Muse. ISSUE NO. 002 | A STUDENT PUBLICATION
Multnomah University Students Engage
06 I AM THE SECOND MAN | MICAH DAMAN & MONICA WINDERS 11 IF I DARE LOOK | KRISTEN LEACH 15 THE UNFORGIVEABLE? | LAURA STONE 17 THE QUESTION OF HOMOSEXUALITY | LIZ CLARK 23 SEARCHING FOR A SAFE PLACE | AARON ESPARZA 28 THE DRINKING OF TEA | TIINA MALL
Letter from the Editor tackling painful issues – such as homosexuality, abortion, cutting, and death – and this is only the second issue of the Muse.
“We are asking questions, discussing real life in the real world.”
by Aaron Esparza
www.multnomahmuse.com We are excited to announce that the addition of our blog site allows discussion of each article. Now readers have an opportunity to engage the topic and interact with the authors. Thanks to Laura Stone for designing it. Visit www.multnomahmuse.com to participate.
Dealing with the issue of brokenness is sobering when your life has been going pretty well. It’s like waking up from a comforting dream and finding yourself in the middle of a battlefield. Right away you are not so concerned with the food selec-
tion in the cafeteria or the Armenian and Calvinism debate. Interestingly enough, words begin to fail you when you know you have to move. As a staff, we’ve emotionally, physically, and spiritually invested into the writing you are about to see. We are so grateful to have had so many responses to our initial launch of Muse Magazine with the International Theme in October, and having so many writers spark interest in sharing submissions. This month, our theme is brokenness. It has been incredibly hard
Ephesians Chapter 5 talks about walking in the light and exposing the things in the dark. We’re not here to glorify the darkness and confusion. But we’re also not here to say that every ending to a story has a final resolution. We are asking questions, discussing real life in the real world. What we are left with is a raw, unedited, reality. Read with a sense of discretion and sensitivity, if possible. Christ came not to condemn the world but to save it. As Christians, how shall we mimic this? No, we’re not someone’s savior, and no I don’t think we should pretend to have all the answers either. We can only point to the One who does. I’m not perfect. You’re not perfect. So, why should we pretend to be? We are broken. Broken in need of a Savior. –Aaron Esparza is a senior Communication Studies major and co-editor of Muse Magazine. –Photo, Aaron Esparza
THANK YOU. from Monica Winders & Muse staff.
The staff of Muse Magazine wants to thank those of you who have contributed to our beginning efforts in creating a new student publication for Multnomah University. Our prayer for our first issue has been answered â€“1,000 views in our first two weeks on issuu.com! We couldnâ€™t have done it without you. This magazine is a publication for the students, and by the students. Our hope is to continue to allow the student body of Multnomah University (College, Seminary, Graduate, and DCP) to express their diverse opinions in any way we can possibly present. Our second issue for November is a heavier theme: brokenness. Several students and staff have been willing to share their stories with us, and we want to thank them. They were willing to share what is precious to the very being of who they are. Muse staff appreciates you, and prays that the response arising from readers will be responses of love and of relation. The hope is that through stories of loss, struggles with homosexuality, cutting, depression and abortion, and looking through the eyes of the women who sell themselves on 82nd street, and even through the smaller glimpses of brokenness, that the culture of our campus will be inspired towards engaging with one another and not being afraid to speak about difficult topics. Thank you for reading Muse. We appreciate you for engaging even as you read this letter.
â€“Photo, Aaron Esparza
BROKENNESS. bro-ken | participle of BREAK
adjective 1 having been fractured or damaged and no longer in one piece or in working order: a broken arm. - (of a relationship) ended, such as through infidelity; a broken marriage. - disrupted or divided: broken families. - (of an agreement or promise) not observed by one of the parties involved.
2 (of a person) having given up all hope; despairing: he went to his grave a broken man. 3 having breaks or gaps in continuity: a broken white line across the road. - (of speech or language) spoken falteringly, as if overcome by emotion, or with many mistakes, as by a foreigner: a young man talking in broken Italian. 4 having an uneven and rough surface: broken ground.
Muse. ISSUE NO. 002 | A STUDENT PUBLICATION
Multnomah University Students Engage
“I will meditate on all your works and muse on all your deeds.” –Ps. 77:12
EDITORS Aaron Esparza & Monica Winders firstname.lastname@example.org email@example.com EDITORIAL DIRECTOR & FACULTY ADVISOR | Cornelia Seigneur firstname.lastname@example.org ARTS & CULTURE EDITOR | Tiina Mall email@example.com FEATURES EDITOR | Kristen Leach firstname.lastname@example.org INSIDE MU EDITOR | Liz Clark email@example.com REPORTERS | Kristen Leach, Laura Stone, Liz Clark, Megan Daline & Tiina Mall CONTRIBUTING WRITERS | Adrian Henske, Brittany Kramberg, Elaine Brinckerhoff, Dr. Garry Friesen, Gian Cook, Jesse Califf, Jonathan Myers, Matthew Sennholz, Rhys Pasimio & Tim Reed
Muse is a student publication that is a collaborative effort between Multnomah University’s Stugo (Student Government) Communications Department and the 2011 Journalism Department. The content published in Muse Magazine does not necessarily represent the opinions of the wider Multnomah community or administration.
*Cover photo by Larisa Warren If you’re interested in contributing to Muse or if you have any questions, please contact our editors. Contact Monica Winders to advertise.
PHOTOGRAPHERS | Aaron Esparza, Andrew Rowland, Cornelia Seigneur, Miki Gao, Monica Winders & Larisa Warren BLOG DESIGNER | Laura Stone ISSUE DESIGNERs | Liz Clark & Monica Winders
–Photo, Cornelia Seigneur
CONTENTS | ISSUE NO. 002 | NOVEMBER 2011
b r o k e n e d i t i o n
05 RESPONSE TO PEOPLE’S PAIN | RHYS PASIMIO 10 THEIR DARKEST HOURS | TIM REED 13 TRAVEL DOWN PAIN LANE | ADRIAN HENSKE
14 LIFE OF AN EX-CUTTER | MATTHEW SENNHOLZ
01 LETTER FROM THE EDITOR | AARON ESPARZA
20 COUNT IT ALL JOY | JESSE CALIFF
02 THANK YOU | MONICA WINDERS
21 THE BEST $100 I’VE EVER SPENT | JONATHAN MYERS
ARTS & CULTURE
06 I AM THE SECOND MAN | MICAH DAMAN & MONICA WINDERS
27 THE IDES OF MARCH | ELAINE BRINCKERHOFF
11 IF I DARE LOOK | KRISTEN LEACH
28 THE DRINKING OF TEA | TIINA MALL
15 THE UNFORGIVEABLE? | LAURA STONE
31 REMEMBER ME | BRITTANY KRAMBERG
17 THE QUESTION OF HOMOSEXUALITY | LIZ CLARK
33 IN THEIR EYES | LARISA WARREN
23 SEARCHING FOR A SAFE PLACE | AARON ESPARZA
37 SACRED SYMBOLS | DR. GARRY FRIESEN
38 JOB’S WIFE TO THE RESCUE | DR. GARRY FRIESEN 39 PSALM 23 | ANDREW ROWLAND
09 FIVE MINUTES WITH COACH TIM BIERI | GIAN COOK
43 RAW AND REVEALED | KRISTEN LEACH
19 LOSS AND REDEMPTION | MEGAN DALINE
45 PHOTO SERIES | JARED BENNET & MIKI GAO
25 THE VOICE ARCHIVES | ANDREA LAURITA & AARON ESPARZA
47 A POETRY BOX | CORNELIA SEIGNEUR
PERSPECTIVE | ALUMNUS
T O PE OPL E ’S PA I N by Rhys Pasimio
We can’t escape pain. Everybody we know suffers in some way. When someone you love goes through loss, trauma, failure, sickness, or abuse what do you say? Or do? Or not do? Most people panic around pain. We react with advice, clichés or by just avoiding the person. And if we’re really spiritual, we pray with them. Once.
Mary, who wept, He weeps with her. Jesus had non-predictable responses to pain. He healed some, but not others. He openly wept with Mary, but didn’t cry with others. He either gave useful help or He gave of His presence. It was that powerful presence that the Apostle Paul said he best knew through the “fellowship of suffering.”
To minimize, trivialize or quick fix the pain is superficial and ineffective. But when a counselor (or friend) simply sits with the hurting person and joins in the experience by giving of their presence, a sacred healing happens!
Western thought says that pain should be avoided. When we cannot escape pain, we try to medicate it, or try to find a quick way to explain the person’s pain to them. We try to answer the question, “Why did this happen?” even before we understand, “What happened?”
My personal pain has arisen out of my journey with homosexuality. I live with self-hatred, shame, isolation, insecurity, loneliness, and hopelessness. I never feel safe to be myself. Every day I talk myself out of running away from everything.
If you have been in pain, you know how dissatisfying and damaging these responses can be. Maybe you believe the clichés (or not) but still wish for a satisfying answer to the pain. Usually, such an answer is not available.
I’ve been hurt by people who hear my story and immediately try to fix me. I’ve been the most comforted by people who have listened, sought to understand, and didn’t leave. People who give their presence with no agenda are the conduits of God’s healing into my life.
How should the people of God respond to pain in our family, friends, or others we meet throughout life? We can learn from the story of Job. Almost as famous as the hero who lost everything are Eliphaz, Bildad, and Zophar – the three friends whom Job described as “miserable counselors!” These friends received vicious tonguelashings for trying to blame Job’s pain on his supposed sin. But before that, they did something curious. They sat with Job in silence for seven days. Seven days! Of silence! Try sitting in silence even for seven minutes…
thentic person and not just a victim. People heal when they can expose their story, their pain and their rawest feelings and have their existence valued.
Then there’s the story of Martha and Mary, whose brother Lazarus had died. Before the happy ending where Jesus brought Lazarus back to life, Jesus responds to the sisters’ grief in two very different ways. He says compelling words to the intellectual Martha, but with
How does God respond to our pain? Jesus, the fullness of God’s revelation, did not explain, remove, justify, defend against, escape, or even protect us from pain, which are the very things that we tend to immediately do. Instead, Jesus experienced pain with us, making possible our saving relationship with Him. In counseling, we frequently encounter pain so deep it cannot be explained or even remotely undone. Our task, then, is to create a space where the client can safely be an au-
So then how should Christ-followers respond to pain in others? Most pain cannot be answered or escaped. It must be endured, but we can endure it with each other. If we are too quick to escape the pain or even rescue our loved one from it, this could cheat her out of a healing experience of God’s presence. What we should do is be quick to join her in her pain and experience it with her. Yet, this is not safe. But this is what Jesus did for us. If we really believe that the Holy Spirit of Jesus now lives in us, then we can be His conduits of healing simply by being present. Let us, then, be brave enough to be still and silent. Let us love with our whole selves and the presence of Christ within us. – Rhys Pasimio is in the graduate program of Counseling at Multnomah University. –Photo, Liz Clark
FEATURE | I AM THE SECOND MAN
I am the Second Man: Micah Daman’s story as told to Monica Winders There are lies we unknowingly come to believe as we grow up. They’re usually phrases like, “I’m not good enough,” or “You’re a burden no one wants to bear.” Lies are a fickle endeavor to disbelieve when becoming an adult. For Micah Daman, he once believed his struggle with homosexuality was a cross he had to bear on his own. Growing up in Desmet, Idaho on a wheat farm, the barely or not-at-all discussed topic of homosexuality was one that was scarcely fathomed, even for Micah.
