Right after Ben and Megan had been robbed for the third time, we all sequestered in the kitchen, like hostages. We watched as two police officers poked through their personal belongings – the violation following the violation.
“My guess is it’s somebody you know,” one officer said, freeing a notepad from the oppression of his belly-tight belt.
“We know that,” Megan said, making them feel stupid while making it seem like she was making nice.
“Well, we can dust everything they might have touched, but that probably won’t prove anything,” he said, then smiled, “It’s not like on CSI.”
How do we hire them? I thought, glancing out the window. Recently, our neighbors had the eco-friendly idea of hanging tinsel on their outside bushes; within minutes the wind had strewn it over the street and our yard. Soon the squirrels would be pooping silver. Still, it sparkled pretty, provided you knew it was tinsel, and not sharpened razor blades, which, in this neighborhood, was a more reasonable conclusion.
The other officer walked by a desk and stopped. “They didn’t take the computer,” he puzzled, peering into the dark monitor, as though it were a Magic 8 ball that would give him an answer. Just then the screensaver started, a slideshow of community house pictures: us smiling, neighborhood kids smiling, staff smiling, volunteers smiling; everyone smiling as though they had discovered a really good secret.
“Thanks for being here,” Megan said to Kevin and I. We shrugged and shuffled our feet, unsure of where else we should be but here.
Ben braced Megan from the back, his arms resting against her ribs, hands cradling their unborn baby. Last Christmas they played Mary and Joseph. This Christmas they are not playing. Their baby will be born in the ‘hood, in our stable of bachelors, in the awe of little wise kids. And her name shall be called Cadence Grace.
When one of the disciples, Philip, told his friend, Nathanael, that Jesus was from Nazareth, Nathanael exclaimed, “Nazareth! Can anything good come from there?” Philip smiled and responded, “Come and see.”
Thursday, December 22, 2011
Thursday, December 1, 2011
991
There were 3 kinds of chips, 4 kinds of dip, 5 kinds of vegetables and some kind of nut mixture. Which was kind of ridiculous, considering the meal was yet to come.
People hovered around the table like hummingbirds, dipping into this and that. “That’s hummus,” I enlightened a cousin who was contemplating it, “It’s got olives – you’ll like it, you’re Italian. Well, I mean, it’s Middle-eastern, but whatever.” After delivering that bonbon of a bon mot (funny outside, foolish inside), I strolled to the beverage table.
There were 3 kinds of wine, 3 kinds of beer and 4 kinds of soda. Which was kind of ridiculous, considering wine was the only one worth drinking.
“Hey, Ben,” another cousin began, after a swig of beer, “where are you living now? Your dad mentioned something a few months ago about you living – ”
“In the ghetto,” I sang.
“Right,” he chuckled, “how is that?”
“Well, the other day some kids beat my car with a bat,” I smiled, raising my glass to the kids.
“Really?” He murmured.
“Really,” I repeated. “They probably think they’re the 99% and we’re the 1%.” I gulped some wine and looked into the half-full glass. “They’re probably right.”
People hovered around the table like hummingbirds, dipping into this and that. “That’s hummus,” I enlightened a cousin who was contemplating it, “It’s got olives – you’ll like it, you’re Italian. Well, I mean, it’s Middle-eastern, but whatever.” After delivering that bonbon of a bon mot (funny outside, foolish inside), I strolled to the beverage table.
There were 3 kinds of wine, 3 kinds of beer and 4 kinds of soda. Which was kind of ridiculous, considering wine was the only one worth drinking.
“Hey, Ben,” another cousin began, after a swig of beer, “where are you living now? Your dad mentioned something a few months ago about you living – ”
“In the ghetto,” I sang.
“Right,” he chuckled, “how is that?”
“Well, the other day some kids beat my car with a bat,” I smiled, raising my glass to the kids.
“Really?” He murmured.
“Really,” I repeated. “They probably think they’re the 99% and we’re the 1%.” I gulped some wine and looked into the half-full glass. “They’re probably right.”
Thursday, November 17, 2011
Punchinello
I wasn’t feeling so into it.
Shadows fell over my soul like the lights coming down in the auditorium.
A self-proclaimed approval junkie, service whore and control freak, pregnancy and all its limitations and needs have not been easy for me. My sense of self-worth had taken a beating over the past few months that would liken itself to a climactic scene in any of the Rocky movies.
Our row was filled with an odd mixture of caring adults, too-cool teenagers, an overly excitable 5th grader and our pastor’s son – who looked slightly bewildered by the whole thing.
“You are Special” heralded the fifteen-foot-tall book at center stage. Don’t cry, I mentally coached myself. Chaperones don’t cry.
The ballet began. A whirl of colors and sounds, organza and puppets filled first the stage and then our own hearts with a sense of wonder and excitement. Even the too-cool teens were sucked in as the story unfolded.
Each puppet was different, hand carved by their Maker, but they stuck gold stars or ugly grey dots on one another, based on performance.
Some of the puppets flew across the stage in great leaps and bounds and twisting flips that would make Mary-Lou Retton green. Others stumbled over their own ballet shoes by intention.
Our eyes grew wide as the story came to its crux. The clumsiest, ugliest, most unwanted of all the puppets went to talk to the Maker.
The puppet bemoaned his existence, but the Maker waded through the muck of his self- doubt and embraced him, explaining, “You are special, because you’re mine. I made you and for that, and no other reason, do you matter to me.”
