FYI

So, if you're interested, I wrote an article about Southern California for Relevant Magazine Online that just went up here. Check it out if you're so inclined.

On Miracles, and Being One

If you read the Good Book, either the Old part or the New, you find
that God is a miracle worker. His quick, thunderous acts of
supernatural creativity are sprinkled in amongst the pages. Seas are
parted, cities fall, pillars of fire swirl down from the sky.

Christians, for the most part, have internalized this aspect of their
deity. It's an excitement and a comfort to know that in case of
trouble God can stick his hand into the atmosphere and caress or
rebuke reality into submission. It's a pleasant fiery sigh of
admiration and security.

But his greatest accomplishment is not a sea parting or Lazarus being
raised to die again. His most powerful and enduring work is on such a
scale that many fail to notice it. History is God's canvas, men and
nations are his brushstrokes. He uses the colors of power and
weakness, joy and grief, triumph and regret.

This is not as comfortable as a simple miracle because it strips a man
of his self-importance. And neither is it exciting to a generation
bred on up-to-the-minute news and blockbuster movies that cover years
of history in a shining, thumping three hours.

So when troubles crash into Christian lives they kneel and pray for a
miracle – a strong wind and a fierce flame and a flood of God's loving
power to cleanse their lives of such anxiety, or the lives of those
they pray for. But in these frenetic days we forget that God has been
at work subtly for centuries that we have not seen. He has been
sculpting that greatest work.

Looking at the history of the last three hundred or so years, America
is the most remarkable development. From the beginnings of some brave
and perhaps foolish separatists has grown the richest nation ever to
occupy the earth. And it should not escape you that a majority of
Americans would claim Jesus as their primary religious figure. Let me
synthesize – the richest nation in the world is primarily a Christian
nation.

This nation does not hesitate to drop to its collective knees and pray
for miracles when confronted with things like poverty and AIDS and
Africa. They pray for God's quick, supernatural solution, apart from
anything that they as individuals can (or ought to) do.

They don't realize, as they pray for God's intervention, that they are
the miracle. Enough wealth has been placed into the hands of
Christians that they can heal the world. They can buy the medicines
and the food and the concrete floors and tin roofs to change the lives
of all the billions that need it, to change the world.

So, by all means, implore God for miracles. Pray that He will
intervene extraordinarily for those who need it. But as you are
asking for miracles, remember that for millions of people you are the
miracle. You are a part of God's grandest work, a story centuries in
the making coming to a bursting but contingent crescendo. You have
been given the chance – you must be the miracle that you ought to be.

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this random essay is brought to you by jamestravels.com. hope you like it.

Uganda Dispatch 5: Joyce, A War in Microcosm

Joyce is just over two years old now, but she should have died before her second birthday. Last year the taxi van that she was riding in with her mother and aunt was attacked by LRA soldiers. She is the only survivor.

The van was traveling the rutted dirt road from Pader, where Joyce lives, to Kitgum, where her father is stationed as a soldier in the UPDF, the Ugandan government army. About two miles out of town the van was ambushed. Bullets pinged and thudded into its metal sides and broke through its windows. The driver swerved into the tall grass by the side of the road but the rebel soldiers were ready. They fired into the van mercilessly. Most everyone had been shot before they set flames to the vehicle and watched it burn.

Joyce was still alive inside, and unharmed. Her mother and aunt were not moving, could not save her. She wriggled free from their heavy bodies and escaped the burning taxi. I imagine she screamed as she ran toward the road – tears soaking her vision and terror pumping her small legs.

The rebels saw her. They ran after her, catching the toddler easily and dragging her back to van. Perhaps the inferno was too hot, or maybe they wanted to try something new, but they didn't throw Joyce back into the van. Instead they laid her on the ground and covered her with the brown grass of Uganda's dry season. And they put a match to it.

Flames rose and burned down into the pile of grass, quickly turning the kindling to glowing red embers, and these sinking down to Joyce's smooth young skin. Once again she struggled free. Once again she ran for the road. And once again she was caught, dragged back, and thrown into a flaming pile of grass.

The government army was on its way and the next time Joyce got up to run away the rebels retreated instead of giving chase. Joyce was severely burned over 45% of her body. The muscles of her left arm were charred and useless and the skin of her face was falling away from the bone. The soldiers rushed her to the nearest hospital for first aid. Later she would be transferred to Gulu for a series of surgeries.

Left without her mother, Joyce is cared for by her sister and the women of her village. She looks small for her age, and though noticeably thin she does not seem malnourished. Her scars are thick and dark, swirling like flames up her arms and covering her hands. Her forehead is high and rough from burns, hair coming in small tufts over the top of her head. Scars create a mask of tissue on her face, out which she stares with serendipitous brown eyes. Her manner is quiet, reserved but not fearful, sadly thoughtful.

You might think, after spending some time with the two year old, that she is always contemplating something sad. Perhaps the depth of depravity to which man can fall. Or maybe that is what you contemplate while you watch her.

I asked her father why the rebels had done this, why they would attack a van full of civilians, and why, when a child who can pose no discernable threat to anyone breaks free, would they risk the extra time and effort to see her tortured and killed. His answer was, basically, that is the nature of this war.

Kony and his band of children are notorious for attacking innocent civilians. The victims are abducted or tortured or killed – sometimes all three. And the motivations behind such attacks, and the LRA's continued terrorism in general, are sorely enigmatic. Victims are left to ruminate on the senselessness of their ordeals and the government is stuck trying to fight or make peace with an army that has motivations beyond sane comprehension.

For this reason, among less forgivable ones, the UPDF is often late in heading off attacks like that on Joyce's taxi. When not met head on by the enemy, government forces arrive in time only to clean up the mess that the rebels assuredly leave behind. Joyce, in a somber but important way, is lucky. The army was there to save her life.

Much as Joyce's story is symbolic of this war, it is also predictive of what will continue if the world does not act to end this conflict. The Ugandan government is keenly aware of international attention, and you and your family and your friends and your elected officials can give them the attention necessary to spark decisive action. The wheels of peace are turning in Uganda. All they need is some grease. Be the grease.

For information on what you can do visit www.ugandacan.org