As a Resident Assistant for the second year in a row at Multnomah University, Micah has found a whole new realm of himself. Micah has gone from having little connection with men to being one of the most beloved personalities at Multnomah University. Having close friendships with men and providing an atmosphere in the residential life for men to have a safe place to open up, Micah’s lie has slowly been overcome with truth and love.
been one of the greatest blessings God has given me this year and there is no doubt I would be in a much different place if it were not for his encouragement and presence in my life. The friendship and investment Micah and I share goes both ways as we both help one another through our struggles, spiritual well-being, and daily living,” said AJ Elzinga, a friend of Micah and Aldrich Assistant Resident Director.
“Having Micah as my apartment-mate has
Continued on page 7
FEATURE | I AM THE SECOND MAN Continued from page 6 ON THE FARM What was it like growing up for you? I grew up in the middle of nowhere in Hicksville, USA, in Desmet, Idaho on a farm. It was really far away from everyone. I would go to school and I would come home. My dad is a farmer. He and my uncle run the farm. Every summer after I turned 13, that’s when I started working on the farm and my entire life has been on the farm. When I was little I would hang out by myself because I was so far away from people, so I would just walk around on the farm and explore. I would imagine things and sing myself little songs and stuff like that. It was just me and my sisters, but they wouldn’t always be home. I love my sisters so much. It was either I would hang out with them or I would hang out by myself. I really didn’t have very many friends. My dad was there but he was a farmer, and so
found out that I was looking at men. When my mom confronted me about it she asked me if I was gay. I said, “No, no, no, I just went to those places on accident.” It’s so funny that I still didn’t even register what was going on. When I was 14, I didn’t work on the farm and I actually went on a mission trip for the summer. The first two weeks of the mission trip is a training in Florida with Teen Missions International. A speaker came to our big meeting for our night session. The speaker, who is now married and has children, started speaking about how he struggled with homosexuality. At the end of his message he said “there’s probably someone in here who is struggling with this,” and I was just sitting there thinking, “Oh my gosh, this is me.” That was the first time I had ever been confronted with something like this and realized what was going on. I realized I was struggling with homosexuality. I called it “homosexual tendencies” back then. I kind of laugh at myself about that now.
“When did you realize you struggled with homosexuality?” he was out really early in the morning and out till late at night. I was with my mom the whole time until I was 13 and started working on the farm. I didn’t like farming and getting dirty. I would’ve much rather stayed at home and read a book or watched a movie, or explore on my own terms. DISCOVERED When did you realize that you struggled with homosexuality?
I never really made connections with guys. In junior high and high school I hit puberty and things started happening, hormones started happening, and I discovered pornography. It started out straight porn. My parents found out and they talked to me about it. They told me these kinds of things happen, but that I should not look at those kinds of things. But then I kept doing it and there was gradually a shift in what I was looking at that I didn’t even realize and I didn’t even know. It didn’t register in my brain what was going on, but I actually started looking at men. My parents
BEGINNING TO FACE IT What happened after you realized this? One year, I got back from Spring Break in Oregon, visiting my sister who went to Multnomah. When I returned home, I was in my room and my dad came in and confronted me about the things he found online that I had been looking at. He didn’t call me on my Spring Break because he didn’t want to ruin it, but he had spent the entire time I was away researching the situation. I’m really grateful to him how he handled it. He spent that week trying to figure this out because in his entire life he had never been confronted with this at all. In my little Podunk-town church, this had never been talked about. It had never been talked about at all. This wasn’t an issue back then as much as it’s an issue now. We didn’t know what resources were out there. But my dad did research. He ordered and read some books, and he eventually found Portland Fellowship and actually called them and asked them for their help.
I then started calling Portland Fellowship weekly. It was devastating for me. I was angry and scared and I didn’t know what to do. I was so confused. I remember talking to Drew Berryessa from Portland Fellowship and not saying a word. I was balling and remembering that I just didn’t know. It was like all of sudden, slam, we’re figuring out what’s wrong with you. But my dad didn’t know how to handle it, and I didn’t know how to handle it. Talking to a guy on a phone was so impersonal, and so I would forget to call sometimes, or something would come up and I couldn’t call. So things just didn’t really work out, and I just ended up stopping and thought I could handle it on my own. So I didn’t have any guy friends, I was the only one struggling with homosexuality, and I had this barrier between me and my dad. Then I had this attitude of, I can control this, I can figure this out on my own because I had been the only one for so long. I obviously failed. I kept falling into sin and my dad would always confront me. It was always, “You need to figure this out,” “You need
“I can really engage in a relationship with the people around me knowing that I have nothing to hide.” to fix this.” That was always the conversations that we had--I’m in trouble and I need to fix this and figure this out. I couldn’t talk to my dad about it because it was really hard, and I couldn’t talk to my mom about it and I didn’t know why. I felt a barrier between me and my parents, and I was exhausted and tired. I wasn’t finding any resolution and I still didn’t know what was going on with me. BECOMING MICAH What has your journey at Multnomah been like? There was never any doubt that I would come to Multnomah. My sister came here and my great uncle was a professor back in the day. After graduating high school, I decided that I was going to make a fresh start. I was going to be a new man and really leave my struggles behind me. The problem was, I was still in the mindset of doing things on my own, knuckling down and relying on my own strength. So, even though the first few days were good, I fell hard and fast into old habits. I called up Drew at Portland Fellowship and told him that I needed to talk to him. We met and he told me about a program that was starting up called Taking Back Ground. The group met every Tuesday night and explored the struggle with homosexuality as a Christian and I really sifted through all of the lies I’d been telling myself. It was an amazing experience and I learned a ton about myself, but I really attribute most of my healing to my time at Multnomah. I could really take what I was learning at PF and put it into practice. I decided to invest in relationships with the guys around me and be honest with them. Every year at Multnomah, God has prompted me to share my story with more and more people. My first year it was with my RA. The next year I shared with my whole dorm section, and then later that year, though I didn’t tell my whole story, I revealed to all the residents of the Aldrich halls that I struggled with homosexuality. Now this year, I told the entire school. All of these confessions have been teaching
me two incredibly important things that have driven me forward in everything. The first is,that confession is healing for me. When I let people know what’s going on, I feel like the weight of shame, guilt and fear that I’ve been carrying is lifted. I can really engage in a relationship with the people around me knowing that I have nothing to hide. The second thing lesson I’ve learned is that it is beneficial for others to confess, and this point has two sub-points. The first being that when we confess to others and they listen and pray with us, they are joining in worshipping and asking God to help. This is an incredibly uplifting thing, to share in the healing process of another. The second sub-point, and this one is what has shaped most of my time as an RA, is that when we confess with complete honesty and show trust to others, they start to feel like they can share their story too with confidence. I have sought to create an environment with the people around me that fosters honesty and openness. It has been amazing to hear other people confess things that have been weighing them down for years. The sense of relief that I see on their face is incredible.
My progression in my relationships with the people around me has run completely parallel with my relationship with God. It was only when I decided that my identity is not in my struggle but in Christ and my reliance on Him that I truly realized the benefit of relying on my brothers and sisters around me. We are all members of one body and we must work together and rely on each other in order to unify the whole. In regards to my struggle, to put it simply, I still do. It is a daily occurrence that I deal with homosexuality and what it means to be a man, and then on top of that a man of God. But by being honest with those that I love and that I know love me, and by relying on the strength of Christ, I am able to keep moving forward, to keep processing and keep discovering what God has in store for me.
“...when we confess with complete honesty and show trust to others, they start to feel like they can share their story too with confidence.”
I AM THE SECOND MAN What part does God have in your daily life with this struggle? In all honesty, everything that I said in the last section would have been completely impossible without the love and power of Christ. I know that sounds like a cliché, but it’s true.
I love Christ with all of my heart and He has done everything for me. He has given me a joy that goes deeper than anything I have ever known. He has taught me that He created me exactly as He wants me and I simply need to trust Him and His marvelous plan. It is difficult to let go sometimes but it’s a great adventure, one that is greater than even the journey of the Fellowship of the Ring or of Skywalker and the Jedi. God has fashioned an incredible story for us all, and all we have to do is trust Him and live it. –Micah Daman is a senior Music minor and Psychology minor –Photos, Monica Winders
INSIDE MU | SPORTS
Five Minutes with By Gian Cook
Coach Tim Bieri
Tim Bieri is the new Head Coach of Multnomah University Women’s volleyball team. He is also the assistant coach of the Men’s basketball team. I sat down with Coach Tim, and got his perspective on the sports teams and on coaching this year. How is it having your (pregnant) wife (Sara Bieri) as the assistant coach of the volleyball team? It’s a blast. If you want to talk about how to strengthen a marriage or how to expose things that need to be worked on, coach together. You have to reconcile competition, and how you communicate in and through that. We’ve learned so much about each other. In three words, define the Multnomah Lion’s women’s volleyball season. Learning. Learning. Learning. We can never stop learning. If you are learning you are getting better, not only mentally within knowledge of the game, but physically as well because you are learning how to adjust your body and where you need to be. For us as coaches, we are discovering more about the game – things like rotation issues, the strategy of the game, and the ‘who does what’ about the game. What are some general positives from this volleyball season?
This year has been a lot of fun and very encouraging. It’s been full of transitions, not only for myself but also for the team. The girls have had to transition. They’ve had a new coach almost every year for the past five years, and with every coach they’ve had, the girls have had to adjust to a new coaching philosophy, a new playing style and new expectations. It’s been encouraging to see the girls’ attitudes, and how they have had to work through different changes and coaches, while working through adversity.
–Photo, Gian Cook
What is it like to coach volleyball for the first time? Coaching volleyball has been such a challenge but in a great way. The Lord allowed me to be a leader of something that I knew almost nothing about. It exposes my weakness in so many ways because in our weakness Christ is strong, and that’s when I can be okay with my weaknesses. Obviously, I want to get better as a coach and I want to learn -- and the girls want to do the same. You are also the assistant coach to the men’s basketball team. What do you think about some of the new scrubs (players)? I truly believe some of the new guys are an answer to prayer. The team this year is much more Christ-centered and all the new guys have really jumped on board with that. They are developing into servant leaders.
Servant leaders in what way? The players who may not be getting a ton of playing time are working hard and becoming better players everyday. They are being servant leaders because they better themselves and push the players ahead of them to get better. If this continues, then the entire team is going to take another step up, all because one or two guys decided they were going to get better for the team’s sake. Finish this sentence: The Multnomah Athletic programs will be successful if they become... ...accustomed to losing. We have to become accustomed to losing; losing our lives to Christ in order to serve others. If we do that, then MU athletics will become a success. –Gian Cook is a senior Journalism major.
