Jesus is Risen

He is Risen Indeed!

Jesus is Risen 

He is Risen Indeed!

WARNING WARNING WARNING

This is not a metaphor

This is not an analogy

It is good news

It is, in fact, THE good news

Jesus is Risen

He is Risen Indeed!

WARNING WARNING WARNING

This is not a fairy tale

It is the ultimate happily ever after

Forever and ever after.

The Prince of Peace has come

Has defeated the dragon of death

The people will live happily ever after

And this is not a fairytale

WARNING WARNING WARNING

The ressurection will not be contained to the tomb

It will spring up from the ground

The rocks will cry out

The same man who defeated death 

Wants to do it all over again with you!

WARNING WARNING WARNING

The ressurection will not wait

It will not be one and done to the physical realm

That relational death

The Lord can ressurect that

The financial ruin

The Lord can redeem it

There is nothing too far gone

There is no such thing as too late

He wants to roll away that cold stone heart of yours

Replace it with a living word

WARNING WARNING WARNING

We are talking about a man

Crucified and died

Walking out of his very own grave

Belief in a living God

Will alter a human life

Destruction of death is for us and in us

It is completed and coming 

Jesus is risen

He is risen indeed!

WARNING WARNING WARNING

Existence on this earth

Will never be the same.

The Kingdom of God is coming

It is coming on a donkey

The Kingdom of God is coming

You will be expecting a stallion

A noble and pure white steed

Don’t miss it, The Kingdom of God is coming

You will go to a palace, a princely abode for the king

The Kingdom of God is coming

You will find Him in a stable, a humble space

Not surrounded by luxury, but livestock

Don’t miss it

The kingdom of God is among us

You will look to those who are bold and brash

You will find it among the poor in spirit, for theirs is the kingdom of God.

The Kingdom of God is among us

You will look to those who rejoice in happiness

You will find comfort when you sit with those who mourn, don’t miss it.

The Kingdom of God is among us

You will look to those who boast that the world is already in the palm of their hand.

But it is the meek that will claim the inheritance

The kingdom of God is among us, Don’t miss it

You will look to those who are filled, satisfied in their righteousness

You will find it among those who are still hungry, still crying out for thirst

Don’t miss it

The Kingdom of God is among us

You will look to those who wield their will in the name of the Lord

You will find God’s will in hands that extend mercy

Don’t miss it. The kingdom of God is among us

You will look to those who present perfection as the work of their life

You will find the kingdom among the pure in heart.

The pure in heart see God Don’t miss it

The kingdom of God is among us

You will look to those who wage war, who divide and conquer, who mobilize and colonize

The kingdom is among those who make peace, who break bread and not bones, who make brothers and sister from enemies, who seek communion not colonies

You will find the kingdom among the children of God

The kingdom of God is among us

You will look to those who are bold and brash

You will find it among the poor in spirit, theirs is the kingdom of God

The Kingdom of God is coming, You will be looking for a stallion

It will come on a donkey

You will look to the palace

It will come to the stable

Those who ask, receive

Those who seek, find

The kingdom of God is among us

The kingdom of God is coming

Don’t miss it

Today I am guest posting for D.L Mayfield’s blog for her series, War Photography. It is an amazing series, and I am very honored to be posting on a site of a woman as talented as she.

What Teacher Movies Don’t Teach

When I was in college, I borrowed my boyfriend’s car to take myself to the movies on a Tuesday night. I sat in the middle of an empty theatre in Muncie Indiana and wept and cheered for Akeelah and all her spelling glory. I left that theatre inspired. I would be that teacher. I would grow my students to their fullest potential. I would change the world, one student at a time. I could not wait to get into my classroom.

This was not my first foray into the teacher movie. Not only had I seen Dangerous Minds starring Michelle Pfeiffer, when I was 12 I read My Posse Don’t Do Homework, the book the movie was based on. I loved Finding Forrester and Freedom Writer; any movie where the teacher was the hero was a movie I wanted to see.

I suppose I was attracted to these movies because they made me feel special. They made me feel like what I was about to do was important. They promised me that if I wanted it badly enough, if I just dug deep enough, I could be the change I so desperately wanted to see in my future students’ lives. My career would be a teacher movie and I would be the star!

Three months into my first classroom experience, I despised these movies. Every. Single. One.

Want to know why? You can read the rest here.

We sit together, stand together.

We bow our heads and close our eyes.