I watched the children, so many of who don’t hear that they are made in God’s image and loved dearly by Him, except at Bible Club, once a week. Their faces glowed as the realization that this Maker was a picture of the same God we talk about all the time. Their faces were a testament to the realization, at least for that moment, how special they are to Him.
It’s true, the Spirit whispered, and a tear dropped from my eye.
The pride and joy of my life, my collection of stars and dots, was revealed in that moment for what it truly is: ropes of lies I have believed and told myself, tying them over and over again, my whole life.
As we exited the auditorium, the kids were all giggles, but I was silent.
I heard the Maker’s voice again. “You matter because I made you. You are mine. Nothing else matters.”
A grey dot fell out of my back pocket.
Thursday, November 3, 2011
Treasure
How has the neighborhood changed since you’ve been there? What’s the biggest difference from when you first moved in? I get asked questions like these once in awhile. And I feel like I’ve heard it more often recently. It’s a fair question. We want to see progress and change. We want to know that something we’ve invested in is doing what it’s supposed to, making an impact in people’s lives, and changing things for the better. If what we’re doing isn’t producing change or doing something different that was happening before, than why do we do it?
Well, I don’t know how to answer those questions. What is the way to measure if I’ve been “successful”? Is the crime rate lower? Are there less foreclosures on the block? Are there fewer fights between kids? Are there less people living in poverty? I don’t think I can answer a definite yes to any of those. I don’t know if I can give positive answers to a lot of questions like that. But what I can say is that I’ve been changed. I’m different than when I moved in. I have been changed by neighbors’ generosity. I have been changed by hearing the perspective of those Jesus says are blessed. I have been changed by being faced with my greed, selfishness, and privilege among many who are poor and oppressed.
I haven’t seen drastic changes take place, but I have seen glimpses of the kingdom. Little things happen that remind me that God is at work here, that he hasn’t forgotten the poor and oppressed, and that seeds of his kingdom have been scattered all around. And the kingdom is like a mustard seed- it starts out small, but will one day grow and become a huge tree offering rest and shade. It is like a treasure-a treasure so great you might want to sell everything you have to get it. Because it is beautiful. It is priceless. It just takes awhile to uncover it all.
Well, I don’t know how to answer those questions. What is the way to measure if I’ve been “successful”? Is the crime rate lower? Are there less foreclosures on the block? Are there fewer fights between kids? Are there less people living in poverty? I don’t think I can answer a definite yes to any of those. I don’t know if I can give positive answers to a lot of questions like that. But what I can say is that I’ve been changed. I’m different than when I moved in. I have been changed by neighbors’ generosity. I have been changed by hearing the perspective of those Jesus says are blessed. I have been changed by being faced with my greed, selfishness, and privilege among many who are poor and oppressed.
I haven’t seen drastic changes take place, but I have seen glimpses of the kingdom. Little things happen that remind me that God is at work here, that he hasn’t forgotten the poor and oppressed, and that seeds of his kingdom have been scattered all around. And the kingdom is like a mustard seed- it starts out small, but will one day grow and become a huge tree offering rest and shade. It is like a treasure-a treasure so great you might want to sell everything you have to get it. Because it is beautiful. It is priceless. It just takes awhile to uncover it all.
Wednesday, October 26, 2011
Home Alone
The wind blows from its diaphragm and the trees do the wave like a crowd at a sports game. For a moment I marvel at the movement; it’s paradoxically collective and individual. It would be maddening to animate. Maybe this is why there aren’t many animated movies starring trees.
For three days the housemates have been at a conference. Every day I have the same conversation with a different kid, or the same kid. “Where Kevin at?” they ask. “At a conference.” I answer. “Where Ben and Megan at?” They ask. “At the same conference.” I answer. They walk away.
The conference is hosted by the Christian Community Development Association, and I was invited, but I declined. It’s held in Indianapolis. Indianapolis, Minneapolis…what stupid names. “Welcome to the city of the state we live in.” That’s more Original than Werther’s! Oh I know, there are several Greek scholars who could expound on Polis in terms of Philosophy and History, but I would get angry and argue with them, and then gyros would be ruined, ruined, and I don’t know why that matters since I don’t eat gyros due to Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
A chill tickles my spine but I refuse to go inside and put on a sweater because I would soon take it off. Tonight is the restless middle child of summer and autumn; so desperate is its desire for approval, and its denial of it, I am almost moved to pity, but move past it to repulsion.
On the curb, several stacks of furniture and garbage form makeshift memorials, commemorating those who have recently moved out – people of various sizes and textures, each one of them a feature in the topography. Opening the door to my car, sometimes I patted a hand on the kids’ heads, waved a hand at the adults. Closing the door to my room, I laid hands on the keyboard.
A friend calls. I do not answer. They leave a voicemail. I listen to it: “I’m feeling lonely, but that’s not your fault.”
Across the street I see a man on his front porch holding a cell phone. I wonder if he sees me.
For three days the housemates have been at a conference. Every day I have the same conversation with a different kid, or the same kid. “Where Kevin at?” they ask. “At a conference.” I answer. “Where Ben and Megan at?” They ask. “At the same conference.” I answer. They walk away.
