirit.

Which is kind of the point of this update, really. As God demonstrates his love for us in tangible ways, we are loving him back with our child-like trust, knowing that he will do exactly what he said. Why wouldn’t he keep on providing for all that his children ask for? Pray for us as we go further and deeper in. We send our love to each one of you.

I have applied for a 12-day visit with Iris Ministries in Pemba, Mozambique this winter. They asked that I write a “Personal Christian Testimony” for their verification process. So I adapted a longer version of my “life story” that I had just written for folks in Naked Faith. All of us in Naked Faith will eventually share one, but I was the first to go. Someone commented afterward that these stories might become great artifacts to share with our children when they’re older and wondering, “What was my mom or dad like when…?” Anyway, the shorter version leaves out a lot of details but I think it also allows a more poignant place for asking questions:

Although I remember experiencing God for the first time as a young boy (around 4 yrs old), and later saying some version of the “sinner’s prayer,” it wasn’t until my later adolescence that I began to see God’s love for me personally and follow Jesus.

My liberation came one Friday night when I was 18 yrs old. The beautiful girl I had been infatuated with told me in no uncertain terms that there could be no “us.” So I got drunk at a party and headed into our city’s downtown with some other drunk friends.

From there we foolishly started a fight. The alcohol and anger made us braver than we ought to have been. Before I could even connect a punch, the man had already hit me straight in the face two or three times. I crouched on the pavement waiting for my friends to jump in, but no one did. The next thing I knew, I was driving back to my parent’s house.

My parents were sitting in the family room with some friends having a quiet conversation when I walked in. Blood was caked all around my face—my eyes and nose and mouth swelling up. We just stared at each other. They were speechless. I tried to escape to my room. They followed, but something in me had broken.

I couldn’t believe how depressed I was after that, sometimes feeling too much, other times just feeling numb. It was difficult for me not to fantasize about using drugs or alcohol during this time of detox. Mercifully, I was too far gone socially to face my friends or to anesthetize. I felt betrayed. And I was heartbroken.

Over the next several months my spiritual search began again, though I wasn’t involved with church yet. Mainly, I came to feel purposeful about my life and wanted some help discerning what that meant. My mom was instrumental in the beginning at getting me to accept new spiritual experiences, like going with the entire family to a prophetic conference in Anaheim and then, eventually, registering me for a new student weekend at a Christian college (kind of like a spiritual retreat or youth conference).

The last 14 years or so of my life have been about trying to practice the courage Jesus showed me when I finally came to myself. I’m learning to trust my Father, even as a poor man. I’m learning to love my enemies. Even in a society living on fear and blind to “the things that make for peace.” I’m learning to love my wife and children and to lean on Jesus’ body, believing they are there, even if it seems that no one else is. Nowadays, I can’t even imagine living without the Father and the testimony of the Spirit. I stay awake sometimes dreaming about what He might do in us. And I’m still in love, loving our life together, and following Jesus.