Biblical justice and Enik the sleestack philosopher

A little over two years ago I wrote a post called "What's all this 'Justice' stuff anyway?" about my growing and changing understanding of biblical justice. In that post, I promised to write more about my journey within the week.  But of course, I haven't written any.

So you are probably thinking that I am a promise breaker at best, and a bold faced liar at worst.  But give me a break because I have been trapped in The Land of The Lost alongside Enik the sleestack philosopher.

[Enik waxes philosophical about his crystals and pylons. Live long and prosper, Enik.]

During my time with Enik, I read a book by Ken Wytsma called "Pursuing Justice". He has a concise explanation of justice: truth is what is, justice is what ought to be.

Of course, if you are one of the poor souls that has been lulled into believing that there is no such thing as ought, then this explanation is meaningless. But a post about relativism is for another day. Presuming we can agree that there is such a thing as ought, how can we know what it is?

If we are talking about biblical justice, then we have to consider two Hebrew terms: mishpat and tzadequa.  In his excellent article in Relevant magazine, Tim Kellar explains these terms well.

"These two words roughly correspond to what some have called 'primary' and 'rectifying justice.' Rectifying justice is mishpat. It means punishing wrongdoers and caring for the victims of unjust treatment. Primary justice, or tzadeqah, is behavior that, if it was prevalent in the world, would render rectifying justice unnecessary, because everyone would be living in right relationship to everyone else. Therefore, though tzadeqah is primarily about being in a right relationship with God, the righteous life that results is profoundly social."

Growing up in Texas as a white Baptist Republican male, the only type of justice I had ever heard of was the kind described by the mishpat, or rectifying justice. In other words, my understanding of justice was when criminals get what they deserve. When and if the criminal justice system doesn't work right, which was very seldom, then justice had to be dealt by superheroes or vigilantes, but ultimately, my understanding of justice was about proper punishment and retribution.  Anyone who disagreed was probably a socialist in disguise.  Pinkos!

But a biblical understanding of justice has to start with a biblical understanding of what ought to be. This takes us to the doctrine of the fall. Specifically, when man first sinned, he broke everything. It was cosmic in scope. Not only was man's relationship to God marred, but so was his relationship to the environment, his relationship to other people, and even his relationship to himself.

Here's something that escaped me along my journey, that systems can be broken too.  Economic systems, political systems, educational systems - all of these are made by broken people and are, themselves, broken.  I don't mean they are entirely dysfunctional, but they work imperfectly.  They tend to favor some folks more than others.  They tend to favor white Baptist Republican males from Texas a whole lot, in fact. Sometimes people with good intentions, for whom the systems have worked well, think that complaints about unfairness are largely imagined. After all, the systems have worked well from their perspective.

So not only do broken people cause problems, but broken systems do to.  These problems read like a laundry list of today's headlines: the blind and headlong pursuit of money and power (the OT word is idolatry), climate change and disease, wars and terrorism, and even self-image problems ranging from arrogance and hubris to feelings of worthlessness and powerlessness.

And so we can say that what ought to be is what was meant to be.  What ought to be is how things are supposed to be, how they were created to be: good. (By the way, let's agree not to let disagreements about how to bring about justice overshadow our unity about the need for justice itself!) Peace and harmony in all these areas, in all these relationships, is captured well by another Hebrew word, shalom.

So justice, specifically the tzadeqah justice, is about having all relationships healed, repaired, and redeemed, how they were meant to be, designed to be. It's about shalom throughout all our relationships. And this healing work is, of course, made possible by the redemptive work of Jesus Christ. This is not limited to our soul's relationship to God, Christ's redemption is about healing everything that was broken - every person, every relationship, every system.

So for me, authors like like Tim Kellar, Ken Wytsma, and Enik have been tranformative to my understanding.  And I am responding.

I have formed an organization called the Justice and Mercy Engineering Society (JAMES) which operates as a program under the respected 501(c)-3 non-profit, Mission Waco.  The purpose of JAMES is to train engineers (and other technical types) to serve in developing countries with non-profits, missions, and other groups that are doing the work of justice, the work of the kingdom. Specifically, we can train you in regards to off-grid electrical systems (like solar) and water systems.

JAMES is also sponsoring a simulcast of the nationally known event called The Justice Conference. The conference will feature world-class speakers and artists and will undoubtedly serve as a catalyst for good works all over the world.