The conference is hosted by the Christian Community Development Association, and I was invited, but I declined. It’s held in Indianapolis. Indianapolis, Minneapolis…what stupid names. “Welcome to the city of the state we live in.” That’s more Original than Werther’s! Oh I know, there are several Greek scholars who could expound on Polis in terms of Philosophy and History, but I would get angry and argue with them, and then gyros would be ruined, ruined, and I don’t know why that matters since I don’t eat gyros due to Irritable Bowel Syndrome.
A chill tickles my spine but I refuse to go inside and put on a sweater because I would soon take it off. Tonight is the restless middle child of summer and autumn; so desperate is its desire for approval, and its denial of it, I am almost moved to pity, but move past it to repulsion.
On the curb, several stacks of furniture and garbage form makeshift memorials, commemorating those who have recently moved out – people of various sizes and textures, each one of them a feature in the topography. Opening the door to my car, sometimes I patted a hand on the kids’ heads, waved a hand at the adults. Closing the door to my room, I laid hands on the keyboard.
A friend calls. I do not answer. They leave a voicemail. I listen to it: “I’m feeling lonely, but that’s not your fault.”
Across the street I see a man on his front porch holding a cell phone. I wonder if he sees me.
Monday, October 3, 2011
All For One
That afternoon, the intersection of North and Fond Du Lac Avenues was busy being the busiest intersection in Milwaukee. Everyone was Pooh with their head in the bee hive, selfish selfish selfish and stupid stupid stupid.
In the crosswalk, there was a man wearing a Packers jersey, a floral scarf on his head and carrying a single plastic white hanger. Each footstep seemed a philosophical statement: No one cares, therefore I do not care. No one honked, no one looked, no one pointed. To us he was a human construction barrel, to be avoided.
As I turned, there was a woman standing by the bus stop, not waiting for the bus. The combination of her clothes – or what was left of them – suggested a costume. I wanted to give her a ride, but I realized that might be misinterpreted by her, and the police.
Further down the street, a young couple waited to cross. She held the child like a bag of groceries and he stood five feet away like he didn’t know them. The smoke from his cigarette slipped into my cracked window.
I looked into the rear view mirror and a pair of narrowed eyes looked back. I rubbed the gunk from the corners. I looked away. I looked ahead.
When I arrived at the community house, it was time for Bible Club. A boy gripped my arm like it was a branch hanging over a rushing river. “What do you think God looks like?” Asked Kevin. “He’s a yellow spirit,” Shouted one kid. “I bet He’s got big sandals,” Shouted a second. The third was so quiet Kevin had to repeat it for us: “Maybe He looks like all of us put together.”
In the crosswalk, there was a man wearing a Packers jersey, a floral scarf on his head and carrying a single plastic white hanger. Each footstep seemed a philosophical statement: No one cares, therefore I do not care. No one honked, no one looked, no one pointed. To us he was a human construction barrel, to be avoided.
As I turned, there was a woman standing by the bus stop, not waiting for the bus. The combination of her clothes – or what was left of them – suggested a costume. I wanted to give her a ride, but I realized that might be misinterpreted by her, and the police.
Further down the street, a young couple waited to cross. She held the child like a bag of groceries and he stood five feet away like he didn’t know them. The smoke from his cigarette slipped into my cracked window.
I looked into the rear view mirror and a pair of narrowed eyes looked back. I rubbed the gunk from the corners. I looked away. I looked ahead.
When I arrived at the community house, it was time for Bible Club. A boy gripped my arm like it was a branch hanging over a rushing river. “What do you think God looks like?” Asked Kevin. “He’s a yellow spirit,” Shouted one kid. “I bet He’s got big sandals,” Shouted a second. The third was so quiet Kevin had to repeat it for us: “Maybe He looks like all of us put together.”
Saturday, September 17, 2011
Domestic Dispute
Some weeks we have Bible Club. Some weeks we have Bible Fight Club. This week was definitely BFC, hot and crispy.
In our meeting beforehand Kevin outlined the lesson plan, which was about Joseph. (Not the one who got to be Jesus’ father, but the one who got a multi-colored coat from his father.) Kevin was concerned that the story was too long and its moral too vague for the children.
He needn’t have been concerned, because he never got to tell Joseph’s story. Instead, the children acted it out. They boasted to, argued with, and betrayed one another. Kevin preached about forgiveness and forgave them all. And somehow it was all right. We all walked away from it like the survivors of a plane crash, giddy, grateful.
That night, above the groaning of my air conditioner and the heartbeat of my stereo, I heard shouting. A limited vocabulary of expletives conveying a broad diversity of hatred. I was sure it was right outside my window, in the backyard, some spontaneous angry cookout, assault with a spatula. But when I opened the blinds no one was there. Walking out of my room I found Kevin, who was darting between watching the basketball game on TV and watching out the front windows.
“What’s going on out there?” I barked, as if the question had the power to restore sanity.
On the balcony, our opera box, we peered at the drama below. Shadows of men and women grappled and shoved. One streetlight respected their privacy and refrained from illuminating.
“I’m going to call the alderman and get him to fix that streetlight,” Kevin scolded, “and I did call the police, but they take forever to get here.”
A siren responded to his accusation. 12 cop cars raced in and cops bounced out of them. They surrounded the scene, dedicated extras awaiting a director’s cue. Then something gave – they engaged – grabbing and separating, commanding and escorting.
Kevin shook his head and sighed, “None of this would happen if people just watched the game.”
Some nights later, as I was driving down our alley that the city calls a street, two cats rolled in front of my car, clawing at one another. Swearing, I slammed on the brake.
