Believe it or not, being engaged and in the Peace Corps is not the easiest thing in the world. When I started dating Riley, I was finishing my application to the Peace Corps. I remember questioning rather to even include the fact that I was in a relationship since it was so new and seemingly tenuous. Little did I know a year and a half later he would be flying to Ukraine to propose.  Life is full of surprises

The last six months since he popped the question have been exciting, depressing, humorous, confusing, and wonderful all at the same time. The fact that I can plan a wedding from 6,000 miles away is cool. The fact that I only see my fiancé on a computer screen is not. The pain of missing him is compounded by two factors: firstly, everyone is always telling me how sorry they feel for me. This makes me feel sorry for me, too. I mean, really, who goes and gets engaged and then lives in another country for two years? This is illogical, I hear all the time. And then I start to believe it. I see my friends get engaged, shop for dishes and curtains, and get married. In less than a year. Spending nearly everyday together. I get more cynical. That’s the way it’s supposed to be, I tell myself. This is cruel. Which brings me to my second point.

The Peace Corps is not the Marine Corps. I can leave at anytime. It’s my choice to be here. I’m not a masochist. So why don’t I just go home? Live in the same time zone as Riley, pick out china patterns, and be married by Christmas. Well, there’s this tiny little detail. I actually don’t think that I just chose to be here. I feel useful, needed, and challenged in Ukraine. I believe God wants me here. It should make it easier that Riley thinks that, too. But it doesn’t always. I routinely forget this vital fact. And when it smacks me in the face, I rebel against it. The other night, I was talking to Riley and admitted that I just really wanted to come home. I said I wished that instead of doing web development work, he had a steady job with health benefits so he could support us while I looked for work in the states. I said I didn’t know how much longer I could be away from him.

I was coming from a pretty selfish standpoint. I missed him. I missed laughing together and eating ice-cream and watching Cowboys games. But, he came from a different place. He said half-jokingly, “Maybe God knows if I had that kind of job right now you’d come home, and I really think you’re supposed to be in Ukraine right now.” Joking or not, it struck a chord, and I knew God was trying to tell me something.  And I hated it. I literally writhed and whined, lamenting my plight in the world. My friend Molly was over, and I complained to her, “I don’t want to be mature about this.” She replied with a chuckle in her ten-year-older-than-me-knowledge, “Don’t worry, you’re not.” 

God is really teaching Riley and me some pretty important lessons in all this. Like the fact that we are not God. We cannot even begin to do this on our own. Of all the lessons we have to learn as a couple, this is probably the best foundational one. The other day, I was listening to music and feeling melancholy when a song I had never heard came on. The lyrics went like this, “Those who trust in the Lord are as strong as mountains. They will not be moved.” I really needed to hear that. I needed to be reminded that my God is a constant source of strength. And I am human. Trusting in myself and in Riley is not going to cut it. 

As fate would have it, after weeks of trying to track down a protestant church in Ukraine (no small feat!), I finally found a phone number for a Baptist Church about an hour away from me. I called a very enthusiastic and slightly confused man named Vladamir, the local pastor. The trip to Burshtyn was filled with obstacles, like hailing a bus in the middle of the street and getting off at the wrong stop. But we made it. And Vladamir was there to greet us. As soon as we got to church, we felt like family. I know that sounds cliché, but as foreigners in the former Soviet Union, this is not a common feeling. It takes a while for people to trust you and welcome you into their homes. While Ukrainian hospitality is no myth, this was the first time I felt it instantly. Never mind the fact that I didn’t understand half the things being said. They were smiling, gave us hot tea, and kissed us on the cheek. Before the service started, Vladamir gathered Molly and me to pray with a couple of other people. We listened as intently as we could to their heartfelt, Ukrainian language prayers. I didn’t get most of it. As a government employee and secondary school teacher, my vocabulary is limited to social and professional contexts. When it came to my turn to pray, I was afraid. I literally had no words. Then Vladamir said, “In English.” I had forgotten I knew a language effortlessly.  