We speak into the silence created in this space.

Thy Kingdom Come, Thy will be done

We leave together, into the world.

The loudness of the world breaks the silence of this space the world.

We leave together hoping to see…something this week, something different, something more than the ways of the world.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

We hear of jobs lost, of bills not covered.

We come home weary, and only Monday has passed.

We long for peace, for soothing, for a string full of Sundays where peace reigns and stillness is not broken.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

Phone calls in the night speaking grief unspeakable

Teeny-tiny coffins, holding bodies barely breathed

Silence in the wake of deafening grief

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

Where are you Lord? Our souls cry out.

The darkness so cold, the silence so still

Where is your Kingdom? What is your will?

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

Surely this world is beyond your reach,

Surely beyond your help.

Surely we could never find your kingdom here.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

We sit in our Sunday space and pray.

We call for your Kingdom and will.

We sit and pray in anticipation.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

We feel the weight of the wait in our bones.

We see the Kingdom and will in our hearts.

We hold the anticipation of Jesus.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

It is our hearts and wills that we are praying for,

Our hope that we are naming.

It is our own selves that stand against the darkness of the world.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

We stand and leave together.

We open our hands, our hearts, our eyes.

Our lives will speak to Jesus, who we are sure is coming.

Thy Kingdom come, Thy will be done

Amen

This week is Holy week. Last week was incredible and exhilarating, and I am grateful to you all for engaging in the conversation. But, it has left me feeling as though I have been shouting into a crowded room for a week. In order to honor Holy week, and allow my heart time to prepare for Easter, I will be posting here some poetry I had the opportunity to write for my church during lent.

He Is Lord

Jesus is Lord

Jesus is Lord

He is Lord of my Life

He is Lord of Creation

Hallelujah,

Jesus is Lord

I have seen them on the TV in their thousand dollar suits,

With their private Jets, His and Her Jaguars,

Front row seats at a Lakers game.

I have seen them proclaiming that God is sovereign,

That they have all of these things because Jesus is their Lord.

Lord over what? I wonder.

Surely this is not the same Jesus I heard tell

The last shall be first and the first shall be last.

I think about just how much he gave away,

When he had too much, it was all passed out

No one was thirsty or hungry that day on that hill so long and far away.

I wonder if that same Jesus could bless with money, power, favors

To be hoarded and spent on self.

I wonder if it is possible for a man to have Jesus

Be Lord over his heart…but not his wallet.

Jesus is Lord

Jesus is Lord

He is Lord of my Life

He is Lord of me Heart

Hallelujah,

Jesus is Lord

I see them with their picket signs, their angry faces,

their offensive slurs.  I see them

With their poster board covered

In constructions paper flames.

They tell me they are yelling because Jesus is their Lord?

But who is their Jesus?

Is their Jesus the one who quietly went to the cross,

the one who came not to condemn the world but save it?

Surely not him.

People who have Jesus as Lord in their life,

I just don’t think they would act like that.

Jesus is Lord

 Jesus is Lord

He is Lord of my Life

He is Lord of my Heart

Hallelujah,

Jesus is Lord

I got cut off yesterday.

The guy actually zoomed around me,

Honked until I looked over at him so he could flip me off

And then pulled in front of me so closely

I could see the dew still fresh on his bumper.

That dew made the Jesus fish sparkle in the morning sun.

It was right next to the bumper sticker proclaiming

The driver’s boss is a Jewish carpenter.

Can Jesus be the boss of someone,

But not the way they drive?

Jesus is Lord

 Jesus is Lord

He is Lord of my Life

He is Lord of my Heart

Hallelujah,

Jesus is Lord

These people I see are not the only ones

Who make me question the Lordship of Jesus.

Mostly I see the confusion in my own heart.

Jesus is Lord

How much to I have to give up?

If I am going to say that Jesus  is Lord.

Can he be Lord of my heart but not my body?

Jesus is Lord

Can he be Lord of my mind

But not my money?

He is Lord of my Life

Can he be Lord of Sundays when I keep

The work week to do just exactly what I want?

He is Lord of my Heart

If Jesus is Lord of my heart and my life,

Can I still be in charge of who I forgive,

How much grace to give out and the strings attached to it?

Hallelujah,

Jesus is Lord

If people looked into my heart

Into my bank account

Into the way that I drive

If people knew my forgiveness

My anxiety, the need to know what is next

My inability to love my neighbor

I wonder if they would think that Jesus is Lord

I wonder if I think that Jesus is Lord.