PERSPECTIVE | STUDENT
Their Darkest Hours
by Tim Reed
“Isn’t it time we started being the body of Christ and accepting them as not ‘poor little orphans’ but as members of our family?” As I interviewed good friends of mine from this background, I was struck by the variance in perspective on this issue. While they all stated that this situation was profoundly painful, some were able to draw joy in the middle of the situation while others learned to simply navigate their circumstances.
–Photo, Cornelia Seigneur
Matt hung up the phone and started to walk to his car. The crisp air of winter’s eve bit at his fingers and he could hear the decisive crunch of the last autumn leaves beneath his feet. It was Thanksgiving Day, and Matt hated it. “How can they be so insensitive? Why do I have to be the object of some cruel competition? Why can’t I control this situation? Why am I different from every other kid my age? When will my life look ‘normal’? Will it ever look normal?”
feelings not of joy, but of pain, abnormality, loneliness, chaos, competition, and isolation. Many parents fight over which one will have the children for the holidays, often forgetting to show love to the very children they claim to love. The push and pull – the conflict between the separated parents – tends to make the children feel like some sort of object or possession rather than loved family members. Instead of sensing that they are loved, they end up feeling owned.
You see, Matt comes from a divorced home. While Matt is not a real person, his questions are some of the most prevalent among the thousands of children from split marriages.
“Instead of sensing that they are loved, they end up feeling owned.”
The holidays are supposed to be a joyous time where family can come together and spend time in relaxation, fellowship, and the spirit of giving. However, for many children from split homes, the holidays are a time for
In addition to feeling as if they are owned, some children growing up in divorced homes also feel isolated, as if they aren’t normal or functional. They feel broken somehow, and the rest of the world just can’t understand. Instead of recognizing this, however, the world often marginalizes them as the “poor orphan kids,” further increasing their pain and isolation. Clearly, they cannot find empathy here. And so, they turn back to their families – dysfunctional as they are.
They begin to look at the lives of their friends from school and from church and see primarily “Norman Rockwell” picturesque families.
Regardless of how they dealt with it, I was struck by the fact that they were all forced to find a solution – any solution – alone. Their family was not there to help them in their dark hours. The church was not there to help them in their dark hours. I find it amazing that the followers of Christ often did not make it a priority to promote the welfare of these brothers and sisters. Isn’t it time we started being the body of Christ and accepting them as not “poor little orphans” but as members of our family? Isn’t that what we are supposed to be to each other? Instead, we often marginalize the very ones we want to help, making them feel like some sort of alien – the broken pieces from a broken marriage that must now be “dealt with.” Can’t we do better? Doesn’t scripture demand better? –Tim Reed is a freshman Intercultural StudiesMissionary Aviation major.
if i dare
L O O K by Kristen Leach
I’ve passed her hundreds of times. Seeing her, but not really looking. If I look, I may not like what I see. I might see the pain she’s stifling or the fear she’s living off of. Then what? I don’t have the time, the resources or the power to do anything about it. I can’t afford what it will cost me to look. If I dare look, just once, perhaps I’d see a few critical things. I’d see that her eyes speak of a prison. That she’s been forced in giving her body away multiple times a day, every day. I’d see the makeup on her face is covering the bruises from those abusing her every night. If I looked, maybe I’d hear the cries of pain hiding behind her seductive smile. I’d see that her deepest need to feel valued and loved is being filled by those eager to take everything from her. If I dare look, I’d see that I do indeed have a part to play in her freedom. Now, I’m beginning to see that I certainly cannot afford what it costs if I choose not to look. *
With every day that passed, the faces of the women and children that were crying out in pain became clearer to me. The forms of the statistics I had heard changed from merely numbers to countless abused bodies and broken hearts. My heart was set on doing something. Even if what I attempted to do would not result in a direct effect or make any impact whatsoever, I had to try. I could no longer sit by and do nothing while this injustice unfolded down the street from me. I had to look. After sharing our passion for this issue of the human trafficking of girls, my close friend, Natalie Tidswell, and I began discussing ways we could do something. There had been so many times we were informed with facts about sextrafficking, but what could we do about it? We had no idea how to act upon the knowledge
we were given. If we felt this way, we knew many others had to also. This is how we began The Isaiah Project. We want to reach the youth of the Portland-metro area with both knowledge and ideas for action so they may find a conviction and confidence to fight this dark reality. High school students are a critical group to reach. They have such a huge opportunity to act. They are the next generation who will influence those coming after them. The Isaiah Project is an event in the spring of 2012 where high school youth groups from the surrounding city will come together at Multnomah University to listen to speakers, worship, and interact in tangible ways to fight the injustice of sex trafficking. Isaiah 1:17 is the inspiration for the name of the event: “Learn to do good; seek justice, correct oppression; bring justice to the fatherless, plead the widow’s cause.” This is only one of the numerous verses in Scripture that reveal Yahweh’s heart against injustice. Our hearts are dedicated to following God’s heart to bring justice and freedom. Natalie says, “I am pursuing justice because I believe this is a huge aspect of our great God. It shows that He is the Almighty, the Protector, our first Love!” We know we are not capable of changing this injustice. Yes, we are weak. We do not have the strength or the skill to do anything about this. Yet, the most freeing truth is that we serve a God who does. He has the ability and power to save. So we respond by resting in His redeeming power and unconditional love, trusting that He will use us for His glory. What stopped me from looking for so long was fear. I was afraid of what I might find, and what it would mean when I finally knew the reality of it. Is there something stopping you from truly looking? A wise and dedicated abolitionist, William Wilberforce, once said, “You may choose to look the other way but you can never say again that you did not know.” –Kristen Leach is a senior Communication Studies major. –Photos, Kristen Leach
Natalie and Kristen mail their first letter to a potential speaker for the Isaiah Project event. The Isaiah Project was mentioned and linked in a recent Christianity Today story by Cornelia Seigneur.
THE ISAIAH PROJECT
• If you want more information about the project or sex-trafficking in general, visit our blog at www.theisaiahproject.tumblr.com. • We can’t do this alone. We need a team of dedicated Jesus-lovers to join us in the fight. If you are interested in being a part of this team, please contact Natalie (firstname.lastname@example.org) or me (email@example.com).
SEX SLAVERY FACTS
• Sex-trafficking is the second largest and fastest growing criminal industry in the world. (U.S. Department of Health and Human Services)
• 100,000-300,000 American children are victims of sex trafficking every year. (Various Sources including www.istoptraffic.com)
• Each year 600,000 - 800,000 women and children are trafficked internationally. (U.S. Department of State)
• About 2 million children are involved in the sex trade. (UNICEF) • 13 is the average age of entry into sex slavery in the United States. (U.S. Department of Justice)
• 80 percent of all human trafficking victims are women and children forced into sex trade. (U.S. Department of State)
PERSPECTIVE | STUDENT
Travel Down Pain Lane By Adrian Henske
Looking back, I can see that apathy was the greatest hindrance in my relationship with God. Thankfully, though, God is so perfectly faithful that he has promised to never leave me nor forsake me, even to despair or apathy. It was three years ago to this day to this day – depending on when you’re reading this and to what degree you can control space-time – when I was living in Pendleton, Oregon. I had just graduated from Blue Mountain Community College with an Associate’s degree and I was living out my dream job shoveling produce at Safeway. But all was not well in the life of Adrian. What people didn’t see was the Adrian who was barely coping with life; the Adrian who, despite excelling in school, barely managed to finish; the Adrian who found it a struggle just to make it to work on time, and the Adrian who, years later, would refer to himself in the third-person on several occasions.
I would deny it if you asked me then, but I had reached a level of spiritual apathy. I was going to church every Sunday, living out the normal Christian routine, but that was about it. My Christian life had become minimalistic, and as a result I had all this space to fill my time with anything but God. It wasn’t the amount of
church activities (or lack thereof ) that I was involved in that was the problem; it was where I let God preside in all of my life.
“What people didn’t see was the Adrian who was barely coping with life...” This unwillingness to give God complete reign of my life had created a spiritual chasm, one I could fill. But this lack of commitment was affecting me in more than one way. Not only was my spiritual growth stunted at the level with which I was willing to engage Him, but I was also reaping the effects of having this spiritual void in my life. I couldn’t accomplish anything. My relationships were suffering. It was hard to care. The core of the issue was that I was trying to serve two masters, like Jesus talks about in Matthew 6:24. I wanted God to be a part of my life, but only to the extent I was willing to allow Him. I made God take a back seat in my
life. I didn’t kick Him out of the car, but I insisted on driving. I even tried to pack every available space with the stuff I thought I needed, filling the trunk full and piling the seats high with random distractions. I tried convincing myself this was all going to work, that I could fit everything in, despite having left God with barely enough room to breathe back there (though He never complained once). I was suffering because God wasn’t a priority in my life. It wasn’t until I had become devastated by my spiritual condition that I realized how much distance I had put between myself and God. He never left me, but I made myself numb to His embrace. It was at this point I realized the desperate need to let God fill my life and to be proactive about my relationship with Him. I could not be okay with how things were anymore. I decided then and there to make a radical change in my life--to do whatever it took to get back on track. “Draw near to God and He will draw near to you.” –James 4:8 –Adrian Henske is a junior English minor. –Photo, Aaron Esparza
PERSPECTIVE | STUDENT
Life of an ExCutter
It’s hard, but God works everything together for good to those who love Him (Romans 8:28). He does this to make us more like His Son (Romans 8:29; James 1:3-4). It may not be a satisfying reality, but it’s a glorious one. It’s glorious because the sufferings of this present time are not worth comparing with the glory that is to be revealed to us (Romans 8:18).
cast than I already was.
Before I was a Christian, I had a pornography addiction, suicidal thoughts, and feelings of depression. Around the time of my parent’s divorce when I was seven or eight years old, I began to be emotionally abused by my mom. This pattern continued for years.
I believe that the world and the Church have misconceptions towards those who cut. I’ve heard people exclaim, “Oh, they just want attention!” and “Are you insane?” Some who cut may want attention (though I doubt it) or may be mentally unstable, but I believe that the majority are not either.
It was in middle school that I started to struggle with pornography, suicidal thoughts and feelings of depression. Yet, I became addicted to pornography not just for the quick rush of pleasure and fulfillment, but because of a lack a of closeness with those whom I wanted to be close with. I just wanted an intimate relationship that wouldn’t give me any harm or hurt in return. Because of the emotional abuse I endured under my mom, I became a very nasty person. I cursed people out and treated women terribly, threatening to even rape them. I was hurting, and the rejection I felt made me want to hurt others emotionally back. Eventually, no one wanted to be my friend anymore. Here, I started to feel absolutely alone. I was suicidal because I was so unhappy with the way my life was going. Always feeling alone, deeply depressed, hating myself and hating others, I wanted to end it all. I still vividly remember the time when I tried to strangle myself to death. I hated everything and didn’t care about anything or anyone. Soon after, I began cutting myself.
by Matthew Sennholz
I became so numb inside that I could literally feel no emotions whatsoever. At that point, I was willing to resort to anything to feel something.
Many people who have, or are, cutting may wonder why God has allowed them to go through that extremely hard trial in life. They may be thinking why He has allotted months of emptiness and apportioned nights of misery to them (Job 7:3).