They leaped apart and glared at me, eyes glowing green. They were going to kill each other. I was getting in the way.
In our meeting beforehand Kevin outlined the lesson plan, which was about Joseph. (Not the one who got to be Jesus’ father, but the one who got a multi-colored coat from his father.) Kevin was concerned that the story was too long and its moral too vague for the children.
He needn’t have been concerned, because he never got to tell Joseph’s story. Instead, the children acted it out. They boasted to, argued with, and betrayed one another. Kevin preached about forgiveness and forgave them all. And somehow it was all right. We all walked away from it like the survivors of a plane crash, giddy, grateful.
That night, above the groaning of my air conditioner and the heartbeat of my stereo, I heard shouting. A limited vocabulary of expletives conveying a broad diversity of hatred. I was sure it was right outside my window, in the backyard, some spontaneous angry cookout, assault with a spatula. But when I opened the blinds no one was there. Walking out of my room I found Kevin, who was darting between watching the basketball game on TV and watching out the front windows.
“What’s going on out there?” I barked, as if the question had the power to restore sanity.
On the balcony, our opera box, we peered at the drama below. Shadows of men and women grappled and shoved. One streetlight respected their privacy and refrained from illuminating.
“I’m going to call the alderman and get him to fix that streetlight,” Kevin scolded, “and I did call the police, but they take forever to get here.”
A siren responded to his accusation. 12 cop cars raced in and cops bounced out of them. They surrounded the scene, dedicated extras awaiting a director’s cue. Then something gave – they engaged – grabbing and separating, commanding and escorting.
Kevin shook his head and sighed, “None of this would happen if people just watched the game.”
Some nights later, as I was driving down our alley that the city calls a street, two cats rolled in front of my car, clawing at one another. Swearing, I slammed on the brake.
They leaped apart and glared at me, eyes glowing green. They were going to kill each other. I was getting in the way.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Picking Raspberries
This summer we took the kids who come to our weekly Bible Club to a farm outside the city to pick raspberries. We wanted to give the kids an experience that most of them have never had before, to get out of the city, and get an idea of where their food comes from. After our Bible lesson we loaded up the vans and headed west out of the city on I-94. 45 minutes later we took the exit off the freeway. After a few miles the kids began to realize that they weren’t in Milwaukee anymore. The concrete sidewalks and rows of houses were replaced by barns, silos, and rows and rows of corn. They started asking questions. “Where are we?” “What is that?” “Where is everybody?” “Who lives out here?” As we drove on we just saw more and more fields. And then the horror movie references started coming out. “Jason lives out here!” (No, they were not talking about our pastor!) “I think I just saw Freddy!” “This is where the Texas Chainsaw Massacre happened!” Windows started to get rolled up. Doors got locked. I started to laugh as I explained how I grew up around a bunch of cornfields like the ones we were seeing. “But someone’s gonna come out of there and get us!” As we pulled into the farm the kids had convinced themselves that evil chainsaw wielding zombies would be coming out of the corn to decapitate us all. “We’re not getting out of the van!” After some convincing that no one was going to come murder us they began to get out. And we had an awesome time picking and eating raspberries. On the way home they talked about how cool it was to be on the farm and that it was so neat to see where the food came from. There was no more talk about evil zombies coming out of the corn to chop us into pieces.
Sadly, just as the kids had fear about the country, where they’ve never been, many people are scared of the city, where the kids live. The fear that zombies will come out of the corn is just as crazy to think as there’s nothing but drugs in violence in the hood. We all have fears of the things we don’t know. It’s different, so we put up walls and begin to think the worst. Our fears keep us away and separate us from those things we don’t know. But the kids from our Bible Club show us that when we take the time to experience what we’re afraid of, we might find something wonderful and beautiful. What we thought produced evil, scary murderers might actually produce the food that we need to survive. If we face the fears we have about the central city, we might find that what we thought was a dangerous, no good place, might actually lead us to loving, generous people who can teach us about life, and about God. Where are the places you don’t want to go, the people you don’t want to meet? Maybe you need to encounter the other, and find the beauty that God wants you to discover there.
Sadly, just as the kids had fear about the country, where they’ve never been, many people are scared of the city, where the kids live. The fear that zombies will come out of the corn is just as crazy to think as there’s nothing but drugs in violence in the hood. We all have fears of the things we don’t know. It’s different, so we put up walls and begin to think the worst. Our fears keep us away and separate us from those things we don’t know. But the kids from our Bible Club show us that when we take the time to experience what we’re afraid of, we might find something wonderful and beautiful. What we thought produced evil, scary murderers might actually produce the food that we need to survive. If we face the fears we have about the central city, we might find that what we thought was a dangerous, no good place, might actually lead us to loving, generous people who can teach us about life, and about God. Where are the places you don’t want to go, the people you don’t want to meet? Maybe you need to encounter the other, and find the beauty that God wants you to discover there.
Thursday, September 1, 2011
spat on
It was safe on The Outside. Before I knew anything. Before I'd ever stopped to think once about class or race, wealth distribution or justice, my calling and how that might impact more than just where I serve on a Sunday morning or Wednesday night.
But He drew me in.
With cords of loving kindness and the heart of a Father who loves His child too much to allow her to stay playing among the posies as the world just beyond her gaze wilted and turned to dust.
And so I began to see.
