Controversial Bible Verses #1: On Modesty

Disclaimer: I am not a seminarian, and I possess nothing approaching a degree in biblical interpretation. I am just a laywoman with a degree in economics that loves God and his Word. 

I'm blessed to have been reading the Bible for a number of years now, and I have of course come upon some of its more controversial verses multiple times. The whole second half of 1 Timothy 2 most certainly falls into this category. It tells women in the Ephesian church how to dress and how to act--and the instructions are not exactly compatible to today's modern woman.

The controversy starts in verse 9-10, the famous verses about modesty:

9 I also want the women to dress modestly, with decency and propriety, adorning themselves, not with elaborate hairstyles or gold or pearls or expensive clothes, 10 but with good deeds, appropriate for women who profess to worship God. (1 Timothy 2:9-10 NIV, emphasis mine)

Ahhh, modesty. For five decades now, women's fashion has been raging against this concept. First, the miniskirt came in around the '60s, taking hemlines to where they'd never been before. Then came crop tops, especially in the '90s, and the midriff was exposed for the first time. The early 2000s brought in bralettes as tops and low-rise jeans. Today, all of these trends have combined to make war against the concept of modesty as we know it.


From left to right: Girls in "New Look" dresses from Seventeen from March 1968; an ad in Seventeen, April 1992; Paris Hilton in 2001. The first two are taken from justseventeen on Tumblr, and the picture of Paris Hilton is from Popsugar.

With this battle comes questions: how sexy, exactly, is a little bit of midriff? Is it bad if the midriff is a little sexy? Is modesty repressive to today's working woman? What exactly is or is not modest, anyway?

Much of the battle comes back to this question: what is modesty?

In the 2010s Western cultural context, modesty as we know it largely refers to a movement in fashion. Modest women repudiate the trends that I mentioned above. Their skirts and pants don't go an inch above the knee; their tops are never cropped, and are usually high-cut enough to cover any sort of cleavage. Many times, modest women account for factors that "less modest" women wouldn't even think about, like covering their shoulders or hiding their curves. The reasons to adhere to this movement vary, but for the most part, they're religious. Muslim women are the most consistent adherents of this movement, often adding hijabs to their modest ensembles. Where the movement has become most famous and most controversial is among Christian women; the ones who do adhere to this seemingly stringent dress code often cite the verses above.


Modest fashion of the 2010s. Honestly, all of these outfits are really cute IMO. Credits go to Pinterest.

Like many concepts within Christianity, this concept of modesty has become a debate. On one side, adherents of modest fashion cite these verses (which are very much biblical). They have also said that because men are created as more "physical" beings than women, that Christian women need to dress in a way that doesn't lead Christian men into temptation. The Bible does certainly warn against leading other believers into temptation (Mark 9:42 is an obvious example), but this assumption about men is not obviously cited in the Bible, and at any rate, the Bible tells men and women to "flee from sexual temptation" (1 Corinthians 6:18).

The revival of feminism in the second half of the 2010s has brought modesty into a war like almost never before. Feminism, by definition, takes the woman's side in every conflict. It says that women should not have to cater to men in any way. The notion of women having to dress a certain way to curb man's primitive tendencies is absolutely repulsive to the feminist's perspective. Women on this side of the conflict say that if men and women are to flee from sexual temptation, that it is not the woman's job to help/repudiate a man who is loath to get running. They cite the very real examples of women who despite being dressed in somewhat "modest" clothing, became victims of rape and other sexual crimes. These examples lead these women to say that modesty is a failed system, and yet another example of the repression of women throughout the centuries. The feminists of the 2010s are not the bra-burners of the 1970s, but they do take pleasure in showing off their bodies, proclaiming that to be sexy is to be confident and modern in this age.

As always, in a debate, there are people who find themselves in the middle. Here we find the Christian women who want to honor God with their clothing choices as modest women say they should, but they also want to be confident and modern. These are the women who find themselves wondering what is modest and what is not many, many times. After all, the verses don't exactly tell us how long our skirts should be, or whether we should even be wearing skirts, for that matter. They mention nothing about whether tops should be cropped or not. They instead mention "braided hair" (KJV), gold, pearls and "costly clothing". In fact, on another glance, we can't even be certain that 1 Timothy 2:9-10 says much about clothing at all.

9 I also want the women to dress modestly, with decency and propriety, adorning themselves, not with elaborate hairstyles or gold or pearls or expensive clothes, 10 but with good deeds, appropriate for women who profess to worship God. 

