art in the stairwell

This e-testimony is written by Troy Terpstra, a member of the Tierra Nueva staff. Troy is currently working on a mural in the Tierra Nueva office stairwell. Below, he shares with us some of the details. Feel free to come take a look! If you would like more information, email us at info@peoplesseminary.org.

At the center of the mural is Christ. He will be tattooed, appearing to be an ex-con. Jesus is an ex-con of sorts, but the idea is inspired by drawings done by prisoners and given to the staff here at Tierra Nueva. Many prisoners feel a deep sense of shame and inadequacy when invited to know a God they have always perceived as judgmental and harsh. This portrayal of Christ as a modern day convict aims to contextualize the Gospel into our present culture. Jesus of the ghetto, Jesus of the barrio, is the Jesus of Nazareth. We want the men in the Skagit Valley Jail to know the Jesus who rolled with his society's misfits and outcasts, and who longs to be with them today. On the left, the character of Jesus embraces a young prisoner in a county jail uniform. The jail chaplaincy has been an amazingly fruitful ministry, and I am continually amazed at the stories of healing and renewal that come out of the jail every week.

On the right, Jesus has his arm around a campesina (female farm worker) who stands in the strawberry fields. She is weary and a palette of harvested fruit rests on her hips. Much of Tierra Nueva's ministry is to farm workers, who continuously move to follow the seasonal work, uprooting their families and working sun-up to sun-down for less than minimum wage. Our Family Support Center assists these people in finding housing, obtaining legal help, and in many other basic needs. I want to honestly portray the labor endured by migrant farm workers, as well as the closeness to the heart of Christ they have.

At the top of the wall, the Hands of our Abba pour out the baptism of the Holy Spirit, which is made of water and takes the shape of a dove. The waters pass through a gaping wound in the torso of the living Christ, the self-giving sacrifice of love which conquers death. Many characters, addicted, accused and accusing, rich and poor, liberated and bound up, undergo the baptismal outpouring. Chains, addiction, resentment, guilt, and death itself drown under the waters.

Coming up from the waters (the wings of the dove) two joyful worshippers emerge, a woman pounding the drums of mercy and a man blowing the horn of justice, crashing through the oppressive orderliness of the vertical prison bars and the horizontal field rows. I love the idea of the Holy Spirit breaking into prison. The prison cells sit under the night sky of a city contrasted with the field under the full sun of a summer day.

I have taken over a year to settle on the design, and I don't think I quite understood the process of mural making when I began this project, so the slowness has been very educational. I have drawn and redrawn this design several times, and God willing I am nearing the day when I will begin to paint it.

Bruce Cockburn has a line in his song 'Mystery' that goes "come all you stumblers who believe love rules – stand up and let shine." I like to think that this e-testimony is addressed to the 'stumblers who believe love rules.' Come by and check out the mural if you are in the neighborhood. Also, when the mural is completed, we are going to have an opening party, and I will be honored if any of you could be present for that.

Father, what's my role?

Part of Tierra Nueva's jail ministry is answering letters from prison, and accepting collect phone calls from inmates. A recent letter from our friend Nick S, from prison, beautifully shows in several small hand-written psalms an authentic movement of new faith in his thought process. Facing the melancholy of his situation, he then remembers how God has been with him in the worst moments. He expresses gratitude and praise, which leads him into a new approach—reaching out and asking for prayer from his community.

Nick writes:

I've been spiritually down lately. You know how I get all schizo, manic. I really want to overcome the shortcomings that keep me hostage. You and a lot of the Tierra Nueva Family really instilled some type of wisdom about God, healing, and talking with God. For that I'm truly grateful. I'm sure you get tired of hearing me say this; I feel I can't help it: Gracias! Muchas gracias for having my back thru my chaotic, insane drug addiction. Even when I was sick, someone was there! Taking me to the hospital, to detox for no reason [often it was just anxious cravings]. You loved me at my worst. Helped take care of me and my family when I was unable. Because I was too unstable. I'm praying that God shows more mercy on my health. My liver's whacked after all the drugs I've done; I'm seeing a doctor this month. Tell everyone I send my love, respect, and blessings.

