Author Archives: PearlS

Psalm 119:19 says I am a stranger on earth; do not hide your commands from me.

 

Maybe you are an oddball yourself?

It is interesting to think we could ever be better, smarter, healthier, richer, prettier, or more successful than the person next door when we are all living breath to breath, dependent on our Creator. If we could zoom the lens out from our circumstances, we would behold a vastness of creation that would indeed make each of us seem strange.

 

I am not the big cheese I think I am, even though most days I act like the world revolves around me. That if I don’t get my first cup of coffee by 7am, I’ll potentially die. That my best self requires nine hours of sleep, music, a morning jog, and whole evenings of alone time. I need a steady supply of floss, salads, wool socks, and non-fiction library books. And tea and chocolate, and curbside grocery pick-up. One NFL game per week is ok, but Monday and Thursday night football is asking too much. I like discussing history and vegetable gardening and I abhor romantic fiction, potty jokes and crumbs on my couch cushions.

It seems reasonable. Why can’t everyone be like me?

 

You can make your own list of pros and cons, favorites and pet peeves. We all have a unique perspective, language, physique, odor, opinion. Perhaps this draws people in, and perhaps it repulses them, but it should not be so. We each reflect the image of God, and in His sovereignty no image is skewed.

Let’s say it together now: We are all strangers.

It’s the one thing we all have in common.

 

The thing to really contemplate is this: What fellow stranger is God wanting me to notice? And more importantly, how do I stop focusing on myself long enough to really see them?

 

Overall I think I’m a pretty good person. I like me. I like my weirdness (except for my awkward conversational skills and a new revelation, imposter syndrome! For real, this explains my whole existence) and I imagine it is just everyone else’s problem if they can’t get along. Maybe everyone else could come up to my level of understanding. If you could homebody like me and love children, well, then we could straighten out the other issues where we don’t see eye to eye.

 

Paul, in 1 Corinthians, details this idea of being “all things to all people”.

He may have been a star when it came to persecuting Christians, but when Jesus put him on His team as a free agent, Paul radically upped his offensive game.

 

For though I am free from all, I have made myself a servant to all, that I might win more of them. To the Jews I became as a Jew, in order to win Jews. To those under the law I became as one under the law (though not being myself under the law) that I might win those under the law. To those outside the law I became as one outside the law (not being outside the law of God but under the law of Christ) that I might win those outside the law. To the weak I became weak, that I might win the weak. I have become all things to all people, that by all means I might save some. I do it all for the sake of the gospel, that I may share with them in its blessings.

 

1 Corinthians 9:19-23

 

He knew the advantage of adapting to the culture around him. He was a pro traveler, keen on noticing differences and making sure it didn’t hold him back from getting to know the stranger.

 

Paul–originally named Saul–started out on the Jewish A team. He had the wit, heritage, and tassels to prove it. But when Jesus changed his heart, he realized what a mess he truly was. None of his AWANA badges and Bible bowl trophies meant anything if he wasn’t willing to get dirty. He could rattle off the first five books of the Law verbatim yet was too proud to kneel down to the level of a hungry child and hand them bread. God opened his eyes to the inconsistency of his nature, his social status, and covert racism. He had to put off his old self so he could do what Jesus was asking him to do.

 

The passage by Paul in Corinthians blows me away with its insistence upon finding similarities and settling in. Paul found peace freely pursuing the lifestyle of a cultural chameleon. He knew how to play the Jewish card around the Jews–that’s how he was raised. But he could drop the tassels just as easy and pull up a chair for bar-b-que with the Gentiles. “To the weak I became weak, that I might win the weak.”

He sought out people so he could create relationship. He wasn’t just knocking on doors, handing out tracts. He moved into their neighborhood and became one of them. He listened. He tuned his heart radio to their frequency until he could speak their language.

 

This is not what some people call stooping to their level. Simply put, he learned how to proclaim Jesus in every cultural context. By familiarizing himself with the cultures of his day, he was able to discern the areas where he could slip in truth that would change their lives for the better. Paul did not wait for those Gentile folk to straighten up and get circumcised already. He didn’t wait for them to come around to his way of thinking. He entered their world, humble and aware of his surroundings. He used logic in a bold way: understand the culture, preach to the people, let the Lord change hearts.