So what is modesty, then? The original Greek word used here for "modestly" is "kosmios". Strong's Lexicon defines this word as "orderly, i.e. decorous--of good behavior, modest". Thayer's Lexicon adds "well-arranged" and "seemly". The word "kosmios" is a derivative of the word "kosmos"--as in the English word, cosmos. It speaks of a harmonious arrangement of things, such as the stars, which occupy their precise positions in the universe. Overall, the word "kosmios" seems to denote order. Interpreted this way, Paul wants the women to dress in an orderly fashion. Seen this way, the words "decency" and "propriety" thrown in right after this word make complete sense. It appears, then, that the issue of "modesty" actually has very little to do with how much skin you show.

The rest of these verses confirm this notion. Paul cites "elaborate hairstyles", gold, pearls and "costly clothes" as things that women should shy away from. In the Roman times in which Paul lived, fashionable women would wear elaborate braided hairstyles that immediately drew attention. Gold, pearls and costly clothes, as in our times, drew plenty of attention as well. Paul charges that Christian women should not draw attention because of their clothes, but because of their good deeds. Christian women, in this case, should be known more for what they do and who they are than what they look like.

In his first letter, Peter repeats this sentiment, but uses slightly different words:

3 Your beauty should not come from outward adornment, such as elaborate hairstyles and the wearing of gold jewelry or fine clothes. 4 Rather, it should be that of your inner self, the unfading beauty of a gentle and quiet spirit, which is of great worth in God’s sight. (1 Peter 3:3-4 NIV)

In modesty talks when I was younger, people would always say that "modesty, at its core, is an issue of the heart". I had no idea what that really meant until I studied these verses. In the end, modesty has little to do with how short your skirt is, and it has absolutely nothing to do with men. It instead is an issue of what you want people to know you for. Do you want people to remember you for the amount of body you showed in that dress, or for the lives that you impacted with your good works? Do you want to promote your own brand, or do you want to promote God's kingdom? These questions (especially the second one) should guide not only how Christian women dress, but how they act and who they are.

The essence of modesty is this: wherever you are and whatever you do, you show the light of Christ to others.

You can read part 2 of this series here.


Scripture quotations are from the New International Version via BibleGateway.
Strong's Lexicon and Thayer's Lexicon are from blueletterbible.org.

Leaving the Nest Part 2: The Actual Post

I believe that at some point in your life, Jesus will present you with the opportunity to shift your dependence from family or those who have always provided for you onto Him, allowing Him to become your source and supply for the things you need. (Jeremy Pearsons)

The last post was supposed to be this one, but I ended up telling you all how I ended up in California. Oh well. That one was probably going to happen anyway, so now you have it.

So now I've been in California for nearly nine months. And overall, it's been really, really good. Med school, as I said before, is not much harder than college, and I am having tons of fun exploring Los Angeles whenever I can.

But I have to confess to you something: sometimes I wonder if I would have been better off being close to home.

Most of my classmates are from California, and many of them are from the greater LA area or Orange County (the next county over). They live a mere hour or two away from their families at most, and a couple of them live with their families. I lived with my family for a year before moving to LA, so I know that the support these classmates are getting from having their families nearby is tremendous (assuming that their families are close to them like mine is). For those who live at home, they don't have to worry about food or rent, and they get the security and the support of living in a place where people are obligated to care about their well-being.

I had that option too. Other than Keck, I only got into two other schools. With traffic, the two schools are both only an hour away from my house. Most of the time, I am glad that I took the other option and came to USC. Independence is wonderful, for one thing, and being able to explore a new city and coast in my spare time is another thing.

But occasionally, I find myself wondering if I can handle everything on my own. Usually, this happens when I feel like I haven't done everything right. This past block was one of those occasions. For the past eight weeks, we were learning neuroscience, along with head and neck anatomy. It was very interesting information, but it was a lot of information to learn, and in the midst of that, I started having some personal struggles. I found myself not studying as well as I had in other blocks, and for my perfectionist expectations, that was terrifying. I was continually disappointed in myself, and for the first time in a while, I felt like I was really alone.

I think that's when I started really wondering if I would have been better off going to a school nearby and commuting from my parents' house. My parents are the strongest people I know, especially in faith. If I was in their house, they would be able to encourage me up close. They would be able to see whatever problems I had up close and deal with them, and they certainly would have had me studying like I felt like I should have. And they would have made sure that I kept up with everything faith-wise: studying the Bible, going to church, listening to sermons every single day. I wouldn't have to trust myself to do those things myself; they would motivate me. Had I stayed home, the thought went, I wouldn't be struggling like this.