Or if I just proclaim it.

Hallelujah.

It is Spiritual Abuse Awareness week in the corner of the internet I travel. It is being hosted by some truly amazing people and producing some truly amazing posts. I am learning a lot, but I confess that initially, my reaction is not to sit and listen and hold the hands of the survivors, but instead to politely interject: Not every church is like that. Please, there are some great churches out there!

I suppose that I could say that it is simply because I love the church. But, if I am honest with myself, if I sit quietly and wait for the Spirit to tell me, it is because I am uncomfortable with how blessed I have been in this way: I have never been to a spiritually abusive church. I can unequivocally recommend all three churches of which I have considered myself a member. The truth is this, just because I haven’t experienced it, does not mean that it is not real.

I remember when my body was sick. When a friendly pat would feel like an angry punch. I remember how much more it hurt when someone rolled their eyes at the pain in mine and told me it shouldn’t hurt that bad. Maybe it shouldn’t, but it did. Denying my pain did not make it better. It only made me feel like my pain did not matter.

I remember when my body was sick. I remember my dear friend and team-mate Sara noticing my smallest ticks, following me into the bathroom to check on me, and carrying my bag when she knew I could no longer carry it, but could not ask for help. She understood, even when she didn’t understand.

Last weekend I had the privilege of sitting across from a new friend as we drank coffee. She shared her story. It was a story totally foreign to me. One of power, where I had known only love, one of pain where I had known joy, one of rejection where I had known acceptance. I thought, as I was listening to these stories that were so clearly true, but foreign to me, that perhaps this is what it was like when I attempted to describe my once sick body to my healthy friends.

Spiritual abuse survivors: I see you. I am listening. I value and honor the stories you are telling. I am your Sister in Christ; I will carry these burdens when you can’t anymore.

Yesterday, the news invaded my classroom. I think the kids aren’t paying attention. I think the kids only care about the news as it relates to Justin Bieber. I think they aren’t listening or capable of advanced thought. Every single time I think one of those things, I sell out the ninth-graders that come traipsing through my room every day.

It started when I picked this poem to go over different ways to look at poetry:

Witness

Martha Collins

If she says something now he’ll say
it’s not true if he says it’s not true
they’ll think it’s not true if they think
it’s not true it will be nothing new
but for her it will be a weightier
thing it will fill up the space where
he isn’t allowed it will open the door
of the room where she’s put him
away he will fill up her mind he will fill
up her plate and her glass he will fill up
her shoes and her clothes she will never
forget him he says if she says
something now if she says something ever
he never will let her forget and it’s true
for a week for a month but the more
she says true and the more he says not
the smaller he seems he may fill up
his shoes he may fill up his clothes
the usual spaces he fills but something
is missing whatever they say whatever
they think he is not what he was
and the room in her mind is open she
walks in and out as she pleases she says
what she pleases she says what she means.

It is ambiguous. I suppose that is the point. The best literature for me to teach is the kind that gives the kids enough to be interested in, but they still don’t have a clear idea of what is going on. We spend the day looking at the poem from every angle we can find, or at least that is the plan.

Yesterday, pretty immediately, someone in the back shot their hand up and did not wait for me to call on them. “Ms. Norman, this poem is about rape.” It wasn’t a question. It is rare for a fifteen-year-old to speak about anything with this kind of authority, let alone poetry. A few kids chimed in to agree with the first student and I admitted that I often read the poem that way, even if you don’t have to. I was about to launch into an explanation of other ways this poem could be read.

“Ms. Norman” another kid called, “Have you heard about that rape case in Ohio? Those guys got convicted. They have to go to jail. They are going to lose their scholarships. They were going to D-1 schools!”

“Well…”I responded, feeling the heat crawl up my neck, “maybe they are going to jail for rape because THEY ARE RAPISTS!” I yelled those last three words at my kids and watched as some of them blinked in surprise. Apparently, the thought had never occurred to them that these athletes who were convicted of rape, were in fact rapists.

It is a strange thing about looking into the face of a 15-year-old, to really see who they are. You still see the small child that their mother sees. You see the man or woman they will be before they graduate. They are babies whose innocence you want desperately to protect. They are old enough to know better, even if no one has taught them.