Like having eyes for the first time, I began to see the world beyond the grayscale in which I had been living. Shadows that had lurked around corners in the fantastically unaware world of The Outside became violent, corrosive problems that were not shadows at all, but rather a cancer eating away deep at the heart of humanity.
Pained cries and shouts of injustice that had but echoed faintly on The Outside now deafened my ears. I could hear nothing else but the heart of the Father whisper.
And so I was called.
And I pressed in.
I pressed in to see more clearly. To hear the cries to which I'm still turning deaf ears in the name of convenience. To understand. To experience. To follow my Lord.
Sometimes those who press in are spat on, those who dare to cross borders.
Sometimes we go unnoticed, unseen, and we are often misunderstood.
But we press on. Even when we're spat on.
The Son of God put on flesh and came to live with us. He pressed in.
It was safe on The Outside, but that wouldn't do. The calling of the Divine is higher than that of Smokey the Bear. We are meant for more than safety.
Son of God, put on flesh, come to dwell...and be spat on.
If I would aspire so high as to become like Christ, the meaning would reach beyond my language usage or how I spend my Friday night. Jesus came to dwell. He reached in, drawn by His own ties of loving kindness and moved in with the ones who spat on Him.
He went unnoticed, unseen, and always misunderstood.
He gave up home and security, comfort and consistency, all the beauty and power we've yet to even comprehend to be broken. Poured out like water.
Spat on.
Spat on by me to this day.
Yet He came. He lived. He stayed. His Holy Presence indwelling still.
It was safe on The Outside, but now I'm in. It's part of who I am, who we're called to be.
Living examples of the risen Christ, putting on flesh and moving in.
And living.
And staying.
Even when we're spat on.
But He drew me in.
With cords of loving kindness and the heart of a Father who loves His child too much to allow her to stay playing among the posies as the world just beyond her gaze wilted and turned to dust.
And so I began to see.
Like having eyes for the first time, I began to see the world beyond the grayscale in which I had been living. Shadows that had lurked around corners in the fantastically unaware world of The Outside became violent, corrosive problems that were not shadows at all, but rather a cancer eating away deep at the heart of humanity.
Pained cries and shouts of injustice that had but echoed faintly on The Outside now deafened my ears. I could hear nothing else but the heart of the Father whisper.
And so I was called.
And I pressed in.
I pressed in to see more clearly. To hear the cries to which I'm still turning deaf ears in the name of convenience. To understand. To experience. To follow my Lord.
Sometimes those who press in are spat on, those who dare to cross borders.
Sometimes we go unnoticed, unseen, and we are often misunderstood.
But we press on. Even when we're spat on.
The Son of God put on flesh and came to live with us. He pressed in.
It was safe on The Outside, but that wouldn't do. The calling of the Divine is higher than that of Smokey the Bear. We are meant for more than safety.
Son of God, put on flesh, come to dwell...and be spat on.
If I would aspire so high as to become like Christ, the meaning would reach beyond my language usage or how I spend my Friday night. Jesus came to dwell. He reached in, drawn by His own ties of loving kindness and moved in with the ones who spat on Him.
He went unnoticed, unseen, and always misunderstood.
He gave up home and security, comfort and consistency, all the beauty and power we've yet to even comprehend to be broken. Poured out like water.
Spat on.
Spat on by me to this day.
Yet He came. He lived. He stayed. His Holy Presence indwelling still.
It was safe on The Outside, but now I'm in. It's part of who I am, who we're called to be.
Living examples of the risen Christ, putting on flesh and moving in.
And living.
And staying.
Even when we're spat on.
Saturday, August 20, 2011
Kids on the Block
People are looking at us. Not us. Me. I look suspicious. A white man driving a car full of black kids. In the most segregated city in the country. But statistics do not make people; people make statistics.
The girl in the front seat? A few nights ago she was crying on our front steps. I wondered how long she’d been sitting there. Kevin asked her what was wrong. Megan sat down and the girl pressed into her, eyes squeezed shut, as if wanting to be absorbed. Someone else’s mother called out. The girl walked over to her. “She just can’t find her mama,” the mother said.
The boy in the back seat? The other night he was holding his baby sister. “’Sup Ben?” He nodded, implying that holding a baby was now cool, because he was doing it. This is the same boy who recently rode his bike right in front of my car without looking. I imagined hitting him, holding his little body in the road, saying, No. No. No.
The boy sitting next to him? A couple days ago he asked, “Could you bring out the hoop?” I followed him to the garage, unlocked it, reached for the handle to lift up the door and stopped. “I’ve got to get a glove to lift it up,” I said, remembering how thin and sharp the handle is. “It’s fine, I’ve got it,” he said, gripping the handle and yanking upward. “You’ve got thick skin.” I told him. He smiled and held up his hand. It was bleeding.
“Does everyone have on their seatbelts?” I ask, checking the rear view mirror. I don’t see any kids. I lower the mirror and three little faces look back. While they are in my car I will keep them safe.
The girl in the front seat? A few nights ago she was crying on our front steps. I wondered how long she’d been sitting there. Kevin asked her what was wrong. Megan sat down and the girl pressed into her, eyes squeezed shut, as if wanting to be absorbed. Someone else’s mother called out. The girl walked over to her. “She just can’t find her mama,” the mother said.
The boy in the back seat? The other night he was holding his baby sister. “’Sup Ben?” He nodded, implying that holding a baby was now cool, because he was doing it. This is the same boy who recently rode his bike right in front of my car without looking. I imagined hitting him, holding his little body in the road, saying, No. No. No.