I specifically cut all over my arms. And I would wear long, baggy clothes to hide the marks in whatever ways I could. I did this because misconceptions of our culture towards those who cut causes people to hide their physical afflictions in unnoticeable places. I didn’t want to be called a freak or to feel any more of an out-
The reason I cut myself – and I believe the reason why many others do too – was to escape the emotional pain through physical pain. For those who’ve gone through emotional pain, I’m sure you can agree that physical pain is much more tolerable than the emotional.
Emotional pain, for someone who has to resort to cutting him- or herself, is the worst pain imaginable. It’s like a deep void in your soul, where something is missing, or where there is unbearable emptiness. Sometimes it can be so unbearable that you’d much rather feel physical pain instead, hence leading someone to cut his or her own body. Someone like that is not crazy. They are just in desperate need for love.
“VICTORY IS POSSIBLE.” I ask of you, could you show them the love of Christ and be accepting of them, regardless of whether they are Christian or not? There is healing from a life of cutting. Victory is possible. Not by their own power, because when they are in a position of feeling alone, they seek the ultimate retreat from life. And what is needed is for someone to show them that, no matter how much pain they are in, or how many times they mess up, they are not alone. –Matthew Sennholz is a second year freshman Pastoral Ministry minor. If you would like to contact Matt, e-mail firstname.lastname@example.org. –Photo, Monica Winders
by Laura Stone 15
“I remember crying in the examination room, telling the doctor that I didn’t want to kill my baby, but I didn’t have a choice.” A friend slipped into the chair across from me in the cafeteria. Her clinging, black t-shirt read, “Abortion is murder. Stops a beating heart. You shall not murder. --Exodus 20:13.” I tried not to look at the white and red letters staring me in the face and burning into my mind. Shame I had ignored for years came to the forefront of my mind, and my heart ached. Anguish like flames engulfed my stomach and throat. I picked up my textbook bag and my halfeaten bowl of soup, murmuring something about having to go to the library. . . . I had to get out. I didn’t want to be reminded. Besides, I had lost my appetite. When I was in junior high, I got pregnant and had an abortion. For the next 10 years, I pretended like the horrific events had never happened. The frightened 13-year-old who’d been raped and decided to kill her baby wasn’t me; she was someone else from a different time, a different life.
“I tried not to look at the white and red letters staring me in the face and burning into my mind.” It wasn’t until this year, when my husband of eight months and I found out we were expecting, that I finally dealt with my past. When the pregnancy test read “positive,” I wept. I was convinced that God hadn’t forgotten what I’d
done a decade earlier, and that He was going to take my baby away. I deserved to be punished. After all, an abortionist is a murderer, a fact that many Christians parade on their cars, Facebook pages, and t-shirts. It’s hard to know God’s forgiveness when Christians keep reminding me how bad my sin was. It was a boy from church, a trusted friend, who raped me one afternoon in my parents’ barn. I can still feel his warm breath on my neck that made my hairs stand on end. I remember intense pain and being paralyzed with fear. Afterwards, my whole body was shaking so violently that I struggled to snap my overalls back on. “Don’t ever tell anyone,” was all he said before he was gone. Nobody at church ever talked about rape. Yet many of the families were pro-life and condemned premarital sex and abortion as if they were the two unforgiveable sins. The majority of the congregation’s youth was home schooled. And in a conservative home school world, sex and abuse don’t exist, right? Wrong. I recently confided in my mom about my rape and abortion. I had never told her before. Through her shock and tears, she said, “It doesn’t matter how hard you try and protect your kids. No matter where you go, sin is going to find you.” There was never a moment that I believed having an abortion was the right thing to do. My dad was an elder, my parents were youth leaders, and my siblings and I regularly attended AWANA and Sunday School. Christian girls raised in a conservative community don’t get pregnant at 13. When I found out I was pregnant, I needed a way out. But what I needed more was a friend. Someone to talk to. Someone who was non-judgmental, who would listen without
condemning me. Looking back, I probably wouldn’t have had an abortion if I just had someone to talk to. But I couldn’t tell anyone, not even God. Either my unborn baby was going to die, or I was going to kill myself. I did tell someone though. My friend’s mom from our home school co-op. She took me to get the abortion. On the day of the procedure, I had become someone else. I told myself that someone else was having an abortion, not me. But lying to myself didn’t protect me from my guilt. I remember crying in the examination room, telling the doctor that I didn’t want to kill my baby, but I didn’t have a choice. I remember lying on my back on the operation table, staring at the ceiling, wondering if my baby felt pain as it was being sucked out of my body. I remember closing my eyes tightly, tears running down my cheeks, begging God not to watch. I told myself that my abortion was a part of my life that I could never tell anyone. In my mind, it was the biggest sin I’d ever committed. And Christians would never understand. I wish I would have had someone to talk to about it. And, now that my husband and I have a baby on the way, I started feeling like God was going to take away my baby. There is so much pain with guilt and shame. And, fear of judgment. When I see people wearing t-shirts that remind me of my past, it hurts. If they only knew my story, perhaps maybe, they would think twice before adorning themselves with words of judgment. Because, deep down, I have to remind myself all the time, that no sin, not even an abortion, lands outside the scope of God’s grace. –Laura Stone is a senior Journalism major. –Photo, Laura Stone (Taken in the year 2000, 13-year-old Laura is on the left and her sister is on the right.)
an issue tomuse over
by Liz Clark
the question of homosexuality
ortland. Mars Hill. Disciples on a mission. Homosexuality and the church.
Finally, at the end of Multnomah University’s chapel on October 24, we came to it – the elephant in the room. Tim Smith, pastor of Portland’s new Mars Hill church and MU guest speaker that day, said because of the way that some leaders of Mars Hill Seattle have approached the topic of homosexuality, the Portland Mars Hill has received much negative attention for its new presence in Portland.
Some people in the Portland area have attributed Smith and Mars Hill with a mission to target Portland’s homosexual citizens before they even moved into their current Sunnyside neighborhood location. The church’s $1.5 million building stands in one of Portland’s most pro-lesbian, -gay, -bisexual, -transgender communities.
Smith, however, claims an entirely different mission: to make disciples of Christ. Smith proclaimed this mission to MU students in chapel, saying that making disciples is the working out of our theological knowledge. Part of this knowledge includes understanding that everyone struggles with sin, and homosexuality is just one of many sins. “There is no less sin in one community than in another,” Smith said. He compared, for example, the sin of people in the music community with the shortcomings of people in the LGBT community. “There is no difference (between their sins) before God.” Mars Hill Portland is working to create positive relationships with the local LGBT community. Smith shared that he had met with members of the Q Center, Portland’s LGBTQ Community Center. After the positive conversation, Smith said that he felt convicted about how much
we, as Christians, cut ourselves off from knowing people because of our self-righteousness. Not all Christians agree with Smith. The Church’s views on homosexuality tend to lean towards two extremes: homosexuality is a sinful choice and unacceptable in every way, or it’s completely normal and a valid lifestyle. •
The issue of homosexuality and the church has been an ongoing topic of conversation among the Muse staff since the beginning of the school year. With the reversal of the military’s “Don’t Ask, Don’t Tell” policy on September 20, a greater level of acceptance of gay marriage in society, and Mars Hill’s recent local media coverage, we decided to tackle the issue head on and encourage the Mult-
nomah community to engage along with us. We should not be afraid to ask questions and muse on painful and controversial subjects. As Christians, most of us have questions about homosexuality and how we should respond to this often volatile issue. From the legalization of gay marriage in some states to the “Don’t Ask Don’t Tell” policy, Christians’ views are extremely varied. Another question is whether homosexuality is part of a person’s biology or is a choice (natured or nurtured). To represent Christ well, MU should be a safe place to discuss this issue. The Bible must be our authority and love; Christ-likeness and honoring God must be our aim. But, this starts with evaluating ourselves first. It’s too easy to justify our own sin while condemning the sin of others. What is the difference between a man lusting after the same sex and a man lusting after the opposite sex? Maybe the main problem is that we do not hate our own sin enough. If every individual Christian did that – or even a few – the church would be transformed. That would move us to the disciple-making Smith talked about in chapel. That would keep us from putting people in categories. That would keep us from accusing people of committing worse sins than our own.
“There is no less sin in one community than in another...” –Portland’s Mars Hill building is located at 3210 S.E. Taylor St. Photo is from Google Maps snapshot. Tim Smith speaks in MU chapel. –Photo, Cornelia Seigneur
Tim Smith with Muse editor Aaron Esparza. –Photo, Cornelia Seigneur
–Liz Clark is a senior Journalism major.
INSIDE MU | FACULTY
Loss Redemption by Megan Daline
Dave Jongeward’s parents met and fell in love at Multnomah School of the Bible, and after graduating in 1946, they married and moved to Ethiopia to serve as missionaries. When they returned to Yakima 12 years later, they had six children in tow. Dave Jongeward was one of those children. It wasn’t too long after they returned that Dave’s father, Dean, learned he had brain cancer, a disease that would ultimately claim his life a few years later. Then, one afternoon, Dave, who was a freshman in high school at the time, and his older brother Allen, a senior, were on their way home from band practice when they were in a car accident. Both boys were thrown from the vehicle, and while Dave walked away with only a few bumps and bruises, Allen was paralyzed from the neck down. He was rushed to intensive care at the hospital. Meanwhile, Dave’s dad, Dean, worsened, and on November 12, 1969, three years after he was diagnosed with a brain tumor, died. And, two weeks after that, after two months in intensive care, Dave’s brother Allen, passed away as well. How do you survive something like that?
Well for Dave Jongeward, it turned out to be a pivotal moment in his life. Although he had accepted Christ while attending boarding school in Africa, up to this point he hadn’t taken his faith very seriously. But, the deaths of his father and brother within two weeks of one another made him cry out to God. Why did his dad and brother have to die? And why was he allowed to live? He wanted
Prof. Dave Jongeward shared his story with students in MU’s November 1, 2011 “Journeys” Chapel.
answers. So during his sophomore year of high school, Dave Jongeward committed his life to the Lord, 100 percent. When he was a junior in high school, the Lord brought a Sunday School teacher and mentor named Stu Weber into his life. Stu, who later served as pastor at Gresham’s Good Shepherd Community Church, made an impact on Dave’s life at a very crucial time, giving the teenager someone to pattern his life after. It was because of Stu Weber that Dave decided to go to Wheaton for college. It was during this time, and in the years to come, that Dave learned what God meant when he said He would be “A Father to the fatherless” (Psalm 68:5), and that Jesus would be a friend who sticks closer than a brother (Proverbs 18:24). But once again, the Lord intervened. Dave’s mom asked him to stay home and go to community college for two years to help with the younger children. What seemed like a roadblock initially turned out to be a blessing, because it was at community college that Dave met his future wife, Debbie. And, Dave was still able to complete his last two years of his education at Wheaton, and then he returned to Yakima and married Debbie. Dave’s mom had always instilled a strong sense of faith in her children, and because of this, as Dave reflects on the whole experience of loss, he somehow knew deep down that God was in charge, that there was a deeper, stronger, godly significance to the events of his life. And it is amazing how often God has used him to comfort others who are going through some-
Dr. Dave Jongeward and his wife, Debbie –Photo, Dave Jongeward
thing similar. It was this faith that pulled him through the hard times and set him on the path that eventually led to where he is today, and it’s that faith he shares with others. Son, brother, husband, father, teacher, man of faith. Now he has come full circle, back to Multnomah where his parents first met and fell in love. Dave’s story of experiencing loss and pain as well as God’s mercy and grace impacts students and staff alike, including those in attendance at the November 1 Chapel service at Multnomah. As Dave did his sophomore year in high school, he continues to strive to commit his life to Christ 100 percent, no matter what the circumstances. –Megan Daline is a senior Degree Completion student.
