Sketchy motives in a hurting world

Published February 2, 2010 Adoption , Practical Christianity , justice 1 Comment
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When I was a little girl I daydreamed about being a missionary. I imagined myself surrounded by dirty-faced, bright-eyed children whom I’d saved from some evil-doers, performing emergency surgery on an injured farm worker (highly unlikely since I can’t handle any bodily fluids), and getting all “Dead Poets’ Society” on a group of bright, impressionable, and previously-underestimated street thugs all of whom would grow up to be important Senators and civil rights activists.

My motives were, of course, mixed. I have always had a God-given, desperate passion for coming alongside the suffering and hurting, of advocating for the oppressed. But that’s not all that’s inside me. I have long held to a (now largely debunked) romantic ideal of being a hero to people who needed me, a la Avatar, if you will. It’s gross, I know. But it’s there.

But that’s not the only sketchy motivator rolling around in my messy little heart.  I have also always carried around what I wittily call “rich white girl guilt,” based on the fact, yes that’s right, that I’m a rich white girl (I use “rich” loosely here, as in at least relative to most of the world population).  And I recognize that my own discomfort with the privilege and entitlement I was born into plays a rather large role in my motivation to help others. Not ideal, but it is what it is.

After three years living in the Philippines, I brutally came to terms with the fact that I’m nobody’s hero, that many of the people around me living in poverty were much more clever, hard-working and impressive than I’ll ever be. That dream is thoroughly dead, along with the feeble little hope that rich-white-girl guilt can ever be assuaged through serving others. If anything, the fact that I’m able to “come along side” and “help out” whenever I want to just highlights my own excessive privilege.

So, you might wonder why I’m rambling on about my own questionable motives in engaging in benevolent acts. Well that’s simple really. After reading about the ten Americans currently detained in Haiti after attempting to “help” 33 children right out of their country, I think it’s time for all of us who were born into relative privilege and opportunity to think long and hard about what help is and why we do it.

Now, I don’t want to judge those people. I’m sure their motives were mixed, as motives tend to be. I do believe they have some, er, confused understanding about what the good life really is (i.e. better to be ripped away from your family and grow up rich than to stay in this nightmare with the people who give your life meaning). And I believe that this is a problem most of us have. What is help? Why do we help? And does help, sometimes, do more harm than good?

I have been challenged by these questions throughout our very, very long adoption process. I had a family member pointedly ask me why I thought it was so great to take a child out of their home nation just so they could be middle class with me in America. Good question, really. Not the kind of question I particularly appreciate in the moment, but a good question nonetheless. And I can honestly say these are things that Kevin and I both deliberated over tirelessly well before we filled out an adoption application.

I have seen parents adopt for the wrong reasons, especially the “I want be somebody’s hero” reason. The effects are generally devastating.

But there are no easy answers to any of these things. Adoption, Big rich countries helping small poor countries, soup kitchens, homeless shelters, all of these ventures are risky and confusing and everyone involved has to come to terms with the fact that despite their best efforts and good intentions, there will be some bad mixed in with the good. They also must realize that if not for their very, very best, most vigilant, most humble and introspective efforts there could quite possibly be a lot more bad than good that comes out their work.

I have no great insight into this other than that it’s a journey, that all involved must be willing to call themselves out, answer the tough questions, flee from cynicism, but never, never stop holding themselves accountable for the mixed motives in their hearts. None of us are fully free of the clutches of selfishness and arrogance that often show themselves as racism, sexism, classism, and various other very ugly and destructive -isms.

But we can’t quit trying.

Pining for the Hypothetical

Published January 12, 2010 Adoption , Living Leave a Comment
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I know I just did a little post on my intention to start writing again in late March, but here I am with all of this angst and nowhere to put it. So I shall deposit it into the blog-o-sphere:

I am full of mommy-mania. My maternal clock is screaming. I am becoming, quite literally, hysterical in the old-fashioned Freudian sense.

As some of you might know, the huz and I have been in the process of adopting for more than two years. More accurately, we’ve been in the process for roughly 8 years. Almost as soon as we moved to the Philippines back in 2001 and I started working at Rainbow Village, we knew that we wanted to adopt. We even looked into starting the process then. The only problem with our little family plan was that we were basically still children ourselves and didn’t come close to meeting the age requirements. Besides, everyone told us, “Oh, you should have your own first, then adopt!” The very idea of “our own” made me a little grossed out but I thought, “Hey, maybe that birthing instinct is going to hit me any time.” So we waited.

