Demonization and Healing: Lessons from Life

Like many who come to understand the ways of demons, my early inclination was to avoid an issue that made me very uncomfortable.  When it became unavoidable—a university classmate in Ohio, a student in Africa, a fellow congregant in Colorado, all troubled by something that clearly was not mental illness (my area of expertise since 1976)—the clergy I consulted were as ignorant as I and unable to give effective aid.  What forced me to study and learn about demonization was my son Owen’s need for help (detailed in the July 2015 blogpost Treasure).  My efforts on his behalf, in large part, cost me my marriage.  

My husband’s take on demons was/is typical of the majority of Christians in the West, where a rationalistic, scientific worldview—ushered in by the eighteenth-century Enlightenment—assumes no reality beyond the natural, material universe.  Influential Bible commentator William Barclay suggested that people who believe themselves troubled by demons are delusional and that they are cured simply through the power of suggestion.*  I’ve learned that those of us who think otherwise can expect skepticism, scoffing, and worse; as I took steps to address Owen’s spiritual needs, my husband said: “You’re insane; you’ll do irreparable damage to our son!”  I had read enough to know that demons mock, accuse, and try to intimidate when the ground they have been holding is threatened, but I was stunned when—a week later—the kind, reasonable man I had loved for three decades (and still do), his eyes full of hate, snarled at me: “You are evil, poison.”  That was not my husband speaking.  Two weeks earlier he'd said:  "Do you think one day we'll laugh about all this?"  I await that day with faith and hope, because the more I learn of demons, and how to stand against them in the name and power of Jesus Christ, the more I laugh at their bluster, knowing Christ has the upper hand...that He rules in the midst of His foes.

In spite of opposition, Owen and I pursued and have received the healing and deliverance he needed.  The journey has been arduous, but such joy in the outcome!  In speaking up on the issue, I count myself among thousands indebted to two couples who took on this challenging work several decades ago:  Francis and Judith MacNutt and Peter and Fiona Horrobin.  The MacNutts are based in the US (https://www.christianhealingmin.org) and the Horrobins in England (https://ellel.org), but their efforts extend around the world through books, conferences, and the testimonies of those (including many clergy) healed and freed from demonization. 

An Inbox message the day after Christmas proclaimed: “When we help even one person heal from trauma we can change the world!…because it doesn’t stop there…that healing often ripples though [the person’s] family, friends, and community as well.”  This, from The National Institute for the Clinical Application of Behavioral Medicine (https://www.nicabm.com), echoes a conviction that has grown in me over the past four years—that those in our own circle who have long struggled with unhealed wounds, and some possibly with demonization, can find healing and deliverance.

Some "inner critics" are real rather than imaginary!

What does demonization have to do with healing?  The MacNutts/Horrobins note that 75-90% of demonization is linked to trauma and wounding.  Demons can block healing by nudging traumatized persons to feel shame, rejection, to blame themselves, to hold in secret what needs to be brought to light.  They can be the accusing voices inside the head:  “Because of _______, you’re no good.”  Wounded persons who are demonized (psychotherapist Judith MacNutt found this was about a third of her clients) often have a sense of heaviness or oppression that does not get better with traditional psychiatric interventions.  Some self medicate with alcohol/drugs, or they despair and commit suicide.  Others suppress their pain and find a false, pseudo-healing in a form of Christianity that denies both the power of Satan to hold them in bondage and the power of God to free them.  Living a lie inhibits open-hearted relationships with partners, children, and others (psychiatrist M. Scott Peck illustrates this in People of the Lie).  The wounded—especially if demonized—often wound those closest to them.  The Enemy can easily divide and even destroy "Christian" marriages and families where there is unhealed pain and shame by promoting blame and/or stonewalling--a refusal to talk about hurts and misunderstandings.

The day after Christmas, Owen and I were talking of family wounds and healing while drinking coffee and munching toffee when we heard someone calling “Owen” at our gate.  It was a man who had recently shared personal struggles with Owen; “Come visit anytime, if you want to talk more,” offered Owen.  So here he was—his bicycle wheels thick with mud from a Christmas rain.

