For the week that surrounded the anniversary day, Lisa, the littlest princess and me – along with 12 other Rodriguez family members from Miami and Havana - gallivanted around Cuba soaking of the country, hearing stories from Cuba past and enjoying ourselves and one another as much as we could. 

There are lots of stories and hopefully over the coming days and weeks some of them will be shared.  But, perhaps the first one should be an old one. 

During the early seasons of the seminary, Papi was instrumental in getting the schools infrastructure in place.  Established in what was (and in many ways still is) a rural outskirt of Pinar del Rio city, the school needed wells dug, facilities built and training executed.  So that’s much of what Papi did.  He dug a well.  He erected a windmill.  And he built a house. 

It is an amazing feeling to stand in a house that was the home of your ancestors.  Being in the very house that Papi built for his wife and his children, a house that was the setting for family stories, the center of ministry and formative for how Papi & Abuela would pastor, parent and live out the life in front of them. 

While in the house, Lisa and the littlest princess stood in the very kitchen where Abuela would have surely cooked countless meals for other pastors, families and ministers.  I suspect in that kitchen Abuela cooked picadillo, arroz con pollo and flan.  Meals that Lisa cooks today from Abuela’s recipes passed down and perfected in that small kitchen outside of Pinar.  And more times than not, Lisa is cooking picadillo and flan and frijoles negros for a neighboring pastor, minister or family. 

Later in the evening, before the night got away from us - before we were pushed by the schedule of the anniversary or pulled by our own vacation itinerary the 3 Watsons prayed with Papi in the living room that he built.  We thanked God for the history of that place, the blessing of a geography and the tradition that continues today.  We expressed a deep gratitude that God has blessed not just a place but also a people.  The house continues to be a haven for a pastoring family.  And the faith that was built in that home was continuing through the builder’s granddaughter and we pray even to the great-granddaughter that was with us. 

In that living room, a room where many have undoubtedly prayed, we spoke our own prayers to a God who hears and acts.  We spoke to a God who heard the prayers of an Abuela before she was an Abuela.  We prayed to a Savior who was working through a Papi before he was a Papi.  And we delighted in a 70-year history that was more than a seminary, but was a celebration of God’s faithfulness to family, 70 years later, even to the littlest princess 4 generations later.

The truth of it is, is that early on in my childhood I enjoyed dancing.  I remember in elementary school I’d put cardboard in my room and work on my break dancing skills.  I was ‘electric bogaloo’. 

Secretly, though, I always wanted to learn how to tap dance.  I still want to learn how to tap dance.  I think that would be a great way to move through life; in rhythm, with a smile, and wearing cool shoes that make noise. 

But I also knew my family didn’t have a bunch of money and in my mind tap dancing classes were expensive.  I grew up in a huge East Dallas apartment complex and no one in my complex took tap dancing classes, so, I figured, it must only be for rich folks.  Kind of like golf and tennis.  Two other activities no one in my complex knew how to do.

But my fortunes would change when I entered high school and joined the Spanish club.  Ms. Barker, my Spanish teacher, was also the sponsor of the Spanish club and she encouraged me to join.  Ms. Barker was an 8 foot tall black Panamanian.  Well, maybe not quite 8 feet, but pretty tall.  Interestingly, the other Spanish teacher in my high school was African American - from Houston I think.   But he was a man and was closer to 4 feet tall.  He spoke with a stutter except when he spoke Spanish.  A fact that still fascinates me, but has nothing to do with my life as a dancer. 

It was in the Spanish Club at Skyline High School that I was introduced to Ballet Folklorico, the traditional dance of Mexico.  Ballet Folklorico is sort of like River Dance but to a Mariachi Band.  It’s fast, fun and you wear an awesome costume and, to my sheer delight, tap shoes.  Or tap boots really. 

For four years I would get up early, head to school and meet a couple of other students and practice dancing.  I danced in festivals, carnivals and parties.  I performed at schools and in parades.  I danced in several competitions and recitals.  Most times, the biggest surprise for the audience came at the end, when I would take my black felt sombrero off and out popped my bright red head.  I love the expressions on the audience faces nearly as much as I loved dancing.  “Gasp!  It’s a WHITE BOY”. 

“Yep, that’s right”.  I’d say in my mind.  “I’m a gringo.  With pelirojo.  Love me.”.

