Eucharisteo (Give thanks)

It's no secret that Thanksgiving is my favorite holiday. Although I've only spent it once these past 6 years with my biological relatives, I've still managed to celebrate it with family: my adopted grandparents in Cleveland, TN (complete with cookies and movies afterwards when they noticed my homesickness), roommates' families in Memphis and Kennesaw, once on campus, and now here in Buenos Aires, Argentina with the intrepid twenty-one.

This may prove to be my strangest Thanksgiving yet. Turkeys are over $4 a pound (seminarian budget says nope!), the leaves are bright green (sunny and in the 80s tomorrow), and I can assure you there will be no crafty place settings, cornucopias, or (sadly) sparkling cider. 

But I can guarantee you that there will be thanksgiving. 

There will be thanksgiving for the same reason that a half-starved group of Calvinists set the table (and were uncharacteristically jovial) for two cultures and one week, with nothing but gratitude in their hearts for surviving their first year in a harsh new land. 

There will be thanksgiving for the same reason two innocent outsiders sang through the darkest hours of the night in their windowless cell. 

I'll stop there for now, because you've already picked up on my dramatic comparison. "Jill, surely you can't be comparing being far from home and a disappointing lack of cider to the trials of the Pilgrims, Paul, and Silas...right?" No...and yes. 

I have a ridiculous amount of things and people to be thankful for. Argentina has been a wonderful second home and the people I have shared with this past year will be part of my story forever. I have a family who loves me from afar and a comfy pillow nearby; my stomach is full, the plumbing works, the English class will be cooking an all-American Thanksgiving dinner (minus the turkey), and the seminary guitar is currently in my possession. These are all good things that I can give thanks for.

But...what about the hard days, when the mattress is hard or I feel alone or the guitar is far away and I have more of a lump than a song in my throat? The example of the Pilgrims and my brothers and sisters who have gone before me in Christ remind me that I can still give thanks. They were able to look back through their circumstance and see the footsteps of God walking with them every step of the way and guiding them up to their present moment.

Thankfulness, for them and for me, is not so much having something to give thanks for than knowing someone to give thanks to.

Give thanks to the Lord, for He is good- His faithful love endures forever.   

Forever and constant, on Thanksgiving or any other day of the week, God is good. His faithful love has brought me to The Dalles, Tennessee, Argentina, and back...and I will give thanks.  

Room for you (conversation with a 9-year-old in Palermo)

I'm not much of an eschatology-minded girl, but this thought was important enough to share with a 9-year-old in Palermo, so it's good enough for the blog.

We sat on the cardboard, coloring, as the evening sky grew almost too dark to see the colors. We had waited hours to perform the skit, and to be honest, it was a bit lackluster: a handful of kids in the audience, audio problems, missed lines, and now 4 little ones sitting around me, coloring in the boat and talking. The oldest (9 years old, birthday in March, yellow t-shirt) was pretty savvy, and remembered stuff about Jesus from her confirmation class. But something unsettled her.

"You said that when we live with Jesus, we don't have to be afraid. But death- not that I'm afraid or anything- no one actually knows what happens after we die."

Ah. Life. Death. The unknown and the unknowable. My brain skipped a beat through the doubts, and went back to a story, a conversation...1

And Peter asked Jesus: "where are you headed?" 

Where indeed?

Jesus had been talking about his death again- not the most settling after-dinner conversation, even if the dinner had included some weird metaphors; the disciples, just called friends, were shaken. Their teacher hadn't preached much about the afterlife, and Jewish theology was pretty hazy when it came to Sheol 2 and spirits and Abraham et al. They were about as informed as the 9-year old, or as fearful as the 23-year-old some days. 

Typical Jesus, he doesn't answer their question directly. But he does calm their fears. This is his good news for them and for us:

I am going to my Father to prepare a place for you, so that we can live together. 

Or, as I summarized in Palermo...there is room in God's house for you. 

Jesus has specifically calculated its expansive dimensions with you in mind; there is a place set for you at the table, a spot to kick your shoes off haphazardly in the walkway, a window angled toward the best panorama 3. It is a space crafted to make you feel secure, cared for, valuable, and loved. 