I remember crying out to the Lord one night: I can't handle this alone!!!

He ended up answering that cry before I uttered a word. Back in Chicago, my mother and some of her friends had been sensing trouble, and they had been praying for me a lot. She gave me several timely calls that helped me when I most needed it. In the end, I not only passed the neuroscience block, I passed it with an 11 percent margin.

And now I'm here, a week and a half later in the reproductive system block. Now I'm back to being glad to be here, but the thought still lingers in the back of my head: I need to go home. I need to be protected. To an extent, that thought is right. I do need to go home this summer and see my parents and my friends there. But I read the quote at the top of this post today, and it popped out of the page for me, because I feel like this is what the Lord has been telling me to do.

Before February (I think...this year feels like an eternity!), I assumed that I would be going back home for the summer. But on multiple occasions, often when I was listening to sermons or asking Him about this, the Lord told me to look for research opportunities in Los Angeles and to consider staying out here for at least part of the summer. And when I told Him that I needed to go home, and that my spiritual growth was not going well out here, His response was: then why did I send you here?

I can't deny Him on this front; I know that God sent me here. As I detailed in my last post, I had no interest in California before October 2016. It was never my idea to go to medical school over 2000 miles away from my family. It wasn't even my idea to apply to USC. He brought me here, and He's been sustaining me all through medical school. He brought me out of my nest in Chicago, got me to "mount on wings like eagles" and start a new life in Los Angeles. I think the quote above is what He wants to do with me. He doesn't want me to leave my family forever (that'd be awful!), but like a mother eagle who kicks her babies out of the nest when it's time to fly, I think He wants me to spread my wings.

And even as this new block has started, I'm finding myself to be less and less alone. My best friend from college, who is from Minnesota and had about as much interest in the Golden State as I did before 2016, is at USC working as a missionary with FOCUS (Fellowship of Catholic University Students). My other best friend from college hails from a town in LA County called Walnut, a mere hour from where I live. She and another friend from college got accepted to Keck as well, and are deciding at the moment if they want to come here or go to Berkeley (a six hour drive from LA). I found a church and a small group within weeks of moving here, and as if on cue, my small group leader met with me two weeks ago and told me that he wants to start seeing me more often. We'll likely be meeting this Friday.

In the same letter that the quote on the top of this post came from, Jeremy and Sarah Pearsons write: "What we found out is that true security and the comfort of the Holy Spirit belong to anyone who's willing to leave anything for Jesus' sake and the Gospel's [sake]." I believe that the Lord is teaching me to expand my horizons and to throw all of my security onto him, and to trust that he can handle me. I am so excited for this new adventure!

Leaving the Nest Part 1: Welcome To (The Hotel) California

I believe that at some point in your life, Jesus will present you with the opportunity to shift your dependence from family or those who have always provided for you onto Him, allowing Him to become your source and supply for the things you need. (Jeremy Pearsons)

My first year of medical school at USC has been almost completely wonderful so far. I think because Harvard was so difficult and it made me grow up so fast, I had less growing up to do by the time I reached the big bad dragon known as med school. Because of this, especially for the first semester, med school has been substantially easier than college for me. I know that's not the normal thing to say about medical school, but it's what I have to say about it!

Whenever I tell people I'm from Chicago, I'm always asked what brought me here. The funny thing is that before med school, I had no interest in California. As a kid, I saw California as a faraway place where all of the actors and moviemakers lived and where the weather never changed. It seemed boring and (dare I say) overrated to me, and I had no relatives or friends there to compel me to visit. Everything I knew and aspired to was either in Chicago or east of there. My relatives were across the Atlantic, in Nigeria and in London, England; the colleges I aspired to go to were in the Ivy League. As a senior in high school, I started an application to Stanford, but then I got into an Ivy League school and my flagship state school (U of I) and immediately dropped my application afterwards. Nothing could make me go to California over the Ivy League or even over U of I.

In college, I found to my surprise that several of my new friends were from California. They occasionally whined about the lack of sun and sand, they usually freaked out over the winters, and they sang the praises of In-N-Out Burger to NO END. My interest in California went from 0% to about 10%, mostly because I wanted to try this In-N-Out place that they wouldn't shut up about. But I still really had no aspirations to go there.