One Cinco de Mayo, I was dancing on the back of flatbed trailer being pulled by a tractor through the streets of Oak Cliff.  Our float was sponsored by the neighborhood Hispanic grocery store.  The people were clapping and cheering and then our float would roll by with the Skyline Folklorico group being led by ‘El Quero’ (the white boy).  We were a spectacle.  But we were good.  And that’s when I went pro. 

I was invited to join a professional Dallas Folklorico troupe my senior year of high school.  I practiced with them for a few months before resigning from the troupe.  2 months after my resignation, the group toured Japan.  I cursed myself.  But it was in Spanish, so my mom never knew. 

When I graduated, Mrs. Barker and the Spanish club gave me one of the two scholarships that the school gave out for Spanish students.  The stipulation was that I had to dance in college.  The Hispanic fraternity on campus caught wind of the fleet-footed white boy and tapped me on the shoulder around April to help teach a dance or two in preparation for a school-wide Cinco de Mayo celebration.  I obliged with the help of another teacher they brought in from outside.  That started my collegiate career in dancing.

I danced with the SMU folklorico group another year or two, but eventually it faded.  I think the last dance I danced with them was “El Javelin” which tells the story of some guys trying to impress some ladies so they go out, hunt and kill a Javelina.  In the dance, I was the Javelina.  I exited the stage, strung up on a pole, wearing a loincloth and a pig mask.  An unfortunate ending to an illustrious dancing career if you ask me.

I still have my boots and pull them out from time to time.  I’ve put them on once or twice in the last decade.  Every time I see them, I smile and wink at them like we have a secret between us and then I dance a “Jalisco" because no one is watching.

It's 80 degrees.  I'm wearing shorts and sunglasses.  We're swimming in the ocean.  I'm running the A/C in the car.  I sweat.  The Santa Clause on Miracle Mile has a Cuban accent.  It could be disorienting if it weren't so stinking amazing.  

Every morning I walked to the corner Cafecita with the boys and ordered pastelitos and cafe con leche.  I had to use my best Spanish which at best is humorous and at worst insulting.  The first day I think I introduced by sons & nephews as my uncles and ordered 8 birthday cakes.  But the workers were patient and the regulars were amused by the bald American with 4 children in tow.  

Somewhere in the midst of all the Christmas festivities, and family visits I remembered a more recent Christmas story.  One that intersects the older one, the first one.  

Lisa's family is from Cuba.  Her Papi and Abuela (grandpa & grandma) immigrated here just a year or so after Castro came in to power.  It was, like that of many families, a difficult journey, scary to say the least.  Yet one filled with hope and possibility.  

On Christmas eve, 1961, Lisa's Papi got papers and a plane ticket freeing him and his family to leave for America.  But they had to leave the next day.  Because Papi was a pastor, and pastors were not well regarded by the new regime, he was a wanted man.  So, that night, he packed up his family and on Christmas morning, Papi & Abuela, along with Lisa's dad and two uncles, and all their possesions in a couple of suitcases, boarded a plane that would carry them to a new world and a new life.  

It is exactly 50 years later.  It's Christmas eve and I'm in Uncle Danny's back yard.  I'm surrounded by the Rodriguez family.  A whole pig is being roasted Cuban style.  The smells and sounds are soothing, softening.  It's Noche Buena, the traditional Cuban Christmas eve meal.  All is calm.  All is bright. 

We're sitting in lawn chairs.  Papi, never one to miss an opportunity to tell a story, shares the story of their exile once again.  About how the fled and the circumstances surrounding it.  He tells me it was Christmas.  He tells me he was 37 years old.  "Hey, I'm 37 Papi!" I say.  And we look at one another and smile and nod our heads in recognition of the deep similarity of a long ago Christmas eve that gave birth to Christmas day and the world was changed; and how that story was played out again on Dec. 25th, 1961 when eve gave way to day and Christmas day gave way to a new world when the plane landed in Miami.  And even still as Christmas eves on the horizon will continue to give birth to new life and new worlds as Elias crawls into my lap and asks for a piece of lechon.  

2000 years ago a brave young Jewish man & woman, tossed on the waves of political cirucumstances beyond their control were forced to give birth in a barn.  And the world was changed.  

Years later, beacuase of the bravery of a Cuban pastor, and geopolitical cirucumstances beyond either of our control my life has been dramatically blessed and forever changed.

And Elias knows the word for pork - lechon.