To open the service, we sang a Christian hymn “How Great Thou Art.” Molly and I couldn’t stop smiling. It was in Ukrainian, of course, but we knew the melody and could translate most of it. One of the funny differences between Ukrainian and English is that we have a lot of little words that mean big things and they have a lot of long words that mean small things. So in translation, the Ukrainian version of “How Great Thou Art” is simply, “Big You.” I mean, really, that gets the point across. So Molly and I sang “Big you, Big you” and thought, truly, How Great Thou Art. God is as strong as a mountain and quite big enough to see Riley and me through this and much more. After spontaneously being asked up front to give our testimonies (in Ukrainian, of course) as the 35mm cameras clicked and flashed, we were ready to sit down. In the back. But Vladamir had another request. “Now you will sing a song?” He half asked, half told. I assumed he meant the whole church would sing a song while we were positioned up front. I was mistaken. He actually wanted Molly and me to belt something out a cappella in English. The congregation waited expectantly. I, true to form, burst out laughing. I have zero musical talent. Molly shook her head and said “We can’t, we can’t,” in Ukrainian. They encouraged us more. I started to translate “Big You” in spoken word, but Molly decided to give them a little taste and sang the chorus. They were looking for more, but we just took a bow and sat down. The sermon drew on Matthew 7, where Jesus asks “Which of you, if his son asks for bread, will give him a stone? Or if he asks for a fish, will give him a snake? If you, then, though you are evil, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will your Father in heaven give good gifts to those who ask him.” I know that God wants to give me only the best kind of gifts. I know this on my best days. But when I’m at my worst, I think I know better. The next verse I recognized quoted was Psalm 144. I looked it up in my Message translation of the Bible and it began, “Blessed be God, my mountain.” My attention was officially grabbed. 

The day came to a ceremonious end as we ate lunch together and were implored once again to sing English worship songs. We were jolly but at a loss. Then Natalia said she knew only one song with English words, and God reminded me once more that with Him, there’s no turning back, no turning back.

Riley had heard Chandler speak for during the summer when he worked at Glorietta in New Mexico, and, being the tech-savvy guy that he is, he subscribed to his podcast. When Riley set up my ipod, he moved his entire music library to my computer (my apologies to Apple and the music industry as a whole). In addition to Pearl Jam, Nirvana, Weezer and other man-centric audio files, were nearly 200 podcasts from The Village.

They pretty much lay dormant on my computer for a good year. I wasn’t exactly sure what a podcast was, embarrasingly enough for anyone under the age of 30. And I went to school at Jerusalem on the Brazos. My Christian cup overflowedth with Wednesday night Bible Studies, Sunday School Classes, Youth Lock-Ins, Women’s Retreats, and the like.

When I joined the Peace Corps, however, and moved to Ukraine in October, I was suddenly cut off from Christendom as I knew it. While Ukraine is highly-religious, it’s of the Greek Orthodox variety and quite naturally the services are conducted in Ukrainian. Even though I do appreciate the beauty and reverence, my religious fulfillment from church in this country is nil. In the absence of church as I know it, I’ve been doing my best to create spiritual space in my week. I crank up the Christian tunes, read my Bible, and, amazingly enough, listen to a sermon in English from the great state of Texas no less.

It’s always funny to me how sitting in my Soviet Bloc apartment, curled up in a blanket sipping hot tea while snow falls outside my window, I can find relevance in a sermon to 5,000 Southern Suburbanites. But it just works out that way. The podcasts are catalogued by date and title so I’m able to peruse for seasonal sermons (Thanksgiving, Christmas, Easter), as well as topical ones. It’s kind of like Church on TiVo, which isn’t necessary by any means but is fun nonetheless.

On a Friday when I was having one of those aimless afternoons where I wonder what have I done, where in the world am I, and would chips and salsa from Food For Thought in Waco be able to make it through customs in a package to me, I decided to order up a little church. I scrolled through the list and selected a cool combo: a sermon titled “Perplexed” that was also given on August 3, the birthday of yours truly. As I fire it up, my battery bar turns red—ipod users you know what that means—and I say some unholy words under my breath. Since my computer was touring Europe without me, I had little choice but to hope for the best. “Well,” I thought aloud, “I’ll just see how long it lasts.”