A couple months after college, I started finalizing my applications to medical school. I remember one day in June when I presented my already very long list of schools to my parents. They were mostly satisfied, but they wanted me to try everything possible.
"Apply to a school in California!" my mother told me.
"California?" I scoffed. "I have no reason to ever end up in California. Why would I apply to a school there?"
"Just apply to one school! You never know what's going to happen."
"Ugh. Okay."
We looked up schools in California. As an out of state applicant, I didn't even consider the UC's. Loma Linda seemed too strict. Stanford had a requirement for a sociology class; I had one, but the grade wasn't so great. I decided to not waste their admission committee's time (or mine). That eliminated all but USC, so that was the one California school I applied to.

USC gave me an interview invite two days after I submitted my secondary. We were surprised and excited. In thirty years of being in the U.S., my mother and father had never been to California, and I had never traveled west of Oklahoma, so in late October 2016, my parents and I traveled to Los Angeles together. We saw Griffith Park, Beverly Hills, and Santa Monica Pier. We marveled at the architecture and the diversity of neighborhoods and people. And then we left, expecting not to see California again for a very long time, if ever again.

On December 13, 2016, I was admitted to the Keck School of Medicine of USC. It was 2000 miles away from home, but it was the best school I got into by a country mile, and my parents, themselves immigrants from Nigeria, weren't about to let me miss my great big opportunity.

Fast forward to early May 2018, and here I am. I write from USC's Doheny Library. Outside, Los Angeles is giving us its best impression of London; it's cloudy and grey and 58 degrees outside. Other than the occasional "London" day and the exactly 6 days where it has rained, the weather has been cloudlessly sunny all year. Winter in LA is equivalent to a really nice fall season in Chicago or Boston. It's pretty amazing.

Corona Del Mar State Beach in Newport Beach, Orange County. No, I do not go to school here in particular, though wouldn't it be amazing if I did!?

They say California converts people. I was told several times by my fellow Midwesterners that once I move to California, I may never want to come back. I'm not so sure about that yet. California has its flaws, just as the Midwest and the Northeast have theirs. But I do know that I have been thrust into a new adventure, and while I'm here, I am eager to explore everything I can on this so-called "Best Coast".

My current Facebook profile picture. I took it in a skating rink called World on Wheels in Crenshaw (part of LA). Would highly recommend it for anyone visiting! It really does have a great '90s vibe.

I leave you (at least in this part) with a song that my roommate Juliette (who I miss dearly) used to play in her room a lot. Little did I know that the Eagles were actually welcoming me to what would soon be my new home...

(P.S. I've had In-N-Out now. It's pretty good for its price, and I like their Animal Fries. But I've definitely had better burgers--don't tell my California friends...)

Christ and Cartoons (ish) #4: Black Panther

As I write this, I am slated to see Black Panther either tonight or tomorrow.

And yes, I realize I am very late.

The cool people (including the cool people in med school) have already seen the film one, two, three times. I have been that girl who ruins in-depth conversations about the movie because I haven’t seen the film yet. When I tell people that I haven’t seen the film yet, the reactions range from shock to scorn. You haven’t seen the film yet? What are you doing with your life??? I promise that by tomorrow, I will be in the know.

The reaction to Black Panther has been something to behold. Wakanda fever has hit nearly every black person I know! People showed up to the premiere and beyond wearing traditional African outfits, the kind of stuff they normally pull out for birthday parties and weddings. They performed large group dances in theaters and posed for endless pictures by the movie’s poster. The movie has made 940 million dollars in four weeks, more than any other Marvel film besides Captain America: Civil War and The Avengers. Even my ignorant self knows the Wakanda Forever sign; I did it as part of an African dance that my friends and I performed at the Keck School of Medicine’s annual talent show (see below).

All because of a movie made by a big-name studio with an all-black cast and an accurate portrayal of African civilization.

Let me be clear: I am very happy about Black Panther and I am very excited to (finally!) see it soon. And I don’t think anything about people’s reactions to the movie have been even close to wrong; everyone is happy to finally see some good black (and African!!!) representation on screen. And yet, when I think about Black Panther, and the way that people are obsessing over it, I cannot help but see a phenomenon that I’ve seen over and over in the past couple of years.

I think I first noticed this around 2012, when I first went to college; there, I ran head-on into a wave of Scandal obsession. From Facebook to Twitter to Tumblr, everyone was talking about Scandal. To me, people seemed especially excited about the main character, Olivia Pope, who was a strong black woman, much like the show’s director, Shonda Rhimes. (Having watched Scandal now, strong is probably an underestimation!) I had grown up watching and talking about a ton of TV shows (as you might have noticed by this series), but the way that my peers, especially my African-American female peers, talked about this show was different from what I’d heard. It was as if they saw themselves in Olivia Pope. They basked in the positive attention that Olivia Pope received, and if she received any negative attention, it was a personal affront. The amount of self-worth that people gained or lost from a character on a TV screen amazed me.

