Under the Oak Tree and the Cloud-Covered Sky

This year is the one when I learned that each belief I hold has at least eight (sometimes eighty) equal and opposing doubts. This year is the one when I learned that my strengths combination of learner and belief lend themselves to skepticism. This year is also the one when I learned, after grieving my skepticism, that actually it can be quite healthy. 

Now, more than ever before, I am learning how to hold tension and embrace where I am: physically, spiritually, relationally, and in every other way. A year has felt like a long time, but the more time progresses, the more I deeply realize that these things I'm learning are just the beginning. Just the beginning of stories I know coming into conflict with new stories I'm told. Just the beginning of being okay asking questions. And just the beginning of understanding that questions are worth being asked even if the answers may never be known. 

At times, when I'm tired of wrestling with the intangibles, I look to the more concrete to be my teacher. Rather, the opposite of concrete: the skies and the trees. 

Minnesota winters are cold and the days are short. For almost two weeks, I could count on one hand the hours when the sun shone and I could bathe my scarf-wrapped head and bundled body in its rays. During times like this I hold incredibly tight to the hope and belief that, beyond the visible layers of clouds, the sun shines brightly. Darkness in the day is different than darkness at night. Night I know won't last and I know, in fact, that the sun is already and still shining. It's this sense of "already, but not yet". But darkness during the day seems so backwards. The daytime is set up for the sun to shine. Yet, for two weeks it barely did. 

In my faith and my questioning, I kind of feel like its daytime, yet I can't even see the sun. 

It's amusing, though, because as much as I long to see the sun, when the clouds finally do make a way, even for the briefest of time, I can't look at the sun. For a second I can, but any more is too much for my eyes to handle, lest I go blind. I can only see the sun in part, yet I know its power. I see the plants grow and the snow melt (well, not yet). I see my own skin change color and "angel kisses", as my aunt calls them, land on my cheeks. But these are merely by-products of the sun's power. Still, they're enough for me to understand.

I see the by-products of love, of truth, and of hope. My faith tradition tells me that these things come from One greater. But, I can't see this One, this God, in its fullness. And sometimes the clouds seem to cover Him and my questions bounce right back to me.

I'm at peace, though, because Minnesota winters have taught me that often the same clouds which hide the sun are also the clouds which blanket those below it, keeping whatever semblance of warmth that is possible. Anyone who has lived here can probably attest that some of the coldest days are the ones with no clouds and great sunshine. The clouds keep us warmer during this season. So, I can trust that even when I don't see the sun for seasons at a time, where I'm at is good. And, dark as it may feel (or be in all reality), more good, hope, and healing can come out of this situation than would come out of any other situation I could experience at the time. 

So, again, I learn from the trees, especially the great Oak Tree. I've been told that once trees let their leaves fall, they enter into a season of soaking up the nutrients and making the preparations for the next season to come. While the trees look barren and many call them "dead", they are, in fact, more alive than ever. They are resting, and in this time of resting they are doing the essential work that must be done. Work that cannot be seen and will not show results for a time. 

For me, this year I've had less measurable, result-bearing experiences with my faith; less prayer sessions and worship times. Maybe this year has looked more like an Oak Tree during the winter time: more time sitting and being and asking questions. And in this, as I imagine the Oak Trees do, I trust.

May I--may we--, like the trees, trust and hope that even in seasons of little light and few answers, we are being prepared for a season yet to come.

Introductions: Myself & Burma

"Please use your liberty to promote ours" -Aung San Suu Kyi

Many years ago theses words of the respected Aung San Suu Kyi stuck with me and I began to use my connections and relationships to promote Burma's liberty. All of my friends know the name of this country; I've hosted documentary events, snuck snippets of information into casual conversation, and brought prayer requests from Burma to my church community. 

--

My story is one interwoven with pieces of creativity and education, also of shame and loneliness. As I continually seek to reclaim falsities within my story, they are being replaced with justice, inclusion, and surrender. The start of these has also come with the introduction of a country which now holds a dear and special place within me: Myanmar/Burma.

It was a cold January day in 2010 that I sat down at my desk and began learning the Burmese alphabet. I was a junior in senior high school, living in my small hometown in Iowa, and I was hungry to learn about the wide world beyond the cornfields I was surrounded by. As I struggled between tones and new shapes for letters, I also started to study the country of Burma.

