"what a world we live in where people use God's name to expand their empires"

Lately I've been listening exclusively to Take It Back. They are a hardcore band. LIke older hardcore with the punk edge, but sometimes melodious. Anyway, there's tons of passion in their music, but even more in their lyrics.

It's really refreshing to hear the Sermon on the Mount embodied in the hardcore genre. In a world of hate, someone is stepping up to overcome the world with love. The new album is called Atrocities and that is exactly what it is about: homelessness, shunning pregnant single women, war in the name of God, complacency, looking from suburban windows and seeing men with cardboard beneath their feet, hypocrisy.

Tonight they were scheduled to play at our local hardcore venue called The Championship. This venue is located just across the Susquehanna River from my new home, just over a mile walk (most of which is river). I bundled up and walked to the show.

Upon arriving at the show, I discovered that the venue had been bought out by CI Records, a local label which signed bands like Texas in July and August Burns Red. The Champ began as a local venue to host hardworking bands, mostly profiting the bands for the sake of keeping the music scene alive. They were fortunate enough to move into better facilities to put on better shows. Eventually, like many endeavors, it became all business to some of the people involved. Don't get me wrong, there were some great guys at the place who were a lot of fun and welcoming to everyone. But there was at least one person who stuck out like a sore thumb looking for his green.

From what I understand through word of mouth, Mr. Sore Thumb sold the venue to CI Records and pocketed everyone else's share. Years of hard work and nothing tangible to show for it.

Anyway, so we're all upset about that, but we continue enjoying the show. During Take It Back's set a hardcore moshing kid yelled out between songs saying that the place was dead, criticizing other audience members for not taking part of the moshing. The singer was calm and asked him what the problem was, saying they could be angry at different things and still do their own things in peace. Hate combated with love. Such an old school concept that must be better embodied in the hardcore scene. It takes a lot of appreciation and personal connection for me to actually buy a band's CD, but I bought one.

Jeremy and Brandon drove some some of my old music equipment and me back to the SALT House. I showed them around. What's cool about the hardcore scene is that among all of the hate, there is a lot of love. My oldest friends are friends from other bands and kids I've met at hardcore shows. Yet for some reason parents don't like their kids attending such events. Maybe it's thanks to those push-moshing kids that come to shows to get out their frustration.

The thing about crossing the river for a show is this: West Coast and East Coast dislike each other. A city of an increasing homeless population wanders the streets on one side and middle-class "Sundown Town" residents park their cars in driveways on the other. It really brings out a Take It Back lyric that I will leave you with:

"From the window of my middle class home
I watch a man as he sits alone
On the dirty streets
The cardboard under his feet
Screams about all his cold nights spent alone
People pass but no one seems to notice
His empty hands hollow eyes broken soul
And his need need need for just one person to care

So which of these words will brings him comfort
Cause it's sympathy not empathy I feel
But is it real
As I sit and watch from my suburban castle"

Just Curious

This semester I work for Local Community Outreach at our campus' Agape Center for Service and Learning. I am the only male Outreach Coordinator. Both of my supervisors are females.

I live at the Serving and Living Together building in downtown Harrisburg with 20 girls and 3 guys (including me).

There are more girls that study Christian Ministry at Messiah than dudes, and by far more females studying Social Work.

Are guys becoming self-centered, heartless jerks? The philanthropic feminist movement must have only started because it had to start.

cultural diversity or ethnocide?

Today a group of us who live at the Harrisburg Institute/SALT House got together for a class we are all in. It was very productive.

Halfway through our group meeting, there were a few negative vibes, so when I had a turn to speak, I did what I typically do when I am uncomfortable: I tried to reroute the conversation with small-talk.

Based on my positive experiences of learning first-hand the cultural backgrounds of international Messiah students, I decided I would ask one of the girls in the group, a Kenyan, if she was a Luo (because that is the only tribe in Kenya that I could name offhand). The response I got was rather aggressive and really caught me off-guard, as if she were upset that I wanted to know about her background and traditions.

What I failed to understand, as she continued to explain, was the recent violent history of tribal clash. It's not that I didn't know tribalism didn't exist in Kenya, but I sure didn't know that asking about tribal background was an offensive gesture.