In God's love, there is room for you. 

"But how do we get there?" wondered Thomas. How can we possibly find our way home to a place we've never been 4? How do you point a 9-year-old (that you'll likely never see again) in the direction of welcome and love? After so many miles, how do you aim your own worn tennis shoes towards where you belong?

You point them towards Jesus. 

There are no GPS coordinates, no Google street-views of the Way. As much as even I would like to reduce my faith to disciplines and steps- start with this book of the Bible, go here, pray like them- I realize that ultimately misses the point. "The call is gracious because it is a call to follow Jesus"5. While none of the above are wrong (they are actually quite helpful), they are not the way to the house or to the Father. Jesus is. 

This is good news to Palermo, this is good news to us: there is plenty of room prepared, and Jesus marks the path from the soles of your soul to the wide-open door. There is a cross, there is death in the Way home. But 6, there is also resurrection and life. 

There is room in this Way, there is room in this house for you. 

Fear not =) 

1 This famous exchange comes from John 13-14

2 Sheol is one of the more common Old Testament words for "grave", or "death". From the sound of many Psalms and Ecclesiastes, it's kind of a no-man's land: there is no praise or reports because there is no life.

3 Christian kids of the 90's are already singing it with me...It's a big big house...(Audio Adrenaline)

4 Another song...Switchfoot's "This is Home"

5 Dietrich Bonhoeffer, "The Cost of Discipleship"

6 Spoiler alert!

Silence and stars

Envy me all you want, but this hot Buenos Aires weather has been roasting me at night. And so I (and others) escape to the terraza, my favorite part of the seminary, most evenings for a moment or two where a light breeze makes the air not quite so stagnant and a little more bueno. The slumbering city seems a bit farther away, and the water tank above gurgles placidly. 

Some nights, I can even see the stars. 

"Starry Night" Vincent Van Gogh

It's the stars that caught our attention last night as we drank terere (cold mate with juice- hits the spot in the summer) and talked about life and ministry and these past nine months and home and God and future plans and past stories and present food; really, what more is there to talk about? Terere finished, we once again looked up. 

"The stars are so distant," reflected Camilo1, and paused. "Like God." He lowered his gaze from the nightly heavens and reassured: "I know God is, and that He is here, but He is silent right now, and the silence is disconcerting."

Silence and especially the silence of God is a serious problem for Pentecostals, who believe in a very verbal expression of the Holy Spirit. It's equally as significant of a problem for any believer- we want God to speak to us, to guide us, to approve of us, to respond to us in some way or another. The silence of the stars makes us very uneasy, and our hearts grow heavy and anxious. What we heard last week or last year is too easily forgotten or discarded as "general"; we must hear today and preferably something that responds to our queries and our will. 

How silently, how silently...2

I think of the times of silence in my own life, the times when I begged for wisdom, exact directions in my plans, GPS-precise confirmation...I got none. Instead, I heard the silence of heaven, and occasionally, when I least expected it, something unrelated or vague; the three times I presumed to hear God's voice with the most clarity in the past year seemed unhelpful at the time and followed depressingly long bouts of nothingness. 

What shows up in Google for "Abraham and stars"-cool!

I stare again at the stars and think of Abraham, the father of the faith and a fellow stargazer. For someone who heard God with impressive precision, doing the math on an extended lifespan and the quantity of theophanies3 therein, there had to have been some pretty lonely times of silence. I can imagine Abraham staring at the heavens and remembering God's promise to bless him and make his people greater than the constellations and wondering once again as Sarah's cradle rocks emptily or as Ismael's small hand grasps Abraham's gnarled finger. 

God's will in those moments must have felt like an awfully big stab in the dark, even by the light of the stars. 

How does one live in that silence? How do you go about every night when the stars are stubborn and have nothing to say? 

I've become convinced that my truest character and convictions come out in moments of silence, because they require me to wait. I am not naturally a patient person, in personality or culture, and disagreeably, patience is acquired through experience. In silence I learn to wait quietly. Waiting quietly doesn't mean that I cloister myself off or postpone all decision making. It simply means that I allow God to speak when and how He chooses (not a tame lion, after all4). It means that the times God does speak after a silence, I am ready to listen. 

