The prayers of Jesus

When I think of Jesus praying for me, I think of John 17:9. “I am praying for them. I am not praying for the world but for those whom you have given me, for they are yours.” In his high priestly prayer, Jesus prays that the love he shares with God the Father would also be in us and that we would be protected from the evil one. I love that his prayer is so straightforward and simple. Eternal life, joy, and unity are what Jesus is focused on. The holy presence of God is revealed through the sacrificial life and death of Jesus. “I made known to them your name, and I will continue to make it known, that the love with which you have loved me may be in them, and I in them (John 17:26).” Like the disciples, we receive a new way of loving and understanding through the prayers of Jesus.

This week at the Community Dinner I shared John 17. Before we had dinner, I read the passage and shared how Jesus prays that we would know that we are loved by God the Father. That the love Jesus has can also be in us. Jesus doesn’t pray that we would be nice, smart, or cool, just that the love of God would be in us and that we would be safe. Later in the evening, Mark, who attends the dinner regularly, approached me with tears in his eyes. He has Huntington’s disease and recently learned that there is a cure. He is going to quit drugs now that he knows he can live a long life. While Mark and I are talking, I keep trying to offer to pray with him. He tells me that he has always wanted to be a dad. He loves his nephews and wants to be the best uncle that he can be. He continues to cry tears of joy. Tears that come from the freedom found only in Christ. I stop trying to offer prayer, realizing that the prayers of Jesus are happening in real time, on earth as they are in heaven. “I do not ask for these only, but also for those who will believe in me through their word, that they may all be one, just as you, Father, are in me, and I in you, that they also may be in us, so that the world may believe that you have sent me (John17:20-21). The prayers of Jesus change everything.

I wouldn’t wish his life on anyone

My friend Robert died. He was found in his apartment on the Monday before Easter. I first met him at the community dinner. He told me that his life had been completely changed because of the dinner church community. The dinner is where he was baptized, where he made friends with college students, where he was inspired to go back to school. The dinner is where we talked about his life spent in homeless missions and Christian outreach programs. We met for coffee on Thursdays and talked about go fund me sites for laptops, friendly security guards, and Jesus. The church bought him a laptop and the school let him sleep in the lobby before class started. We always ended our time in prayer.

The last time I saw him he looked terrible. He was at the dinner and said he couldn’t feel the left side of his body. I called 911 and the paramedics arrived. I finally talked Robert into letting me drive him to the emergency room. He was discharged two days later. I went to his apartment to check on him but couldn’t find the address. He died alone, in his very first apartment, he was sixty-one years old.

I spoke with his sister on the phone after he had passed. She shared stories of Roberts’ childhood that made me sick to my stomach. “Dad was really tough on Robert. I wouldn’t have wished his life on anyone.”

The memorial service was hosted in a beautiful Lutheran Church where the Friday dinner is held. We all shared stories of how we had known Robert, how he had made himself known to us. Instead of avoiding his suffering, Robert exposed his wounds to community dinners. Healing and hope were found in his emotional and spiritual scar tissue. After the resurrection, Jesus is revealed by his wounds. The scars on his hands and side, the scars of torture identify Jesus as the one who overcomes. Robert died a man who had reconciled his past, a life of injustice and neglect, to spend his future with eternal hope. “Jesus came and stood among them and said, “Put your finger here, and see my hands; and put out your hand, and place it in my side. Do not disbelieve, but believe (John 20:27).” Thank you, Robert, for sharing your life with me. Thank you for teaching us how to touch forgiveness in suffering.

Michael Cox

FlexBrew

I met Keith at the community dinner three years ago. He is a self-described party animal. “When I go to karaoke and have a few drinks, look out. Everyone calls me a dance machine!” Keith lived with his mom before she required twenty-four-hour nursing care. She lives in the hospital now, and Keith lives alone. Now that she is hospitalized, he is drinking less. “It was not good. She would be throwing wine bottles into the parking lot.” He seems relieved not to be his moms drinking buddy anymore. He has a guardian from the state that manages his money and a case worker that checks up on him. While it’s frustrating for him that he needs help, he seems to be at peace with the reality that he can’t take care of himself.