I read all the news articles I could get my hands on that were written in English. I studied the country's complex history with Britain and Japan. I watched footage from student protests of 1988 and 2007. I cried tears of sorrow over the stories and lives influenced under such oppression. Then I cried tears of joy when I found pieces of hope and change. Pictures of Burmese pagodas, monks' robes, and thanaka face cream were the images I carried in my mind's eye throughout the day.

The more I learned about Burma and the people within it, the more my heart grew with compassion and a love that's indescribable. By the time I graduated high school I wanted to move to Burma but instead moved to the Twin Cities of Minneapolis and St. Paul in Minnesota. Here I worked with and befriended Karen people--refugees from Burma. All my studies of a country on the other side of the world were brought to real life and human relationships in my new neighborhood. These friends have taught me what deep forgiveness looks like and perseverance more than I have ever known.

As I continued my informal Burma studies and also my undergraduate studies I had the honor of living, studying, and teaching for six months in Chiang Mai, Thailand. These were six months of many firsts and much growth. My students and many of my friends there are Shan people--migrants from Burma. Again, I was humbled by those around me as I learned about second chances and the power of education. In my months there I had dinners with people who hold so many connections in Burma that I still have to pinch myself to remember that I know these people. 

Today, once again in the cold Twin Cities of Minnesota, I continue being a student of a country on the other side of the world. I no longer study Burmese but instead study the Thai language, trusting that where I am now and I do now is of great importance for what is to come. I feel honored that such an introduction to a beautiful country has happened in my life. I hope to always continue learning what it means to promote liberty and justice in Burma and for all places and peoples. 

Weaponized Religions

I once was explicitly taught that people of other religions were idol-worshippers, heathens, and going to Hell with a capital "H". At that time I also had a white superiority complex cushioned with my image of white jesus and a sense of duty to convert and change any of these pagans aforementioned. In fact, any and every conversation with a "non-Christian" was to have an underlining purpose of proselytisation. 

There was a distinct "us" and "them": 

We are the saved. We have access to the Truth with a capital "T". We have our pity stories but now we are saved once and for all. They, though, are the doomed--just waiting for us to come. Just waiting for us to tell them who Jesus was. Or, to go to Hell. 

We are the predestined. We do the good. We bring the change. But only the change that we think the Bible teaches. They are, well, it's confusing. They are perhaps predestined, but maybe not. They definitely can't do true good, though, because they don't know the source of Truth and Good with a capital "G". 

My religion was being used as a weapon to cut divides between people.

No longer could I see the humanity in others--I was merely seeing them as a checklist to complete after their conversion. 

In the work of peace, there cannot be divides likes this between people of faiths. It is people with a faith who so often have the endurance to continue through the hard stuff. Religion and faith bring a god (or gods), a belief system, and a community from which people are empowered. Religion and faith provide communal meaning for life which allows for hope that can otherwise be so hard to see in this world. From my experiences, these pieces have been crucial in my ability to engage with all different aspects of the world and to advocate for social justice, change, and peace. 

This is not to say that atheists, agnostic, or antitheists can't do this important work. In fact, one of my dear friends is a firm atheist but aware of social inequalities and changes more than most of my Christian friends. But, when I look through history, the names associated with great change and social justice are people of faith: 

Martin Luther King, Jr., Ghandi, Aung San Suu Kyi, Malcom X, Dietrich Boenhoeffer, Nelson Mandela, Rigoberta Menchu, ... 

These exemplars of the work show the importance of peace within and peace amongst. 

For this to be true in my own life, religion must stop being used as a weapon. 

Don't fear: Putting down the weapon of religion does not have to mean pluralism. But it does mean living into the tension of possibly having an exclusive religion yet an inclusive lifestyle. It also means respecting other people, and that includes the spiritual and religious dimension of life, too. 

As it turns out, "us" and "them" are actually "we". So, let us lay down our weapons, join hands with our neighbors, and do the work of the Love with a capital "L". 

Learning the Divides

The work of being a reconciler is not an easy one. Reconcilers are called to bridging. And bridges get walked on.

At my university I am beginning this work and have the great honor of learning under amazing professors and alongside some fabulous people. This field of study doesn't require hours of studying for exams, but it does demand major paradigm shifts and deep hitting application points. The work of the heart, in conjunction with the mind, is not simple nor easy.