“This place feels so peaceful,” he said, taking a seat at our table.  He sipped coffee while I—knowing of his drug relapse, return to rehab, broken relationships—spoke briefly about our own journey and desire to help others in need of healing.

“Other Christians seem to be happy in their lives, to not need help,” said he, a believer and church-goer for years, his eyes full of pain.

“Many people need help, but don’t feel free to say so,” I said. “Often the pain they carry is deep and there is shame and fear of judgment—especially if they have experienced something like sexual abuse.”  Then, as Owen shared his own story of abuse, the man began to weep.  We paused, offered tissues, water, a comforting hand on the shoulder.  

“The same thing happened to me,” he said.  He had never spoken of it to anyone.  Now forty, he’s been struggling for years to forgive the one who harmed him at age nine—an older cousin.

Healing for our friend will be a process...if and when he is willing to pursue it.  There is rarely a quick fix, but we can walk alongside him confident that God desires to heal the brokenhearted and to free those bound by shame and/or unconfessed wrongs and/or an inability to forgive.  Confession and forgiveness are the first steps in healing; many have attested to a lightening of spirit afterwards, as demons who may have been present often leave when these steps are taken.  The healing of deep and/or multiple wounds may take considerable time; Fiona Horrobin offers practical, comforting guidance in her book Intercession & Healing: Breaking Through with God.

This is a complex topic, and as a psychiatric nurse specialist, I want to promote a balanced and discerning approach to it!  Owen and I are willing to share more detail of his/our journey, answer questions, and/or suggest other resources.  Feel free to email me at jan.engle.lewis@gmail.com and/or Owen at owen.edward.lewis@gmail.com.  

*Others—from preliterate tribal groups to sophisticated cultures like Japan—have long been aware of the work of demons.  Those of these cultures who come to faith in Christ, but still struggle with demonic forces, often return to traditional healers (witch doctors, curanderos) because Christian clergy are unable to help them (examples in Chapter 3 of F. MacNutt’s Deliverance from Evil Spirits: A Practical Manual).

Gandhi, Goa, and Gratitude

purchased in Margao, Goa

India has been drawing me for decades…

—the contrasts: opulent riches/grinding poverty, sweltering plains/frigid Himalayas, lush wilderness/polluted cities

—the colors: who else combines them so enticingly in fashion, in food?

—the dramatic, rich history of the subcontinent

Anna in Bengal (other photos prove
she did not have a beard!)

My step-great-grandma Anna spent her 20s in Bengal in the early 1900s—the middle years of the independence movement (Gandhi soon to return to India) and the latter years of the Bengali renaissance (Tagore soon to become Asia’s first Nobel laureate).  I’d read Anna's pleas on behalf of orphans during famine and her vivid descriptions of local life, but tracing her footsteps would have to wait for a time when I could get away for more than two weeks.

All fell in place for the November 2018 adventure:  son Owen said “I’ll go,” after a traveling buddy said she could not; round-trip tickets LA/Mumbai for $625 and e-visas were obtained; and friend Karen offered to arrange housing for us in budget-wise Goa, where she and her husband Dan spend winters.  My dream of taking a (opulent riches) train across the country would also have to await fulfillment.

Two favorite films—Attenborough’s Gandhi and Lean’s A Passage to India—inspired a Mumbai shore tour, beginning with Gateway to India, iconic monument of the British Raj.  Religion and the conflicts it can create were underlying themes of the tour.  We saw sites of the 2008 attacks by a Pakistan-based Islamic terrorist group.  “Hindus and Muslims in Mumbai get along okay now,” said guide Ganesh.  






At a Hindu temple we learned of millions of Hindu gods…more mind-boggling than the 10,000 plus Catholic-sanctioned saints, many of whom are also revered and petitioned for aid.  “I don’t believe in any of it,” said Ganesh.  I don’t either—way too complex.  Beautiful simplicity in Saint Paul’s inviting assertion: “There is one God, and one mediator between God and men, the man Christ Jesus, who gave himself as a ransom for all.”  