I noticed this again when ABC announced the show Black-ish in 2014. The title definitely caught my attention; TV had come up with a word for a feeling I’d had my entire life. But again, my African-American peers obsessed over this show and its existence like it was the most important show in the world at that time. It was as if black representation on TV was a vital component of their self-esteem.

And now, I feel that I’m seeing the same thing regarding Black Panther.

At this point, I have to admit something about myself. Growing up, as far as black representation, I was very spoiled. My father is a pediatric anesthesiologist, my mother a neonatologist. My sister is a general surgery resident, and my brother is about to be a dentist. Growing up, the notion of being a successful black woman wasn’t just a possibility; it was the norm, the expectation. Every two weeks, my parents would invite their friends over for Bible study. These friends were often doctors as well, and their children were held up to the same expectations as I was. I was continually surrounded by well-off black women who were raising families and advancing their careers. I was in continual contact with black peers who were not only staying in school, but doing extremely well therein. College was not an option, nor was having a productive life plan. So, as a child, even though I watched several TV shows with no black representation at all, I was able to counteract and supplement the messages I got from TV with the role models that I had in my real life.

My faith background also had a major impact on the way I watch TV and movies. Growing up, TV and movies were a special treat, to be watched only when we didn’t have homework to do. Furthermore, my parents were aware that TV did not always promote the morals that they wanted us to live by. They not only restricted us from shows that didn’t promote good morals, but they also taught us that Christian morality is very different from TV morality. My brother and I often found cartoons faster than my parents could scan them, but even when we watched shows, we watched them with the view that we were not necessarily supposed to look to the characters to represent us or to tell us what we could be. Instead, we were to look to Christ, and to other people who emulated him.

In my adolescence and young adulthood, I started to realize that I am a child of God, and that because he is the King of glory (Psalm 24, and many other sources), that technically makes me a princess. As a child of God, I have been made holy, righteous and absolutely flawless in Christ. I am settled in heavenly places, above any enemy that could come at me. I am fully able to do anything that he calls me to do, and I have an inner source of love, joy and peace for every situation. I’ve found that no person or TV character can validate my existence better than God can. He made me the way I am; he ordained my family background, my skin color and hair type. If he created me the way I am, and if every person that he created is good, then I am good. End of story.

So yes, I will be seeing Black Panther tonight, and I will probably enjoy it. But I will not look to it to tell me what I could be; I will see it knowing that I already am a King’s kid.

I CUT MY OWN HAIR

Y'all...it is about 4 in the morning here in LA, and I just did something crazy!!! And I am SO happy with it.

Nota bene: it is a weave.

Backstory: I first started wanting a wavy lob (long bob) this past June, simply because I thought the style was really cute and different from anything I'd ever done before. There were several obstacles in the way of this happening. Namely, the fact that my real hair is super curly, and my parents (especially my dad) were adamantly against me cutting it.

That wasn't a huge problem though. One of the many wonderful things about being a black girl is that we can do so MANY things with our hair. Natural one month, braids the next...our hair is very versatile. So I tried a couple of hairdos, hoping to get what I wanted, but I was basically never satisfied. I decided to put that desire by the wayside and try some other hairstyles.

As the holidays rolled around, I decided to get a long, wavy crochet weave, and I took that style back to school. It looked really good and I liked it, but as the weeks went by, the ends started getting knotted and straightening, and I wasn't super satisfied with the way it looked.

Fast forward to this morning. I was having a hard time sleeping, and I woke up at around 2:30am. I decided, randomly, to look up "how to cut your own hair" on YouTube. I found a good tutorial, found some scissors, went to the mirror...and voilà! I was amazed when I saw the result--it was the style that I had wanted all those months ago!

I was so excited that, like a true millennial, I just HAD to post about it on social media, haha.

The whole experience does have me thinking, though. I liked this hair when it was long, and it didn't cause me any real problems. Certainly I have much bigger concerns in life than some knots in my hair! But after taking 15 minutes to cut off some extra inches, I feel SO much happier with my hair. Had I never dared to try it, had I never taken that shot, I wouldn't have the style that I've wanted for the past six months.

There are a lot of opportunities in my life right now that are like that. It won't ruin my life by any stretch if I decide not to take them, but it'll make my life that much better if I do. And there are risks involved, definitely. (There are so many ways my haircut could've gone wrong!) But no good opportunity comes without a little risk.