 

In Acts 17, Paul is spending time in Athens, waiting for his friends to show up. He doesn’t stay holed up in his hotel, though. The Scripture says,

While Paul was waiting for them in Athens, he was greatly distressed to see the city was full of idols. So he reasoned in the synagogue with both Jews and God-fearing Greeks, as well as in the marketplace day by day with those who happened to be there. A group of Epicurean and Stoic philosophers began to debate with him. Some of them asked, “What is this babbler trying to say?” Others remarked, “He seems to be advocating foreign gods.” They said this because Paul was preaching the good news about Jesus and the resurrection.

 

Acts 17:16-18

 

Immediately upon arrival, Paul noticed the idol obsession. It wigged him out, and he felt some obligation to confront it. So he began to strike up a conversation with Jews and non-Jews and your everyday farmers’ market vendor and chatty philosophers. He knew the way to their prattle-loving hearts!

 

Then they took him and brought him to a meeting of the Areopagus, where they said to him, “May we know what this new teaching is that you are presenting? You are bringing some strange ideas to our ears, and we would like to know what they mean.” (All the Athenians and the foreigners who lived there spent their time doing nothing but talking about and listening to the latest ideas.)

Paul then stood up in the meeting of the Areopagus and said: “People of Athens! I see that in every way you are very religious.

Acts 17:19-22

Paul’s first impression in the marketplace garnered an invitation to a bigger stage, the Areopagus. He was asked to speak, and he began by commending their obsession with idols as “very religious”–a sort of pat on the back regarding their chatty past time.  Then he gives them a short, breathtaking sermon.

 

The God who made the world and everything in it is the Lord of heaven and earth and does not live in temples built by human hands. And he is not served by human hands, as if he needed anything. Rather, he himself gives everyone life and breath and everything else. From one man he made all the nations, that they should inhabit the whole earth; and he marked out their appointed times in history and the boundaries of their lands. God did this so that they would seek him and perhaps reach out for him and find him, though he is not far from any one of us.  ‘For in him we live and move and have our being.’ As some of your own poets have said, ‘We are his offspring.’

“Therefore since we are God’s offspring, we should not think that the divine being is like gold or silver or stone—an image made by human design and skill. In the past God overlooked such ignorance, but now he commands all people everywhere to repent. For he has set a day when he will judge the world with justice by the man he has appointed.He has given proof of this to everyone by raising him from the dead.”

Notice the kindness in Paul’s tone, the wisdom in his words. He was talking to Athenians. He referenced their hometown poets, gave a nod to the incredible marble temples and sculptures, and quickly summarized the history of the world. All these things were incredibly relevant to his audience. Paul was on point, perfectly courteous and succinct.

When they heard about the resurrection of the dead, some of them sneered, but others said, “We want to hear you again on this subject.” At that, Paul left the Council. Some of the people became followers of Paul and believed.

Some of them sneered, as expected. He might have felt a twinge of imposter syndrome. But the others invited him back.

 

He had told them about their Creator, Jesus, repentance, and freedom. He didn’t waste their time. And he didn’t waste his time, either. He just showed up within their culture and was completely reasonable and appropriate.

 

I wonder if we don’t need to check ourselves more often with Paul’s checklist.

Have I put off my old self?

Am I intentional?

Am I trying to flatter? (Hopefully no.)

Am I approaching them with respect and humility?

Who am I serving here, me or God? Who gets the glory?

 

It seems easy, but I think it is tricky to nail down the right attitude. We step on our own toes because our natural tendency is to remain comfortable. But the essence of knowing the stranger is becoming uncomfortable, losing a bit of oneself to blend in.

I must be malleable, playdoh in the hands of God. Ready to engage, but not on my terms of play. Wit counts for nothing, sincerity wins hearts. Submissiveness is crucial.

It encompasses every culture in the world, every color and creed. Every homeless person, jailbird, refugee, annoying classmate. Old folks in the nursing home, babies in the nursery.

There isn’t a stranger stranger than me.

 

What of my old self have I put off so that I may put on something more appropriate, more approachable?

 

Jesus, who has freed us up to lose the robe, fake eyelashes, tidy house, the facade of having it all together, wants us to put on sweatpants to talk to other people in sweatpants.

 

Now that is freedom.

In high school, I was tired of being around teenagers (this is a whole story unto itself, and I was mostly unaware I was just as teen and angsty as the next). I knew I wanted to see the world. There were people out there somewhere that I needed to meet. I was ready to fly the coop. As soon as I was old enough, I applied to study abroad.

This landed me in Uruguay in a town on the border with the southernmost tip of Brazil.