We visited the house (now museum) where Gandhi stayed—humbling, inspiring…the spareness of his room, the thousands of books he read.  “We’re not so keen on him now,” said Ganesh. “He told Hindus not to retaliate when Muslims attacked, but let the Muslims off the hook.”  Gandhi was drawn to the peace-making Christ and suggested Christians should live more like him.*  He also wrote that the West, while professing Christianity, was (still is!) “worshipping Mammon.”  Sad that the East—with a variety of religious traditions— increasingly serves Mammon too.  Indian Frank Raj writes convincingly about rejecting Christianity (Christ was not the founder, he argues), along with every other religion and ideology, and following the way of Christ at  https://www.washingtontimes.com/news/2014/dec/31/gandhi-glimpsed-christ-rejecting-christianity-fals/

After two days in Mumbai we flew to Goa—tourist mecca and Portugal’s base for a lucrative spice trade for 450 years, until 1961.  The colonialists forced locals to convert to Catholicism and ran an inquisition in Goa to punish apostate New Christians—Portuguese Jews and Muslims who, under pressure, had converted to Catholicism—as well as converted Hindus suspected of having returned to Hindu practices.  Goa is now quite diverse religiously, but I sensed spiritual unrest amid the coconut palms and cashew trees.  Intriguing history—inspiration for Richard Zimler’s award-winning Guardian of the Dawn, my next must read!

Owen did repairs/put new strings on Hannah's guitar

Many Goans rent rooms to tourists; Karen and Dan set us up with long-time, nearby friends.  We felt immediate kinship to our hostess and her daughter Hannah.  Owen and Hannah quickly discovered common faith, common interests, and sweet companionship.  The mothers watched, intrigued; Hannah's mom said: “I recently told Hannah: ‘The right suitor must come with his mother’.”  I’d told Owen weeks before the trip: “The right woman for you will appear at the right time.”  What might evolve from the encounter?  Time will tell.  Meanwhile we feel profound gratitude for the riches to be gained when we move beyond boundaries of borders and race and culture and discover friendship...even halfway around the world.

Buying fish and squid on Benaulim Beach

*one part of Gandhi’s response to a question from missionary E. Stanley Jones, as documented in The Christ of the Indian Road—a profound little book

Abortion is Complex; Let's Not Make It a Fight!

Fear and fury.  Honest emotions after listening to an NPR piece on the mid-term USA elections and hearing a woman refer to abortion as “a human rights atrocity happening inside our country.”  A human rights atrocity?!  Wait, what?  Human rights atrocities in the US are children gunned down in schools, homeless kids trafficked for sex and labor, women battered by intimate partners, people of color unfairly targeted/labeled as criminals--incarcerated in disproportionate numbers, historically lynched...enslaved.

Calling abortion a human rights atrocity equates women who choose to end pregnancy with those perpetrating heinous crimes against humanity.  It’s a call to arms, to possible violence--this my fear--in a world where violence has become the order of the day.  The day I listened to the NPR piece, four members of a far-right group were finally charged for violently attacking counter protesters (the evidence was there a year ago)…and pipe bombs were delivered to Trump critics.

And my fury?  What gives this woman the right to make such a pronouncement?  Is she privy to the mystery of the beginning of life--of personhood--a mystery long pondered by theologians, leading people of sincere faith to hold different viewpoints on abortion?  Has she no sense of balance or priority in light of the rollback of human rights around the world?  Are potential lives more important than the lives of those suffering and dying in wars, in ethnic cleansing campaigns, in famines?

Who is she?  Too troubled by her words to catch her name, I played the NPR piece again.  Kristan Hawkins, president of Students for Life of America.  Their website declares: “We are the Pro-Life Generation and we will abolish abortion.” References to an army.  And this vision: “Once they feel that they can defend their anti-abortion beliefs, young people will take their passion for ending abortion and put it into action, sacrificing everything they can to save lives, change hearts, and transform our nation.”