If you are in Central Texas area, please join us on June 6.  The event has already been paid for, so there is not cost to you, but you need to register for it here.  Don't miss it; Enik will be there signing his new book.

From Around the ORANGEHOUSE

The only thing these images have in common is that they appear around our place, the ORANGEHOUSE.  Instead of writing a post about each one, I put them together for your viewing pleasure.  Feel free to shower Jono and I with praises of our photographic skills; we won't mind.

[Martha's grandmother's lamp, and pottery from Honduras]

[living room in the evening, swing tied to the side, see the birds flying outside the window?]

[Maggie the dog]

[lightning pic; taken by Jono]

[giant creeper with gold necklace, created by Jono]

Making Charcoal in Ethics Lab

First of all, I know what you're thinking. Why are you making charcoal in ethics lab?  Why is there even a lab component in an ethics course?  What happens in ethics lab? Do you sit around and practice not lying, not taking bribes?  Does the administration know how you're spending those tuition dollars?

My favorite class to teach is Ethics for International Service, a class I created for students that aspire to work overseas, especially in poor countries.  One of the things we learn is how to make charcoal from crop residues. Why do we do that?

Much of the world uses wood for cooking. Firewood has to be gathered for this purpose which requires a lot of time. This task usually falls disproportionately on women and children. This labor can take hours every day, hours that can be spent in school or in other productive ways.

Charcoal is another fuel source used throughout the world, but it too is usually made from wood. And regardless of whether you gather your own firewood, or purchase wood-charcoal made by a local vendor, the practice contributes to deforestation in many parts of the world.

So what if we could make charcoal briquettes out of what was otherwise a waste stream, such as crop residues?  Corn stalks, coconut husks, or sunflower plants - any of these are a great source. Not only would this practice allow us to be better stewards of creation, it can increase educational opportunities for women and children, and create new revenues for families.

Now do you see why this is an appropriate activity for an ethics class focused on the international poor?

Here's what we did:

[On a Friday night we went to the World Hunger Relief farm. We gathered last summer's sunflower plants as a fuel source.  Am I a dog, that you come at me with sticks?]

[Breaking them into smaller bits, we shoved them into a garbage can and compressed them tightly.  The large PVC pipe is to form a path for air; it's not a potato cannon.  There are also breathing holes drilled into the bottom of the can.]

[Pulling out the PVC pipe before lighting, a nice circular air hole is formed. It's a giant doughnut made of sticks.]

[Some old dry paper in the bottom and down the hole makes it light quickly.  After letting it burn about 5-10 minutes, we put the lid on it and covered the air holes at the bottom to clamp off the supply of oxygen. This stops the combustion process but leaves us with a nice char product.  See Amy Smith's video for more information. She is the one that taught me how to do this.]

[We spent the night, many in hammocks, and let the charred material cool. It rained but most of us stayed dry.  We also spent some time watching a documentary called "King Korn" which I obviously recommend.]

[We used a simple press to compress the charcoal into briquettes. The students got to weld the pieces themselves.  There is some educational content to this welding activity, of course, but mostly we do it because I like to play with fire!]

[Mixing the crushed char with boiled yucca (cassava) root makes a pasty mess that we put into the presses. The yucca acts as a binding agent to hold the crushed char into its form. Yucca surrounds us and penetrates us. It binds the galaxy together.]

[Tapping the press with a chunk of broken cinder block gives the mixture enough compression to make a briquette.]

[Everyone got to make a few briquettes. They will need a few weeks to thoroughly dry.]

[This semester's mixture was a little too soupy which made our briquettes somewhat odd shaped, like me.  Once they dry it shouldn't be a problem.]

------------------------- Addendum 24 hours after original post ------------------------------------ 

A photographer friend and co-traveler to Haiti (Angela Jordan Chancellor) saw my post and told me I could use some photos she took in Haiti last spring.  These are great!

[This photo shows Haitian women cutting down brush and grass to make charcoal to sell.]

 

[When the charcoal is made from wood (not crushed) it looks like this. I don't know that I have ever seen this kind of charcoal for sale in the United States. I've only seen briquettes.]

The Icon of Communism Is Melting

I just finished reading Darragh McKeon's book, "All That Is Solid Melts into Air".  Even though I can't pronounce his first name, I enjoyed the place where his book took me.  It's part dystopian novel, part historical fiction, part poetry. Simultaneously beautiful and yet disturbing.  Like when I dance.  Only beautiful. 