After a brief period where we were all kind of frustrated with the vibe of the room (opposite effect of what I was intending), I told my friend that I found her response different than my previous experiences, that inquiring in such a manner wouldn't typically be a personally offensive motion. In my mind, the clubs at Uganda Christian University and the traditional dance/culture festival which was held on campus were indicators that tribe was to be celebrated (not flaunted, but celebrated). I guess I was insensitively grouping all East Africans into one group.

Of course all of these events and insights took place in a group meeting for an Intercultural Communication class.

At the Peace Conference last weekend, I had made a suggestion that we move away from racial diversity and embrace celebration of common humanity. Based on my experience tonight, I guess we (humans) have to celebrate both our diverse gifts as well as our mutual shortcomings. I'm glad to hear, in some senses, that Kenyans are trying to move away from acknowledging their ethnicity. On the other hand, we see the tragic impact of erasing history and truth in the African-American narrative today.

I think you get the point, so I'm going to stop talking before I turn more Buddhist than I currently am and start talking about the Middle Way.

the day i sinned by going to church

I was excited all week to go back to Providence for the first time in awhile. Danen Kane, an acoustic artist with a beautiful falsetto voice was to lead worship at the service.

I had been up late talking to Suzan the previous night, however, and when I woke I was exhausted. I knew I had to get up and force myself to go to church though. This was such a labor, and I was kind of grumpy due to my lack of sleep, refusing to treat the "temple of God" in its natural course.

The rest of the day was paining. Talking to friends was a labor. Social life became a nuisance to be conquered as quickly as possible so I could get to bed and catch up on schoolwork. This very blog is being typed as quickly as possible in hopes that I will soon reach my bunk for a few hours sleep. Chronos vs. Kairos has been a war fought like a devil and angel on either of my shoulders as I mourn for the lack of time orientation which I had loved in Uganda.

If I had just stayed in bed and skipped the service, I could've gotten enough rest and rejuvenation to enjoy the presence of friends, strangers, and coursework.

This week is going to be stressful. Very stressful.

"Now Lay Aside All Earthly Cares"

Katy got the Psalters' chant stuck in my head, but it's not a bad thing as it encourages spiritual asceticism. At least it's not top 40 or dirty twangy country.

Thursday: 3-hour drive to Harrisonburg, VA. Six other Messiah students hopped in the family van to go to an Intercollegiate Peace Fellowship conference at Eastern Mennonite University. We were the only non-Mennonite school represented. We were provided with housing in an on-campus co-ed satellite house/"intentional community" called the Martin House.

Friday was intense intellectually. The first session helped us students both broaden and narrow the vision of peace. We broadened it by acknowledging Shalom as four-fold: peace and wholeness between man and God, man and man, man and earth, and man and himself. We narrowed it by suggesting specific acts of peace and sharing our peace histories with one another.

Following the first session were three workshop sessions (for each section we selected which workshop out of 4 we desired most to attend). I attended a workshop on growing peace and gardening, one on the American dollar's influence in Israel/Palestine, and one on racial reconciliation. There were workshops covering every topic between bicycling for social justice to starting on-campus peace initiatives.

In the gardening session, we got to hear from a local Harrisonburg resident who uses grant money to employ the chronically homeless to farm the yard. They also have an adjacent house which provides hospitality to those who need it. One employee figured out a way to implement used cigarette butts to preserve moisture. Drug dealers were now given reliable income to work for something beneficial to the community. There were intense examples given of how peace could be cultivated through ruling and caring for the earth.

Prior to the conference, I had not been well-informed about the Israeli Occupation. This is probably good though, because apparently the media paints a pretty awful picture. By paying taxes, we have given billions and billions of aid to the oppressive Israelis over the years. Ten and hundreds of millions will be contributed by each county in America by 2018 as the government budget has recently increased dramatically. A wall which can only be penetrated by the boycotting of several western companies, nonviolent protests, and the Palestinian endurance to continue with their needy lives separates the rich from the poor, the oppressors from the oppressed, the east from the west. The session was very helpful to me as I was provided with many facts and resources to write a 25 page paper on the subject this semester. Definitely a first step from knowing nothing at all. Not to mention, my conviction toward tax resistance and boycotting of damaging companies has stepped up another level.

The final session contained a discussion on a news report of a teacher calling a student a nigger, or as he tried to justify, a "nigga." We talked about the history of racism and how it's impact continues through generations. We talked about Martin Luther King Jr's longing that one day former slave owners and former slaves would sit together at the table of brotherhood. I long to see a move away from cultural diversity, and a shift toward unity in our common humanity.