That vision alarms me.  It is simplistic and narrow, ignoring wider woes troubling America.

I read about the organization's history, supporters, goals.  Looked at photos of fresh-faced, mostly white students.  Was touched by their efforts to support pregnant women on college campuses in practical ways...but wondered why they would not put at least equal effort into helping students prevent pregnancy (irony in the fact that their avowed enemy Planned Parenthood has long been a resource for pregnancy prevention).  And what about addressing sexual coercion and assault--historically under-reported on campuses--that sometimes result in pregnancy?  

Students for Life promotes non-violent confrontations, but I sense a kind of violence--or at least a will to dominate--in the black and white approach to women who find themselves pregnant.  Phrases I saw on the website--those who oppose equality for the preborn, and a person is a person no matter how small--trouble me.  They indicate presumption about personhood rather than humility in the face of mystery. And they ignore the individual and broader social complexities of unwanted/unplanned pregnancy.

I had an abortion in 1984, aged 32, following acquaintance rape by a married man. The rape happened just days before leaving Africa after six years of teaching nursing and working with Zambia Nurses Christian Fellowship. My decision-making process?  I reread a Christian Medical Society book outlining various views on the fetus and abortion, based on various interpretations of Scripture. I reflected, prayed, and was exposed to an OB/GYN physician in Colorado Springs (then home to many conservative para-church organizations) who told me it would be murder.  I did not sense that God considered it murder; I sensed His compassion for me in my struggle to make the best decision in a complex situation.  Supported by my parents, I found one of three physicians providing abortions in the city.  I experienced no ill consequences—physical, emotional, or spiritual.  In recent years, working with high risk families, I've helped women plan for pregnancy, and empathized with those facing unplanned pregnancy—some of whom chose abortion, some not.

Framing abortion in the US as a fight is bound to cost us dearly…it already has.  So, dear reader, whatever your views, I hope that you--if interested--will join me in a respectful dialog.  We need to consider together the complexities of abortion, to think critically about all aspects of it, engaging young people involved in the Students for Life groups around the country…and those within our own circles who are willing to discuss this challenging issue.  I've shared my thoughts with NPR and with Students for Life.

Down But Not Out

Punches since I last blogged eighteen months ago: a short-lived marriage now annulled (after lots of paperwork and several trips to a California courthouse), my son Owen hospitalized for severe sinusitis, and unfruitful months of effort trying to move away from the agricultural dust and chemicals we thought contributory to his malady.  Too busy to attend to my worsening plantar fasciitis, which screamed this past week: “Do something!”

Per recommendation of a new orthopedic specialist in town, Owen and I drove to our closest "big city" of Ensenada to obtain orthotics from a charming man who is an expert on foot health and healing.  Touched and encouraged, we celebrated at a favorite seafood spot on Bahia Todos Santos (All Saints’ Bay) offering fresh fish, shrimp, octopus, oysters, and clams...near a popular surfing and skateboarding area.

Next we hit the segunda (second hand) shops, finding parking at the place where I bought a patio table and chairs three years ago.  Proprietress Gisela now offered solar lights for stringing across our back yard, a comfy yard chair with footstool…and an openhearted exchange about personal struggles.  “There is such peace in your eyes,” she said.

Peace…yes, thanks be to God!  A month ago He gave us deep peace about not moving, enabling us to enthusiastically embrace anew the beautiful gifts of place and people right where we are.  Owen created a new red gate, put up Malla Sombra dust-catching cloth, spread lava rock, and planted palms to improve our environment.  His sinus problem has not returned.

Ten months ago came peace about pursuing annulment of marriage to a man who should have shared critical history before rather than after the wedding, when a pattern of physical and emotional boundary issues with young women appeared.  I'm grateful he then disclosed the truth about prior struggles.  And I don't regret taking a risk for love.  The revelations and lessons learned may help him, his family, his pastor...and may protect others in the future.