Keith began texting me in the middle of the pandemic. He likes to ask me questions about sports and the news. “Go Seahawks! Isn’t the election crazy?” He has lived in the same apartment for twenty years and worked the same part time job with the city for twenty-five. “I could retire, but health insurance is so expensive.” I visit him with coffee and absorb his anxiety about the news, his case worker, and whether or not he should complain about his talkative neighbor. “She really is a problem. So nosey, and intrusive.”

Keith has purchased a coffee maker and has some questions. He is not sure what kind of coffee to use or how much water he needs. “How do you do it?” We exchange texts about the brand, I suggest pods or a number one paper filter. We decide it would be great if I could come over and help. I am amazed that he is unable to make coffee. I discuss his lack of self-sufficiency with my co-workers, lamenting all the people we know that can’t take care of themselves. I am friends with a sixty-year-old, formerly homeless man, who is in his very first apartment. He has no idea how to pay his electric bill or adjust his thermostat. Another formerly homeless friend, spends his monthly Social Security check, taking his friends from the street out to breakfast at IHOP.

I arrive at Keith’s apartment and we get to work on the coffee. He is concerned that it will be a problem and feels like he has asking a lot of me. I assure him that its no problem and begin the FlexBrew lesson plan. My first attempt results in water and coffee grounds overflowing on the counter. This really raises the stress level for my student. I read the directions and began to feel the comedy of humility. I begin to doubt my own ability to read directions and make coffee. My second and third attempt produce hot water but no coffee. Keith begins to repeat, “this is a problem” like an ancient medieval chant. I decide that we should go the store and get some pods. Keith is convinced that pods will not work. I finally realize that the filter opens, and the beans go inside. Kevin and I laugh for a half hour on his patio, sharing in our unique brew. He lets me know that his cup is full of coffee grounds. My cup is so strong I began to fear for my life. On my way home I lament at how none of us can take care of ourselves. I think I need Keith’s help more than he needs mine! “Carry each other’s burdens, and in this way you will fulfill the law of Christ (Galatians 6:3).”

Michael Cox

Miracle

We met Brett last month. He was living in a tent next to the freeway onramp. We introduced ourselves and gave him some socks, gloves, and a sandwich. Standard issue survival supplies. The next week we gave him a beanie, more socks, and more sandwiches. He didn’t come out of his tent or talk with us. His buddy took the survival supplies and thanked us. Sometimes people are getting high in their tent and are ashamed or embarrassed to talk to us. Other times, people just want to be left alone. The next week we saw Brett in a doorway organizing his backpack. It was freezing cold and raining. The wind added insult to injury, making it impossible to stay warm or dry. Brett was chatty. He had just survived a near death experience. He was asleep in his tent when a truck lost its brakes and smashed into him. “I should be dead. I don’t know how I survived.” We prayed thanksgiving for miracles and gave him a brand-new sleeping bag. The next week we saw Brett in a different part of town. We talked again about how God saved his life. I reminded him that he was a walking miracle. Its amazing how quickly we dismiss the miraculous. Brett began to cry. He shared how he believed in God and how God had blessed him in the past. He shared how he is trying to get clean from drugs. How he is apprehensive and afraid. We exchanged numbers, prayed, and made plans to connect next week for coffee. Operation Nightwatch creates a space of trust and vulnerability on the street through consistent respectful listening. People experience God through people. It is through tear- soaked eyes that Brett can say, “I see God in you guys.” “You are the God who performs miracles; you display your power among the peoples (Psalm 77:14 NIV).”

Michael Cox

Coat of many colors

What does your coat say about you? I moved to Seattle when I was twenty-three years old. I had long hair, an orange VW Bus, and no coat. Having come from Los Angeles, my wardrobe consisted of t-shirts, jeans, and shorts. Arriving in the Pacific Northwest in November, I experienced ninety days of rain in a row. I couldn’t wrap my mind around all the coat purchasing options. Overwhelmed by REI, fleece liners, outer shells, and wind breaker vest combos, I finally caught the flu and was sick for a week. My budget and poor understanding of the cultural significance of a coat led me to the Army Navy surplus store. It was here that I bought my first coat. Looking for a job in a new city with a ponytail and a coat that screamed homeless guy was an eye-opening experience. It never occurred to me that a giant cheap coat would made me look sketchy.