We decided early on that we would wait until the delivery to learn the gender of the baby, but felt throughout that we were about to have our third boy.  To our great surprise, we are now the very proud parents of our first little girl, Annelies Raquel.  We have arrived back home.  Mother and child are doing remarkably well.  Annelies' brothers are completely smitten with their new little sister and have often been seen whispering to her while she sleeps.  

As with each of our boys, we sought to name this precious one with a future and blessing in mind - a name we pray and parent our child lives in to.  

Annelies (pronounced ahn Nah lees) ~ Annelies is an old-world name that is a marrying of two names, Anna and Elizabeth.  Anna and Elizabeth were two women-prophets featured early in the life of Jesus.  

Anna was an aged prophet who stood alongside Simeon in the temple when Joseph and Mary brought their young son, Jesus to the temple.  It was said of Anna that she gave thanks to God and preached to those who longed for the restoration of their great city.  

Elizabeth, was the daughter of preachers and encourager of women, the mother of a prophet and the aunt of a Savior.  A noble heritage to be sure.  

Raquel (Spanish for Rachel) ~ Raquel is Lisa's middle name, a name she was given in honor of her dear aunt who defected from Cuba just a few years ago.  In my (Matthew's) mind, Lisa has been, like Anna and Elizabeth before her, a woman who has spoken prophetically, preached, prayed, and encouraged those who long for the restoration of whatever cities one may call home.  And, she's raising not one, but two prophets (Nathan & Elias).  With that in mind, we've given our daughter the name of her mother.

We hope that you will celebrate with us, the birth of Annelies Raquel.

In September, I visited the West African country of Sierra Leone.  Traveling with a group of 5 others, we served alongside one of my friends from my doctoral program, Samuel Kargbo.  One morning while the others were lecturing in the Bible College that was hosting us, Samuel and I walked around the small fishing village that was adjacent to the college.  

We walked along dirt roads boardered by huts and shanty houses with the occasional beached boat or mended net.  Children were everywhere.  Adults were scarce.  Samuel shared with me that this community was where the Nigerian soldiers, sent by the UN during the civil war, set up base.  When the Nigerians weren't busy liberating the people of Sierra Leone from an evil tyrant, they were busy making babies with the local women.  

Then I began hearing drumming.  I noticed a crowd in front of us.  Nearly a football field away.  "What is that?", I asked.  "It's a women's cultural group.  Don't take any pictures Matthew.  It will upset them".  As we approached, I noticed a figure much taller than the rest, dressed all in white.  "Who is that?", I asked again.  "It's the devil".  

Of course.  

Turns out that 'a women's cultural group' is a very tame way to describe the women elders of the community that practice female genital circumcision.  A gruesome tradition still practiced in may parts of Africa.  One part of Africa where this form of mutilation is still practiced happened to be the village I was walking through - taking pictures like an American tourist.  And while circumsing girls is an accepted practice, apparently taking pictures of the women who do such a thing is frowned upon.  

The crowd, maybe a hundered strong, was singing and drumming and the devil, dressed all in white wearing a tall wooden mask, was dancing around from house to house.  That's when they spotted Samuel and me.  We tried to walk nonchalantly down a different street, but they soon surrounded us.  Drumming, singing and then the devil stood right in front of me.  Looked me up and down.  And began dancing.  

I let her dance for a few moments, then, with Charlie Daniels' 'Devil went down to Georgia' echoing in my mind, I recognized this for what it was.  Not being one to shirk a challenge, even if it comes from a 7 foot tall devil, I began to dance.  I tootsie-rolled, butterflied, krumped, robot-ed and threw in some other Watson-patened moves that came from the recesses of my East Dallas spirit long forgotten.  I danced.  Like a bad mo' fo' I danced.  

The crowed erupted in laughter, noise, drumming and delight.  The devil slinked away.  The crowd parted and Samuel and I passed through like the Hebrew children passing through the Red Sea and we continued our walk.  Smiling. 

p.s. I snapped this pic, while walking away from the crowd.  The devil is the tall figure in the center of crowd dressed all in white.

With each year passing, he comes evermore into himself.  His personality, identity, mannerism, preferences become more and more apparent.  And yet he's still very much a boy; a child.  Often, I find my mind wandering years into the future wondering what kind of man Nathan will be.  I imagine him with facial hair - a full beard even.  I imagine him still very fun-loving, excited and excitable.  I suspect he'll be a bit sarcastic.  Given his 'ladies man' behavior (even at 6), undoubtedly he'll have had his heart broken.  And will have broken others.  