The Kavanaugh (US Supreme Court nominee) hearings highlighted the struggles many men have with admitting weakness or misdeeds, opting instead to anger (it gives one a sense of power) and the pain of thousands of women drawn to the Me Too movement.  We have so much work to do to!  I'm grateful for the leadership/resources available at The Center for Partnership Studies (https://centerforpartnership.org).  On the heels of the Kavanaugh saga, new warnings about the human and economic costs of our failure to address a global mental health crisis "from epidemics of anxiety and depression to conditions caused by violence and trauma."  Inspired by a BBC report on an initiative in Zimbabwe at http://www.bbc.com/future/story/20181015-how-one-bench-and-a-team-of-grandmothers-can-beat-depression?ocid=ww.social.link.email, I'm considering whether that approach might work here, and possibly accepting an invitation to join Grupo Madrugadores (early risers), civic-minded folks who meet regularly to address community concerns.

Meanwhile I'm spending more time with my feet up, enjoying tea or lunch in the garden.  The image on a teacup found next-door to Gisela’s shop made me smile.  Note that the teacup lady is down—relishing the closeness and nurture of nature—but she is kicking up her right foot (happens to be my bad one).  No doubt she has plans for when she gets up again, rested and renewed, but I don't think she's in a big hurry...

Back on Baja Roads

View of our homes from Cactus Corner; croquet, anyone?

We've been housebound, or at least town bound, for awhile…my son Owen and I, along with Aunt Lois (89), who came to live with us in Baja California, Mexico, in late 2015.  Lois broke her hip three months ago, and adjusting to new limitations while orienting caregivers has kept us close to home.  

This month marks two years since our move to Vicente Guerrero, 185 miles south of San Diego, and a book recently loaned by a friend prompted an anniversary adventure!

Land's End, Cabo San Lucas, March 2016

God and Mr. Gomez by Jack Smith--popular columnist with the Los Angeles Times--was first published in 1974, sparking interest in Baja California among North American readers.  Just a year earlier "the forgotten peninsula" had become more accessible with completion of the Carretera Transpeninsular--the 1000-mile highway linking Tijuana on the U.S. border to Cabo San Lucas at the peninsula's southern tip.  Owen and I drove the Carretera to Cabo last year, enjoying the beauties of deserts, mountains, and coastlines.

When Jack Smith began visiting Baja, however, the road south was paved just 30 miles beyond the up-and-coming city of Ensenada to the village of Santo Tomas, founded in 1791 as a Jesuit mission.  Among other interesting things, Smith described the delights and dangers of the 18-mile drive on a dirt road from Santo Tomas to the Pacific coast where, at La Bocana (Spanish for estuary or mouth of the river), he and his wife Denny had a vacation home built in the late 1960s by Romulo Gomez, a man whose charm, trustworthiness, and colorful history gradually emerge from the book.

"Let's do it!" said Owen, when I suggested a trip to La Bocana.  Reptile-phile from an early age, he anticipated encounters with rattlesnakes, and I wanted to explore the shoreline's volcanic coves, both a la Smith's adventures.  We were drawn too by a sense of kinship with the Smiths, empathizing with risks they took and challenges they faced as per our own experience of building in Mexico…in our case, a house for Aunt Lois, raised on the circular foundation of an old palapa.  

A 90-minute drive north on the Carretera--through olive groves, vineyards, and mountainsides clad with nopale cactus and yellow daisies--brought us to the La Bocana turnoff, just opposite the entrance to one of Mexico's oldest and finest wineries.  Santo Tomas wines have medalled in international competitions and we rarely pass the bodegas without stopping to buy some of our budget-wise favorites.  The Smiths too enjoyed the local wines, although cerveza (beer) and tequila--liquid icons of Mexican culture--were the social lubricants between Smith and Gomez, especially when mini-muddles, which were fairly frequent, arose.