PERSPECTIVE | STUDENT
COUNT IT ALL
“count it all joy, my brothers, when you meet trials of various kinds.” –james 1:2
by Jesse Califf
How do you respond to God when you face broken family relationships, insecurity, suffering, addiction, anxiety, eating disorder, sexual sins, abuse, etc? Despite what the hardship or affliction may be, our response to difficulty and pain must be thankfulness because “we know that for those who love God, all things work together for good....” (Romans 8:28a) And we can’t afford not to. When we forget thankfulness, we leave our communities in an endless cycle of pain and brokenness. What is our first response to a broken church community, for instance? Do we seek to remedy the situation by scheduling meetings, writing blogs, venting on Facebook, or arguing? Or do we respond in thanksgiving because we trust in a God who has control over the situation and is working to sanctify his church for our joy? Does God not sanctify us through discipline and hard-times? Then how could we forget to respond to discipline and hardtimes with thankfulness? Be thankful for it is not meaningless pain and suffering. Be thankful for it is not something that slipped through God’s fingers; he’s not in heaven with His hands in His hair. He is in
control and He is a God who is good and who loves you. Respond to Him in thankfulness before interpretation and action. Our first inclination is to take the situation into our own hands. This is what Eve did in the garden. This is what Cain did in the field. This is what Sarah did when she chose to have her child through Hagar. This is what Esau did when he sold his birthright. We have a tendency towards self-righteousness; a tendency to fix things our own way. In the back of our minds, we really don’t believe that God is our Father who loves us, and we seek a quick fix to our problems. But the truth that God is a Father who loves us is a truth saturating this universe; it is a truth that is relevant to your pain. Do you believe it? God is a Father who truly knows what is best for us and who has everything under control. This is reason enough to be thankful through the hard times. –Jesse Califf is a senior English minor. –Photo, Aaron Esparza
J O Y
PERSPECTIVE | STUDENT
The Best $100 I’ve Ever Spent by Jonathan Myers
We agreed, $100 for half an hour would be fair. I would be her third john that evening, but our encounter would be different than her usual workload.
I was in Las Vegas visiting some dear friends when my flight to San Francisco for business had been bumped and the airline put me up at a Day’s Inn just off the Vegas strip. After a transformer blew nearby and the hotel was I had been sitting in an ESPN Zone lounge without power, I elected to go grab some in the lobby of the New York New York Ca- dinner; little did I plan on meeting Mia. sino in Las Vegas, Nevada when Mia walked in, a black early 20’s-something woman from I live and work in northeast Portland near Manhattan. Wearing a brown rayon finger- 82nd Avenue where seeing women hoping tip-length wrap dress with gold sequined to turn a few tricks is not a new sight. So, I peep-toe Louboutin’s, a voguish denim jack- knew instantly when Mia walked into that et dressed the outfit down. I noticed her out Vegas restaurant what she was about. After of the corner of my eye and instantly knew she approached me, I quickly got myself out she was in this place on a mission. of the situation, letting her know I was not there for her kind of work. But, as Mia walked away from me in search of a customer who would be interested, I felt prompted to go find her and spend some time with her, just a different kind of “time” than Mia was used to.
“While wandering around the lounge hoping to catch the eye of any male patrons, her searching eye caught my inquisitive glance.”
While wandering around the lounge hoping to catch the eye of any male patrons, her searching eye caught my inquisitive glance. She quickly approached my table where I sat finishing my tenderloin steak and she began trying to sweet talk me into spending some time with her.
This of course might seem awkward. I’ve been married for seven years, most of the time quite happily. My wife loves me, and I her. And we make the choice daily to stay with each other, come what may –– we as Jesus’ people are covenanted with each other. that I was looking down on her or judging her. We agreed on $100 being worth half an But, something tugged at my heart to reach hour. I asked her what she wanted to do for out to Mia that evening. Quickly paying my the next 30 minutes. I suggested drinks, or tab at the restaurant, I found her working the food, or just walking about. craps area and approached her; I began talking to her while we wandered around New She, like a kid in a candy store, seemed overYork New York. Finally I asked, “How much is whelmed with excitement over the possibiliyour time worth to just let you be you, and ties that she could do whatever she wanted. to keep you from being dominated by some Her excitement created near indecisiveness guy that just wants to have his way?” as she bounced from craps, then roulette, and finally slots. She was flattered. I was surprised. I didn’t know if she would be offended thinking Mia and I sat under the flickering lights of
“We agreed on $100 bein
ng worth half an hour.” the casino, with the chorus of slot machines clanging away and played nickel slots for half an hour while talking. She had a great smile and straightened hair pulled tightly up. Her lightly bronzed face lit up as she laughed and shared her story. She slid a nickel into the slot machine as she explained coming to Vegas to work as a waitress with the hope of becoming a dancer four years ago; but through a fellow waitress, Mia quickly realized how much money there was in prostituting herself. Mia slid another nickel in the slot machine
and looked over her shoulder. We didn’t dig into her story much further, but just continued with small talk. She spoke about her parents and younger sister living in Manhattan, hoping to visit. She looked over her shoulder again, nervous, almost like I was unreal, as if she was suspicious that I might be working for the county and was about to bust her.
Mia was very gracious and lighthearted. There were no needle lines on her arms, no paranoid strained eyes, no meth-stained teeth. She was a human – a real person. No little girl dreams of growing up to be a prostitute. Mia certainly didn’t.
That night, I was changed by her. She was JeI was amazed at how joyful Mia seemed. She sus to me. I wonder if she too was changed, was honest with me and kept asking why I at least a little bit. would want to spend time with her. I told her I was saddened at the number of men who As I handed her two $50 bills, I thought it was showed up to meet with her so they could the best $100 I had ever spent. exercise their craziest notions of sex and re- –Jonathan Myers is a senior Journalism major. –Photo, Aaron Esparza lationship.
SEARCHING FOR A SAFE PLACE
An Interview with Dr. Brad Harper
by Aaron Esparza
I walked into the book lined office space of Dr. Brad Harper in Sutcliffe Hall. A rare glimpse of sunshine seeped through the exposed windows that brought a feeling of warmth and comfort. I had come to interview Dr. Harper on the issue of homosexuality; last semester, he had participated in a panel discussion on the subject, and we were covering the topic for Muse. I remember sitting in that chapel last semester with my peers listening to the panel, and suddenly seeing everyone sit up as Dr. Harper spoke of his son who identified himself as homosexual. A personal touch was released to the campus. And I as a student knew he would be the man to talk about how we, as Christians, could get out of our awkward, synthetic bubble and learn more on how to engage with the dictator!” publicly without being with people, no matter who they are. Now hauled off to jail by not-so-friendly people. sitting in his office, I took a deep breath and turned my recorder on. When you were back in chapel, you mentioned one of your sons was strugAs I introduced myself and asked questions gling with homosexuality? about his family, I became intrigued by his second oldest son, currently in Egypt, who’s “Yes but I wouldn’t say he was struggling been working on a documentary about anymore. He’s just gay. And he left the heavy metal bands in Islamic countries. church because of this struggle.”
The arriving documentary is based on the book, Heavy Metal Islam: Rock, Resistance, and the Struggle for the Soul of Islam by Mark LeVine, and it was filmed during the Egyptian revolution last spring. It regards the liberation of the oppressed people and using the metal music to express their outrage without getting arrested. In oppressed nations, you can’t march up and say “Down
When? “About junior year of high school, he had been struggling with this issue for many years. He didn’t find the church a place where he could talk about it, especially with his peers about it. There were some adults he could engage in, but largely he didn’t feel like it was a place that was inter-
ested in engaging in.” I paused for a moment to think about where this was going. “No, this church wasn’t the Westboro Baptist,” he said as he responded to my question. This was your good, evangelical, non-legalistic church that he, Dr. Harper, still attends to this day. There’s no bashing or condemning of homosexuals here. But yet, I learned that the issue wasn’t even about that in this context. “It’s really about Christians not knowing how to engage in homosexuality other than saying, ‘well, that’s a sin’, and that’s pretty much it. It’s not that there was any negative gay bashing. It’s just that most evangelical churches have a difficult time
talking about this.”
sexual orientation who are Christian and everyone in America. We don’t say much about it, and that’s troubling.” want to follow Christ.”
Do you think this is a big problem in churches? Do you believe a Christ follower can choose to enter into a homosexual mar“It’s pretty typical for evangelical churches riage and still follow Christ? not to be safe places for those who experience same sex attraction to be open and “I think scripture is clear that marriage is talk about their issues publicly. It’s like al- to be between a man and a woman. Gay coholism 30 to 40 years ago. They couldn’t marriage is forbidden for Christians. In the really be open about it. But it’s much more church, we would say no, we don’t do gay acceptable now to say, ‘Hey, there are marriage because it’s not what God wants. people in our church struggling with al- In the public sphere it’s a different issue, coholism, and we are here to help them and we aren’t responsible for the public and walk with them’. But we’re not there sphere in the same way that we are for the yet with homosexuality.” church.” When this process was going on, what were your thoughts as a professor? “Being a professor didn’t have anything to do with it. It’s about being a father. My whole focus was to walk along with my son and listen to him and encourage him, and of course, I talked to him about my own biblical convictions about homosexual activities. He understood it, and at the same time, it helped to show him my love towards him. Though he doesn’t share my beliefs on this issue anymore, we are still very close. Unfortunately, when evangelical men do come out, the issue usually brings rejection or refusal to talk about it with the fathers.” What is your son’s main objection about Christianity? “It goes back to the issue of him saying, ‘Look, this is who I am. This is who God made me. Therefore, it’s unthinkable that I would not live this way. To not live this way is to deny my identity.’ Of course, there are some places where I take issue with that. I believe we are all broken sexually. “It’s just that most of us are broken heterosexually; I still have to live my life honoring God’s standards of sexuality no matter where my brokenness is. And I would say the same is true for persons with a homo-
“In the public sphere, it’s a different issue, and we aren’t responsible for the public sphere in the same way that we are for the church.”
What is some advice to the young evangelical here at MU or anywhere in the church? “One of my encouragements to young evangelicals is to tell them to go love a homosexual. Once you know and love someone who is gay, then let’s talk about judgment. It doesn’t change whether or not it’s a sin, but it definitely affects how we engage the issue. “And as a whole, when we keep ourselves segregated from homosexuals, it cripples us from being redemptive. In order to be truly redemptive we really need to understand their pain and understand where they are coming from; homosexuality is not simply an evil choice people make. There are all kinds of factors about it that a homosexual has no control over.” Is there a mixture of off and on campus students who come to you and talk to you about this? “Yes. Both have come up to me and I have had many opportunities to talk with MU students, both those who have struggled with same sex attraction and those who have not. And look, people have to find a community where they can work through their struggles. And if they can’t find that community here or in their church, where are they going to find it? They’ll find it, but it won’t be in a place where people are walking with Christ. Shame on us then.”