My relationship with coats has always been troubled. As a kid I lost my coat every year. My mom finally got mad and said that she was done buying coats for me. I remember having to wiggle out of a snug hand-me-down in the hallways of middle school. The broken zipper canceled out the “wow factor” of the detachable sleeves. Years later my mom would confess that her only parenting regret was bugging me to wear a coat. She would lament, “Just because I was always cold didn’t mean you were. Kids aren’t cold. They are running around being kids.” My mom was cold if it was below eighty degrees. She stopped visiting me in Seattle because of the rain and my no smoking in the house rule.

After the Pacific Northwest Army Navy Surplus homeless guy jacket, I continued down the road of transient fashion. Triple extra-large flannels were a staple. Combined with a bright orange cycling windbreaker, my look could be best described as lumberjack meets Tour de France meets crossing guard. Then, I got married. My wife quickly replaced my wardrobe with items that were in style.  Now, I had several coats. According to my wife it is “fun” to have coats for different situations. This was when I learned about the theological implications of a coat.

My wife and I met volunteering with street youth. We would walk around downtown at night praying with people, encouraging homeless kids to be safe, reminding them that Jesus never abandoned them. It was a miraculous community of faith. I noticed that my coat could be a topic of conversation. Once while wearing a jumbo flannel with Carhartt overalls, I was told by a homeless kid that I looked like an ax murderer. My puffy Old Navy coat apparently made me look like a crack head. The coat everyone liked had a huge fur-lined hood. What was my coat saying about me? What does my coat say about my relationship with God?

I have been emotionally attached to a few of my coats. The windbreaker I wore while working for the post office was my literal armor of God. “Finally, be strong in the Lord and in the strength of his might. Put on the whole armor of God, that you may be able to stand against the schemes of the devil (Ephesians 6:10-11).” I would eventually get a uniform allowance and wear the standard issue gear. However, the windbreaker I got from the REI Memorial Day sale was the best. Lightweight, warm, and indestructible, it helped me survive snow, dogs, and other mailmen. When I left the post office to work in full time street ministry, I found myself once again without a coat.

Pastoral street ministry necessitates strategic choices when it comes to outerwear. You need to have a beanie no matter what. The beanie needs to be warm, but not too fancy. The coat is more complicated. It needs to be waterproof, warm, and understated. Personally, I don’t want to spend two hundred dollars on a coat. I also don’t want to freeze. My first coat for Operation Nightwatch street ministry was a sixty dollar Columbia ski jacket from Marshalls. It has served me well. My friends on the street have told me that it is a good brand. “Hey Mike, that’s a nice coat.” I still haven’t washed the casserole stains from Community Dinners off of it!

Giving homeless people coats when it is freezing outside is one of my greatest joys. It is such a powerful demonstration of God’s practical love. “For I was hungry and you gave me food, I was thirsty and you gave me drink, I was a stranger and you welcomed me, I was naked and you clothed me, I was sick and you visited me, I was in prison and you came to me (Matthew 25:35-36 ESV).” To give a new coat to a person living outside is to speak the power of life over death. A new coat for a homeless person is the embodiment of salvation. “Wake up, wake up, O Zion! Clothe yourself with strength. Put on your beautiful clothes, O holy city of Jerusalem, for unclean and godless people will enter your gate no longer (Isaiah 52:1 NLT).” There is restoration in a new coat.

Clothing communicates cultural norms and expectations. My daughter bought me Nike Airforce Ones for my birthday. When I wear them on outreach somebody, usually under thirty, lets me know that my shoes are cool. I prefer to wear my Nike Air Monarchs. Classic “dad shoes,” simple, durable, and comfortable. I like my mailman shoes! Besides, is there anything worse than guys my age trying to dress like they’re twenty? I went to a church for many years that preached “you can learn a lot about a pastor by looking at his shoes.” So much for the content of our character. This group believed that we should approach God in excellence. This meant suits, ties, and shiny shoes. I was doomed to hell the minute my slovenly self entered the sanctuary.

On the street, clothing is about survival. My gutter punk friends use dental floss as sewing thread, recycling the same clothes over and over again. Sweatpants under jeans with two pairs of socks communicates function over form. Laundry is challenging and clothes are disposable for the homeless. Clothes are also currency. “Yo, my buddy gave me this coat for a phone charger.” Homeless people are also generous, they will literally give you the coat off their backs. “Whoever has two coats must share with anyone who has none; and whoever has food must do likewise (Luke 3;11).” What a blessing to be gifted a coat.