We had another large-group session and went into town for dinner. There I got to speak with students from Canadian and American colleges and universities. It was great to have a common bond of peace and discover how different we were from each other. What a beautiful Church. I must also mention that I won a T-shirt as a door prize, which features six nonviolent activists.

This morning we had our final group session. Us Messiah students got together and decided that after what we learned this weekend, we should present a petition to dining services asking them for the following:

1. Reduced quantity of purchased food

2. Reduced waste of leftovers

3. Composting methods to be collected by Grantham Community Garden and other local gardens

4. Closer maintenance of the gluten-free refrigerator (my personal wish)

Of course, those who sign the petition will also be expected to use less dishes to preserve water, as well as take what they eat and eat what they take. If the dining hall does not move upon receiving this petition, which is virtually a unanimous campus complaint, we will attempt a sit-down strike in which students will not leave the dining hall until terms are agreed. $1800/semester per person should be enough power to influence faculty, and we will openly encourage staff workers at Lottie Nelson Dining Hall. I will draft the petition sometime this week (I have not been this behind of schoolwork for well over a year).

Upon returning to my new residence in Harrisburg, I found a bunch of girls preparing to go to Firm Foundation, a type of halfway house. There we heard testimonies of ex-prisoners who had endured freezing temperatures in the Dauphin County Prisons, snow blowing through their bars, and addiction recovery tales from the streets of Georgia. The event reminded me of our third workshop session in Virginia. As we broke bread at the table together, Puerto Ricans, Whites, Blacks, ex-Jehovah's Witness, etc - we recognized our common humanity, our need for Christ's flesh - his life and death, his resurrection as we are born again into a life of freedom - from drugs, from prostitution, from idolizing education.

So far I have yet to experience a night with those at the SALT House where I had to make, purchase, or otherwise obtain, my own food. This is the Eucharist. We all go our separate ways into the community tomorrow morning, for Quaker, Spanish, and non-denominational services, but we share our humanity outside the institution.

Following the meal and story-sharing, Bianca and I conversed on the topic of our cross-cultural relationships, the Post-Enlightenment dichotomy of life and death, and voluntary poverty through renouncing property. I like how guys and gals just floats around the building and set aside books for relationships.

Now back to the endless onslaught of academia.

Final Night Without a Home

The title to this post is either fantastically blown up or incredibly self-righteous.

With that being said, I am spending my last night inside Bittner. Since the breaking down of my family's vehicles (a common occurrence), Dave has provided a temporary refuge for me to leave my things (which I am thrilled to say at last consists mostly of books). Sometimes "my things" includes me, as he is living on the top bunk with an empty mattress beneath him.

I car-pooled with Mr. Hoffman, a member of my family's church, back to Hanover today to pick up the family van which I will drive Thursday to Virginia for the Peacemaking Conference at Eastern Mennonite University. I also wanted to grab more books and instruments and fresh clothes for tomorrow's move-in to the SALT House in Harrisburg (see first post).

While I am excited to have a place to call "home," at least for the next few months, I simultaneously mourn the escape from the transient life. No bed has been mine, and often food comes as if I have transformed into a bird provided with morning worms surfacing from the damp earth. I will miss dependency: the privilege of being blessed and seeing the joy on the faces of those priding themselves in their ability to bless. I hope this unintentionally reciprocal love does not become absent as I move into the new world.

Tomorrow I begin reaping and storing away in barns. I pray I do not grow complacent, having more than most. I pray my barns are soon emptied and I am in need of divine intervention even more than I have in this phase of impermanent settlement and migration.

I came into this endeavor with the thought that I could somehow be united more with the homeless people I fleetingly attempt to serve by intentionally displacing myself. It worked, in some ways. For example, I know what it means to be lonely. I know what it feels like to not have a personal gathering space to which I can invite my friends. All planned interactions occur on public grounds and are therefore merely skin-deep. When a baby escapes his cradle, it is no longer a baby; likewise, when I escape my own sanctuary, I can only retain my long-standing identity in part.