How should we go about in confrontaFinal remarks? tion of all this? “I don’t think we should treat the sin of homosexuality as the sin on top of the list. For example, greed is a sin, and America is a very consumerist country, and the evangelical church is dominated by this. It’s odd for the church to be so outspoken about homosexual sins that affect a minority, yet we are so oblivious to consumerism and greed that affects almost
“I want any students on this campus to know that they are not alone. There are faculty and leaders on this campus who are sensitive to this reality. And I certainly welcome students, whether they struggle with this or not, to come talk to me. I am always open to talk.” –Aaron Esparza is a senior Communication Studies major and co-editor of Muse Magazine.
INSIDE MU | THE VOICE ARCHIVES
VOICE ARTICLE VOLUME 56, NO. 8. MAY, 2004 BY ANDREA LAURITA EDITED AND RE-WRITTEN BY AARON ESPARZA Few escape the crushing grip of prostitution. Seven nights per week for the majority of 13 years, Mona Davies, a sturdy woman with clear blue eyes and curly golden locks performed sexual favors in exchange for money. Like many prostitutes, Davies was sexually abused as a child. At 13-years of age, Davies attempted suicide for the first time. At age of 15, she met Gregory Hightower, a churchgoing, Bible-carrying 16-year-old. By the time Davies was 16-years-old, Davies had two sexually transmitted diseases and had dropped out of high school because she was pregnant with Hightower’s baby. A childhood friend introduced Hightower to pimping girls. With his insecure girlfriend being eight months pregnant, and girls on the street easily pursued with lies of security, fortune and love, Hightower had discovered a jackpot of easy cash. When Davies gave birth to Latasha, the financial demands upon the small family increased. Hightower pimped Natalie, a 14-year-old girl, who believed herself to be the object of his affection. With the money Natalie earned, he bought himself a new car. When Tasha was three months old, Hightower convinced Davies to move out of her mother’s house in order to collect welfare. She and the baby went to a shelter in downtown Seattle; Hightower stayed at his grandmother’s house. Davies had to wait 30 days before she could collect any welfare. Tasha’s diaper and formula supply dwindled to nothing. Hightower persuaded Davies to work a few dates. “He would say, ‘Don’t you love your baby enough to do this?’” she said. He gave Davies careful instructions. “I walked up the avenue. A Chinese man pulled over so I got in the car and he was like ‘Sex? Sex! Twenty-five dollar, 25 dollar.’ And I was like ‘okay.’ So we drove somewhere and did it in the bushes on the side of the road.”
Davies had the man drop her off at the laundry mat where Hightower waited. “I started to throw up,” she said. “It was like I was throwing up my soul, and from then on I wasn’t even worth being a human.” With the exchange of sex for money, Davies became one of the 400,000 United States. teens who are lured into prostitution annually, according to the Department of Justice. With the $25 Davies earned, she brought baby formula, diapers, and a McDonald’s meal for herself and Hightower. Soon, the welfare checks afforded the family an apartment where they settled with Natalie. Davies thought about suicide often. Hightower repeatedly told Davies she was a failure as a mother because 14-year-old Natalie provided the family income. “At this point, I don’t have any job skills,” Davies said. “I remember going back out; I was going to try again.” “After the first date, you have to turn yourself completely off or you’d never stop crying. Me? I was this little tiny pea way deep down inside of me. Nobody could touch me. They could do what they wanted with my body, but they could not get to me. It became routine, just give me my money, put it in my hand, do it.” Prostitutes are susceptible to contracting diseases, unwanted pregnancies, being raped and robbed several times a day. “Each time I opened a car door, I’m okay to die,” Davies said. As quickly as the two women brought the money to Hightower, he spent it. He kept the entire income, buying whatever luxuries he desired for himself and making sure the women and Tasha had only necessities. “We gladly gave him the money,” Davies said. “When I put a smile on his face and knew that he was going to treat me good for a little while, and that he thought that I was somebody special, that feeling just outweighed everything else.” Hightower and Davies started smoking crack regularly. They moved into an apartment in Seattle where the neighbor was involved in an escort service. Davies was not of legal age to be an escort; the neighbor arranged dates for her.
Davies preferred working as an escort to the T-shirt and jeans of the street. Each client paid at least $150, and the accommodations were more discrete and comfortable. “I figured, well, we can make money, we can do our drugs and Greg can have the things he wants,” Davis said. Hightower and Davies conceived again and in 1989, Gregory was born. Hightower’s habit of charming desperate, troubled teens consumed him. He hung out at carnivals or in malls and met runaways to bring home. “I’d get a little benefit out of it because then I didn’t have to work as much,” Davies said.
“We met up one time and he said that he missed the kids and I needed to let him see them,” she said. “And he treated me really well. We talked about how he had changed.” Hightower moved the girls down to Portland. During their first night in the apartment, he pulled the telephone cord from the wall and battered two of the prostitutes with the phone. “Going back to Greg was worse than death,” Davies said. “And here I had gone back to him.” The next three years were full of drugs and alcohol, working customers’ homes, 82nd Avenue and apartment complexes in Multnomah County and Gresham. During the day, the girls would work as a band of thieves, stealing from stores and returning the goods for profit. At night, they sold their bodies.
“Money & Fear Drive an Underground Form of Slavery.” Davies awoke one day and realized that she had smoked crack every day for the past year. “I called a regular trick that I knew and asked him to take me and the kids to Portland,” she said. “I got my kids with our two little plastic bags and he brought us down here.” She stayed at Raphael House, a local family shelter. She called Hightower and learned that he was brutally beating the other girls until Davies returned. One of the girls had been hospitalized because he had damaged her spleen. “I thought, ‘Oh no, I left Greg, he is gonna be so freakin’ mad,” Davies said. Fearful, she told him where she was living.
“The pimps’ only purpose is to manipulate and make money for himself,” aid Vice Officer Molly Daul, who closely worked with the Davies case. “The girl is just a commodity, not a person.” On February 4, 1998, less than three weeks after the birth of Davies’ third child, police arrested Hightower, Davies and Heather, Hightower’s top girl. The police charged Davies with prostitution and several counts of promoting and compelling prostitution. In July, she was sentenced to 23 months in prison. After six months at a county jail, she and Heather transferred to prison. “On the first day, we got to sit in the yard and we started laughing at how wonderful it was,” she said.
“We weren’t going to get beat today, we didn’t have to turn tricks today.” Because of good behavior, Davies’ prison time was reduced to 18-and-a-half months. But promoting prostitution in the state of Oregon is a sex crime, which makes Davies a labeled sexual offender, a mark that is permanently on her record. The state revoked her parental rights and gave full custody of her children to Hightower’s mother. Davis’ sentence ended August 17, 2000, but the challenge of functioning in mainstream society felt daunting. “How do you live when you’re 31 years old and don’t know diddily-squat except for the street, except for smoking crack, except for getting along with the pimps and the prostitutes?” she wondered. Her parole ended on February 4, 2004 and her son, 14-year-old Gregory, moved in with her. She continues to learn how to function in society, she still walks with her eyes to the ground, and she doesn’t relate to heterosexual men. Officer Daul has worked with juvenile prostitutes for six years. “We have small success stories,” she said. “They’re not attorneys or doctors, but they’re not on the streets anymore.” Davies has spent the past four years attending classes at Portland Community College. On March 20, she got her Associates degree. She hopes to someday use her experience to counsel young, at-risk girls. Hightower was scheduled to walk out of prison in August of 2007. “I used to worry that I would go back to him; I don’t worry about that anymore,” Davies said. “I worry about what damage he’ll do to the other girls because I know that he’s going to go back.” –While rummaging in the J-House office spaces, Muse co-editor Aaron Esparza found this article in a file called “The best of the Voice.” Because sex-trafficking is an issue we were covering in this “brokenness” edition of the Muse, we decided to add it to our content. –Photo, Monica Winders
The Ides of March
ARTS & CULTURE | POEM
It is not the Ides of March And it is not Friday the thirteenth either. It is not the full moon Or the years lived in the shadow of broken mirrors. But beware. It is the ordinary days you need to be wary of, To take care of. Oh no, it’s not the Ides of March And there is no indication That to life you must cling. It is just an ordinary day. But it will matter in the end. We do not each get warnings Nor do we all cross a prophet’s path before our time. It may not be the Ides of March-No, to you they will be kind. It will be another day One to which you yourself are blind. Be ready. And do not give away your time Unaware. No, not the Ides of March But the ordinary days. See, they are restless and tired And probably a bit bored. Do not forget what the ordinary can become. by Elaine Brinckerhoff
–Photo, Elaine Brinckerhoff
ARTS & CULTURE | TIINA’S COLUMN
tea is meant to bring people together.
the drinking of tea AuTEAbiography of Tiina Mall
I am, by family tradition and cultural influences, an avid tea drinker. I often walk to class or elsewhere with my cream and brown daily-cup ceramic mug; milky sweet tea threatening to spill over the rim. The warm drink has almost become a dear friend – full of comfort and memories. Tea is meant to bring people together. Tea warms us up and even gives us a bit of a boost when it’s caffeinated. It is a drink to sip slowly when in need of time for pondering. It is an encouraging wake up call to a new day and a companionable comfort on a dreary afternoon. My 24 years, minus two or three, can be summarized by the thousands of cups of tea I have shared with my thoughts, family and friends.
lings in the afternoon teatime. I felt loved by my father because he patiently cooled the tea down for me and tenderly held it to my lips as I relished the drink and all the love, safety and care around me. I remember when I was seven or eight being called in by a neighbor to have tea not long after my family first moved to my father’s homeland, India. The neighbor called her children and myself and lined us up like ducklings in front of their two-room home. She poured cardamomspiced chai into metal tumblers for each of us. The teacups had no handle so we held them by the rim between our thumb and index finger. We followed the oldest boy’s example and shared one empty extra cup. We took turns pouring our tea into the cup and then back into our own, letting it froth like a waterfall as we blew on it to help it cool more quickly.
I am not sure if it was my first cup of tea, but I remember it was sweet and thick like dessert. I was about three-years-old. I was too young to have my own cup of tea. All of the adults around me were sipping The smell of tea in metal cups will always tea. I watched them longingly, wanting so remind me of those beautiful mountains much to be included. we stared out at, as we dipped biscuits into the tea. I will never forget that place So, my father allowed me to have the last where my confidence in, and my love few sips of his tea. Even at that age, I felt for, community grew significantly. Those so privileged to be included among my neighbors I will always think of as family. aunts and uncles, older cousins and sibContinued on page 29
ARTS & CULTURE | TIINA’S COLUMN
tea is grace and laughter.
Continued from page 28.