I am training to be continuously aware of power dynamics, the voices heard, and the voices not heard.  New stories, popular music, friends' anecdotes, and textbooks are all pieces of the work which I take in and analyze with the lenses I've learned to see through. When conflict arises in my own life or others' I am scouring for multiple perspectives, cultural pieces, and next steps that can lead towards greatest redemption. I am learning to be acutely aware of inequities and injustices.

In the work of bridge building, it is important to learn the divides.

There are many pieces that make me who I am, but there are key ones I have to keep in mind as I approach this work: I am a heterosexual white woman who is English-speaking, a U.S. citizen, and college educated. Many of the systems in place which have created divides are systems and divides which benefit me. I have many privileges, one of which is the ability to be apathetic towards divides and societal injustices. If I am not extra intentional, society has been set up so I can return to apathy and still be benefitted.

So, I am learning how to fight this apathy and learn the divides. These divides are not pretty. They are often systematically set up for oppression and privilege to persist. They are deep and heavy issues, filled with brokenness:

Racism.  Homophobia.  Sexism.  Classism.  Xenophobia.

The list goes on.

Each divide has had profound impacts on individuals, families, communities, and society as a whole. Below is how I've started learning the divides with the hope of being able to do the work of building bridges:

Listening up. What are those around me experiencing? What have they experienced? To learn the divide from listening up I have to remember to:
--shut up and listen
--not take things personally
--compassion in towards the pain and dump my own crap out away from the pain

Reading up. Fiction and nonfiction books alike can be valuable mediums for understanding social systems from different perspectives. To learn the divide from reading up I have to remember to:
--be aware of the perspectives and power from which the authors come
--vary the perspectives (Most of my book shelf and blogs read are by white people...what message is that sending?)
--engage with topics that may make me uncomfortable

Thinking in. In all situations there is culture and history being played out. As I engage with those around me I need to use my knowledge to inform my interactions. To learn the divide from thinking in I have to remember to:
--consider all four "I's": societal ideas, institutions, interactions, and internalisations that are at play
--check myself for what pre-conceived notions and power dynamics are happening
--ask myself when, where, why, and how silence needs to broken

Educating out. To learn the divide from educating out I need to remember to:
--put the narrative back on the one(s) oppressed from the divide, and not keep it about the one(s) privileged because of the divide
--keep mental notes of how the responses go to see the divide from their lens
--offer grace because I've been offered much grace


What about you? How do you learn the divides? What is another divide you need to learn?

silence

Words are powerful. But, perhaps even more, silence is powerful. 

On Thursday I went to the cinema with my classmates and watched the new movie Dear White People. One piece that struck me was the silence in the midst of micro- and even some macro-aggressions. 

As I mull over this idea of silence, I see two variances, each with different potency for differing reasons: choosing silence vs. being silenced. 

AKA: who has the power? 

Here are some ways I'm exploring and understanding silence, especially as it relates to power and privilege structures. 

Silence as a weapon of privilege. Those with privilege can use silence as a weapon to defend their privilege and as an offense to kill conversations. Gloria Landson-Billings writes about the silence of her white students in her article "Silence as Weapons: Challenges of a Black Professor Teaching White Students". Silence can be a weapon because it can shut down conversations. It's especially potent when the dialogue is necessary. White students, especially in a race conversation, have the privilege of leaving the conversation. Popular media and even school curriculum can speak to the white experience allowing white students to resort to silence.

Silence due to lack of power. The [white, male, heterosexual, Christian, etc.] U.S. has created some narratives to be heard while others are silenced and given a one-sided portrayal. This can be seen through K-12 curriculum, popular media, and so forth. Silence is sometimes the only option given because of a lack of societal power.

Silence as ignorance. When this is the case, my first reaction is to roll my eyes and wish them good luck. Then I remember how "them" is often me and I pray for all the patience and grace I've been shown in the mist of my ignorance and silence because of it.  From experience, sometimes people are silent because they don't know any better and don't even know how to formulate a question or anything to add. 

Silence because the "other" is ignorant. At a ReNew Parenterships conference this weekend a woman of color stood up and told the group "we don't all want to be educators". Her words have stuck with me. In Dear White People I watched a lot of ignorant whites offend blacks and then watched the silence. This is a new lens for me to begin understanding because, for me, a lot of my narrative is told through media, etc. so I don't often need to do educating about my culture. 

There are more reasons and motives behind silence:

Silence as cowardice.

Silence as a means to protest.

Silence as the atmosphere for internal processing. 

Silence as a spiritual discipline.