The things that are harder for me to see are the things that matter.  Facial hair and sarcasm aside.  The things that are more dimly lit for me is the kind of man he'll be among other men.  You see, with Nathan and with Elias, we named the boys with a blessing, a future and a challenge in mind.  Every night, without fail, we pray that our boys would grow into their names.  That they would become men worthy of the names that we and the world call them each and every day.  

Today, as I celebrate again the birth of my first child, I also celebrate his life that is so much in front of him and remember again his name and, by God's grace, his future.

Nathan ~ named for the prophet who spoke truthfully to David.  named for the one of whom Jesus said, "in him there is no deciet".  May our Nathan likewise courageously speak truthfully and honestly to those in power.  

Santiago ~ In honor of his mother's heritage, his middle name is in Spanish.  the book of Santiago (St. James) in the Bible reminds us of what true religion is, cheifly, to care for the vulnerable.  May our Santiago, likewise be a man who cares for those who live on the margins of our world.

These were our hopes and dreams 6 years ago when Nathan Santiago joined us.  These hopes remain even today.  That he would grow into his name and the deep meaning it carries.  Well, that and be nice to his brother.  

If you're unfamiliar with NaBloPoMo, the jist is that you write one blog a day for 30 days of November.  I've taken a swing at this a few times over the past few years. Unsuccessfully mind you.  But, that's not stopping me this year.  Like the Red Shoed Rangers, I'll swing for the fences again this year.  I may come up short, but that's no reason to not swing.  So, here we go.

Time and providence has moved us along and its been 5 years since we lived there and 5 years since we invested our lives into the lives of young adults on a daily, intentional basis.

And then Alexz came to live with us.  

We met Alexz earlier this year when she was in Memphis for a spring break service project with an organization that does home repair for low income home owners in our neighborhood.  A group of these college students stopped in on the Watsons one night to hear about our time in Binghampton and because they heard we were a pretty awesome family.  At the end of the evening I mentioned to Alexz, in passing really, that if she wanted to come back and intern in Memphis, she was welcome.  2 weeks later she called and said she was coming for the summer.  

She said she wanted to learn about living and serving in an urban neighborhood.  We told her we'd do our best to make sure she learned something loosely related to that topic.  We promised to find a place for her to live, to feed her and to pay her, each day, in compliments.  

I know what Alexz did, but I'm not sure what Alexz learned.  Hopefully, it was something of value for her future, for her heart and for her spirit.  Nevertheless, I can tell you what I learned and was reminded of.  Cheifly, I was reminded that my faith and my life seem most in balance, most full and most authentic the more deeply I am living in community with others.  I still need folks in my life, that live close by, are serving and living next to me and can help me reflect well on my faith and my neighborhood.  

During her time with us, we had unexpected guests stay with us for days.  We praciticed hospitality to strangers.  During her time with us, we visited with a lot of different ministers; some of them cared about the neighborhood, some seemed to care more for the church and few cared deeply about both.  We practiced discernment.  During her time with us, we had lots of meals together where we processed the events of the day and reflected on what God was saying to us through them.  We practiced communion.  During her time here we served and lived in a beautiful but broken Memphis neighborhood as a witness to the hope that is in us.  We practiced resurrection.  

Alexz is back in Illinois now.  She starts classes this week.  And though she may be telling her classmates how she spent the summer with a crazy family that takes in traveling ex-gang members and takes left over chili to community potlucks I hope she's also telling them what she learned about how to love God and love people and live well in the city.  That's the lesson I learned from Miss Alexz.  

For me, much of this course is viewed through the lens of cities in which I've lived and most especially through Memphis.  Below is my final post to the online forums.  I'm mostly reflecting on the future of Memphis as a global city or a city of days gone by.  If you're from Memphis or live in Memphis, you'll love the secret Memphis references.  If you're not, hopefully you'll still find a nugget to consider for your own cities.

--

"Oh Mama, Can this Really Be the End?"

Recently, Memphis Magazine won the Gold Medal for General Excellence for City and Regional magazines.  In reflecting on this award, the editor wrote, “Ours is such a weird, funky, and supremely unusual place, we have a huge advantage over just about every other city magazine in America…no one else has our kind of raw material”.