Finally, still merrily childless in July of 2007, I turned 27, thus meeting the elusive age requirement. We really had been quite happy as our own duo up to this point, but I knew how long the process took (or thought I knew) and convinced Kevin that by the time we started the process we would be well into our baby-ready stage of life.  I immediately requested an adoption application from Holt International and Kevin and I excitedly filled it out.

The months following were full of paperwork, psych evaluations, and some very scary times following a required physical exam in which it looked like Kev might have thyroid cancer. Thankfully, he didn’t and we eventually got every little bit of paperwork turned in and before we knew it, we’d been approved for adoption.

Here we are, back in 2004, naively exposing our hearts to the most lovable children in the universe.

That was June 25, 2008. We’re still waiting.

I have a little counter on my igoogle page. Today it tells me that we have been approved for adoption for 566 days. 566 days!

There have been seasons where it has been unbearable, particularly when I first started working at an elementary school and was overwhelmed by the hilarious, energetic, adorable ways of the children. Sometimes, when I had to walk across the playground during recess, I’d get choked up and have to look away, hoping not to actually trip over any of the little ones I was trying not to look at. But usually those tough season (often not more than a week) would give way and I could focus on the fun, beautiful, busy craziness that is my life. And, of course, I constantly remind myself of what a very bad mom I would be right about now between my moderately consuming job and my excessively consuming graduate program. So it’s good, right?

But lately, since we hit the 16-month mark back in September, the tough season just won’t go away. I am constantly heart-sick, constantly aching for this little hypothetical creature whom I do not know, can’t even imagine. I don’t even know if it’s a boy or a girl. I just know I love him/her.

The 16-month mark was hard because when we started the program, that was the estimated wait time. And I remember thinking to myself, “Well, that’s the estimated time for regular people but surely they’ll see how nice and lovely we are and that we lived in the Philippines for 3 years and they’ll match us much more quickly!”

What a dummy. January 25th will be 19 months since we were approved, with nary a peep of a hint of a suggestion that our little one is ready for us. And to take away even more hope, most adoption guidelines have moved the expected wait time for referral waaaaay up, saying it could be up to 24 months.

Sigh. Sigh Sigh.

How can I possibly think about controversial theological, philosophical, or social issues when there is a cute little munchkin out there waiting for me?

Plans for the future

Published January 4, 2010 Thought , Uncategorized Leave a Comment

OK, so I was thinking I was pretty much done with this thing, mostly because I get sick of the petty arguments that seem to be an inevitability in the Christian blogging world. But then a few little events occurred that made me realize that I’m not done, that I love writing, and that the blog format is the best way for me to share my thoughts and concerns and whatever other personal sorts of things I might want to throw out to the universe.

What I am going to do, however, is take the next 10 weeks off and begin with a passion in the spring. The main reason for this is school. This term (which started today, woo hoo) I have 60+ hours a week of school and work responsibility. Thus, no room for blogging. But all of this will end in the 4th week of March and I plan to get back in the blogging habit then. I’m not sure what direction it will take, but I’m hoping (perhaps irrationally) for less weird angry debates between readers that are only loosely related to my initial posts. That’s my hope. I also know that I’m at the a more confident, peaceful, healed-up place and I hope that will be reflected in my blog entries. We shall see.

So, talk to you in the spring!

Chrissi

Will the real sodomite please stand up?

Published September 9, 2009 justice Leave a Comment

Ezek. 16:49ff. ”Behold, this was the guilt of your sister Sodom: she and her daughters had arrogance, abundant food, and careless ease, but she did not help the poor and needy. Thus they were haughty and committed abominations before Me. Therefore I removed them when I saw it.”

The new–albeit temporary–me!

Published July 31, 2009 Uncategorized 2 Comments

One concept I’ve been thinking about lately, during my respite from excessive thought, is whether thinking itself–or more specifically thinking about broad, esoteric concepts such as theology or philosophy–is particularly beneficial or if it might be perhaps a bit destructive. Of course, this is an entirely personal question. No one can (should) answer this question for the general population. But I mean for me. Is my hiatus from the world of debate, study, discussion good for me? Should I make it permanent? Or am I falling into numb, comfortable lethargy without even realizing it? This is the nagging thought I’m not thinking. But I am thinking it.