Now the sermon is my favorite part of church, but even in America when I’m sitting in the pew with the minister in the pulpit right in front of me, my thoughts have a tendency to wander. I know it’s not unique but I thought I’d throw it out there. When I only have the audio, it’s even more difficult for me to stay on task, but I’ve found that if I have something to do with my hands it helps me focus. So I was washing some clothes in my bathtub and contemplating the ninth chapter of Luke, where—to paraphrase Chandler—Jesus basically confuses the heck out of everyone.

He sends out the 12 disciples, assures them they will be mistreated occasionally and instructs them to take no provisions for the journey. When they get back, he feeds 5,000 people with a little kid’s lunch, tells Peter to keep his Lordship a secret, and repeatedly predicts his own death. Basically, for 63 verses the disciples are constantly alternating between epiphanies and total confusion. As Chandler points out, these are the guys who spend the most time with Jesus out of anybody, and they are still lost.

What this says to me is that the big picture of Christianity isn’t this crystal-clear, lighted-path to righteousness and revelation. It’s as perplexing as it is enlightening and sometimes it’s both at once. Christianity hasn’t given me all the answers to life, but it’s helped me get to some pretty cool questions. And along the way it’s fostered a healthy respect for the complexity and wisdom of God. If the 12 disciples didn’t even understand their purpose in life sometimes, then I think it’s more than okay for me to question mine, too.

That was just the point Chandler was harping on when my battery gave out. I chuckled out loud at the perfect timing. I can’t understand why my ipod was able to play 52 minutes of audio with no battery power left and then cut out exactly at the “ah-ha” moment, but I’m really glad it did. It was the perfect combination of the absurd, the mundane, and the divine to make this a sermon I won’t soon forget.

I made the mistake of watching Love Actually, a Christmas movie, in early December. I thought it would help put me in the holiday spirit. I hadn’t really counted on all the cultural references to traditions I was missing, and the general theme of the importance of being home for Christmas. When the movie ended, I felt remarkably further away than ever before. But I still had enough of a sense of humor to laugh at how my best idea to cheer myself up had backfired.

As the days increased in number, and the 25th got closer and closer, my interest grew. Just what would my first Christmas in Ukraine look like? Ukraine is officially Greek Orthodox Catholic, meaning that they celebrate Christmas on January 7. I learned that I would be attending work on December 25, and this disturbed me greatly.

I pictured myself going through the day just as any other. But, I hadn’t counted on the enthusiasm of my neighbors and fellow English teachers for the American holiday. On December 23, my neighbor came over with a handwritten-note from her 14-year-old grandson, “Will you go to the Holy Supper with us tomorrow?” it said in neat, cursive letters. Her family was Roman Catholic and would celebrate Christmas on December 25. I enthusiastically accepted the invitation and my mood lightened a bit imagining that I would be at a church on Christmas Eve after all.

The dinner was served in traditional Ukrainian fashion, with gigantic portions, exactly twelve dishes, and plenty for everyone. After a delicious supper of borshch, fried fish, mushroom soup, potatoes, fresh-baked bread, beet salad, and a half a dozen more dishes I can’t remember, it was time for church in Ivano-Frankivsk, a neighboring city. The snow had been falling all day, but it picked up speed in the spirit of Christmas and I marveled at the size of the flakes falling before my eyes.

The church was absolutely packed, and we made our way to the standing-room only section on the left side of the sanctuary. As I took in the view Christmas trees and nativity sets, I listened to the hum of Ukrainian prayers offered aloud by kneeling babusyas. There was an interesting blend of the familiar and the foreign before me, and I smiled thinking of how shared experiences, no matter how small or large, bring people together. Still, I had a feeling this wasn’t going to be the most familiar of services.