The boy sitting next to him? A couple days ago he asked, “Could you bring out the hoop?” I followed him to the garage, unlocked it, reached for the handle to lift up the door and stopped. “I’ve got to get a glove to lift it up,” I said, remembering how thin and sharp the handle is. “It’s fine, I’ve got it,” he said, gripping the handle and yanking upward. “You’ve got thick skin.” I told him. He smiled and held up his hand. It was bleeding.
“Does everyone have on their seatbelts?” I ask, checking the rear view mirror. I don’t see any kids. I lower the mirror and three little faces look back. While they are in my car I will keep them safe.
Saturday, August 13, 2011
Mattresses and Ministry the life of me.
Mattresses… I had never really given them much thought before. I can sleep on pretty much anything and wake up the next day feeling fine. I’ve always appreciated my ability to sleep anywhere. Airplanes, trains, buses, the floor. I never ever thought that my first big boy job with benefits, insurance, and the delightful concept of a paid vacation would be selling mattresses.
When Meg and I decided that we wanted to answer God’s call on our lives to minister and love children, especially those from tough situations, and live among them I knew I was going to need to get another job as well. But mattresses…Really? Weird? I never grew up thinking about being a mattress salesman…
Having a calling and spending forty hours a week on something that’s not my calling makes for an interesting situation. In some ways it’s fantastic. The kids in the neighborhood see me get up, put on a tie, and go to work every day to provide for my family and that is a wonderful. They don’t often see examples of that type of behavior modeled for them and I love that aspect of my job. I have wonderful bosses that allow me to only work 4 days a week instead of five and still receive benefits and vacation time. They are flexible with my schedule and I was able to come to all of VBS this past week and that was fantastic and wonderful time to see God work. I get each Tuesday off so that I can be here at the house for bible club and be a part of what God is doing through that.
Other days it’s a little tougher. I missed a lot of basketball games that kids in the neighborhood wanted me to attend because I work eleven hours on Saturday and that’s game day. Some days the store is slammed and I come home really tired and all I want to do is sit inside my house and rest, not go and play cans with the 9 year old next store. Having to work the occasional Sunday afternoon and rush out of church as soon as the sermon is over. Less time to spend planning what I am going to teach on a Sunday morning in Sunday school.
All in all being bi vocational is working out really well. Megan and I love being at TCC and being a part of the community. We love being here in the neighborhood, seeing community built and racial barriers being torn down. God is blessing our ministry both here in the community house and at the church on Sunday mornings. We are seeing those two groups interact more and more and it’s a wonderful thing. Our bills are paid and we’re getting the chance to do what we’re called to do with our lives. Some days were tired and worn, but God and the community that makes up TCC fills and recharges our batteries. God has us exactly where he wants us to be and is working in ways we would never expect, like a mattress store.
When Meg and I decided that we wanted to answer God’s call on our lives to minister and love children, especially those from tough situations, and live among them I knew I was going to need to get another job as well. But mattresses…Really? Weird? I never grew up thinking about being a mattress salesman…
Having a calling and spending forty hours a week on something that’s not my calling makes for an interesting situation. In some ways it’s fantastic. The kids in the neighborhood see me get up, put on a tie, and go to work every day to provide for my family and that is a wonderful. They don’t often see examples of that type of behavior modeled for them and I love that aspect of my job. I have wonderful bosses that allow me to only work 4 days a week instead of five and still receive benefits and vacation time. They are flexible with my schedule and I was able to come to all of VBS this past week and that was fantastic and wonderful time to see God work. I get each Tuesday off so that I can be here at the house for bible club and be a part of what God is doing through that.
Other days it’s a little tougher. I missed a lot of basketball games that kids in the neighborhood wanted me to attend because I work eleven hours on Saturday and that’s game day. Some days the store is slammed and I come home really tired and all I want to do is sit inside my house and rest, not go and play cans with the 9 year old next store. Having to work the occasional Sunday afternoon and rush out of church as soon as the sermon is over. Less time to spend planning what I am going to teach on a Sunday morning in Sunday school.
All in all being bi vocational is working out really well. Megan and I love being at TCC and being a part of the community. We love being here in the neighborhood, seeing community built and racial barriers being torn down. God is blessing our ministry both here in the community house and at the church on Sunday mornings. We are seeing those two groups interact more and more and it’s a wonderful thing. Our bills are paid and we’re getting the chance to do what we’re called to do with our lives. Some days were tired and worn, but God and the community that makes up TCC fills and recharges our batteries. God has us exactly where he wants us to be and is working in ways we would never expect, like a mattress store.
Monday, July 25, 2011
Love v. Fear
We live in a culture of fear. Advertisers advertise their products to us often times by creating a scenario where something terrible will happen if we do not use their product. Politicians often play on our worst fears of war, terrorism, financial collapse to solicit our votes. Churches and pastors sometimes literally try to scare the hell out of us. We find fear everywhere and often times we fall prey to this fear as well. We begin to make decision based on fear. We pick neighborhoods to live in based on how safe it is because we fear for our safety. We often give up on our dreams and opt for the path that leads to financial security. I could go on and on…Fear. Fear. Fear. And if we are honest with ourselves we find many of our the decision we make – the big decisions – often have fear at the center.