First, let me explain where I’ve been lately. I have been enjoying a magical land that I often visited as a kid but had almost forgotten about it. You guessed it, I’m talking about Summer. This is my first year working for the school district and I am absolutely LOVING the whole summer-off concept. I’ve been working a bit at my dad’s insurance office, doing some school work (Ironically, I have work off in the summer and school very much on), but mostly doing whatever the heck I want. And in this new (and transient) state, I’ve noticed my brain has been very, very quiet.

So now I’m debating with myself as to whether this new, simpler, more optimistic Chrissi is the better Chrissi. It feels better. But it also feels sort of, well, inevitably temporary.

Perhaps this is a sign that old Chrissi is emerging and ready to get back to the good ol’ anxiety-ridden, impossible-question-asking, theology-wrestling days of Autumn. We shall see.

Fashion as Fascism?

Published May 21, 2009 Feminism , Living 4 Comments

“Taught from infancy that beauty is woman’s sceptre, the mind shapes itself to the body, and roaming round its gilt cage, only seeks to adorn its prison.” ~Mary Wollstonecraft

“Isn’t that the problem?  That women have been swindled for centuries into substituting adornment for love, fashion (as it were) for passion?” ~Erica Jong

“Our only hope for the redemption of woman from the thralldom of dress lies in the belief that her hitherto limited sphere of activities has been so insufficient for her intellectual occupations that she has been forced to expend her thoughts in decorating her person, instead of enlarging her mind.” ~Mercy B. Jackson

I have a confession to make. I love fashion. It’s true. I love clothes. I love shopping. I peruse fashion blogs daily.  Try as I might to come up with a more meaningful hobby that will help me abandon this shallow pursuit, I find myself drawn again and again to the accumulation of clothing. And especially shoes. (sigh)

I have struggled with this on a number of levels and have proclaimed multiple vows of abstinence after being appalled by the shallowness, the mindless consumption, the greed, the emptiness of the fashion world. But for me, try as I might to escape it, clothing has offered tremendous creative opportunities to a

The fashion blogger known as the Sartorialist. One of my constant additions.

The fashion blogger known as the Sartorialist. One of my constant addictions.

woman with a creative mind and clumsy hands.

Nonetheless, I battle. In recent years my attention has turned to thrift shopping because of it’s more socially conscientious appeal. That makes me feel better as a Christian, as a citizen of the world, as a wannabe protector of little children and desperate women in sweatshops around the planet. But as a feminist I find that I am still uncomfortable. Perhaps I’ve done less to imprison them–these victims of globalization–but am I still the obliging victim of a system that has long imprisoned women? By indulging my love for clothes (and shoes! Did I mention shoes?) am I continuing to entertain a scheme that for centuries, millenia, has prevented my gender from reaching their full potential in other spheres by intoxicating them with the trappings of self-adornment?

The most tragic example of this, of course, is the high-heeled shoe. I’ll admit that I love them. But I also loathe them! Not only is their main function to make women’s legs look longer, not only are they terribly uncomfortable and bad for our backs, but they are also meant, primarily, to change a woman’s gait so that it’s sexier– i.e. less solid, stable, more wobbly, more vulnerable.

Gross! And yet…they’re so pretty.

So this is my conundrum. This is my little battle of the day. Insignificant? Perhaps. But not every daily battle has to be huge. Can fashion be redeemed? Is it an acceptable hobby as long as it stays in its proper sphere? Is it a legitimate creative outlet? Is it, by it’s very nature, anti-woman?

I don’t know, but I’ll definitely mull it over this weekend as I cruise my usual thrift-shop circuit.

Broken Blog-chip

Published May 13, 2009 Uncategorized 2 Comments
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So, it happened. The twitter move apparently pushed me over a ledge that I suspected might be nearby but really didn’t know was quite so close. I have labeled my disorder “self-disclosure overload.” Not only do I not have any desire to twitter, but I don’t even want to write on the blog that has been a fun friend these past few months.
Part of it, I think, is that I’m a bit tired of the subject matter. I love Jesus. I am not tired of Him. But I am tired of engaging in a constant discussion about His Church and it’s funny, funny ways. I love His church, and am happy to exist within it, I just don’t want to talk about it so much.
The disorder may pass but for now, don’t be surprised if I spout off on here a bit less. Or I’m thinking about making this a more personal blog in which I ramble about just whatever happens in my day. We’ll have to see where I’m at when the wave of excess-self-disclosure-induced nausea passes.
Until then, adieu!