Why are you silent? When don't you want to be silent? How can spaces be created for silence to be broken in redemptive ways? 

On Storytelling

Stories are powerful. Social psychologist and morality specialist Jonathan Haidt argues that "the human mind is a story processor, not a logic processor." Our brains are created to make meaning from stories. That, in itself, is powerful indeed.

Our stories--our narratives-- connect us. In fact, it's something that we, as humans, all have in common. "Everyone loves a good story; every culture bathes its children in stories" (Haidt, J. The Righteous Mind).  Stories show us where we have come from, who we are, and help us know where we are going. 

When we share stories, we are reminded of each other's humanity. We can know and understand each other in a greater way. Through sharing our narratives, pre-conceived notions and group boundaries can be pushed. This can be, I believe, a small-scale catalyst for larger-scale change. I am firm believer in the power of seemingly small, relational changes. Isn't that how Jesus lived?

My idealistic and highly empathetic self thrives off beautiful thoughts like this. I love the idea of forever getting to know people and their stories and forever changing and growing because of it. But this isn't everyone's personality and how they see the world. I am grateful to my professor that she helped me complexify my understanding of storytelling through her question to my senior seminar: "Why is it hard to let stories penetrate us and our self-reflection?" (See more of her wisdom and thoughts here.)

If stories are so beautiful and powerful, then why aren't they the answer more often that not? 

This week my class watched a documentary where Palestinians shared their stories to Israelis. The history is long and multi-faceted, but to simplify it for the purpose of understanding the video: the Israelis were literally living where the Palestinians once had their home. So, the Palestinians who were interviewed shared about their old life and their new life, they shared their grievances and sorrows and were vulnerable. As I watched I had such a sense of hope: "there will be incredible paradigm shifts for at least a few people in that Palestine-Israel area," I thought. But this wasn't the case. The Israelis responded mostly in defence and apathy. Why? 

Sharing is vulnerable. It means opening ourselves up, not knowing how the other will respond. When we open our life, we open ourselves to the possibility of deeper relationships, the possibility of betrayal, and to all things in between. Psychologist and researcher story-teller Brené Brown says to only share our stories--specifically our "shame stories"--with "someone who has earned the right to hear it, someone whom we can count on to respond with compassion." Does this tie over to other kinds of stories, too? Maybe. Maybe not. But it does help us remember that our stories can be vulnerable places. 

Receiving stories is vulnerable, too. As a listener we may hear things that make our heart soar, things that we don't want to hear, and everything in between. Often I see the power of stories losing their full capacity on this end of things. The listener may not be such a listener at all. They may be highly apathetic and happily ignorant. Often hearing a story demands change of the listener and that can be too uncomfortable to accept. 

There are more pieces and context to consider. The timing that the story is shared and the physical environment can both influence how the story impacts each other. Power dynamics and relational history must be taken into consideration as well. 

I would also argue that there is a "pollution of stories" in our day and time. Twitter offers short snippets of people's stories. Anonymity allows for perspectives on events to be shared without filter. Many news sources twist and turn others' stories more now than ever. Even our religions tell many stories. How and what can we trust? Unless we're intentional to set aside biases from previously learned narratives, how can we fully receive stories? 

Sharing stories and inviting others into narratives is complex. All the more, I truly believe it can be powerful. Yet, if the nuances and care necessary for storytelling are not considered, the work of reconciliation and relationship building that come through stories will often be hampered. 

In light of this, how can we learn to fully receive stories and create within us the space to hold other narratives?

God, our Mother

I'm in a season of shaking things up in my theology. This isn't something new. People have been doing this since the history of the world, but this time I'm doing it for myself instead of only accepting what others have found. I'm seeing what truths stay and which of my "truths" aren't actually integral. Is my faith formed by a brick wall, as Rob Bell describes in Velvet Elvis: Beliefs stacked one on top of another, such that if one piece is found to be untrue, then the whole wall falls? 

I sometimes fear that if I shake too hard, my whole faith will fall down. I suppose it's a risk I'm okay taking. 

Spurred on by Sarah Moon's Mother Bear Liturgy, as shared in my senior seminar reconciliation course, I am examining God's identity--be it self-proclaimed or given by humans-- as father. 