This Christmas I received a two hundred dollar Amazon gift card. The elders and deacons from a church that is in my network just wanted to bless me. I purchased a black Carhartt insulated jacket, concluding my long and arduous coat journey. I ordered the wrong size and had to return it. After returning it, it was sent back as damaged and undeliverable. It finally arrived, a coat that’s warm, fits, and meets the approval of my family. Whenever I wear this coat, a homeless friend pays me a compliment. “Hey Mike, that’s a nice coat.” After standing outside with homeless people in the rain and snow, I will never take my coat or salvation for granted. My mom would be so proud!

Michael Cox

Out of the pit

“He lifted me out of the slimy pit, out of the mud and mire; he set my feet on a rock and gave me a firm place to stand (Psalm 40:2).” This verse describes my friend Jacob and his situation. I first met Jacob twenty years ago in front of Jack in the Box. He was fifteen, homeless, and riding a BMX bike. He and his younger brother looked like characters from a futuristic, post-apocalyptic sci fi movie. I affectionately referred to them as the, “mountain men” of downtown. Over the years I was able to help connect Jacob to a carpentry mentorship and walk with his brother through cancer treatment. They were two of the wildest street kids I had ever met.

I reconnected with Jacob last year in front of a free community lunch, just a few blocks from the Jack in the Box where we had first met all those years ago. Rooted in patterns of abuse and trauma, it seemed as though time, and his life, had stood still. We tried to meet so we could get his driver’s license. Jacob said it was suspended for driving without insurance. He never showed up and apologizes whenever I run into him. I suspect alcohol is involved with his Department of Motor Vehicle drama. His history of fighting and assault has, in my opinion left him with a traumatic brain injury. I probably will never know what happened to him when he was a toddler.

Jacobs ex-girlfriend is worried about him. He is alone in his tent, smoking synthetic marijuana, and having seizures. She broke the cardinal rule of homelessness and told me where he was camping. She offered to take me to his spot, but we decided I would go look for him on my own. I didn’t want to implicate her in finding someone who does not want to be found. He had mentioned to me once that he had built a house in a ravine. His carpentry mentorship skills were helping him survive or slowly die.

I went to the spot and was baffled as to how he was able get down into the ravine, let alone build a house and not get caught. There are million-dollar views and houses surrounding the pit where he lives. Other homeless people have died in this ravine. A few years ago, there was a gentleman who broke his ankle and couldn’t walk out, slowly dying alone and forgotten. As I stood looking into the tree covered pit, I felt helpless, unable to figure out how to find him. I didn’t want to reveal his spot to the neighbors, I also didn’t think I could get in and out safely.

Jacob’s ex-girlfriend told me he goes to the smoke shop every day for synthetic marijuana. My plan is to hang out there and pray, hoping to share the good news with Jacob that Jesus, “redeems your life form the pit and crowns you with love and compassion, who satisfies your desires with good things so that your youth is renewed like the eagle’s (Psalm 103:4-5).”

Michael Cox

No doubt faith

As a Street Minister for Operation Nightwatch I get to experience the ways God is moving in the lives of homeless people. Last night I met Donnie, a man of remarkable faith. He told me about how he met the Lord during a Bible study. “I closed the door to my room and started studying the Word. It was just me and the Lord.” As we talked about living out our faith, Donne shared about the persistent violence he encounters on the street. “Rape, murder, and robbery happen all the time out here. The coronavirus has made everything even more challenging. When people get desperate, the devil seems to get power over everyone’s thoughts and actions.” Donnie asked me how my family was doing, if my kids were ok, if I was on top of my mortgage payment. The thoughtfulness of my friends who live in doorways always ministers the love of Jesus to me. In-spite of the struggles Donnie experiences, he is confident in the goodness of God. It was that moment, alone with the Lord and the Bible, that he became confident in the living God. The Holy Spirit pouring out from heaven, speaking love to his beloved. Donnie believes that no matter what happens in his life, the Lord will make a way for him to keep on living. As we part ways, Donnie encourages me to be safe and to never doubt the goodness of God.