The Redeemed One/Won

--

I hear the sound ringing in my ear

The devil's voice and it gettin' real near

Frustrations and Temptation I see in my rear-

View mirror smashin' down the calle a heart consumed with fear

I wish I could fly to my own little spot

Away in the islands where there's no drugs to be bought

No crimes to commit and no reason to be caught

But "No, I'm a Sureño*"—that's what I was taught

I can't stand being in this cell

I cry to Jesus but I still feel like I'm in hell

When I go to heaven

I'm gonna have one hell of a story to tell

I have faith that the Lord will prevail

He'll send his love like a piece of X-Mas mail

To the heart and to the soul!

Father tell me, What's my role?

-----------

*Sureño: translated “southsider,” largest Chicano gang on the West Coast

new grounds!

pictured: roasters Jesse, Chris, and Zach

So right now there are 3,000 pounds of green coffee beans in our basement. They're in massive burlap sacks that say "Honduras" on them, and "TIERRA NUEVA" in bold stencil. This is referring less to our ministry in Washington and more to our Tierra Nueva cooperative of organic coffee growers who have benefited from the ministry's sustainable agricultural promotion. They grew these beans.

This is a dream come true.

And it smells wonderful.

Because there is also a big shiny coffee roaster in this basement. We've been using it to roast all kinds of interesting varieties. We're learning. But after two days of experimenting, it's already tasting pretty awesome.

When I say "we," I'm talking about Zach Joy and Jesse Garcia. Over the years, if you've been getting newsletters from our ministry, you've probably heard a number of stories about these two men. Healings, reconciliations, Biblical insights. But their stories are now becoming bigger than isolated anecdotes. This coffee project is about people like them.

And Salvio Hernandez, a Mixteco migrant among us who's feeling a call to become a pastoral worker, a lover or God's, to his own context, to the handful of migrant camps in the valley and the hundreds of Oaxacan families that fill them.

Zach and Jesse have been sought out, defended, loved, accompanied through years of struggle, setback, letdowns, and spiritual growth. They are more and more radiant now as we give them responsibility.

Jesse is a natural in our Family Support Center. He grew up bi-lingual, navigating the streets, court systems, jails, state structures, migrant apartments, and substance abuse recovery. Families coming into the office are now asking, "Esta Jesse?"

Way up in Whatcom County, Zach can't help but be ministering to many men he comes into contact with after years of connections in the underground drug scene. He's ready to do this full time. And it's already becoming obvious he will be our Master Roaster with his passion and instant knack for this business and art.

Hidden underground beneath our ministry building, God is moving. Young guys I know from the gangs I work with and even new kids doing their court-appointed community service hours at Tierra Nueva, are beginning to weigh and bag the glossy espresso beans, cleaning and organizing the space, taking ownership of the operation. Which is what we want.

As churches begin to supply their coffee needs with these extremely unique and top-quality Tierra Nueva "UNDER GROUNDS," more and more lives from the streets will be blending together in our basement. Love might be happening. Community. A project and craft to be proud of. A legitimate check one day in the hands of intelligent young men who have only used their business skills to deal drugs to pay the bills for years. More people like Zach, Jesse, Salvio and Eugenio Benitez will be able to live out their callings to serve and love their people--and be supported as real staff, real mission workers.

This is just a taste of the new earth God is creating in low places among us.

-Chris Hoke

what I have, I give you!

Amy Muia
Volunteer Jail Chaplain

Did you know that Tierra Nueva also has a women's jail ministry? As part of the Skagit County Jail Ministry (a ministry of TN), volunteers visit the women inmates each week for prayer and Bible study. Lately God has been growing some beautiful fruit. I thought you might be encouraged by a recent story of God's presence touching the women in the jail.

A few weeks ago, Virginia (my ministry partner) asked the women if they felt that the Bible study and prayer were making any difference.

"Totally!" one woman responded. "When you pray for us, we can feel it for days."

"Really?" I asked. "What do you mean? What does it feel like?"

"When you lay hands on me, I can feel my whole head tingling."