So why would the Bible--the living Word of God--use "Father" to describe God if it is wrong or incomplete? Who am I to question that? Prompted by my wise professor, I continue to look deeper into the context. I must remember that the Bible, though still applicable today, was written by specific people, to a specific people, in a specific time. The context into which Jesus came was extremely patriarchal. It was a context in which rites, values, and wealth were passed on from fathers to sons. Jesus, who was born out of wedlock and was claimed to have been conceived without an earthly father, was considered illegitimate in his society. He had no father and he had no rites, values, or wealth. It was in this context that Jesus called God his "Father". This was an analogy that society understood. And an analogy that gave Jesus legitimacy. 

Jesus already acted so counter-culturally...so counter-Empire...would he have had the legitimacy he did if he talked about God as his Mother? Or as neither? 

Perhaps Jesus called God "Father" because of his lack of an earthly father; a redemptive and healing relationship for his own illegitimate status in society. And perhaps Jesus called God "Father" because of his love for the people he was with. Because he knew that we humans can't fully comprehend God's beyond-ness. We need Someone with pieces we can relate to. In that context, the relatable piece was "Father". 

It made sense for Jesus to call God Father in that context...what about now? 

After Jesus left the earth, his followers and his followers' followers continued to use this analogy. In Ephesians 5:22-33, for example, husbands are compared to Christ as wives are compared to the Church. Through this analogy, the author helps married couples gain their understanding of what love looks like in the different contexts. Yes, the love of Christ for the Church is immense. It meant giving up his life for the Church. But, really, how can one even compare the Church to Jesus? Yes, Jesus was fully human...but he was also fully God. GOD! And the church is so little in comparison. Why does the author choose men to be compared to Christ? Is it because men are innately created to be leaders, both spiritually and otherwise? Or is it perhaps because this was written to a patriarchal society? And possibly by a sexist author? 

I am sure that Ephesians 5:22-33 was a beautiful challenge to couples at the time...but what about now? 

Perhaps the reason this has persisted even through today is because males wrote the Bible. Because our church fathers chose the books to go in the Bible, the doctrines, and the creeds. And perhaps we're at a time when we don't need to rely solely on seeing God as only "Father". 

I think William Paul Young touches on our clingy-ness to God-as-only-Father when he brings the Trinity into The Shack. In this book the Holy Spirit is seen as an elusive Asian woman, Jesus as a middle-eastern worker (which is not far from what we know to be true). And "Papa", to top it all off, as a big black woman. This view of the Trinity is not neat or easy to grasp for those who grew up with White-Jesus flannel graphs in Sunday school. When the main character, Mack, asks Papa about them, Papa, with grace and candor, explains: 

"To reveal myself to you as a very large, white grandfather figure with flowing beard, like Gandalf, would simply reinforce your religious stereotypes"

Later, Papa (remember: big black woman) continues to explain: 
"I am neither male nor female, even though both genders are derived from my nature. If I choose to appear to you as a man or a woman, it's because I love you." 

As I continue reading The Shack and Sarah Moon's Apostles' Creed I find discomfort in the amplification of gender. How in the world can I see God as Mother? How can I re-claim my place, as a female, in Christian theology? And how can I do this in the midst of a still-patriarchal Church? 

Perhaps leaning into these discomforts is a key to addressing the misogyny and patriarchy still seen in the church today. Perhaps it's a key to understanding God in God's fullness. And perhaps the more we know of God, the more we know of ourselves and others. If our command, as Christ-followers, is to love God and to love others, perhaps this part of my theology is worth shaking. 

Courage for Death

From the moment life enters the world, we know death will come. This is the reality of life. But what if we die more than just at our final breath. What if life, when lived to the fullest, is really about dying.

What if I die to my theological superiority: my strictly western, white, male theology. If I die to conversion being the goal of my relationships. If I die to seeking truth only in things labeled "Christian".  

What if I die to beliefs that have been--both knowingly and unknowingly--passed down, through generations, since the "founders" of this U.S. What if I stop seeing people and land as things to be explored and conquered. If I die to my beliefs of what it means to be an American. If I die to forcing my voice and thoughts to be heard above others.

What if I die to society's rules for how and what I, a woman, do with my body. If I die to both extremes: my body as a "stumbling block" or my body as my one weapon over men. If I quit using food to self-discipline my actions. If I stop using "like a girl" as an insult.

What if? And what if I do this knowing that death is not the end. It doesn't have the final word because I know that life begins out of death. Nature teaches us this through life cycles and even our dinner plate shows: the death of one thing brings room for the life of another. 