My friend Frank has been wearing a one-piece ski suit all winter. It is the perfect outfit for living homeless in Seattle. We meet on the corner and exchange pleasantries. Frank is unusually talkative and excited. He has a shopping cart filled with tins, art supplies, and other dumpster diving treasures. Tapping his finger on a canister of talcum powder, Frank describes his plans to build a drum set. I share my knowledge of the band Aerosmith using sugar packets as percussion instruments and jazz bands using metal plates as wind chimes. Suddenly, Frank looks me in the eye and asks if I know anything about the Trinity. I explain the Triune God and the idea of the Father, Son, and Holy Spirit sharing the same essence, functioning, and operating independently and in unison. Frank has been thinking about the Lords Prayer and discerning the voice of God. “I hear voices in my head. How do you know when the voice is the Holy Spirit? Does the Trinity mean that God speaks in multiple voices?” We talk about the Holy Spirit being a voice of comfort, advocating peace and love. When Jesus is baptized, he hears the Spirit of God say “You are my beloved Son. With whom I am well pleased (Matthew 3:17).” We talk about Pentecostal oneness theology, the Great Schism between the Catholic and Orthodox church, and the tension over the divinity and humanity of Christ.

 Frank asks if I know of any woman that can help him get rid of his lice. We talk about showers, new clothes, shaving your head, and having to get rid of the one-piece ski suit. He asks if I go to a church that has a youth group or a worship band. He is building a drum set and wants to start a percussion ensemble. I invite him to play at my Community Dinner Church that meets down the street in the Salvation Army parking lot. He thanks me for the socks and sandwiches, and I thank him for talking about theology with me. The word really does become flesh and move into the neighborhood (John 1:14 MSG).”

Michael Cox

Honor everyone

My friends on the street treat me with such kindness. It is so moving when someone who is mentally ill and living in a tent asks me how my day is going. Gloria always wants to know if I have watched the movie Maximum Overdrive. She thinks my son will love it. A classic 80’s Stephen King film with AC DC music, Emilio Estevez tank tops, and machines destroying the world. What’s not to love. Declaring, “God is a bad ass,” Gloria is a street theologian, and a good one at that. She tells me that Jesus protects her from sorcery and witchcraft. She is aware that her drinking is destructive and ultimately killing her. She tells me that sometimes, “sin feels good while it’s happening”. I agree and we both laugh. We talk for a good long while. We pray for freedom from addiction and shame. She tells me that she doesn’t have any shame just regret. Respectful of my time, she asks if I need to get going and thanks me for listening to her. Everyone feels honored when they are heard.

William has been out of work because of the pandemic. He was a bar back and bouncer at a sex/bondage nightclub. He tells me that he misses the work but is glad to not be there anymore. “It was kind of my scene and kind of not.”  We discuss the connection between internalized trauma and unhealthy expressions of love. William is a rape survivor and agrees with me that healing is a slow miracle. Such a tender, vulnerable moment shared on the street.

Several times on Monday night my friends on the street asked to pray for me. I received prayers of appreciation, safety, and protection. Brian thanked God for me because it gives him hope knowing that people are out making sure he is alive. His faith in humanity is renewed when people stop and say hi to him. He also asked me for a five-person tent, a generator, razors, and hydrogen peroxide. One time he asked me if I had a van he could have. The Bible does say ask, seek, and knock!

I am speechless when people who live under the freeway, are thoughtful enough to ask me how my Christmas was. Humility and honor seem to be the same thing. Mellissa and I prayed for God to provide for our daily needs. She thanked God for her boyfriends continued success in anger management and for the high heeled shoes she found at the gas station. We talked about our sobriety and she prayed the serenity prayer over me. I cry thinking about her roller covered head poking out of her tent. She asks me how the hair rollers look and is excited that she found them in the garbage. All I can say is beautiful. We receive courage, strength, and wisdom when we “honor everyone (1 Peter 2:17).”

Michael Cox

Walking with the Lord

Rosemary attends the Community Dinner every Tuesday night. Attending, can be defined as drinking Bud Ice at the bus stop and screaming obscenities into the air. Alcohol and yelling usually attend our community gatherings. The first time I met Rosemary she was “attending”, and “participating”, in the evening service. One of our well-meaning volunteers told her that she needed to be quiet or leave. Much to Mr. Well Meanings surprise, Rosemary was not interested in complying. I was also not interested in having her leave or comply. After all, we meet in a parking lot surrounded by alcohol and screaming. She is a perfect match for our church. Over the next few months, she would stop by the dinner and get a meal or a coffee. She would pace up and down the block, screaming things that actually made me blush. She told me her name, got mad when I remembered it, and hugged me. Throughout the week, I would see her downtown, screaming in front of different bus stops. She would remember me and my clerical collar, hug me, and we would pray.