“When I was about 8, same age as drinking tea with the neighbor Aunty’s kids, my family hiked to the glacial source of the Ganga river. The photo shows us at a tea shop somewhere in the middle of the hike. I am the child helping to stoke the fire. The man sitting by the fire is making some chai to help warm us up.”
to make it extra special, I put in nutmeg, cinnamon and chocolate baking powder. These are not the correct spices for chai. I was nine and didn’t know better; I was just guessing by grabbing whatever smelled I cannot speak of tea and chai separately. nice. I didn’t quite understand spices yet. In India chai means tea. What I have now Of course, it tasted horrible. Still, all the heard referred to as “chai” in the West is guests humored me and drank it. what we, in India, would call “masala chai” Afterwards the guest I call Aunty Kiran or spiced tea. asked me what I put in the chai I had The first time I tried to make masala chai made. I explained with much pride exactly on my own is a comical memory. Some how I made the tea. She burst out laughdear family friends had come to visit and ing and hugged me to her and I shook in I wanted to impress them so I set off to her arms of laughter. She then gently explained how chai was normally brewed. I make the chai. still smile when I remember her face. I poured the water, sugar and milk into a pot. Without warning, I dumped an ex- Tea is grace and laughter. orbitant amount of black tea leaves into the liquid. I let it come to a boil, and then, In high school, we had “after school tea.” The echo of Aunty’s voice over the hills of the lower Himalayas and the smell of that chai will linger in my heart like strength and fellowship stored in memory.
I went to a boarding school, in the lower Himalayas of India, where a snack and tea was provided for after school. We would find clusters of friends and walk down the ramp to the quad and file into the dining hall. Teatime had a much more relaxed feeling than lunch. Everyone filtered in so that it never felt too crowded and often some of us would linger for conversation and poetry. The tea was often too sweet or too strong or too weak, but we loved it all the same. We patiently, and sometimes impatiently, cooled it off and drank it while savoring a snack of cookies as friendships grew. At Capernwray Bible School in England, where I spent a year after my first year of university, tea flowed in abundance as well. We drank it at every class break,
gether. She still does. She has shared so I cannot even try and fully summarize all much heart, over so many mornings of the memories chai brings to me. Love, cups of tea, as she has taught so much life. safety, care, fellowship, laughter, grace, friendship, trust and strength, and the When peace is hard to find, our cups of tea gentle calling to follow the true giver of all have soothed worrying and calmed us. these things; this is just a short biography A friend of mine, Kissa, often says, “I When one older, wiser warmer hand has of my memories of tea. Now, I must end am addicted to the feel of a warm mug passed a tea-filled mug into my dancing here and pour my chai before it boils over, wrapped inside my hands.” I could not brown fingers, I have always felt the call to or else tell stories forever. empathize more. Kissa occasionally found follow her life example and cling to Christ. me in the dining hall late at night with my –Tiina Mall is a senior Communication Studies mug of hot tea. I would sit there, long af- I pour the water into the pot. Stir in some major. ter the evening crowd had left, to hold the sugar and gently add tea leaves and milk. –Photos, Tiina Mall warmth between my hands and sip the tea every so often, as I prayed through all God was teaching me. mealtime and often in between. The cups in the dining hall were slightly awkward, very small and white. I remember joy when I would bring my tall mug to replace the inadequate teacups.
I often sing my prayers, so when Kissa would find me I’d suddenly get embarrassed about how loud I was singing or how out of key. She would sit down next to me with a cup of tea and love me all the same. Over those cups of tea we learned to trust and share.
TEA (from webster) 1 a : a shrub (Camellia sinensis of the family Theaceae, the tea family) cultivated especially in China, Japan, and the East Indies 1 b : the leaves, leaf buds, and internodes of the tea plant prepared and cured for the market, classed according to method of manufacture into one set of types (as green tea, black tea, or oolong), and graded according to leaf size into another (as orange pekoe, pekoe, or souchong) 2 : an aromatic beverage prepared from tea leaves by infusion with boiling water 3 : any of various plants somewhat resembling tea in properties; also : an infusion of their leaves used medicinally or as a beverage. Notice: The main definition is that tea is a plant –from which black, green, and white tea leaves are harvested and used for hot or cold drinks. TEA IS NOT FROM ENGLAND. FACT: The English would not have tea if the colonial East India Trading Company (British colonial trade) had not received tea from India and China. FACT: England had never tasted tea until about 1653!
“We would both feel warmth and courage trickle down our throats as the tea helped us get ready for the day.”
A couple of summers ago, I had a hard time waking up in the morning when I was not working. My mother would find my favorite mug and fill it with the hot amber goodness and bring it to me in my room. She would sit down next to me and drink her tea as I groggily sipped mine. We would both feel the warmth and courage trickle down our throats as the tea helped get us ready to start the day. My mother would often pray out loud for me while we drank our morning tea to-
English or Irish tea is actually some combination blend of tea leaves primarily from: • India: Irish breakfast tea is made mainly from tea leaves grown in Assam India (in the lower eastern Himalayas). • Sri Lana: Any Ceylon tea is from Sri Lanka. • China, Japan, and Korea: Most green and white tea is from these countries. CHAI MEANS TEA. • In India, chai is made with black tea leaves, milk, water, and sugar. Masala Chai is what most North Americans think of when “chai” is mentioned. • Traditionally masala chai is also made with black tea leaves, milk, water, sugar and some additional spices are added depending on where in India you are. For example, many mountain regions of India add ginger, cinnamon, and cardamom. TIINA USE TO DRINK AN AVERAGE OF 14 CUPS OF TEA PER DAY. SHE NOW DRINKS SOMEWHERE BETWEEN 2-5 CUPS A DAY.
ARTS & CULTURE | FICTION
Reme by Brittany Kramberg
ears slide down the cheeks of the old woman as she knelt before the crumbled throne, a reminder of what once was.
“Remember me, King of all kings. Remember me. Remember Your people.” Her crooked fingers reached out stroking what remained of the broken arm, part of it had been worn smooth with the caresses of others begging for their King to remember them.
“Where are you, my King? Did you forget about us?” Her hunched shoulders sagged as a moan of anguish escaped from her cracked lips. The tears that trickled down her aged cheeks briefly touched her open lips, mixing dried blood with the salt of her sorrow.
Hearing the barking orders of a deep voiced man, she stood with bones cracking as she did so. Using the back of her hand she dried her tears and began to hobble towards the sound of a whip cracking. Glancing back, she cast her eyes to the throne, “Forgive us, save us.” A beast of a man walked in, his whip snapping as he grabbed the old woman’s arm. “Save your prayers, we all know Mephaust is your king now. No one can save your people.” Dragging her out of the once glorious temple, he threw her on the stone stairs. She gave a cry of pain as her brittle bones hit the unyielding rock. A crack was heard as her wrist twisted back when she tried to catch herself. The whip came down, tearing through
her rags, ripping into her frail skin. Again and again it ripped into her. Crimson began to trickle from her body. Laying her head down, the woman began to pray for death. Suddenly the whip stopped. It hung limp in the air as the man tumbled down the steps. Pain-filled blue eyes looked up into defiant green ones. A young woman bent down beside the old woman and helped her up. Gasping, the old woman shook her head knowing the punishment for slaves who killed taskmasters. “Daughter, go.” Trying to push the younger away, she could barely raise her left arm as the other hung limply at her side. “No, Mother Sachairi. I will not leave you
ember Me... with these monsters.” Almost carrying Sachairi, the young woman walked slowly towards the surrounding forests. “Achima, our lives...” Her words trailing off, the old woman’s eyes stared into the young woman’s face. A gasp left her lips as she saw the determination and the strength that lay in them. As she slipped into a welcomed darkness, she gave a small smile; maybe their King did remember them. Achima didn’t glance down at her mother as she trudged toward the wildness ahead of them. Her eyes stayed on the path that was set before them. Her lips in a tight line as she kept walking, the words of the strange man Malachi ringing in her head. The King is coming. And you,
“No, Mother Sachairi. I will not leave you with these monsters.” Achima, will be His servant. You will lead His people in this War. You will fight for Him; He will raise you up to crush His enemies. He has begun to prepare others to help you on this path, but you must not wait. You know what I speak is true. After saying those words to her, Malachi had vanished with a smile on his lips. Grit-
ting her teeth, she gave a nod. She would trust his Word. After all, Malachi had been named the new Messenger. Maybe the King was finally going to save them. – Part two will be continued the next issue. –Brittany is a sophomore Psychology major. –Photo, Aaron Esparza
IN THEIR EYES by Larisa Warren, The Country of Nepal
ARTS & CULTURE | PHOTO SERIES
ARTS & CULTURE | PHOTO SERIES
ARTS & CULTURE | DR. G’S CORNER
sacred symbols by Dr. Garry Friesen
Family & Friends, I love drama, and my return to Imago Dei church after a year away fed that theatrical hole in my soul. The best drama at Imago Dei is the unrehearsed, unscripted, reality drama of saints and “sacred symbols.” The call to worship prepared our needy souls and invited us past the torn curtain into the Holy of Holies. The sermon was on the bread and cup. The cup, Rick McKinley revealed, is a cup of healing, a cup of incarnation, a cup of willingness to suffer, and a cup of joy which Jesus waits to enjoy when we join Him.
but He willingly accepted it. Then the cry of dereliction, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me.” Rick reminded us, “Jesus was separated from the Father so that we would never have to be separated from the Father.” The sermon ended and the drama began. Like little human rivulets moving forward, we joined at the same loaf and the same cup. No one who reached the front was claiming to be a self-made American. We were all needy. We could only receive. The mystery was great, but our hearts took it in with the ease of childlike faith. My need for drama was fulfilled, but I will be back next week for more.
Pastor Rick concluded that our mind could never understand the depth of the G cup, but our heart could take it in. Jesus called the death that he was to die “the –Dr. Garry Friesen is a Bible professor at cup.” It turned his heart into torment, Multnomah University.
“Perhaps pray absolute act of my feet go now stand on faith a make nothing, b be lifted in utte My voice does n fluence, but mu invisible Sovere weakness. Pray reminder that w do nothing. ‘Sov believe, help m
–Excerpt from Dr. Friesen’s soon t called Paw Prints in Portland: Lio
yer is the most f faith. In prayer where, but must alone. My hands but must simply er dependence. not speak for inust cry out to an eign in childlike yer is a horrible without Him I can vereign Lord, I do my unbelief.’”
to be published book, tentatively on Sightings by Dr. G and Friends
job’s wife to the re s c u e Excerpt from soon to be published book that is tentatively called Paw Prints in Portland: Lion Sightings by Dr. G and Friends
Andree Seu describes waking in the morning. “Then you look in the mirror and some diabolical night urchin has etched new wrinkles on your forehead while you slept, and done something awful to your neck.” I have two ruler lines between my eyes for which I am thankful. They remind me of a time of pain that God took me through. This deep night was recorded on September 23, 2006.
I literally tried to endure in 10-minute increments. I had two very specific goals. Surprisingly, I created the goals from the infamous advice of Job’s wife to his suffering husband: “Curse God and die.” So my simple goals were, first, don’t curse God and second, don’t commit suicide.