It means I can sit under the silence of the stars and still know that He is God. 

Every day I call to you, my God, but you do not answer

Every night I lift my voice...

Yet you are holy, enthroned on the praises of Israel

Our ancestors trusted in you and you rescued them...

They trusted in you and were never disgraced5

Camilo

1 Camilo González Amézquita from Colombia is finishing up his seminary experience here while working on the annoying Gen-Ed entry requirement for the University of Buenos Aires (philosophy major). All this to say that yes, he really did use the word 'disconcerting' in a normal conversation (in Spanish) and that at the moment, or any time, he would really really appreciate some french fries.

2 Yep, I'm breaking the Christmas carols out already- the line is from "Oh Little Town of Bethlehem"
How silently, how silently the wondrous gift is given
So God imparts to human hearts the blessings of His heaven...

3 Theophany- fancy Greek word meaning "God shows up"

4 C.S. Lewis' Chronicles of Narnia: The Lion, the Witch and the Wardrobe

5 Psalm 22:2-5, New Living Translation (one of my new favorite translation finds, especially in Spanish as la Nueva Traducción Viviente)

Remember

Do you remember who you are?

It's not an accusation- it's a gentle question, a crown of glory
(or maybe of daisies or thorns, who knows...but it fits you).

The crown that reminds you of your worth- do you remember?

Woven to love and be loved
To respect and be respected
To treasure and be treasured

(I hope you've heard those words somehow.
Maybe in your dad's voice
Or your kindergarten teacher's hug
Or, at the very least, in Mr. Roger's neighborhood.
If you haven't, hear them in this typed jumble)

Do you remember now? Good. Now hold tight.
Because everything within and without you is going to try to make you forget it

The images that show you that you don't fit
The numbers that tell you you're not enough
The words that whisper to you, however persuasively, that you're good for nothing
Or good for only one thing

Lies.

"You must remember, remember, remember"*





*Aslan, in The Silver Chair by C.S. Lewis

The Gospel in your life, a letter in my heart

     For some reason, people think it's really unusual when I let an Argentine slang expression slip out. Posta (for reals). They find it odd even after I mention that I've been living the last nine months with over a dozen of them- plus Peruvians, Colombians, and the Chilean- which in turn strikes me as funny. I'm a bit of a language chameleon: who else do you expect me to talk like if not like the ones I talk with? I realized during English class last week that it goes both ways- all of my students, somewhere in their vocabulary and pronunciation, have some Oregonian in them. 

     They talk like me, I talk like them: just one of many side effects of life together. 

     Obviously, the give-and-take is quite a bit more than accent. Living with the tremendous twenty has influenced some mannerisms, habits, and jokes and has made me reevaluate my work-relationship priorities, especially when it comes to God. I'm still very much me, but a me that has been grown and shaped by others (or, if you prefer, by the Other).

     This concept of influence was mulling through my mind as I read 2 Corinthians a few weeks ago. This normally doesn't happen, not because I don't read the Bible, but because I'm not a huge Pauline lit fan: his fancy Greek comes off a bit arrogant sometimes, and being a man of his time, his comments on women irritate me (women will be saved through childbirth...qué?). My favorite epistle is James, but all of this is beside the point... 

     The point is, I was surprised to read a distinct tone in Paul in 2 Corinthians, one that shows considerable care and concern. Paul worries that a congregation he had shared with and longed to return to is being taken advantage of by manipulative itinerant "teachers"; the Corinthians, understandably wary, have asked him for confirmation. The apostle's response is classic:

     "The only letter of recommendation we need is you yourselves. Your lives are a letter written in our hearts; everyone can read it and recognize our good work among you. Clearly, you are a letter from Christ showing the result of our ministry among you. This "letter" is written not with pen and ink, but with the Spirit of the living God. It is carved not on tablets of stone, but on human hearts 1"

     As my Southern friends would say, that'll preach. 

    As Carolina Artana, one of my New Testament professors, once said, "your life is Gospel 2. The Biblical canon may be closed, but God's work in you is not, and that is good news."

     Your life, your influence, is a letter from Christ. 