"Yup," added another. "And you know what it really feels like—" She stopped, looking a bit sheepish. "It feels like getting high! Last week when you prayed for me, I was totally high. And it lasted for two days!" The women laugh. "It feels like love—you can feel the love."

I laugh with them. I guess this is the real meaning of 'do not get drunk with wine, but be filled with the Holy Spirit.' The women are feeling the love and presence of God, who is coming to visit them right where they are. They are discovering a superior kind of high—that lasts longer and is without cost.

"You can also pray for each other when we're not here," I tell them. "Just lay hands on each other and pray."

"Yeah, I guess we can," one woman says. "But you're the 'head-tingler!'"

I often feel like I don't have any resources to offer these women—I'm not the most gifted Bible teacher, and I can't fully understand the world they are coming from. But I'm reminded of Peter's words from Acts 3:6—"Silver and gold I do not have, but what I have, I give you!" It's an amazing thing to have the love of God, and be able to transfer it to another. The women continue telling stories of recent answers to prayer—a brief release to visit a dying parent, a quick and miraculous resolution in court, a feeling of unexplained peace.

Maybe today you find yourself in a place where you need a love that really satisfies—love that doesn't wear off or have negative ramifications. I just wanted to tell you that it's available right now. Lord, please bless each person reading this blog. Satisfy the deepest longings of their hearts. Show them how real you are, and fill them with your presence!

i feel kind of vulnerable asking for this . . .

Bob Ekblad
Executive Director

I’d like to share with you about a beautiful healing that happened last Thursday night in a jail Bible study.

I first met Santos (“holy” in Spanish) twelve years ago when he was a 20-year-old Latino gangster doing six months in Skagit County Jail. Santos is unforgettable because of his warm, sensitive spirit. He also has a nervous wince that hits his left eye like a crashing wave every thirty seconds. Halfway through a Bible study about Jesus' healing of a blind man by applying spit to his eyes, Santos said: "I feel kind of vulnerable asking for this, but can you pray for me to be healed of this nervous tic in my left eye? It's been bothering me my whole life, but more and more lately."

With only five minutes before the guards came, I invited the other inmates to gather around Santos, and placed my hand on his left eye. Immediately I got the strong impression that his father had hit him in the head. I asked whether this was true, and Santos began to cry and say he was beaten a lot when growing up. Later he told me that as the oldest, he'd often taken the blame for things his younger brother and sister had done, to keep them from beatings.

I briefly told him that when someone sins against us, it brings great suffering, but if we hold resentment and unforgiveness, the sins of the other person infect and continue to hurt us. He said he was willing to forgive. I led him in a prayer of forgiveness, and he even began to bless his father. I prayed that the peace of Christ would come over his face and that the nervous flinching would be calmed in Jesus' name. The presence of God came over all of us. It was very peaceful.

The next day, I called Santos to check on him. He said he was 100% healed and the twitching had stopped. I called him four days later and he says he's still completely healed—the tic has not returned. He has had this problem for 32 years. “People who know me are all noticing it!” he said. He also told me that the night he forgave his father, his dad called his girlfriend's house looking for him—something his father rarely if ever does.
We are profoundly grateful for the ways we see the kingdom of God coming to those on the margins—physically, emotionally, and spiritually!

i don't know where that came from!

Chris Hoke
Assistant Jail Chaplain

Sometimes a few unsolved problems come together and solve each other perfectly, like separate unfinished song fragments completing each other minutes before a performance. I love it when that happens.

There are these two guys we've accompanied through drug and alcohol recovery, and now they're not sure what their next step is. And neither are we. One, Marco*, is living in the building with us at Tierra Nueva, working a night shift in a lumber mill, and trying to stay clean. His smiles, honesty and sobriety are growing daily with us. Another, Dan, we met in jail when he felt touched by God's Spirit and almost wouldn't leave us alone after he got out, eager to grow and quick to ask for the care he needs. After years of meth use, in and out of jail, he now lives three blocks away, works drywall construction, and is part of our faith community. Both Marco and Dan are hitting that space where they feel God is calling them to work with others who are caught in the life they are leaving. But they don't know where they are supposed to start, or if God can use them at all.