It was set in the late 80s as the former Soviet Union was unraveling. (This was an important time for me because it was my high school and college years.) It is the story of everyday people who live their lives of fear while things inexplicably fall apart around them. 

I was intrigued by this novel because the Chernobyl nuclear disaster occurred in 1986, just a few weeks before I graduated from high school. As I was preparing to start college as a physics major, the news was telling frightening stories of physics-gone-bad.  But honestly, this wasn't too shocking at the time.  As far back as the third grade, I can remember having disaster drills at my elementary school that included preparing for nuclear strikes.  The hallways at our school had signs in the hall that said "Fallout Shelter".  In retrospect, this seems an outrageous and fear-spawning thing to do to elementary school children.  But it was the Cold War. It was part life.  For example, as a young child I knew the names "Fat Man" and "Little Boy" were given to the bombs dropped on Nagasaki and Hiroshima.  I knew what ICBM stood for.  (That's Intercontinental Ballistic Missile.) This was how life was at the time.

The book's prose is often beautiful and filled with delightful details such as thoughtful observations of the shadows of a bridge over a frozen river or the motes of dust in a film projector's cone of light. The title is a quotation from Marx's Communist Manifesto; but ironically, this time it is the icon of communism that is melting.

Chernobyl is an apt symbol of the former Soviet Union: a meltdown was considered as inconceivable as its collapse, and yet both vaporized, leaving behind toxic clouds for Marx's masses to ingest like poison opiates. In the chapter on the accident itself, they find the section titled "Operational Procedures in the Event of a Reactor Meltdown" has actually been redacted from the nuclear plant's operations manual. "An event such as this cannot be tolerated, cannot be conceived, such a thing can never be planned for, surely as it can never happen. The system will not fail, the system cannot fail, the system is the glorious motherland."

And a few years later, in 1989, the Berlin Wall came down, a happier symbol of the collapse of the USSR, I was graduating from college. In the preceding years I had largely been to busy or too self absorbed to understand glasnost or perestroika, but I remember when a 19 year old West German flew a small plane all the way into Red Square.  I remember when the USSR shot down a Korean airliner that strayed into its airspace.  All these details were brought back to me in a way that made me reflect on just how significant those times were.

What will the world be like 30 years from now?  Will Putin reestablish the motherland? Will nuclear power be made safe, or clean, or banned altogether? Will my grandchildren look back on the United States as I do the USSR?  I suppose we can only dance on, dear readers, each in our own beautifully disturbing way.

My Unfading Introverted Tendancies

Intergalactic aliens are invading my home. I know, I know, it's unexpected.  Just when I was getting used to the place, too.  They've only just arrived in my kitchen as if Jodi Foster called to them by phase modulating my microwave oven through the satellite dish.  Will that cost me a roaming fee?

Their behavior is strange to me, it's unpredictable and erratic, but they also appear to exhibit some kind of intelligence.  I am fearful they will knock over my lamps, invade my personal space, or ask me embarrassing questions.  Finally, they speak to me:

"We are freshmen engineering majors.  We come in pieces."

That's when I remember that I signed up for the Faculty Dinner.  All the incoming freshmen are paired up with faculty volunteers for a dinner before classes start next week.  My group was all engineering majors.  The goal is to foster relationships between students and faculty as soon as possible. Studies show this leads to student success and retention, but I'm in it for the free dinner.

This is my fourteenth year to teach at Baylor, and yet I felt nervous about them coming over. Some of my jokes about aliens are actually on target. I feared they may ask me embarrassing questions in their youthful naiveté and nervous energy. But this is not so different from when I go to a party of adults; I feel much the same way then too.  I suppose you can take the boy out of the introvert but you can't take the introvert out of the boy.

[A couple of seasoned veterans helped run things and make it easy for me.] 

 [I fed them at our big table, but then they asked if I had any pie.  I said yes, but its circumference was only a little more than three times its diameter.  They groaned and said my jokes were irrational.]

[All but two of them are from out of state. I'm the old guy in the back.]

Much to my relief, we actually had a nice time. Everyone was very polite and friendly, and no one embarrassed me or themselves. Martha was great with them and was very engaged. She mingles naturally while I nervously stuff my mouth with brownies purchased for the students.  She learns things about their lives quickly and easily. She easily fosters relationships, and I foster Jodi Foster.