I realized then that some of my kids were genuinely confused. “How can she be raped?” they asked, “She wasn’t awake to say no.” These words out of a full fledged adult would have made me furious. I did get a good few minutes in response on victim blaming and why it is so terrible. But out of the face of a kid who still has baby fat, those words just made me sick. My students are still young enough, that mostly they just spout what they have learned, and they have learned that absent a no, the yes is implied.

It is uncomfortable to think that some of the students you still call babies have the potential to be rapists. It is sickening, it is terrifying, but it is true.  It is a reality we have to face. My students have lived in a world for fifteen years where the joke “she probably wanted it” isn’t really a joke, they need to unlearn some lessons that no one will admit to teaching them.

Standing in front of my classroom and stating that a woman’s clothing choice is never permission to rape her should not be a radical act. But only a few heads nodded in agreement. Most were stunned, like this was a completely new thought. The follow up questions were terrifying in their earnestness. “Ms. Norman, you mean a woman walking down the street naked is not her inviting sex? How will I know she wants to have sex?”  A surprisingly bold voice came out of a girl in the back “You’ll know when she says, you want to have sex?!”

If you want to keep teens from being rapists, you can no longer assume that they know how. You HAVE to talk about it. There is no longer a choice. It is no longer enough to talk to our kids about the mechanics of sex, it probably never was. We have to talk about consent, what it means, and how you are sure you have it. We have to teach clearly and boldly that consent is (in the words of Dianna E. Anderson) an enthusiastic, unequivocal YES!

What came next, when the idea of a clear yes came up, is the reason I will always choose to teach freshmen. They are still young enough to want to entertain new ideas. When we reversed the conversation from, “well she didn’t say no,” to “she has to say YES!” many of them lit up. “Ms. Norman,” they said, “that does make a lot more sense.” “Ms. Norman,” they exclaimed, “that way leaves a lot less confusion.” When one of the boys asked, well what do you want me to do, get a napkin and make her sign it, about four girls from the back yelled, YEAH!

What happened in Steubenville makes me sick, but we are kidding ourselves if we think that it is not representative of what is happening in basement parties after the homecoming game all across America. Our kids want to talk about it. They need to talk about it. We need to have conversations about consent that are not centered around what should have been done, but are instead centered on what will be done in the future. Our teens can handle it, I promise they can.

A strong understanding of consent as an enthusiastic and unequivocal yes is essential to reversing the culture that our teens have grown up in. The amazing thing is the way my students responded to the conversation. Our students want a better way, it is our responsibility to show it to them, even if it is scary, especially when it might make us uncomfortable.

Our students are paying attention. They do care about what is going on in the world. They do listen and are capable of advanced thought. I am done selling out the ninth-graders that traipse through my room every day. The news will no longer invade my classroom, instead I will invite it.

I like to paint. I don’t know that I would call myself a painter in the way I would now call myself a writer, but I do enjoy it. When there is a brush in my hand my mind quiets. I like swirling the paint on the canvas and watching something take shape. I don’t think I am great at it, and I suppose taking a class or two, or even finding the time to find good tutorials on you tube is in the part of my brain I put the list for “someday.”

I think it was last summer when I painted the picture full of orange and yellow swirls. I loved it right away and let it sit on the easel in my bedroom for months as I contemplated ways to move it to the next step, until one day it was done. But what do I do with this painting, this painting that I love that swirls and curls around a left of center ball that had in some ways become representative of my dreams. I let it sit in our bedroom, on the floor or next to the easel, occasionally I would prop it back up on the easel and look at it as I went to sleep. My dreams are forming, coming together as the rest of the world swirls around, it seemed to whisper that promise to me. 

Last Monday I bought a frame for the painting. I put it in the frame, and my husband hung it in our dining room. It is beautiful and though he wasn’t a huge fan of this particular painting before, he loves it in the frame. Something about the frame makes him see the beauty of the picture.

I am learning to put my words and feelings in the proper place, find a place for them even. Not everything I paint belongs on a wall and not everything I think or feel or say belongs in a public place. As I sorted through some ongoing conflict in my life, I realized that I had automatically linked conflict with me doing something wrong. If someone was angry or mad, then it must be my fault. Sometimes, even when you prayerfully and cautiously consider a situation, someone is not going to be happy with you. Sometimes there is conflict. I had been framing the conflict in a frame of shame. I don’t have to be ashamed by this conflict if I am not ashamed of my actions, if I really think I did the best I could.