Enter John. I've been feeling increasingly irritated with his every knock on our back door. Most people who come to Tierra Nueva from the jail or streets are open about their real problems and we work together. John just uses the phone and asks for rides, always with a new, sketchy story and a forced smile. Acquaintances in the drug business tells us he's a known addict in the area, but I haven't known how to tell him that I know, you know? It's tricky, since I'm younger than John and don't want to accuse him. I want to offer real help, not facilitate his hustle and self-harm by playing along with the act.

So here's where the two pieces came together. Marco and I are in the apartment, hanging out. Dan bounds in with usual enthusiasm after a good day at work. Then the knock.

It's John. Can I take him to the place where I know he shoplifts and then exchanges with his dealer? Come on inside, John. He sits down with our two friends who are in their own process of recovery and faith. I try to tell John I want to be straight, not keep pretending. He acts shocked, confused, defensive. I am stuck.

Dan then speaks with sudden grace, maturity, and compassionate directness to John. "I've been there before, man. I recognize all the signs. I know—we know—what it's like. Tierra Nueva is here to help guys like us in recovery. You don't have to pretend. They don't call the cops, but help you however you need it most." This spoke so disarmingly to John that he had nothing to say—for the first time ever. We said we're here for him when he's ready. He nodded and bolted for the door with no argument.

A new feeling followed the slam of the door. Dan burst open, "I don't know where those words came from! It felt like something just pouring out of my mouth—it was perfect! I normally woulda cussed the guy out, or been arrogant . . . that was awesome! That was totally the Holy Spirit." Marco was all smiles. He felt he was part of something new: no longer ashamed of his odd position between old drug buddies and Christian community, like some sort of fake who's known for occasional relapse, but instead an example of that difficult transition who can invite others into honesty and grace in community. We stopped and prayed for John, blessing him in this decisive moment between bitterness or breakthrough, and dropping any arrogance or judgments we had toward him.

The interaction with John was small. But it was a perfectly timed, inaugural practice of Marco's and Dan's callings. John was addressed with grace and openness by his peers. Marco and Dan felt their first step towards reaching out to current users—with God backing them up with the right spirit and words.

There was such a feeling of unity and possibility afterwards that none of us wanted to go on with our day. Instead, Marco treated us to coffee across the street and we watched a documentary on meth in my bedroom, talking late into the evening like new, giddy friends.

*names changed

the psalm my people sent me away with

by Sara

We keep hearing the stories of how immigration realities we confront with our friends in the Skagit Valley are tearing families apart. But today I realized that until you have a personal example, until it somehow affects you, it doesn’t quite hit home.

Today someone from our very faith community came to us after a phone call that he said “destroyed him.” After several days of working in the fields and feeling a sense of restlessness and deep concern, he phoned his wife in Central America begging to know if anything wasn’t right at home. She leveled with him, saying she’s just decided to leave him for someone else. “It has been too difficult,” she said, the same woman who two years ago prayed and agonized with him about the decision to risk his life by crossing the border to come make money for his family and village. In the end, they decided together that he should go.

As we listened to him, to his grief, he wanted us to understand that he doesn’t question God’s goodness in this. He is aware of the struggle against an enemy that is out to rob, kill and destroy any piece of that goodness he can get his hands on. But that doesn’t change the deep sadness he feels—we all feel—at this news, at what it’s like for him to call each of his children far away and explain the situation. It doesn’t change the fact that as we stood in the kitchen and talked tonight, he held my biggest kitchen knife to his heart and said, “I wish I could just cut it out so I wouldn’t have to feel this, but I know I cannot.”

This morning as we surrounded him to pray for the Comforter to come near, one of the women in our circle said she had a psalm to read. As the words of Psalm 91 were read in Spanish, rich promises of God’s covering and protective care spilled from the text. Slowly, our friend reached for his wallet, opened it, and took out a worn but neatly folded paper. Interrupting, he said: “Look. This is the same psalm my people sent me away with, to remember God’s care for me as I crossed the desert and the border and came here.” And there it was, each verse of Psalm 91 written down the page.

What a way for God to remind him that it is still true, even now, even when the worst he could have imagined has happened. What a God, who enters into the darkness with us and holds us—holds our friend—there.