Second (and the last which I will mention), this attempt at living in solidarity with the homeless has taught me that socialization is perhaps the most valuable necessity. So many times I have craved a meal, but so more often I longed for the next time I would run into someone I knew. Not having a meal plan, the dining hall is not always a viable option. The good thing is I have conjured the courage to make new (but often shallow) acquaintances and learned a few names and faces, but the tragic realization is that even your loved ones can forget your plight, and so long as you remain smiling, they may not even see it. So either the street-roamers must mourn with megaphones or pursue the stranger to get any attention. The stranger and passersby will not be troubled much to give a penny or his bread, but his time cannot be lost, and the human need for comradeship, echoing from Eden, is often driven away through personal advancement.

However, I am not one of them yet. I am not a typical homeless man of our age. I have not fully wrapped my arms around voluntary poverty, and even if I shall, I must banish self-righteousness and remember that their poverty is not an act of their will. They are no less "other" to me now. I hold my stereotypes firmly in the back of my mind, and I still think of serving in the sense that I am big and powerful and am going to save the world by helping because I am the hero and only hope. I am only slightly, if at all, humbler after my past month's experience.

So I sit on this mattress, no sheets, just a comforter, knowing tomorrow I will have a bed to call "mine." But still, it's not mine. It's God's, right? So if a naked child approaches me tomorrow, I am to offer it to him and take my spot on the floor for the evening, correct? Of course not, that would be compromising the rules and interests of the institution! That would be endangering and bothersome to those who may not want to leave their comfort zone, say my peers and authorities.

But we all pass away and return to dust. Nothing we hold in our hands today can come with us tomorrow. Therefore, let us live exclusively for all neighbors. Like Dorothy Day, Peter Maurine, Ammon Hennacy, our hospitality must be dangerous and we must be willing to breathe the Kingdom of God from our insides so that it is distributed among the world, a power able and willing to crush all forms of human government, economic principalities, and cultural powers to unite us in works of mercy.

midro.

Saturday I woke up and walked to lunch (a collegiately late start) with Blake, who swiped me into the dining hall. There I met with a coworker and a migrant 8th-grade Haitian named Midro.

Midro's family moved to the states two years ago. His mother lost jobs for being inadequate in the American English language. They moved from Florida to Pennsylvania where she was eventually able to acquire work. Midro and I walked around the student Union asking people to be background actors in a short film I would help shoot, re-enacting his first day of school in the states. In the film we are still editing, Midro cannot speak English, yet his peers and teachers stare at him and persist in asking questions. The short video will be submitted to a contest where Midro could win a laptop or scholarship or something of the sort.

That night I got online and discovered that Suzan had been successful in installing Skype. We were able to video-chat for free, though I could not see her. I gave her a tour of Bittner and she got to meet some of my friends. When she saw the length of the Bittner 2nd-floor hallway, she said, "Oh my God!"

Today I visited the Bethesda Women's Shelter with some other Messiah students. They house about a dozen recovering female addicts. For the first few hours, they instructed us to be free in the kitchen and make a dessert, since they already ate dinner. For awhile we kind of kept to ourselves and they kept to themselves as well. We were going to leave early, but on our way out, we found an opportunity to sit down with the ladies of the home and talk to them. They asked us about our education and future aspirations. We also got to hear their stories and future goals. They all seem to have gone back to school to get education, not just employment, through Bethesda Mission. Some were young, some were old. Some had kids and some were employees who called themselves "evangelists." My favorite part was how the young girl who would turn 2 in the spring would grow up with a dozen moms who supported each other. So whenever I think of my future commune, I can be reminded of Roxy, who had not one family, but many, under the same roof as her as she would grow into womanhood. The old adage: "It takes a whole village to raise a child."

beginning.

Every beginning has a background context, at least in the realm of time. Here is mine:



Emerged from mother's womb in the suburbs of Pittsburgh, PA.

Family moved at a young age to Hanover, PA - highest percentage of millionaires anywhere in the US.

Became an athlete for my dad. A student for my mom. A patriot for my pastor. A musician for my friends. A lover for my girlfriends. A slave for my employers. Depressed and drained, I satisfied everyone but myself.

Skipped senior year of high school, because I disliked the expectancies of others, the social necessity to be a tool, the aspirations my loved ones had for me.