Santo Tomas winery

A lush valley flanked by high green hills beckoned as we headed west.  Owen drove (unusually!) slowly, no doubt remembering that the Smiths suffered several blown tires, two cracked transmission cases, and a ruptured gas tank on this route.  Plus he was looking for snakes and other wildlife.  His hopes were soon realized as we came upon a rattler (dead, minus rattles) and then a roadrunner, it's black and white feathers vivid for a fleeting moment as it sped across our path. The roadrunner's prowess as a rattlesnake fighter has apparently been exaggerated, but they can leap straight up from the ground to catch birds!

Road to La Bocana

The Smiths' early travels to La Bocana took them via the Santo Tomas River which runs through the valley toward the Pacific.  Heavy flooding over several years, however, sent road builders up along the mountainsides, leaving the lower road to farmers who grow chard, squash, onions, and melons on the valley floor, their homesteads nestled among Pirul and Eucalyptus trees.  The mountain road seemed well maintained, with newer cement drainage ditches flanking the steepest, narrowest stretch.  

We encountered more cattle guards (five) than vehicles...or cattle.  Owen got out to check a couple iffy-looking guards as Smith's car had gotten stuck in one.  He also sighted and stopped twice for snakes (non-rattlers) but both slithered into the bush before he could make positive identification.  

Nearing the Pacific a gentle mist floated into the valley and we arrived at La Bocana with a sense of wonder, as though passing through a thin veil into another world.  There was the store (a rebuilt version) where Señora  Gomez fed Denny and Jack fresh fish and tortillas in the back kitchen.  And behind the store lay the lagoon from which water was trucked up the hill to fill a reservoir that supplied the Smith's home, though not consistently.  How did water get into the lagoon, Jack wondered.  "From the well," replied Romulo.  And the water in the well? asked Jack.  "The water," said Gomez, "it comes from God."  

No-one in sight, we drove past the closed store and up a steep, narrow cobblestone-cement road to the cliffs overlooking the sea, muted grey-blue under a cloudy sky.   A series of red brick homes stretched out along the seafront as we headed to the north, but, disappointingly, none looked like the photos of the Smith home, and most were shuttered.  A few small house trailers were parked among the homes, along with several cars and pickups.

La Bocana lagoon and store, from the cliffside parking lot

"I think their house is further along the cliff," said Owen, "but let's eat!"  We backtracked and parked in a dirt lot overlooking the small bay.  The bay is separated from the lagoon by a wide sandbar; there a man and woman strolled, holding hands.  They ventured down toward the water and then--having second thoughts--ran from the waves.  The sound of their laughter drifted upward as we enjoyed a packed lunch with car doors open, watching the rhythmic roll of the sea, absorbing the peace.

Sated, with God and Mr. Gomez for reference and iPad in hand for photos, we walked back along the cliff road to where it declined slightly toward the north.  And there it was, with distinguishing chimney and arches, just as on the book cover.  A simple gate, padlocked, blocked the lane to the house, but an attached barbed wire fence running down to the cliffs was partially flattened, having yielded, perhaps, to the boots of previous trespassers.

"I'm not sure we should go beyond the fence line," I said, though the place was boarded up and obviously unoccupied.

"No one's here; let's go look," said Owen eagerly.  

We scrambled down a slight incline covered with ice flowers--a hearty succulent that has spread rapidly on our own land--and stepped over a low brick wall onto a tile patio that wrapped round to the front of the house.  The sweeping view from the front veranda took in the Bahia Santo Tomas to the north and the string of neighboring homes to the south--silent sentinels to an earlier era.  Or perhaps the owners just happened to be away during our visit the day before Palm Sunday.  

"Look at these solid old beams," said Owen, reaching for the wood supporting the veranda roof.   Tile and brick had stood up well to almost five decades of sea air, sun, and wind, but rusted iron bars securing the boarded windows and doors betrayed the age of the place.  We circled the house and looked for the oleanders Denny Smith planted as a privacy hedge.  They were gone, and the somber sky seemed to echo: "They're gone, they're all gone."

"There's something forlorn about it all," I said, as we returned to the front veranda.

"I know," said Owen, "they put so much into it, and now they're gone."  

