Idealism Smash

I spend a lot of time thinking about whether things I write call for a prayer email or a blog post, but this seemed to have more stories, and maybe a swipe at some distant point I kind of start to make, so blog post it is.

On Tuesday I hit a low.  A low low.  I called in sick, and although I wasn’t suffering from food poisoning (as was probably assumed) I was still stuck in bed.  Whenever my brain started to think, my stomach started to hurt.  When my stomach hurt, my eyes would close, and I would fall asleep.  Most of the day was spent sleeping.  I woke up around 5.30pm, very wearily looked over to see if I could figure out what was making that annoying scratching sound, and I saw my dog was gnawing on the leg of one of my chairs.  I turned over and pulled the covers tightly over myself.  Quickly, I remembered that having my body covered in the heat was miserable, and I angrily kicked off the covers, wishing so badly for the emotional security even of a blanket but not being able to have it.  I am not depressed.  Don’t worry.  I am just very tired.

I can’t explain where all of my frustrations are coming from.  Maybe by now I am starting to anticipate frustrations which make them more noticeable and even less appreciated.  Whatever it was, all of my anxieties, struggles, thoughts, frustrations, extreme lack of sleep, and humanness all added up to the inability to move or think about anything other than my inadequacies.  Laying there and thinking about how an estimated 600,000 girls around my city are being sold for sex ultimately ended with my head smashed between two pillows and my puppy continuing to slim the legs of my chairs.  It was not my proudest moment, but it might have been my dog’s.  She is shaping the chair legs in a suspiciously symmetrical way.  I suspect she is harboring a deep desire to study carpentry. 

The next day, I dragged myself out of bed and down to the 7-11 where I was to meet a coworker before our day of things I can’t tell you about.  While waiting, one of the three birds in all of Ortigas singled me out as the perfect place to poop.  I kind of laughed, because, well, there was nothing else left to do, and given the events of the last few weeks, being pooped on was really the last thing left to go wrong.  I found some old receipts in my purse, scraped off the very Manila-colored* feces, dumped some alcohol on my shirt, and called it good.  I looked like I felt which was a nice change from being able to hide behind business casual.

*Greyish?

My day was difficult.  It was emotionally demanding, physically demanding, and troubling.

Justice.

Justice?

My word.  I’m sitting with a man who wakes up every morning to water lapping at his bed.  He spends the early morning scooping the ocean out of his living space and drying his bed, and then he leaves for the day to catch fish to provide for his wife and children.  This man bows his head when asked, “Why do you think your daughter would engage in prostitution?” He responds, “Her dream is to buy us a home.”  He thought she was a waitress.  Her younger sister was overhearing this conversation.

What is justice then?  Is justice making this girl stop making more money than she can in any other job and force her and her family to live in poverty, its own injustice?  

Do we allow this girl to continue working a job that robs her daily of dignity and her God-breathed purpose so she can pay for food?

It becomes a matter not of getting rid of injustices, but which injustice is worse?  Less illegal?  Less sinful, perhaps?

I am not an idealist.  That was cleared from my system several years ago.  I know now that behind every prince and princess living in happily ever after is a pile of credit card debt and an internet history that will nauseate you.  And behind their castle are the slums with whore houses and naked children digging through the trash.  That’s just sin.  It’s not pessimism; it’s a world separated from God. 

I had a religion professor in college who drew the history of the world on the board.  It looked like this:

Very simple.  In the beginning there was God.  The Fall happened, and we trudged along for years until Jesus came, and He redeemed us, but we are still not back to where God intended us to be.  We are supposed to be with God, as we were in the beginning.  As my professor put it, “We aren’t where we are supposed to be, and we won’t reach it on our own, but there is nothing stopping us from trying to get there.”  …that sentence actually took me out of total pessimism and into what I’ve termed “optimism for a pessimist through grace.”  It was only a few weeks later that I changed career goals in order to “seek justice,” as Jesus knew I’m sure, is wayyyyy easier said than done.  The above picture I had so perfectly completed with an angled line to the bottom of the cross feels a lot more like this:

 Where I should feel steady, along that “Jesus came to earth” line, I’m constantly feeling like “justice” and humanity is falling below it, accepting grace and treating it like a one-time gift and not the most precious gift that has ever been given, and one that is constantly being renewed as we’re forgiven.  It’s a gift that we should revere, and it should cause us to put all people before ourselves. 

So many pimps have Bible references tattooed on their bodies.  And sometimes I feel like I am reliving the fall of mankind over...and over.

All this to really say, justice, whatever that may be in the eyes of Jesus, is unsolvable to all but God.  I read some book once that said God is a mystery, not a puzzle, because puzzles can be solved while mysteries can only be explored.  This being the case, what is ideal for God, justice being one of those ideals, is going to be a mystery for us until God comes back.  Until then, we can search for it as we are called to do, but there will not be a steady incline toward holiness.

But that would be nice.

So that is what I’ve learned.  And days will happen that result in my head between two pillows while asking my dog philosophical questions but then apologize for talking about content that is too mature for someone her age but she just continues to give my apartment furniture a new, rustic and chewed-on look.  But when you ask God to send you where no one wants to go, I think even He is understanding of those days.

My love to each of you,
Whitney