Despite the fact that it was a Roman Catholic Church, I was in a different hemisphere, with a new climate, culture, and language to contend with. I said a little prayer that there would be at least one thing in the service that would make sense to me and give me a feeling of home. As I opened my eyes, the church went dark. Candles were lit and passed down the aisles. Then, the organ played Silent Night. I let out a soft chuckle. God was just showing off by opening the service like that. And it’s a good thing He did because the entire service was conducted in Polish, and I didn’t understand a word of it. I think He knew I would need the encouragement at the beginning to make it through two hours of Polish standing up.

Toward the end of the service I got another glimpse of home when we exchanged the peace. To be honest, I wouldn’t have known what was going on, but I guess I was giving off an American radar signal because a young man turned to me and said in English “Peace be with you.” I returned the sentiment in Ukrainian, and we both laughed. As we shuffled out of the church, the big wooden doors swung open and snowflakes started swirling inside. 

I awoke on the next day filled with hope for my first White Christmas. I threw back the curtains with anticipation, and I was not disappointed. Trees were bent with the heavy weight of snow, and my windows had the kind of frosty frame that we buy in cans in Texas. I switched on some Christmas tunes and snapped photos from every window in my apartment before enjoying a cup of hot tea and watching the snow fall. I was awakened from my silent reverie with the reality that I had to go to work today. I bundled up, grabbed some homemade gifts for my colleagues, and started my hike to school.

I opened the door to the English Teacher’s lounge and was greeted with many wishes for a Merry Christmas. As I handed out burned CDs with Christmas carols, their faces lit up like children’s. But then the mood changed, “We didn’t get anything for you!” they cried. I assured them that their countless acts of hospitality in the past two weeks were more than sufficient, but they were unconvinced.

“We must get you a TV,” one teacher said. “And the Internet,” another chirped. “Today?” I asked incredulously. “Yes, come with me,” they said. “It’s Christmas, we’ll see what we can do.” And, in perfect Christmas-miracle fashion, by the time the school bell sounded I had both a working television and access to the Internet in my apartment.

I don’t think I’ve been this excited about a Christmas present in a long time. I’ve rediscovered the beauty of the world wide web in a way I never imagined that I could, but three months without it gives you a new perspective on the genius of Google, the immediacy of e-mail, and the wonders of 24-hour news updates.

It’s a good thing I didn’t write the Bible.

OK, that’s the understatement of the century. But in all seriousness, I just can’t imagine how Jesus came up with such a great answer to “Who is my neighbor?” I probably would have just said “everyone.”

But that wouldn’t get the point across like the parable of the Good Samaritan does. In Luke 10, Jesus’ answer tells us not only are the clean, nice-looking people our neighbors, but so is the naked bloody guy with no money on the side of the street.

We should treat him with pity, and, judging from the parable, extravagance. So who is our neighbor today? As surely as it is the nuclear family next door, it is the illegal immigrant.

The New York Times put it aptly in a June 3 editorial: “A nation of immigrants is holding another nation of immigrants in bondage, exploiting its labor while ignoring its suffering, condemning its lawlessness while sealing off a path to living lawfully.” Although how to handle illegal immigration is undoubtedly a Christian moral issue, it is also an issue that strikes the core of American life.

We were founded to be a refuge from tyranny, oppression, and injustice. Whatever happened to “give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses, yearning to breathe free”? I fear we have replaced it with, “give me your paperwork, wait two to five years, learn a new language, or we will imprison you indefinitely.”

I realize the issue is complex and challenging. We cannot allow immigration to go unchecked. We must protect our citizens and our country first and foremost or we won’t be much of a sanctuary to anyone. However, protecting the immigrant is an important, and recently missing, piece of the American character.

So where should we, as Christians, start?

I won’t rehash the parable for a second time, but I think you know where I’m going with this.

We must love illegal immigrants, our neighbors, as ourselves.

This won’t be easy. I daily have trouble loving people who look, talk, and think like me with as much grace and understanding as I afford my fallen self.

To remind myself to do things, I like to use lists. Little things I can check off, keep up with, and hang on my mirror. But “love illegal immigrants” doesn’t really belong on a post-it note next to my grocery list.

In fact, it sounds downright ridiculous.