Jack wrote in 1990 that he and Denny had sold the house "…to two young couples who, we hope, will enjoy it as much as we did.  It had been a great experience for us; it was something we shared; perhaps it helped hold us together."   Four years later he wrote of the death of Romulo Gomez, from cancer, at age 83.  Jack died in 1996 of heart failure; Denny survived him by eight years.

Owen working on his first guitar 

I thought about the energy Owen and I have expended renovating our place.  And the weeding and pruning and planting.  And building his guitar-making workshop.  The investment has been worth it, in my eyes, given my six-year lease, and then, God only knows.  Meanwhile we're delighting in the creation of a little Eden to share with friends and family.  

Jack, while walking the beach in front of his Baja home one day, had the intuition that "God's name is Random Chance."  But I embrace Saint Paul's assertion that "in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

Looking to Bahia Santo Tomas from below the Smith house

The wind dislodged my hat as we made our way from the house down toward the ocean, enjoying the spring flora and peering over the volcanic cliffs at a pebbled beach below.  An old boot, a shoe, and a sock had been abandoned by previous explorers, and someone had tied a rope round a large boulder as a means of easing down the cliff face.  Owen and I found a safer way, though he cautioned me on the rugged descent which had, as Jack wrote: "that agonized look of rock thrown up from volcanoes when the earth was new; a memento of God's wrath, or perhaps His ecstasy."

The surf swirled and frothed just feet away as we stepped over encrusted barnacles to inspect a couple tide pools.  I was glad to have worn my hiking boots; Denny Smith broke her leg on these rocks!  Owen dislodged a small mussel and dropped it carefully on top of a sea anemone at the bottom of one of the pools.  We were on the lookout for larger creatures too.  The Smiths had sighted sea lions here.

As we climbed back up the rock "…so hard that even the sea would make little progress against it in a thousand years," I remembered Jack's concern about the erosion of the "soft and chalky" earth just below his house, above the volcanic rock. 

"Someday, Romulo," I (Jack) said, "our mansion is going to slide right into the Pacific Ocean."

"Oh yes," he said.  "Of course.  Someday.  But not too soon.  Five hundred years from now, Jack, you will still be living in that house."

"Maybe so," I said. "But isn't there something we can do about it now?"

"Well," said Gomez, "would you like to try a little tequila?"

The Man Who Collapsed and The Meaning of Christmas

I'm attuned to physical or emotional distress in those around me...built-in antennae from decades as a nurse.  So when I heard scuffling behind me in church some Sundays ago, I turned and quickly made my way to support a elderly man who'd collapsed on the floor.  His pulse and respirations were okay, so several of us helped him to a chair where I ruled out stroke and a possible diabetic reaction.  

"He says he has these spells sometimes, where his leg gives out," offered a helper.  I stayed nearby, moving our chairs to the narrow balcony just outside the sanctuary where we could hear the sermon while having some privacy in case of further distress.  After awhile my "patient" seemed okay, but I was unable to concentrate on the sermon.  My thoughts returned to the topic on which they'd been riveted for weeks:  the state of post-election U.S.A.

I'd been following online, via the Southern Poverty Law Center, the rising number of hate incidents since the election.  Reports of harassment and intimidation of Muslims, Jews, immigrants, and people of color had made me heart sick.  Along with that, divisiveness and meanness of spirit were rampant, even among so-called people of faith...something I was witnessing daily on social networking sites and elsewhere.  Further, I was reading of families and friendships broken apart by post-election rancor.

The man with the weak leg suddenly symbolized the condition of a United States disabled by a polarization that might well bring about a collapse--a collapse of the core values on which the country was founded: liberty and justice for all.  I thought: "I've lost my marriage (my husband notified me of a divorce earlier in the year) and now I've lost my country."  Overcome with sorrow as the church service concluded with a song of praise, I walked to a private area at the end of the balcony and wept.