Just don't ask me to do a big chop.

A story I wrote in high school

Today I was digging through some very old emails, and I found this story that I published four days before I turned 16. It is loosely based on some of my high school experiences. I hope you enjoy it. Maybe (read: if I can ever find time or a good idea) I'll write a sequel.

***

There he was. Again. Standing right by the far right doors on the cafeteria, by the cooler where the lunch ladies kept the drinks for the deli line. His lunch was on the cooler, spread out neatly. A peanut butter and jelly sandwich, sliced into two pieces. An apple. A large bottle of Dean’s milk. As usual. And he had not eaten a crumb. As usual.

Every day he stood there by the cooler alone. Every day he had his lunch out, and he never ate it. Every day he stood there, silently looking down while the rest of Hinsdale Central went about their business. Every day he made it his aim to go about unnoticed by everyone. Every day he failed, because I noticed him. And every day I would feel that nudge in my head, urging me to do something to help him.

Today had been a normal day. Thankfully, because yesterday was not normal. Yesterday, a girl had come up to me. She had snapped in my face. I hated that. Cody had done it all the time at my old school. I didn’t know what I was thinking, but my arm just lashed out at her face. She ducked as if she was some kind of Matrix actor, and then came up yelling, “Whoa! He responds!” He responds. As if I was some person who everyone could look at and notice.

And when they noticed me, they could make fun of me.

I couldn’t let that happen. I ran away from there before she could get anyone to notice, thankfully.

A car nearly ran into me while I was running. I could have died. I got out of that guy’s way, but I was contemplating that, dying. Maybe if I’d died in some secluded place, no one would find me. And then, no one would be able to notice me or make fun of me or throw crap at me. Or snap in my face.

I couldn’t get that out of my mind today. But otherwise today had been a normal day. Now it was lunchtime. I couldn’t eat. I was too busy contemplating dying.

From the middle of the room, among a plethora of old and new friends, I could see him. His name was Mark. Mark Knight. I knew that because he was in band with me. We played the same instrument, trumpet. There were eleven of us. It was marching season, and all of us either played first, second, or third parts. I played first since I love playing trumpet. Mark played third. He wasn’t awful, but he had no idea how to articulate. Perhaps that was because he never talked. Ever. Not even to himself. There were quiet people in band; I tried to be quiet but people kept on noticing me. But he never said a word to anyone. He hardly even responded when people talked to him. I’d never seen him nod, nor shake his head, nor smile. He just kept his head down, played when he had to, and sat there while everyone else had fun.

There was a kid in my band class. His name was Murray, and he looked like Cody. Both had dark brown eyes, and both would sometimes look out of the corners of them at someone, and then turn to that someone and talk to them right then and there. Both had wide, confident grins, with perfect teeth. Both were shorter than me—Cody was 5’7’’, this kid wasn’t any taller than 5’6’’—but they both carried themselves in a manner that said, “Yeah, I’m confident. You’re wasting your time making fun of me, because I’m confident.” But this kid was more dangerous. Cody was outright mean to me. He and his friends wouldn’t stop bullying me for five years. But this kid was much more smooth. He played the piano a lot in band, and he had a way of making that enticing, pleasing sound. His voice was lower than Cody’s, and he spoke a little less. Cody was a typical jock, but this boy was a virtuoso, playing trumpet and piano and four other instruments. He was popular without even trying to be. He seemed nice, he talked nice, he acted nice. But under his skin, I assumed that he was very mean. He hadn’t done anything yet that I knew of, but I knew that if I let him notice me, he could bully me in ways that Cody’s peabrain could have never dreamed of. From my place by the deli line, I could see him with his friends. He kept on looking back towards the deli line. Every time his head turned, I looked down.

You could never get his face to change from that solemn expression. He never smiled, never even let the shadow of a smile penetrate his face. He never really frowned too much either. He just kept that solemn expression and didn’t look at people most of the time. No one, including me, had a sliver of an idea what he was thinking. He could have been thinking of nice things or bombing the entire school. He could’ve been addicted to something, or in general just doing bad things. I was stepping into completely uncharted territory when I went up to him. It had been my excuse for the last few weeks, this fear of the unknown.

And yet I knew that was a lame excuse. Mark was taller than me by at least four inches, but his head drooped, his shoulders sagged, and he looked almost bent over. He wore glasses, but I had seen him take them off to clean them once, and he’d noticed me. That was the only time he’d ever looked at me, and about the second time he had ever looked at anyone besides Mr. Kurinsky, our band teacher. His eyes were grey-blue, and even in that short glare, they betrayed a sea of deep sadness and a clearly broken heart.