It has to be written on our hearts and seen in our actions or else it won’t matter. It won’t be the real, life-changing love that God gives us everyday. It will be hard. It will be awkward. It might even cause you to loose a few friends or social standing. Sound like anyone you’ve heard of before? Jesus didn’t ride into town on a white horse. He saddled up a donkey. Jesus didn’t hang out with the rich and powerful. He chilled with the poor and rejected.

While there are a number of passages in the Bible about following the law and respecting your government, there are more still about loving others unashamedly and unequivocally. Contrary to welfare legislation, there is no such thing as the “undeserving poor.” As human beings, we all deserve compassion. And as Christians, we are all commanded to dish it out with utter abandon. Not delineating between the “good” poor and the “bad” poor, but loving each and every one of God’s creatures as ourselves.

Looking for a practical application?

A good place to start might be volunteering to teach English as a second language. My church in college, Calvary Baptist, had a Wednesday night ESL class open to the community. From that class, a Spanish-speaking Sunday school class was born. Hey, sometimes you just need to use your mother tongue. 

And from that class, a new ministry to immigrants in Waco evolved. It was amazing to see. And it made a difference. Another area immigrants typically lack understanding is personal finance. One member of our church helped organize a “Bank Fair/Carnival” so that parents could learn about checking accounts and other services while their children jumped on bouncy-castles and ate snow cones.

Some people might think providing these classes without knowing if those receiving the services are legal citizens is a crime in itself. I’m not one of them. I think a greater crime, one against God, is committed when we turn our back on the poor. As Jesus said, “Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me.” I’m not telling you to start housing people of unknown descent in your guest room. But loving others is always a risk.

Another practical way Christians can respond to the plight of the illegal immigrant is with our votes. I’m pretty big on the separation of church and state and honestly even invoking political language next to passages of the Bible makes me nervous.
But I’m not telling you who to vote for, just to look at your local and federal elections with a keen eye. Find out where the candidates stand on illegal immigration. Call your congressman or woman. Let them know this issue is important to you.

I believe a key component to the illegal immigration problem is in the hands of lawmakers. As long as companies are hiring illegal workers, they will come illegally. There need to be harsher penalties for companies who employ illegal workers. In many cases, they are exploiting people to work for below-minimum wage, with no benefits, for far too many hours a week. I sincerely think those who hire and abuse immigrants are as guilty, if not more, than the workers are.

For most of us, however, our role is not to pass legislation. In the words of Micah, “What does God require of you? To do justice, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with your God.”

Amen.

The study, released in April, said 37 percent of young people listed religion as “a very important part of their lives” and 45 percent expected it to “become more important as they grew older.” But traditional “religious” issues such as gay marriage, abortion, and stem-cell research aren’t as popular with the younger demographic. The idea of voting for morals or family values doesn’t mean what it used to. Hallelujah. 

As a religiously affiliated youth voter myself, I am overall more concerned with poverty, social justice, and the environment as moral causes than any others. This is also a reflection of the Democratic Party affiliation of the majority of the 18-29-year-old age group, reported by the Pew Research Center. It’s not that abortion and homosexuality aren’t worthy of attention or thoughtful discussion/legislation, but for too long these two issues have defined the religious movement. I’m proud to be part of a generation that is broadening our moral focus and redefining what it means to be a politically-active religious citizen.

We can talk all day about when life begins and what rights women have, but as long as people are poor and scared and uneducated, we won’t stop abortions. We can obsess over homosexuality and the theories of sexual orientation, but how can we love like Jesus when we don’t even treat people who are different than us like people?

My hope for my generation and the emerging religiousity in America is that our votes will speak about a great love for all people and a concerted effort to make life better in this country. I hope issues like the environment won’t fade into merely a trendy interest, but will manifest into a dedication for alternative, clean energy and a renewed zeal for conservation.

I think criminal justice is another neglected Christian issue that has seen an increase in popularity with the restorative justice movement. The religious right may not be famous for hugging trees or fighting for prisoner’s rights, but I believe the religious left could be. And maybe, we can even stop using terms like left and right to describe and divide ourselves. I’ll try to work on that.