I spoke no Spanish, no Portuguese, and I stuck out like a tall, rigid pine tree among a bunch of tan, tropical succulents. The flight to get there alone was a nightmare, my first ever, beginning with a delayed flight in St. Louis and ending some 36 hours later in the apartment of a single guy who’d volunteered to drive me to the bus station. I was deliriously tired and he let me sleep in his bed while he went to an all night party.

Obviously, it was kind of shady, not something to report back home unless you want your dad to make an end of your world traveling adventures. Luckily, Santiago (was that his name? To this day I’m afraid to crack open that diary entry) did not kidnap me. In the morning when he’d returned from his fun, he drove me to the bus station, bought me a plate of chivito and steak fries and sent me on my merry way.

 

I spent all of my days in Uruguay trying to not stick out. I focused on learning Spanish, keeping my head down, and staying away from boys and Mormons (“They’ll find you when you’re lonely,”–classic dad advice). I was indeed homesick, but my eyes kept peeking out at the view around me.

It was incredible to behold.

Everything was unlike anything I’d ever experienced, and I couldn’t make heads or tails of it.

My host family had two maids, one for cleaning, one for cooking. They were constantly bustling around, Gilda frying chicken milanesa and assembling the ensalada russa, and Zulma collecting and washing piles of laundry.

My American mind was spinning. Is it okay for me to let someone else do all of the work?

My clothes would return to my room, steamed, ironed, and placed neatly on my pillow. Gilda and Zulma fussed if I even approached the kitchen.

In the morning, there was toast and cafe for breakfast. I worried. Was this a sufficient meal? Shouldn’t there be an egg somewhere?

My host parents were two busy professionals, one a dentist, the other a lawyer. They encouraged me to party all night long every Saturday night. Would I upset them if they realized what a true stick in the mud I am?

Should I really be walking out on the street after dark?

How will I pass these classes if I can’t speak Spanish? Will my grades transfer?

 

My darling, petite host mother immediately took me shopping for party clothes. She was ecstatic to dress me up like an exotic barbie doll, and she proudly marched me into an expensive clothing store. We were equally mortified to find there were no clothes that would fit me unless I wanted to look like a lady of the night. But it was apparent Martha had no plan to leave the store until her barbie had clothes. She finally settled on a pair of very ill-fitting lavender slacks–the largest in stock, a size four that translated to a size ten in my world (with a crease up the legs) and a sparkly, itchy blue top, cut at midriff.

I didn’t know whether to feel embarrassed or liberated, I was so stunned as she paid for the clothes. But I donned them for her, for the first party of many, because what else was I to do?

All the rules of modesty seemed so shallow in light of this culture where parties began at 10am and rocked until the wee hours of the morning. If I didn’t go to the parties and wear the clothes, I was basically an ungrateful snob, and that was even further from my M.O. to blend in, no matter what.

 

I decided, for lack of a better option, to wear the purple pants and sequined halter top. Off we went to the birthday bash, held in a fancy restaurant-theater. This was met with positive remarks and encouraging looks from the locals, even though I felt remarkably insecure. We entered the venue, dark except for a flashing disco ball, and friendly strangers (all significantly shorter and tanner than me) kissed me on the cheek with chatty welcoming words I couldn’t yet understand. I was enamored yet uncomfortable. It was thrilling and terrifying at the same time.

I stood around, awkwardly swaying to the cumbia music, perplexed at life on every level.

Repeat the scenario every weekend for the next six months. I’d come a long way from the days back in America when I was too prudent and prim to even consider going to the prom.

 

I’m not saying this is something the Apostle Paul would have done, but I think he might have approved, sort of. The best way to understand a culture is unabated immersion. Diving in, accepting all the oddities in their queer form. Not trying to sort it out as good or bad, right or wrong, but saving the moments of intense retrospection for after the experience.

I didn’t drink, and I remained chaste–and this was no easy feat at the age of seventeen when I was on my own in a foreign country (kudos to my parents again for raising me to follow rules or suffer temporary and eternal consequences). When I initially tried to make a study of Uruguay based on first impressions, my conservative upbringing raised a hundred red flags. I was hopelessly out of place and couldn’t fake my way around. I couldn’t even understand the language for the first month.

 

But after a few weeks of waking up, drinking instant coffee with boxed milk and settling into the routine of the house, it became clear. There was nowhere to go, nothing to do but dig in my heels. Try to enjoy yourself; have fun–the final words of advice offered by my dad before I boarded the plane.

The Holy Spirit–I cannot name what else it could have been–began to train my eyes and heart to open up to the differences around me. I did have fun. I got lost too many times to count.