From my death would arise the beginning of understanding God, others, and the world in a wider way. I'd sit, as uncomfortable as it might be, with the truth: I don't know all. My conversations with "others" would come from a desire to grow and know, not to convert. My need to defend my beliefs would lower and my ability to walk with others would increase. 

From my death to privilege would start a deeper understanding of systems and the humans within the systems. My death to the American identity would begin an inclusion as my first nature. An understanding of self outside of nationality. I would ponder the thought that perhaps my fixing of things isn't working. Maybe "it" wasn't even broken to begin with.

From my death would begin actual self care. I'd begin to feed my body all the nutrients it needs...plus some extras because it's delicious and I don't need to shame myself. When I look at the mirror I'd ask myself "How do I feel wearing this?" Not "How will he/she feel when they see me?" I would step up to leadership, even in the presence of men. 

From death comes life. But if I have any understanding of myself and humanity, it is that we fall short even with our best intentions at mind. This being so, I am convinced that this death must be a continual dying process. Not one that is just on MLK Jr Day or Thanksgiving weekend. I too quickly return to old habits and clench my hands around beliefs again. 

So again, I must choose to die. It is in this death that I can learn life. If we're not dying, where is our life coming from? 

For this is the reality of life: from the moment death enters the world, we know life, too, will come. 

May we find courage for death and hope in life. 

resurrection against rome

There are times when I feel betrayed by the Christian Church. These weeks are some of them. It's as if I've been given only a part truth and it is only now that I see it to be such. Is there even such a thing as a part truth? 

The cross is arguably the most important image in the Christian faith. It was upon a cross that Jesus died and from that death he rose again. This is a central piece to Christianity. Yet now, for the first time in 21 years "in the church", I've begun to learn that this message is only a part truth. 

Jesus' death and resurrection was more than that. It was more than salvation for after life. It was for redemption in life. It was against oppression.

These latter pieces are beyond evident in examining the historical context of Jesus' life. I tend to forget--and maybe you do, too--that Jesus was an actual man in and actual historical context. 

Jesus was born into oppression. During his life, Rome had power and domination. One way that the Romans showed this control was through mass --and also more small-scale-- crucifixions. If someone was breaking the political outline and structure that Rome had created, crucifixion was often Rome's answer. There, beating hearts would stop. Lives would become mere bodies, hanging on a tree. On display for the community to remind Romans and others alike, that Rome was in control. 

It was in this context that Jesus was put to death. His actions and words had a political influence that led Rome to crucify him. (Jesus was political...what?!) As Curtiss DeYoung writes in co-authored Radical Reconciliation, "It was execution by Rome and therefore resurrection against Rome." 

I had to sit with that for a while. Rome so clearly represents (and was truly) oppression and oppressors. Jesus was killed by oppression and rose up against oppression. For me, that hits to the core. This brings my perspective on oppression beyond empathy and sympathy. It brings, for me, hope and support for action and conversation. It also brings this sense of betrayal. Why haven't I ever heard this part of Jesus' life before? 

Have I missed this message because the religion of Christianity somehow--almost twistedly-- latched onto western and colonising people groups? If they are a main part of my foundation for Christianity today then of course I had never heard this message. How could oppressors preach this message? As Curtiss wrote further in his book, "Unjust systems appear normal to those in power, and any change will produce feelings of loss." 

Can Christianity be for those in power? Can someone who is part of an oppressive majority actually follow Jesus? 

Can I actually follow Jesus? 

For me, I am confident that God's love and Jesus' steps are not just for the oppressed. But I also believe that we can not actually follow Jesus until we know oppression and steward power. As someone who does desire to follow Jesus, I am learning what this means in my own life. 

I know oppression as a woman living in a sexist society when I feel unqualified because of my gender (especially in the church), when I have to consciously change my actions to meet male expectations, and when I see the dehumanization of women in media. 

I know oppression as a white person living in a racist society when I realize that I am a part of the oppressive group, when I question my prejudiced thoughts, and when I listen to those who are a part of the oppressed group. 

And I know oppression as a human living in a sinful world when I see the lies I'm living under and let the truth reign instead, when relationships break, and when shame corners me into isolation. 

I know oppression and am learning all the more as I seek and learn. I am able to better see the power I have in society and how to steward the power. How to be a bridge. After all, Christians believe that Jesus was freakin' God. That is power. Yet he laid it aside and lived a life under oppression, even dying to oppression. But the story didn't end there. He came back to life. He resurrected against oppression.