But Scripture says again and again, “Fear not.” “Fear not.” “Fear not.” It appears that fear is not what God wants of us. Fear should not be a motivation of what we do or do not do.
Philippians says this, “And this is my prayer: that your love may abound more and more in knowledge and depth of insight so that you may be able to discern what is best and may be pure and blameless until the day of Christ.”(1.9-11)
That your love may abound, overflow, overwhelm one another. This love is not “like” love – its agape love – the type of love that seeks the benefit of the other. It destroys selfishness. It pours itself out for the benefit of the other.
Paul is saying here that our ability to “discern” should be based in love. So the decisions we make should not be made out of fear – but rather should be made out of the love that seeks the benefit of the other above the benefit of ourselves.
Dangerous neighborhood? Maybe our decision to engage that neighborhood should not be based in fear of what may happen to us if we go there but rather how we are called to love there. Following my dreams? Afraid of what it will cost you? Maybe we are fearing the wrong thing – maybe we should be afraid of what it will cost us if we do not follow our dreams. What it will cost us to not follow Jesus where He is leading.
Some people say that the opposite of love is indifference. That may be so – but I’d say the opposite of love is fear. Fear paralyzes. Fear builds walls between us and those that are different from us. Fear keeps us from following Jesus into those hard and risky places and engaging in those relationships that are not so easy.
But we are not called to fear. We are called to love – abounding, overwhelming agape love. From that place of love we should build our lives and make our decisions.
What if all the followers of Jesus all over our country decided to make decision of where they will live, where they will work, how they will spend their time and money and resources not based out of fear or self-interest but rather out of abounding love for others – the type of agape, self-sacrificing love that Paul is talking about here. I wonder what kind of world that would look like?
Today – what decisions are you making out of fear? Where are you afraid to follow Jesus because you are afraid of the consequences?
What does love have to say about that?
Monday, July 4, 2011
Town & Country
The birds sing in a discord of styles: some sound like they are in an opera, others in a lounge, others in a glee club; still, they sing in harmony. The sun scales the smooth bluff of a blue sky. The trees bustle about in preparation for the day.
This is my Father’s world.
I forgot…In the city, the boomrattle of car stereos, the screamed conversations, the yodeling of police sirens…I forgot.
God’s house is everywhere; each of His servants is called to a different part of it. But we must remember we were born in the garden.
This is my Father’s world.
I forgot…In the city, the boomrattle of car stereos, the screamed conversations, the yodeling of police sirens…I forgot.
God’s house is everywhere; each of His servants is called to a different part of it. But we must remember we were born in the garden.
Sunday, June 19, 2011
Drivers
This neighborhood is a closed obstacle course
And we are the drivers
We spin the steering wheel
And take our chances
We miss the
Thug crossing the street in traffic
Cadillac with no brake lights
Young mother with a stroller walking between parked cars
We pass the
Children at the bus stop
Teenage prostitute
Drug deal in progress
A siren inquires for respect
And we pull over
The police car flashes by
On its way to somewhere else
And we are the drivers
We spin the steering wheel
And take our chances
We miss the
Thug crossing the street in traffic
Cadillac with no brake lights
Young mother with a stroller walking between parked cars
We pass the
Children at the bus stop
Teenage prostitute
Drug deal in progress
A siren inquires for respect
And we pull over
The police car flashes by
On its way to somewhere else
Monday, June 6, 2011
Friendly Service
I spent the entire day as a quarterback – throwing and running.
This is a metaphor. I am not an athlete. So replace “a quarterback” with “sick”, add “up” after “throwing” and “a fever” after “running.”
By 6:30pm I decided bed was a good decision. Then I remembered: Wednesday is young adult bible study, held in our living room. COMPANY! Though intoxicated with illness, I was compelled to clean.
Let me explain this compulsion. It’s more Nurse Ratched than Florence Nightingale. More about control than service. My roommate Kevin knows and tries not to do anything dirty while I’m looking.
I cleaned only the bathroom and went to bed.
At 8:00pm I woke up and marveled at how quiet it was. Maybe they’re studying Psalm 23, I thought.
At 10:00pm I got up to use the bathroom and found Kevin in the kitchen washing dishes.
“You guys were quiet,” I said. He smiled, and even though my head was filled with cream of brain soup, I understood. “Did you have bible study downstairs?” I asked.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” he admitted, as if annoyed his smile gave him away. “I figured if you were trying to sleep we shouldn’t make all that noise.”
“Thank you,” I said, almost tearfully, as if accepting an award, and then, “I’m going to the bathroom. And then I’m going to bed.”
As I woke up the next morning I remembered a few weeks ago when I had friends in my room while Kevin was leading bible study in the living room. We were loud and didn’t leave. He never said a word.
This is a metaphor. I am not an athlete. So replace “a quarterback” with “sick”, add “up” after “throwing” and “a fever” after “running.”
By 6:30pm I decided bed was a good decision. Then I remembered: Wednesday is young adult bible study, held in our living room. COMPANY! Though intoxicated with illness, I was compelled to clean.
Let me explain this compulsion. It’s more Nurse Ratched than Florence Nightingale. More about control than service. My roommate Kevin knows and tries not to do anything dirty while I’m looking.
I cleaned only the bathroom and went to bed.
At 8:00pm I woke up and marveled at how quiet it was. Maybe they’re studying Psalm 23, I thought.
At 10:00pm I got up to use the bathroom and found Kevin in the kitchen washing dishes.