Many are longing for peace, and it's what Christmas is about.  Angels heralded the birth of Jesus with these words: "Glory to God in the highest, and on earth peace among men of good will."  Shepherds who heard the angels were awed, but this was just the beginning of amazing events they and others would witness as the baby grew to manhood, explained both the love and the holiness of God, and eventually made his way to a Roman cross where he laid down his life "for the sins of the world" so that we, in embracing his great work on our behalf, might have abiding peace with God and with one another.

When Jesus began preaching, he said this about peace:  "Blessed are the peacemakers, for they shall be called sons of God."   He also said:  "Do not think that I have come to bring peace on earth; I have not come to bring peace, but a sword.  For I have come to set a man against his father, and a daughter against her mother, and a daughter-in-law against her mother-in-law…he who loves father or mother…son or daughter more than me is not worthy of me; and he who does not take his cross and follow me is not worthy of me." (Matthew 10:34-38)

The scripture in Matthew came to mind as I read about family relationships being broken post election.  I can't shake my sense that something significant is happening in America and elsewhere around the world where political decisions based on fear and exclusion are growing, nor my conviction that we who are followers of Jesus are being called to recognize and fight more intentionally against racism and oppression…beginning in our own neighborhoods.  I will therefore watch developments closely and continue to take action by joining/supporting work against hate and oppression.  

I'm also called to be where Jesus would be found today.  Perhaps in poor communities or countries, comforting women who sadly chose abortion because they lacked access to education/support to prevent an unwanted pregnancy, and who bear, in addition to that pain, the condemnation of those who refer to them as murderers.  Maybe Jesus would be found in detention centers, where thousands of immigrants are held for long periods, often without legal support, and then typically deported, separated from their families.  Or in refugee camps where millions languish awaiting welcome somewhere.  No doubt he would be found in jails where we in the U.S. have incarcerated more of our minority populations than any other country in the world.  

This Christmas, remembering the loving and righteous Prince of Peace, I ask him to help me follow more closely in his footsteps...by his grace, and for his glory.

Help, we're in a national crisis!

Students walking out of classes, protesters in the streets of our major cities, a renewed movement in California to secede from the union, petitions to the Electoral College, and continued angry exchanges in all forms of media.  Yikes!  I took a break from it all today to walk by the ocean here in Baja California and to reflect. These thoughts came…

From years of teaching crisis theory as part of Psychiatric/Mental Health Nursing, I know this:  Crisis is an OPPORTUNITY…to learn, to grow, to be strengthened.  We as a nation can come through this to a better place..  But three things are needed to help this happen:

1.  An accurate perception of what is happening.  It takes some reflection to figure this out, and you may not agree with me.  I don't want to oversimplify, as the issues at hand are complex.  But my perspective is that we are getting a needed look at the ugly underbelly of racism in America, and at the deep fear of many of us white folks that things have been/are going to be taken away from us.  Donald Trump "played" to those fears in various ways, and those who voted for him were predominantly white people 45 and older.   I'm skipping the issue of abortion for now, though it played a big role in the vote among some Christian voters.  We have this opportunity to take a deeper look at ourselves and at the ways racism manifests itself among us, hard and uncomfortable though this may be.  

2.  Support from others.  We need to be with others who care about us during a crisis.  I learned about Pantsuit Nation from some FaceBook friends.  It's a coalition of mostly women who supported Clinton and the values she has espoused throughout her decades of public service…namely the protection of civil rights and support for children, women and families.  These women (I'm linked with the Colorado Chapter, since most of my working career was spent there) are networking and reaching out to each other and to vulnerable people in their communities.  Find support with someone(s) you trust.

3.  Good coping skills.  We've got to take care of ourselves, keeping a balance between work and rest, engagement and disengagement.  Some of us feel called to be advocates for something or other.  It's not a time to put our heads in the sand (at least I can't do this), as many people are hurting and afraid, and need support.  And many feel their most cherished values are at stake and are now determined to fight in every way possible for them.  But we can't do everything.  Media can become all consuming, and we should take breaks from that too.  We need comic relief, but not at the expense of others. 

My three cents…these three points.  We'll get through this.  Let's keep talking to and helping each other!