It was sinking in, this idea that culture itself isn’t wrong. It’s one of God’s creative flairs. When He was designing this world and placing people in their places, handing out languages and mannerisms, he was thinking this is going to blow their minds.

To God, cultural differences simply point to his glory, that it cannot be contained or whittled. We can’t understand or pick apart the fabric because it is beyond the scope of our imagination. He is limitless and beautiful, and creation sings a million versions of the same song.

Of course, we humans know how to screw up a good thing, and no culture is without the stain of sin. We have to be alert–perhaps especially the naive highschool exchange student. But from one stranger to another, isn’t a kindness to approach people with an open mind? That we lean in first, rather than just waiting and hoping they catch our drift? We have to make the first step, we have to step out of our comfort zone to enter theirs. How will we ever know them if we don’t learn their language, their coffee, their love of accordian-filled cumbia?

 

The Lord can work out the details, down to the party clothes.

We have a hard time living in the freedom God has given us, because His freedom is so radically unlike anything we’ve ever known. Christ himself was homeless (Matthew 8:20) and physically not attractive in his human form (Isaiah 53:2). How could He be our example of freedom?

We don’t like to think about the fact that he had a few close buddies but even most of his disciples were unable to understand what he was saying, let alone connect with him on a deep level. They bickered and asked questions like petulant children: who do you like best, Jesus?

He was a bit of a loner, and he did not glory in the attention he received for performing miracles. When he healed people, he told them to keep it hush hush.

Christ came not to bring down Rome and its oppression, and this was counter to everything the Jews were hoping for in a redeemer. Frankly, it was disappointing. He knew he was disappointing the majority.

Jesus noticed blind men yelling on the side of the road. He touched people with diseases. He played with little children instead of ignoring them. He was kind to women and Samaritans. He made detours often, because he cared about humans that were suffering. He visited Zacchaeus’s house, a true oddball, very short and very hated.

Many people didn’t want to hear those beautiful Beattitudes–blessed are the poor, blessed are the meek. It didn’t carry the thunder, the burning, scathing revenge they wanted for their earthly enemies.

Aren’t we the same? We let the huge problems of the world scream into our ears via news programs and we begin to think it’s our Christian duty to get riled up and open our mouths. Yes, politicians are good scapegoats, with their wide mouths and boastful Twitter accounts. But have we forgotten how we each have our own tongue? We each have a rudder in our mouth, capable of steering the ship or sinking the boat. The prophet Isaiah was facedown repentant when he saw the Lord–”I am a man of unclean lips and I live among a people of unclean lips!”

On the whole we are proud people, unaware of our two-facedness.

We actually think we are (for the most part) pretty fair and upright, so we remain unaffected by Jesus.

We are being deceived.

No, freedom in Jesus is not equal to freedom of speech. It isn’t the same as our right to smoke pot or march in the local gay rights parade. It isn’t freedom to wear whatever we want or to post well-posed photos of our stylish home on social media.
Real freedom is tearing off things that prevent us from drawing near to God who is holy, just, fair, loving.

It is accessible to every human being, not just the average American. We are all capable of bending our souls in repentance and humility. That’s where the freedom is, in letting go of our pride, our ego, our words. In Christ we have the freedom to close our mouths, drop the self-made image of success, and pursue love in action.

It begins with emptying myself so he can fill me back up with his goodness. This supernatural gift allows me to notice and be drawn to the disadvantaged, sick, elderly, the oddballs, the strangers.

We pursue social justice and equality by serving the one or two people God puts in our field of vision each day. We don’t justify ourselves by pitching a fit–the world is falling to pieces! Nor do we do it by wearing trendy clothes and passing it off as our spiritual talent offering to the Lord. We don’t market a form of godliness–throwing out Bible verse nuggets–but deny its power to flip our lives inside out (2 Timothy 3:5).

There is a serious business to living in freedom, and it is brick-and-mortar, feet-to-the-ground, outward-facing, people-oriented.

You, my brothers and sisters, were called to be free. But do not use your freedom to indulge the flesh; rather, serve one another humbly in love. For the entire law is fulfilled in keeping this one command: “Love your neighbor as yourself.”

Galatians 5:13-14

This is what blew Paul away, this freedom. He changed from a know-it-all Jew to a notice-it-all believer. From a persecutor to participant in the Gospel.

He counted it as Life.

For me, to live is Christ…

Phil. 1:21

My eight year old came home from school one day with a surprise in his backpack. The first words out of his mouth were, “Mom! Hey! I saved you some sushi!”