Author Mike Davis has written that Los Angeles is one of the most often destroyed cities in film and literature.  Memphis, on the other hand is the most sung about city in music.  Mentioned in nearly 1000 published songs, Memphis’ life, history and culture as the King of the Delta South; Memphis is a city celebrated.  In commenting on the South, the Delta and Memphis’ chief role in the region, Willy Bearden, chair of the University of Memphis’ Everything Southern Conference quipped, “They don’t write books about Iowa”.  The point being, so much of American culture finds its roots in the region that begins, as historian David Cohen put it, “in the lobby of the Peabody [hotel in downtown Memphis] and ends in Catfish Row in Vicksburg, Mississippi”. 

Yet, despite the city celebrated, Memphis is also a city challenged.  Though one of the top 20 largest cities in America, it is a city whose population has been in decline while crime and other social ills are on the increase.  Memphis is losing the battle of attracting talent, economic weight and the educated.  When viewed through this lens, Memphis is shaping up to be an after thought city, only referred to in sentimental songs about a day gone by. 

However, there is another way to view these changes in Memphis and its position among the cities of the world and the cities of the US.  And that is as a giver and an unlikely shaper.  I suspect that very few of us knew of Memphis’ prominence in American music.  The influence is subtle, yet profound.  I wonder how this subtle influence in American music, then gives shape to music worldwide.  Though it takes a bit to see the connections, they are there.  Similarly, with those individuals who have left Memphis for ‘greener pastures’, they carry with them this history, heritage and culture of Memphis and the Mississippi Delta.  As they go, they likewise influence (and are influenced by) their new homes and new home cities.  In this regard, Memphis is everywhere. 

There is yet, a second way to see the challenges facing Memphis and that is as opportunity.  And I want to beware of boosterism here, but I’m more thinking of Jane Jacobs’ comparison of 18^th century Manchester and Birmingham.  Can 21^st century Memphis become 19^th century Birmingham, England?  Birmingham was the inefficient backwater of England at one time while Manchester hummed along with a prolific and efficient economy.  Yet it was Manchester’s efficiency that led to its downfall and it was precisely Birmingham’s eclectic and inefficient economic base that moved its innovations and development forward. 

Could the need for a diverse economy given the economic challenges facing Memphis be the city’s cattle prod that positions it for a 21^st century resurgence?  Because Memphis cannot rest on a tech industry or tourism industry or oil industry or film industry, Memphis must have heart, be gritty and grind out the kind of inefficient economy that develops new forms of work and creates new pathways for economic growth just as Birmingham did in the most unlikely ways.  Stated differently, it is precisely Memphis’ challenges that hold the creative keys to a strong future.  Certainly the jury is out on this being the future, but the possibility is a real one. 

Given the historic (and to some degree current) situation for Memphis as an American culture influencer and the possible future of Memphis as a resurgent shaper in the US and the world, there are questions that I do believe will shape how I continue to pastor in this “weird, funky and supremely unusual place”.  Perhaps the chief question is, ‘How does the gospel get contextualized in such a way that the past is honored and the future is envisioned?”.  How do we proclaim and live out the truth claims of Christ in a place rich in artistic, cultural and musical heritage and all that that will imply in a place, while at the same time pushing for the kind of innovation needed from a people in a city that is a part of the fast moving 21^st century?  My gospel proclamation must have the rhythm, feel and flavor of the Delta yet my Christian discipleship of my congregation must prepare them for global engagement and the multi-layered effects of urbanization. 

The short of it is that, as a minister in Memphis, I must know the history of my city.  I must also know the current landscape of my city set against the larger, global landscape of the world.  And I must also consider the future of my city.  To be a faithful, contextual shepherd requires it.  Memphis deserves it. 

Closing Note:

Professors and fellow classmates, I’ve greatly enjoyed our class these past many weeks.  I’ve not only learned from each of you, but I’ve been shaped by you.  You have challenged me, encouraged me and given me space to consider ministry in my city as we have, together, considered the city to come.  I pray for an opportunity to visit each of you in your city and commit to continue to pray for you as you lead your ministry and love your city. 

“Oh Mama, Can this really be the end?

To be stuck inside of Mobile, with the Memphis blues again”

-Bob Dylan

The days leading up to the crucifixion and resurrection of Jesus are dramatic.  They are filled with a roller coaster wave of emotion.  Intrigue, horror, disbelief, tragedy, celebration, sorrow and tears fill the week.  Lots of tears. 