I thought of the Bible verse, the one in Isaiah that talked about the Spirit of the Lord. As my friends ate lunch, I remembered the specific verse, Isaiah 61:1, which said, “The Spirit of God, the Master, is on me because God anointed me. He sent me to preach good news to the poor, heal the heartbroken…” Heal the heartbroken. Heal the heartbroken. It played in my head over and over again. The Spirit of God, the Master, is on me because God anointed me…to heal the heartbroken.

There was a heartbroken person a good forty feet away from me. I was a Christian. I believed in all of that stuff.

If I didn’t go up to Mark, maybe God would forgive me, but I would have never forgiven myself. I got out of my lunch table and started making my way towards that cooler.

The boy who looked like Cody got up. He was still looking towards the deli table. I was hoping that maybe he wanted a sandwich or something. I didn’t know how much virtuosos ate, but Cody and his friends had eaten at least two sandwiches a day. He walked, in that smooth way, towards the deli tables. I looked down again.

But instead of hearing that low, glib voice ordering something, I heard footsteps growing louder and louder. They stopped, and I felt the presence of a person in front of me.

“Mark?” I turned. It was him.

I had no idea what to do. I couldn’t run behind the deli line and make a scene. There was no way I could get him away from me.

Unless I told him to go away.

But if I told him to go away, he would hear me. He would hear me stutter. Because I was so nervous, it was certain I would stutter. And once he heard my stutter, that would be the end. He would turn the masses against me.

So I stood there, staring at him, my neck tight, my eyes wide, waiting for some kind of glib confrontation. But then he looked down.

He was scared of me. When I said his name, he looked around, and when he saw me, instantly his neck muscles tightened and his big blue eyes widened. He could not move, he was so scared. As if I would attack him or something. It was an unexpected response. I looked down, pondering. I thought of my friend Emma, a very pretty and nice girl who sat at my lunch table. Why hadn’t God sent her? I wondered. Maybe he’ll be much less scared of a girl. And yet God chose to pick on me. The thought lingered in my head but I had no time to develop it; I had to talk to Mark. When I looked up, he was still scared, but his muscles weren’t so tight anymore.

He had looked down. There was a huge difference from Cody. Cody never looked down, unless it was on someone. Like me for stuttering, or my sister Niamh for being clumsy. He always had his eyes on the target with that perfect grin, sure of victory. This kid did not look so sure. He was thinking and rethinking, uncertain of the outcome of this talk. He did not look like a glib mastermind when he looked down. My tension went down, but I was still suspicious. Maybe he was an actor too.

I smiled, though a little nervously, on seeing him in that manner. “Hey, Mark,” I said, failing to hide my nervousness.

No response, as usual. He stared at me, scanned me. As if he would find anything other than a scared, short freshman who was doing this because of a guilt trip.

When he greeted me, he sounded as if he was trying to hide his nervousness. I’d never dared to act before, but I knew that it was hard to act like an unnerved person pretending to be a nervous person who was pretending not to be nervous.

He then asked me, almost stuttering himself, “Do you sit—I mean stand—here every day?”

What the heck? I thought. You know I sit here every day…don’t you? I nodded slowly.

He gave me a very slow nod, his eyes never moving from my eyes, his expression never changing. I had made a tiny little dent in his wall. I had to follow up, but what was there to say?

I racked my brain. “Yeah…this cafeteria’s really big,” I said. And then, all of a sudden, I was on a haphazard, yet fairly fluid rant. “You look kind of lonely sitting—I mean standing—here all alone. I mean, I don’t know if you enjoy it or not, but…”

“I just wanted to say, in case you want to sit with people, you can sit with me and my friends. We sit over there”—he pointed to a long table right next to the snack bar—“by the snack bar. None of my friends are mean people. I sit with Jack Bruin, remember him? From band? And also…”

There was no slyness in his voice, no hidden smirk, nothing that would identify him as a bully or even a cold person. He went on about his friends. I knew all of them; Jack Bruin, Emma Christensen, Vince Porreca, Roy Morrison. None of those people seemed mean either.

My instincts wanted to nail me to the ground, keep me safe from this intruder and his friends. And yet there was also a lingering possibility, that made my heart jump. This kid may really want to be my friend.