Immediately I began brainstorming excuses for not eating sushi out of his backpack. He had brought home leftover school lunch hamburgers in the past and they were always in terrible shape upon recovery. Even his best intentions (“school burgers are soo good, Mom. But I ran out of time to eat, so I had to wrap it up and save it for later.”) couldn’t swallow a cold, flattened hamburger.

I assumed this sushi was from lunch and Jubal was thinking this is terrible! Followed by but my mom likes weird food. Concluded with I’ll take it home to her! She’ll be so jazzed!

Fortunately I was wrong.

 

He unzipped his backpack and removed two origami tops and a small, rice-filled dumpling wrapped in a paper towel.

“It’s not from lunch,” he explained. “Ethan’s grandma is heading back to Japan tomorrow, so she came to our class to teach us some origami and share treats.”

 

We sat on the floor and began spinning the intricate paper tops.

“Wow, you made this one?!” I asked, incredulous.

“Yeah,” he said, “she gave each of us one and then taught us how to make our own.”

“Did she speak any English?”

“No, but Ethan does, so he translated. And Ms. P–she speaks a little, too. You know, she’s from there, too–Japan.” he said.

“That’s amazing! How cool! I wish I could’ve been there for it,” I said, wistful, and I meant it.

 

———————————————————————————————————————

 

Growing up and living in the white, rural midwest, my folks took the initiative to introduce me and my brothers to all sorts of people. There were Chinese students at the local university that butchered my name, Pearl. As a six year old, I indeed took offense. I feel I still owe an apology to all Mandarin speakers–L’s and R’s are no easy feat (and my name has both letters back to back).

My mom babysat for a Japanese couple when I was very young. They were precious and kind, and tried so very hard to assimilate to the American culture. I still remember visiting them at their apartment and feeling rather opposed to them putting ice cube in my glass of milk.

(Was I hard to get along with as a child? Jury is out.)

 

On Sundays, we rode in the station wagon to the independent living home for church. All of the residents had one disability or another, but the living situation seemed to be a step above nursing home, since they had their own rooms with locks. I watched my parents knock on doors, collect people and gather them into the general meeting room, the one with a piano and a couch.

 

I remember it smelling horrible. I remember not understanding a word Tom, a man with palsy, said. Was he mentally impaired, or was it just physically impossible for him to communicate? My parents seemed to understand him completely, adjusting the straws in his cup, asking him about his week. It didn’t phase them, and it didn’t matter his intellectual capacity. I saw, even as a child, that this man was important to them. Serving him, visiting him, and having church a wheelchair’s roll away from his apartment was holy.

 

My parents were oddballs, and contented ones at that. They’ve never lived in excess, and in fact regularly condemn worldly pleasures, save for bluegrass music and warm pie out of the oven. Our humble home was always under construction (due to a quirky, distractible carpenter dad) and cluttered with books, instruments, projects, kids. My sensible, quiet mother spent hours in the kitchen (still does!) perfecting the art of a home cooked meal. She won our adoration and loyalty from infancy. Food and time–it was love because there wasn’t much more.

Beyond the homefront they lived unashamed of their homeliness. They were interested in people that were unique and different, both socially and culturally. They didn’t seek out like-minded friends who helped them feel better about themselves. They cared about the marginalized. They were intrigued by differences. They didn’t give two cents about social norms or standards.

 

I’ve always been fascinated by this, even as a kid. My parents treated people with respect, but they were especially warm and kind to strangers, outsiders, the elderly and disabled. This made comfortable onlookers uncomfortable in the best way.

Now I recognize it. My folks didn’t buy the American dream tale about ladders and success. They rejected it, it was garbage.

People. The poor, the disadvantaged, the ignored, the foreigner. My folks weren’t climbing a ladder, they were lowering a rope. They knew the value of a soul to its Creator. People are priceless.

Plain and simple, it’s the love of Jesus. It’s the fruit that hangs off branches of a life hidden in Christ. It is serving others while seeing Jesus as the recipient. As a child, it pulled me in, curious and hungry. I saw early on the futility of social status. It seemed small and petty. My parents were imperfect; they stumbled–they will tell you this. But they regularly confessed that God can straighten out even the biggest mess we can find ourselves in, and it became their life song.

They sang it to the tune of Jesus’s example as He washed his disciples feet. “As I have loved you, you ought to love one another.”

 

I bore witness to this inexplicable beauty in service, the holiness in pouring out.

 

But mostly I developed an eye for the stranger.

As the saying goes, it takes one to know one.