My days leading up to this Easter were rollercoaster as well.  Absolutely not to the degree or depth of Jesus’ Easter week, but a taste.  Or better said, bitter reminders of why Good Friday was good and why the Resurrection was necessary. 

Ginger

Ginger is my aunt.  She and my Uncle Charles have been together for years now.  By any measure of love a couple has for one another, theirs was deep and honest and true and warm. 

Earlier this month, Ginger was out helping a friend who’d broken down on a rural road in Love County, Oklahoma.  She stepped out of her truck and another truck came by, hit her, killed her and sped away.  In the wake of her death, she left 2 adult children and a grieving spouse – my Uncle Charles. 

Marye

I met Marye at the Med the week before last.  For 12 years now, Marye has been working in the Med’s Adult Special Services unit.  That’s code for the HIV/AIDS unit.  Marye shared with me her amazing story of how she’s provided care to thousands of Memphians living HIV/AIDS.  She shared how she’s lost family members to the disease.  She told me of how her mother-in-law scolded her and then ostracized her when she began working with AIDS patients. 

The she introduced me to one of her patients; a woman just older than myself with two daughters.  All three of them living with HIV. 

Olga

Olga is a hero of mine.  She works hard to raise money for St. Jude and his fellow saints of ‘lost causes’.  She gave me a tour Tuesday before last.  I was blown away at the work going on in that place.  Like a citadel of hope anchored in downtown Memphis, day after day they treat the youngest among us whose bodies have turned on themselves.  Though I’m sure there are times where their work feels like one long defeat, they labor and labor looking for the right mix of medicine, care, prayer, good luck and love – hoping against hope that a child’s life doesn’t end before it has the chance to begin.  I left St. Jude proud of St. Jude and of Olga.  I left glad that there is a St. Jude and sad that we live in a world where even our bodies can be at odds with us. 

Vollentine Elementary School

One Wednesday a month I head up to Vollentine Elementary School to join the Principal, Counselor, and a small handful of teachers and parents for the monthly Site-Based Council meeting.  Vollentine is a wonderful school, but it has had its share of challenges in recent years.  Nearly 100% of the school is on free or reduced lunches, which means nearly every student is at or below the federal poverty line.  Their grades are poor.  They are an academically struggling school by most measures.  Poor neighborhood plus a poor school most times means a bad outcome for its students. 

At this meeting, the Principal – a dynamic young educator bent on turning the school around - shared that the school met its Adequate Yearly Progress (AYP) goals for the year.  This is the first time in years Vollentine has met these goals marking a turning point for the school.

Jos, Nigeria

The place that Lisa, Nathan and I once called home was in the news again last week.  Following the country’s election, violence broke out.  Muslims killing Christians, tribes fighting other tribes and everyone jockeying for power.  Some of the violence took place just north of our city, Jos.  So far as we know, none of our friends have been victims, but we continue to pray. 

Dr. Prince

Dr. Prince was one of the first people we met on our very first trip to Nigeria.  He lived in the flat above us in the apartment complex we lived in in Jos.  He’s remained a dear, dear friend for years now.  He was in the US presenting at an AIDS conference in Denver and prior to returning home, he stayed with us.  We were encouraged by his visit and we talked about a wide sweep of topics – Muslim / Christian relations, HIV/AIDS work, approaches to ministry, immigration reform – but mostly we talked of God’s love and the work of God in the restoration of all things.  And we talked about how difficult it can be to live in the ‘in between’ of here and now. 

These people and places made up my Easter preparation.  These things and their juxtaposition to the highest holy day reminded me of the weight of Good Friday.  Jesus took on the weight of the world.  He took on the million ways humanity has made a mess of the world.  He took on tragic accidents and tragic diseases.  He took on broken systems and broken neighborhoods.  He took on violence and what can feel like dreams deferred.  And in return he offers life.  Life beyond bodies, lives and families destroyed by trucks, or AIDS or cancer.  Life beyond the violence of neighborhoods.  And somehow, that life is extended to us now, not just in some sweet by and by.  But rather God is active in the renewal of all things even now.  Jesus was resurrected.  Death was defeated in all of its forms.  And that defeat is being worked out in the million cracks and crevices where death finds home.  And in its place life is taking root.  Even though, like a germinating seed, it’s not always seen.  Nevertheless, its still there, waiting to burst forth like a spring flower from the soil, or like a savior from a tomb.