Not very impressive goals, but I’ll let God be the judge. He proclaimed that the angry and ranting Job was blessed for his endurance (James 5:11) and gave him a Recently, I was talking with a friend who is whole book in the Bible. Why? God knew going through a deep night of the soul. It Job’s response was “endurance” worth forced me to remember when life seemed commending in light of the profound a bottomless pit. Fifteen years ago, a mys- pain he endured. terious malady put me in constant pain. The doctor gave me huge pills, but even I learned that God’s grace is sufficient in a the powerful painkillers had no effect. fallen and broken body. Satan’s attack on Job forced an ultimate question into Job’s At my lowest ebb, I tucked in the fetal po- face. If you lose everything but God, is He sition and did not move for 36 hours. I felt enough? Job’s answer is worth repeating: I was very close to losing my mind. During the night I said, “Oh, that the day would “The LORD gave, the LORD has taken away. come.” During the day, “Oh, that night Blessed be the name of the LORD.” would come.” To sign up for the FriesenFortnightly http://www.multnomah.edu/blog/friesenfortnightly/
ARTS & CULTURE | PHOTO SERIES
P S A
23 by Andrew Rowland, senior Pastoral major
L M 39
ARTS & CULTURE | PHOTO SERIES
â€œI will meditate
on all your works and muse
on all Your deeds.â€? Ps. 77:12
ARTS & CULTURE | MOVIE REVIEWS
RAW & REVEALED by Kristen Leach
Little did I know, that when I sat down in This film looks at the spark of our country front of the screen for that first time, my being immersed in this atrocious state of life would be changed. being. What is this spark? What is the catalyst? Behind the realities of pornography The first film viewed, “Sex and Money: and prostitution lies the magnitude of the A National Search for Human Worth,” is media machine. The media’s influence is a documentary made by a team of five far more powerful than we like to admit. young photojournalists. They traveled around the world to research social injus- Though the film had no reference to God tice. In doing so, they found out that the or Jesus Christ, the filmmakers were presbiggest and unrealized problem was the ent and attested to their faith as being trafficking of children and youth. the reason they produced this film. They believe a larger number of people will be They also quickly realized that not only more inclined to watch and take action if was this a worldwide problem, but it was the film does not make direct references happening right back at home, in the to faith. United States. So, the filmmakers traveled to 30 states to research the domestic side After the documentary, the filmmakers of sex-trafficking. hosted a panel of three government officials to answer and discuss the problem The team interviewed and videotaped related to Portland. I walked away with inpimps, victims, government officials, formation about what groups are doing to psychologists, porn-stars, and even fed- help stop sex-trafficking. In addition, the eral agents in order to learn of the wide- film offered ideas for what others can do, spread problem. What resulted from their and how I can personally get involved. research was the documentary, “Sex and Money.” A few weeks later, I attended a different 43
sex + money
In a broken and naive desire to learn more about the issue of sex-trafficking, I attended two film screenings in October. I began to see the reality of the sexual enslavement in this world, this nation, and in this very city I live in.
The focus of “Sex and Money” was centered around a few, sobering, main ideas. The abuse and violence involved in the industry is especially geared towards children. This industry is a business and it is intricately pulled off. The facts regarding the frequency of it in our neighborhood, right down the street and across the town astounded me. The numbers are too large. It happens too often.
a national search for human worth
I am an object. An animal. A commodity. Locked up. Used. Imprisoned. I can’t get out.
–Photo, courtesy of Sex + Money
film screening on the same subject called “Nefarious: Merchant of Souls.” This film differs than the first, for it focuses on six countries and the current sex-trafficking industry inside each of them. From Europe to Asia to the United States, the film dove into this brokenness that is taking place all around the world.
dam, where cameras are not welcomed. They interviewed ex-buyers, prostitutes, victims and owners in Amsterdam, Thailand, Moldova, Las Vegas, Cambodia and Sweden.
Perhaps the most risky yet vital part of the film was the profession of the hope found in Jesus Christ. Some of the ex-prostitutes, ex-victims, and ex-pimps interviewed revealed their pain and attested to their belief in Jesus’ love and power as saving To draw upon a more in-depth study of them. the issue, the filmmakers interviewed psychologists, government officials, and mis- These filmmakers defied fear and norsion workers dedicated to the freedom of malcy to search for the truth behind doors these women and children. few dare to open.
The strategy of this film was to reveal what might be hidden and what’s in plain view. The filmmakers took their cameras in and around the Red Light District of Amster- “Nefarious: Merchant of Souls” focused on how the causes of sex-trafficking are rooted in poverty and control. In each interview, the film drew upon explicit video clips they had filmed in their travels, as well as realistic, dramatized scenes to show what these situations look like.
For more information please visit these films’ websites at www.sexandmoneyfilm.com and www.nefariousdocumentary.com. –Kristen Leach is a senior Communication Studies major.
I AM AN OBJECT. AN ANIMAL. A COMMODITY.
Joslyn Baker, Isaac Gill, and Morgan Perry. –Photo, Cornelia Seigneur
–Photo, courtesy of Nefarious
ARTS & CULTURE | PHOTO SERIES
by Jared Bennett
SUSPENDED IN TIME | UPPER LEFT HIDDEN IN PLAIN SITE | UPPER RIGHT SCARS REMAIN | BOTTOM LEFT “A scar stains the petals of this flower as evidence of the pain of being stepped on or run over. But isn’t it still beautiful? For the flower to remain beautiful, it must wear its scars like jewels. And doesn’t it do that so well?” by Miki Gao 46
ARTS & CULTURE | THE END PAGE
A Poetry Box
by Cornelia Seigneur
While on a crisp autumn walk in the old Bolton neighborhood near Fit For Life where I work out in West Linn, I spotted a wooden pole with a clear plastic container attached to it, the kind that real estate agents use to place flyers in, detailing houses for sale. But, this plastic container was not advertising anything. As I approached, I saw some vertical large letters attached to the wooden pole. Intrigued, I slowed down and read what word the letters spelled:
And, of course, everything must be brought into this century. A man is developing an APP to find the location of poetry boxes around the city. This endeavor is in response to the City of Portland’s challenge for community members to participate in “The first annual Civic Apps Challenge” contest to use public data to create user-friendly content. Here is the link: http:// www.civicapps.org/ideas/portland-poetry-boxes. I love the idea of Poetry Boxes. They get people to stop and read a poem and learn about a new author and reflect on culture and life and literature. They get people musing in our communities.
P-O-E-T-R-Y Wow, a poetry box. I quickly figured out that that clear plastic container attached to the wooden pole had a poem in it. I opened the box and took out the bright orange sheet of paper with a poem titled, “The Gray Man” by B.H. Fairchild. I became curious about this poet and the poetry boxes. As I researched, I found out that these poetry boxes, which are sometimes called poetry posts or poetry poles, are found throughout the city of Portland on private residences near the road. Usually they are mounted to a pole but sometimes a tree will suffice. Owners switch out the poems inside every couple of weeks.
And discovering new poets as I did on my fall walk in the Bolton area. I went home and Googled other poems by B.H. Fairchild.
“It seems so old fashioned. So literate. So simple. So Henry David Thoreau. A way to encourage literature and a love for the written word and slowing down.”
It seems so old fashioned. So literate. So simple. So Henry David Thoreau. A way to encourage literature and a love for the written word and slowing down. 47
I found the following poem, The Deposition, which I share today along with The Gray Man. Both complement the theme of this month’s Muse Magazine on pain and brokenness, something Christ endured for us. –Cornelia Becker Seigneur teaches journalism courses at Multnomah and she serves as the editorial director and faculty adviser for Muse student magazine.
–Cornelia was so intrigued by the poetry poles that she wrote about it for The Oregonian. –Photo, Cornelia Seigneur
THE DEPOSITION A POETRY POLE FEATURED POEM by B.H. Fairchild
And one without a name / Lay clean and naked there, and gave commandments. —Rilke, “Washing the Corpse” (trans. Jarrell) Dust storm, we thought, a brown swarm plugging the lungs, or a locust-cloud, but this was a collapse, a slow sinking to deeper brown, and deeper still, like the sky seen from inside a well as we are lowered down, and the air twisting and tearing at itself. But it was done. And the body hung there like a butchered thing, naked and alone in a sudden hush among the ravaged air. The ankles first—slender, blood-caked, pale in the sullen dark, legs broken below the knees, blue bruises smoldering to black. And the spikes. We tugged iron from human flesh that dangled like limbs not fully hacked from trees, nudged the cross beam from side to side until the sign that mocked him broke loose. It took all three of us. We shouldered the body to the ground, yanked nails from wrists more delicate, it seemed, than a young girl’s but now swollen, gnarled, black as burnt twigs. The body, so heavy for such a small man, was a knot of muscle, a batch of cuts and scratches from the scourging, and down the right side a clotted line of blood, the sour posca clogging his ragged beard, the eyes exploded to a stare that shot through all of us and still speaks in my dreams: I know who you are. So, we began to wash the body, wrenching the arms, now stiff and twisted, to his sides, unbending the ruined legs and sponging off the dirt of the city, sweat, urine, —all the body gives—from the body, laying it out straight on a sheet of linen rank with perfumes so that we could cradle it, haul it to the tomb. The wind shouted. The foul air thickened. I reached over to close the eyes. I know who you are. –Photo, Cornelia Seigneur
THE GRAY MAN A POETRY POLE FEATURED POEM by B.H. Fairchild
–Photos, Cornelia Seigneur
We are cutting weeds and sunflowers on the shoulder, the gray man and I, red dust coiling up around us, muddying our sweat-smeared mugs, clogging our hair, the iron heel of an August Kansas sun pushing down on the scythes we raise against it and swing down in an almost homicidal rage and drunken weariness. And I keep my distance. He’s a new hire just off the highway, a hitchhiker sick to death of hunger, the cruelties of the road, and our boss hates poverty just enough to hire it, even this old man, a dead, leaden pall upon his skin so vile it makes you pull away, the gray trousers and state-issue black prison boots, the bloodless, grim, unmoving lips, and the eyes set in concrete, dark hallways that lead to darker rooms down somewhere in the basement of the soul’s despair. Two weeks. He hasn’t said a word. He’s a ghost, I tell my father. Light flashes from his scythe as he decapitates big clumps of yellow blooms, a flailing, brutal war against the lords of labor, I suppose, against the state, the world, himself, who knows. When we break, I watch the canteen’s water bleed from the corners of his mouth, a spreading wound across his shirt, the way he spits into the swollen pile of bluestem and rank bindweed as if he hates it and everything that grows, a hatred that has roots and thickens, twisting, snarled around itself. A lizard wanders into sunlight, and he hacks at it, chopping clods until dust clouds rise like mist around him, and then he speaks in a kind of shattering of glass cutting through the hot wind’s sigh, the fear: Love thine enemy. He says it to the weeks or maybe what they stand for. Then, knees buckling, with a rasping, gutted sob as if drowning in that slough of dirty air, he begins, trembling, to cry. I was a boy. The plains’ wind leaned against the uncut weeds. High wires hummed with human voices in their travail. And the highway I had worked but never traveled lay across the fields and vanished in that distant gray where day meets night.