   This is incredibly good news for the people who will never pick up a Bible or may never walk through the doors of a church building, and yet will meet you. It is definitely comforting for those who, like me, have that letter engraved on our hearts. And it is infinitely significant for the way I live and influence as a letter written with the Holy Spirit in Times New Pearson font. 

     Posta. 

1 2 Corinthians 3:2-3 New Living Translation

2 Gospel comes from the Old English "good spell", or good story; it's an excellent translation of the Greek ευανγελλιον, evangel, or "good news"

Hope in this city

Nothing quite brings the human condition into sharp focus than living with millions of them and watching small excerpts of their everyday lives play out: walking the dog with pink stilettos, grubby small hands asking for money, women buying bread, dads towing along curly haired toddlers in the middle of a tantrum. And the like. 

Crooked, but looking up

Maybe it's the melancholy in me, but I tend to pick out the broken moments first: arguments, longing looks, prostitutes and addicts, nonverbal expressions of despair and unloveliness, innocence broken into glass bottle shards. There's not much I can do about any of it; I say a quick prayer as I pass by and sometimes stop and ask, but mostly continue on my way, feeling pretty impotent and upset at humanity and my humanity. Where is Jesus, where is His body, where is His kingdom?

And yet, some days, I see glimpses of it. 

The nun walking with a heavily tattooed lady, exchanging bracelets. I never did find out whether they were sisters or old friends, but their conversation seemed interesting. 

The street lady singing a capella on the Subte A-line.

The surly teen scrubbing down a section of sidewalk, and an elderly tenant stepping out to greet him in full porteño exuberance: ¡Hola nene! ¿Cómo le va, cariño? (Hey, kiddo! How's it going, dear?). Which brought a smile to the kid's pimpled face and a sparkle to the old man's. 

The kindergarten class with their homemade helmets on an outing to the park. 

The one time I offered to pray for a lady. She said yes, and that "you know, I have had lots of people come up to me and tell me that God loves me- I'm starting to think it must be true!"

...All that to say with an out of context verse:
"Don't be afraid- don't be silent! For I am with you...and I have many people in this city" (Acts 18:10)

A walk in someone's shoes (boxes)

"Have you heard of Samaritan's Purse?" Jhoset asked. It was entirely out of the blue, as we'd just finished another round of ping-pong and Skittles, and it took me a while to decipher his "sawmoditas pores." Finally it clicked: shoeboxes! I told him that I'd packed one every year since I was a kid, and he nodded. "Maybe your box made it to my church. I'd always wondered who was on the other end...what does it look like?"

Turns out, I had the same question (and figured you might, too!). Per Jhoset, here's what a shoebox looks like on a receiving end: the good, the bad, and the unexpected. 

A typical shoebox

1. The boxes are not free. "Crates of shoeboxes are shipped to bigger churches, which then are supposed to distribute them to smaller churches. The reality is that the small churches have to pay for the extra shipping expense. My parents and a few other families in our church pooled our own money together for a carload; we didn't use tithe funds."

2. Some of the gifts are really cool. "You can tell the stuff they send is new. You've seen my sister's baby doll, right? That came in a shoebox over five years ago. She'd been wanting one so badly!" 

3. Favorite stuff? "Depends on the kid, but most like the crayons/colors that are mixed in with the school supplies, and classics like balls, cars and dolls. Some of the toys you send we haven't seen before!"

4. Sizes run small. "Where my parents were pastoring, up in the mountains, children are under-nourished and quite a bit smaller than kids here (in Argentina). The clothes in the boxes were huge so we switched them around- a shirt meant for a five-year-old we gave to a 9-year-old"

5. Not everything makes it through, but love does. "Some of the boxes have obviously been tampered with by the time they get to us, and there's a bit of an unofficial market on the boxes. But it is exciting to get presents from far away, and to know there are people who care about children and want to share Jesus with them. Thanks!"

Jhoset (and girlfriend Karol =)

Jhoset Pocco Tafur is a pastor's kid from the jungles of Peru and is currently living the urban wilds of Buenos Aires. He's a guitarist, practical joker, and the current reigning seminary ping-pong champion.