I am learning to put my thoughts on justice and the way we represent people in their proper place. This last month I learned that sometimes my rant in the car or in the back about how that speaker said these things and boy was that offensive, need to be brought to the attention of the speaker. Sometimes they just didn’t know. If I believe what I think matters, I won’t always shove it in a drawer for everyone to see. I will frame it in a professionally worded email. In the context of that email, what I said was taken seriously. Suddenly my thoughts had an impact.

Finally (insert deep breath here) I am learning where to put the stories I long so desperately to tell. I have finally started working on my book proposal, and this time I think I mean it. If I really believe they could have an impact, if I really believe they matter, if I really think they could make a difference then I need to tell them. That telling belongs in a book. So it is time for me to propose one.

This means that the writing might be a little sparse around here. Everything in the publishing industry says to build your platform, build your platform, so it is scary for me to think about posting and tweeting less in order to build the margins I need to write a book. But ultimately I know that this is what has to be done. I value y’all and your continual checking up on me through this space. I don’t want a lighter posting schedule to make you think I don’t.

Your prayers and encouragement are truly, greatly appreciated. Also, I know most of you have, but if you haven’t liking my Facebook page and following me on Twitter would help me out a whole lot.

“There is a lad here who has five barley loaves and two fish, but what are these for so many people?” -John 6:9

But what are these for so many people?

I spend my working hours in front of 240 teenagers, in groups of 30, for 55 minutes at a time every school day. So many faces, so many papers, so many big stories in hearts still young. There are tests to prepare for and grammar to learn. There is discipline to be doled out, second and third and fourth chances to be given. Does this matter, does my presence in this place make a difference?

But, Lord, what are these moments for so many people, for so many needs?

I come home to as many in diapers as I have hands. There are kids to be changed. There are meals to be made. Dishes to wash. Babies to bathe. The toys are never completely picked up. The laundry is never done. Someone is always hungry. How could this possibly matter–the slow and exhausting work of parenthood?

But, Jesus, what is my work for so much tiny unending needing?

Read the rest here

It is always an honor to be posting with the beautiful community that is SheLoves magazine. Please poke around over there. You will be glad you did.

Today I am joining my internet friend Jenn Lebow, who has been having a rich conversation about mercy. This weeks prompt focused on why humbleness is thrown in there with justice and mercy in Micah 6:8.

There is always more than you think there is. There is always a different side. There is always an exploding knot of confused threads when only the slightest bump is showing on the front side of the tapestry.

I’ve been learning this lesson I think my whole life. I do not know as much as I think I know. I am not seeing all there is to look at. What looks like a shallow puddle is sometimes as deep as the sea.

I am glad I do not know the number of times I have written a kid off as lazy, only to discover he is hungry, she is taking care of her sick mother, he is hiding from the shame of not knowing, she is pregnant by her step father. I am sure the number would make me weep. I would rather not know.  You would think after six years I would have learned, but just last week I was reminded again. There is more to my students than what I can see.

I give second and third chances more freely now. I have decided that I would rather let a liar slide than punish a kid who was legitimately doing the best he could. I’m not sure if this is the right answer or not, it is simply the one I can live with in my classroom. It is the best I can do in this broken world.

I remember when I had all the answers. I remember when I was sure my classroom could conquer the world. Now, I often have to hold my tongue at dinner parties or fellowship events. Sometimes I have to simply walk away when the conversation moves to education. I am aware that it is my presence as a public school teacher that steers well-meaning seekers to this topic of conversation. I have discovered I cannot have pleasant dinner table conversations when you are talking about theoretical policy and I am talking about Theodore and Pam.

The more you learn about poverty and injustice, the more you learn you don’t know anything. The more faces you put to the problems of this world, the more you realize how heartbreakingly similar each case is, the better you understand how little you know, how unique each solution must be. The more you learn what you don’t know, the more you learn to listen.

When I humbled myself to hear the stories of my students, I was humbled by the stories they were willing to tell me. If you know you don’t know, what ears to listen can hear.

Walk humbly is not a command. It is a warning, a reminder. It nudges me toward the truth that this side of heaven there is so much I cannot know. It says to me, Abby, be gentle, talk less, look harder. There is so much you do not see.

There is always more than you think there is. There is always a different side. There is always an exploding knot of confused threads when only the slightest bump is showing on the front side of the tapestry.

If you want to read some other brilliant takes, here they are.