“I’m not making you do what you don’t want to, Mark,” I continued. I looked at my watch; the lunch period was about to end. “And honestly, I don’t know what you think about standing over here every day, but it seems kind of lonely over here. So, if you want to come sit with us, you can come tomorrow. Remember, we sit right there, by the snack bar. OK?”

He nodded. His facial expression never varied.

The bell rang, and everyone dispersed. Mark gathered his lunch and slipped away. I sighed. Urgh, that was so disorganized! I thought angrily. And yet I heard what I’m pretty sure was God saying to me, That’ll work just fine. You’ve done well, Murray.

I felt a hand on my shoulder, and turned around to see Emma. She looked serious. “You saw me, didn’t you?” I asked.

She nodded. “What did you say to him?”

“I…asked him if he would like to sit with us. Tomorrow,” I said, stammering almost.

She smiled. “That was really brave of you. He didn’t seem to react, though. Do you think he appreciated it?”

I shrugged. “I don’t think I convinced him that much. Whatever, though. If he wants to sit with us, then he’ll come. If he doesn’t, let him be a hermit. It’s up to God now.”

On the way to class, I remembered having been to church once, and hearing a story about some guy. The guy had felt a gust of wind, felt an earthquake, saw a huge fire. But God was not in any of those, according to the story. He had been a still, small voice. I thought of Murray. His voice was very still, calm, and unimposing. There had been nothing grand about his rant, nothing slick, nothing that would win a forensics contest. And yet it had obviously gotten to me, for I could not stop thinking about it.

I wondered (way in the back of my mind, because I thought church was baloney) if God had used Murray as his still, small voice.

Hillsong Conference

In 2015, I told God that one day I wanted to go to a Hillsong concert, and that has been fulfilled in more ways than one...

One of those was that last night, I got to attend the tail-end of the US Hillsong Conference. The Hillsong Conference is a series of three-day conferences where you get to hear speakers, do breakout sessions and worship and jam with the Hillsong worship teams. They had conferences in Australia, the UK, and the US, and I was fortunate that the US conference happened to land in LA this year! (It's usually in New York City.) 

I wasn't able to attend all the conference, but they were gracious enough to be selling tickets to all the night sessions for a pretty fair price, so I went to the Saturday night one. And it was LIT!

Due to a lack of preparation I missed a large part of the first worship set, but the rest of the program made up for it. The sermon, preached by a pastor from Georgia named Jentezen Franklin, was relatively simple, but it was worth hearing. Basically, he said that if we continue to depend on ourselves and how much we deserve blessings from God, we won't get anything. The whole point of the Gospel is that Jesus and his sacrifice is the only thing that made us pure and gave us the right to receive anything from God. Several times during the sermon, he stopped preaching and directed the crowd to stop and worship for a moment. I think he really wanted the crowd to direct themselves towards God and to look to God rather than to themselves.

I got a similar sentiment from everything else that happened that night--that the point of the whole conference was for us to look to God, not to ourselves, Hillsong or any other human establishment. At one point during the night, the lead pastor of Hillsong Church, who is definitely not a singer, started singing the song that the worship team were playing. After a moment of confusion, the crowd joined him in singing the song, and we literally led ourselves in worship; the team just played the melody while we sang. Though it seemed a little awkward at the time, I actually enjoyed that moment immensely. I sensed that Hillsong were trying to bring out the worshippers in us, instead of having us look to them for a good worship experience.

I've had the privilege of attending a couple of big Christian conferences in my life, and until recently I had a little problem with them. The conferences were always great, the messages were wonderful and relevant and life-changing, and the worship would always be good; but when the conference was over, I'd come back home to my normal life, and almost forget that it all happened. Because I was looking to the preachers, to the crowd, to the conference to inspire me and to bring me something new, I found myself unable to perpetuate what they had given me for the most part. But at this conference, I sensed that everyone, including the worship team, the preachers, the staff, and the crowd were all looking to God together for inspiration. 

After the sermon (and our singalong moment with the lead pastor), the worship team did another set, and it was awesome. Most of the songs were newer, but there was one song in there that had been a part of my teenage years. Singing that song along with the huge crowd and with the team was the fulfillment of a dream that had been in my heart for years, and I definitely let out my best little-girl scream when they played the first note. The worship team was incredible, and they put their hearts into the set, but there were points where I could barely hear them above the crowd. Again, we were leading worship together. 

Overall, it was a great night and I'm really glad I went! Next year's conference is in New York again, but the year after that (2019) it will probably come back here. I hope to be able to go again before medical school ends. In the meantime, I get to go to Hillsong's campus in downtown LA today. God is good!