Moved to Messiah College, became a man, "discovered myself," making my own decisions free from the oppressions of human authority. Fled across the country. Joined and formed touring bands. Moved into apartments and homes with girls and guys alike, acting on a whim. Slept beneath churches beside the poor. Experienced the freedom of earth beneath bare feet and water around open skin. Liberated myself through Ghandi, Vinoba, Thoreau, Mother Theresa, the Dalai Lama, Jesus. Opened my eyes to the complacent heresies of contemporary Christianity, of education, of money, of government, of injustice, of bondage. Discovered the Truth. Fell in love with it.

Embraced a life full of celibacy, voluntary poverty, self-renunciation, prophecy, community - sought this through four months in Uganda under the wing of a family.

Watched the sun set over the majestic Lake Victoria. Fell in love....this time with a girl....a beautiful Ugandan female. Suzan.

Returned to the states, less cynical and full of hope. Traveled in winter to sleep on both cement floors and upper-class sofas. Renewed my joy in the vision of hospitality. The vision of the Church.

Returned to campus penniless, with no meal plan or permanent housing, just wreckless in pursuing the Kingdom. Received daily physical needs from friends, students, and strangers. Became grateful.



These briefly explained events comprising "my past," and hence, in part, "my identity," lead me to the present point. I cannot stop writing. I've had at least a dozen blogs. This one is the beginning to another, and that's okay with me. I need an outlet to help me collect myself and process each occurrence in this lifetime.

Presently, I rest on the lower bunk in a friend's room. His name is Dave, who I have not known so well in the past. Dave is a passionately intellectual conservative (few and far between nowadays) with a kindness which shines from the moment he wakes (thus, he is a mentor to me). Dave hails from Philadelphia Biblical University, now a Messiah College transfer student due to his desire to pursue an education in nursing, though he often references a future aspiration in the career of parenthood and hospitality. We have watched about ten films, in part or in whole, together - and we've discussed and criticized at least double that amount. Verbally, we share our dreams of another world which we believe human beings will serve as vessels to perpetuate.

Initially, I entered campus not having too much of a plan, not knowing, save the first few days, where I would sleep. As I was crashing with two long-time friends, I ran into several mere acquaintances who were not hesitant to invite me to stay with them at any point, even offering meals at the campus dining hall.

When Messiah College's Housing Department gave me the option of commuting to campus this semester, I jumped at the thought. It would save me $2000, plus nearly another $2000 for not having a meal plan. I would be able to cover my entire semester on my scholarships, grants, and aid then. This was excellent cuz my bank account had nothing to show for itself (literally). Since I don't have a car of my own and our family vehicles are always in and out of the shop, I figured God would provide for me, as he always does, granted I don't worry myself about it. I decided to stay on campus and utilize the love of the Church as found in my fellow students. Through this experience of accepting hospitality (I am becoming a professional), I have been reunited with old friends, and have gotten to know strangers.

I have recently been employed in the labor of serving the needy. No....I mean seriously....Messiah College pays me money to coordinate groups of students to volunteer with urban organizations and communes fighting hunger and homelessness. With this income, I hope to by the end of the semester have purchased a plane ticket for my beautiful queen Suzan to come join me in the US, at least for some time on a visitor's visa.

Additionally, I've recently discovered over $1000 in my Messiah account and an available opening in the Harrisburg Institute / SALT (Serving and Living Together) Housing in the downtown neighborhood of Harrisburg. I intend to move there in the coming week, using these mysterious leftover funds which had been sitting in my account. I can fight greedy capitalists by refusing to pay for housing, or I can fight these hoards by not leaving them extra cash to dispose of so unintelligibly.

Classes this semester are coming along fine. I am adding Peace and Conflict Studies as a major in addition to my currently pursued degree of Cross-Cultural Ministries. It seems like a theme this year is ancestral identity. Several of my classes have required me to question my genealogy and help me make some sense out of European Post-Enlightenment madness.

Besides hefty reading and strenuous work, I cannot tell anyone of things to come. Perhaps by July I will be climbing a mountain with my beloved. Perhaps by next week I will be visiting the state's worst prison facility, just minutes from a new home (an act of Matthew 25 mercy which I have neglected to this very day). Perhaps I will die tomorrow. But one thing is certain: my plan as made ideal in my mind has never succeeded. Fantasies of future have always blown away like wind which sprints wherever it may please, yet venturing into the unknown with an open heart has always rewarded me with new material to write, if nothing else.