Faith and Doubt

Published May 7, 2009 Doubt , Faith , Jesus 2 Comments

Yesterday I was talking to a couple of wonderful older-than-me Christians and the subject turned to faith. Both of them shared that, with the exception of a few dark weeks here and there, neither had ever questioned their faith in God. To me this was shocking and I asked them to explain more, thinking that perhaps ours was a difference in semantics. But at the end they held their ground and insisted that they had never doubted the existence of their God.

Now, obviously, this is awesome, beautiful, remarkable. But it also got me thinking about how doubt has played an integral role in my spiritual journey.
So, while I never want to invalidate the stories of these remarkable lifelong saints, I would like to talk a little bit about what doubt means to me, in my life.

Doubt is the force that drives me to the feet of Jesus. If this journey was easy to walk, I would simply walk it, head held high, in triumph. But it is not easy, at least not for me. All the questions, the frustrations, the dark times are what humble me and draw me to Him. In some ways, doubt is how I define my faith. For I don’t have faith in the existence of trees. They simply are. I see them, touch them. I don’t have to believe in them or have faith in them because I KNOW that they are there. But the invisible God requires faith and faith, from my limited perspective, seems only possible when there is reason to doubt.

I’m reading Kierkegaard’s Fear and Trembling right now and he explains this rather well. His understanding was that, before one can become a person of faith, they must become a person of resignation. Before we can take hold of the spiritual mysteries, we have to relinquish any hope of really getting anything, of really understanding anything. That is my experience. When my faith is the strongest, the highest, it is not because God has necessarily proven Himself to me (Because, really, is there ever undeniable, unexplainable proof? Is there?) but when I find myself, despite all external detractors, believing. And that is the miracle! That is the greatest proof, that despite my inclinations, He and I continue to hold on to one another for dear life.

Twitter? Really?

Published May 4, 2009 Living 1 Comment

So I started twittering (twitting? tweeting?) this weekend and am feeling ambivalent about it to say the least. I mean, it’s kind of fun. I have unlimited texts. One of my best friends is on there and it’s a fun way to keep up with him. I might as well. But is there really anything good, smart, funny, worthy that can be said in so few words? Especially by me, wordy mcwordystein?

Similarly, I’m starting to get a little grossed out by myself. As if it’s not enough that I Facebook regularly and have my own blog. Oh no, I need a THIRD venue for dumping my thoughts and ideas on anyone who will listen!
And yet, here I am, tweeting AND blogging instead of doing homework, reading the 4 books I’ve started or eating a nutritious snack.

I guess I’m just going to go with it for now. Maybe I should write that down in tweet format.

Morality for Society?

Published April 28, 2009 Jesus , Politics , Practical Christianity 1 Comment
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There are many things that Jesus told us to do that just don’t seem to work. I mean, they don’t appear very helpful in achieving happiness, safety, comfort or respect, let alone wealth or power. I’m referring to things like turning the other cheek, blessing those who curse you, not worrying about tomorrow, not seeking after even basic needs and staying married even when you don’t want to, just to name a few (all of which can be found in Matthew 5 & 6).

Most of these commands pretty much ensure humiliation, discomfort, and perhaps poverty for the obeyer. Still, most Christian will at least acknowledge that they are legitimate commands (or at least helpful ideals and beautiful language) as long as they are looked at as for the individual. But what about when a whole bunch of individuals become a community and that community becomes a nation? Do these things Jesus instructed us in still apply at that level?

What is it, really, to practice peacemaking (i.e. pacifism) or selflessness if you live in a society that takes care of those issues for you (fights your wars, exploits poorer countries to get you cheap products, etc.)?  What would it look like if a society–a town, a nation, a continent–practiced these mandates of Jesus? Could it work? My roommate brought up this question last night and we both just kind of stared at the carpet and sighed. I think we were a little relieved that we didn’t have the power to find out.

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