Two weeks ago, I was irritated at the dinner church. The meal was messy. The weather was messier. Wind was blowing cold rain on us. The tent was dripping rain onto the fruit salad. Volunteers were few and running late. When the weather is that bad, homeless people try to find a dry place to stay. Food, and my charming personality become less of a priority. I had a lot of leftovers that I was able to bring to messy, wet, homeless encampments. I finished the evening thinking, its always important to be consistent. Showing up on time, all the time, speaks more than any words I could ever say.

The next week I was recharged and ready for action. I had a renewed sense of calling and purpose. It wasn’t raining and I was determined to be a blessing. We pull up to the parking lot and Rosemary is waiting for us. She is drinking a Bud Ice and asks if we are having church tonight. She asks if we would pray for her. She tells us that she isn’t walking with the Lord like she should. She tells us that her methamphetamine use is a struggle and a problem. That the devil keeps tempting her with drugs. My coworker Ben prays for her and our messy, alcohol soaked, scream filled church service has begun! “Those who abandon everything in order to seek God know well that he is the God of the poor.” Thomas Merton.

Michael Cox

Public health

Over the last year I have been able to work alongside a group of Public Health Nurses. Together, we walk around homeless encampments, providing spiritual and physical care. Healing wounds that traumatize the people that we serve. I love the Public Health Nurses! They have come to my dinner church and provided flu shots and Hepatitis vaccinations to the most vulnerable of our city. They lovingly refer people to medically assisted drug treatment and usually have candy. They provide wound care to people with serious, life threating infections. They also get yelled at, accused of being government pawns of big Pharma, sent to infect and profit off the poor.

 Turning a bus stop into a church service/medical clinic is easier than you think. Last week we met Patricia downtown. She is from Arkansas and told us that she has breast cancer and diabetes. “Praise the Lord though, I still haven’t lost any of my hair!” She thanked God that she ran into us and we prayed. When we asked her if she was interested in a flu shot, she was clearly enthusiastic. “Praise the Lord, oh yes I would!” We all lingered and listened to Patricia as she shared deep wisdom from the stories of her life.

We met two women from Florida that thought it was wonderful that we were out serving the Lord. They have both been living on the street for two years and believe God has called them to share the Good News of Jesus to the homeless community. Rhonda asked if she could pray for us. We all held hands and received a blessing from our new friend. I cannot imagine a sweeter prayer ever being uttered.

We had our second church service/medical clinic at the next bus stop. Matthew wanted prayer for permanent housing, his kids, and his addiction. He was excited to get his flu shot and wanted to know if it would be on his backside. I told him that would cost extra. We all laughed, and he rolled up his sleeve. It is an amazing sight to see a man who has survived years of homelessness and incarceration flinch at the first prick of a needle. Matthew shared the fear he had of going to the doctor. He thinks he has AIDS but is to afraid to know for sure. It was a powerful moment of openness and vulnerability. The nurses spoke to him in a way that made me want to go the clinic.

My friend Rebecca was down the street screaming. I first met her at my dinner church where she can be found screaming and drinking Bud Ice. She was happy to see me and gave me three fist bumps. While the nurses were giving a drunk man a flu shot, Rebecca and I hold hands and pray. She is hard to understand but through the yelling I believe she is asking God for freedom from her Meth addiction. Its hard to see our traveling medical prayer circus and not smile.

We walk up the street and notice a man selling prepackaged cuts of meat. No one has ever seen anything like this. Who is buying stolen meat at eleven pm on third and Pike? Next to him is a group of young man acting tough and trying to intimidate us. The leader of their group asks for the nurse’s phone numbers. I ask him if he wants my number too! He asks if I am a preacher. I say yes, and ask him if he wants to pray? All the street credibility in the world can’t resist the presence of God. We pray and I can feel his heart move. He is, for the moment, not full of macho street bravado. Now, he is awkward and uncomfortable, instantly laid bare before his creator, the lover of his soul. He thanks me and then tells his friends to shut up. “The fucking church outreach nurses are here.”

Michael Cox