“You guys were quiet,” I said. He smiled, and even though my head was filled with cream of brain soup, I understood. “Did you have bible study downstairs?” I asked.
“Oh, uh, yeah,” he admitted, as if annoyed his smile gave him away. “I figured if you were trying to sleep we shouldn’t make all that noise.”
“Thank you,” I said, almost tearfully, as if accepting an award, and then, “I’m going to the bathroom. And then I’m going to bed.”
As I woke up the next morning I remembered a few weeks ago when I had friends in my room while Kevin was leading bible study in the living room. We were loud and didn’t leave. He never said a word.
Saturday, May 28, 2011
shalom
I'm munching on almonds and raisins for lunch as I write - part of my latest attempt to fuel my body with more "whole" foods. The concept of "whole" has captured me this week. "Whole" foods. "Whole" skincare. "Whole" people. The "whole" story.
Let's be honest, no one likes to send ill news home; so I simply don't. I make it a practice of not broadcasting my struggles living in the house.
I censor.
But the theme of my week is wholeness; so here we are.
It's always difficult returning home after going away for a weekend, be it for business or pleasure. Don't misread, I love coming back to the physical place of home. Less welcomed is the wave of daily life stressors held at bay during my absence that comes rolling at me like the ocean before a hurricane.
"Two houses down a lady was taken at gunpoint and raped in an abandoned garage. It's happened several times in the neighborhood this week."
Welcome home.
I like to think of myself as a pretty bold little camper. I'm not overly fearful, except when it comes to spiders, cave crickets and parasites.
And, apparently, serial rapists.
Truly, fear of man does not come from God. But it still comes.
Last night, I drove around town just on the outskirts of our end of the city for twenty minutes until I was certain Ben would be home from work to walk me into the house. "What a wuss..." I mumbled to myself.
(Negative self-talk is an issue too, since we're telling the whole story)
Today, I needed to go to the pharmacy down the street. My stomach knotted up at the thought of the quick jaunt to and from my car that this would require. Midmorning nightmares flashed up their horrible "what if?" images on the silver screen of my fear-ridden mind. So I resolved I would just wait and go to the pharmacy tomorrow, when Ben could go too. That was, until a neighbor knocked on our door.
She was sick and needed a ride to the bank and then to the pharmacy. Compassion won out over fear, and calling conquered common sense.
As I waited in the car at the bank I found myself considering how essential my neighbor was to me, a new thought for sure. I moved here because I wanted to help people, but today, I found myself being helped. Too afraid to venture to the pharmacy alone, the person I moved here to serve lifted me up and walked into the store with me.
Shalom.
Wholeness in the neighborhood. I need the people around me just as much as my own self-righteous heart would like to think they need me.
It means peace.
It's this idea of wholeness that the Jewish people understood to be something that emerged from living and working together, and being real with each other.
It's being okay with fearing more than just cave crickets and parasites, because together we can make it through anything.
Shalom.
Let's be honest, no one likes to send ill news home; so I simply don't. I make it a practice of not broadcasting my struggles living in the house.
I censor.
But the theme of my week is wholeness; so here we are.
It's always difficult returning home after going away for a weekend, be it for business or pleasure. Don't misread, I love coming back to the physical place of home. Less welcomed is the wave of daily life stressors held at bay during my absence that comes rolling at me like the ocean before a hurricane.
"Two houses down a lady was taken at gunpoint and raped in an abandoned garage. It's happened several times in the neighborhood this week."
Welcome home.
I like to think of myself as a pretty bold little camper. I'm not overly fearful, except when it comes to spiders, cave crickets and parasites.
And, apparently, serial rapists.
Truly, fear of man does not come from God. But it still comes.
Last night, I drove around town just on the outskirts of our end of the city for twenty minutes until I was certain Ben would be home from work to walk me into the house. "What a wuss..." I mumbled to myself.
(Negative self-talk is an issue too, since we're telling the whole story)
Today, I needed to go to the pharmacy down the street. My stomach knotted up at the thought of the quick jaunt to and from my car that this would require. Midmorning nightmares flashed up their horrible "what if?" images on the silver screen of my fear-ridden mind. So I resolved I would just wait and go to the pharmacy tomorrow, when Ben could go too. That was, until a neighbor knocked on our door.
She was sick and needed a ride to the bank and then to the pharmacy. Compassion won out over fear, and calling conquered common sense.
As I waited in the car at the bank I found myself considering how essential my neighbor was to me, a new thought for sure. I moved here because I wanted to help people, but today, I found myself being helped. Too afraid to venture to the pharmacy alone, the person I moved here to serve lifted me up and walked into the store with me.
Shalom.
Wholeness in the neighborhood. I need the people around me just as much as my own self-righteous heart would like to think they need me.
It means peace.
It's this idea of wholeness that the Jewish people understood to be something that emerged from living and working together, and being real with each other.
It's being okay with fearing more than just cave crickets and parasites, because together we can make it through anything.
Shalom.
Thursday, May 19, 2011
Demo days
Many of you know that we just bought a new building for our church – but it needs a lot of work. We have scheduled a demolition day for Saturday June 4th as our first step to remodel and restore this space – we are pretty excited about it. But then I hear news this week, news that is pretty wide spread, that the world is coming to an end on May 21st. Bummer. So demo days is off?
Every so often some group claims they know when the end of the world is coming, apparently this has been going on for some time since Jesus even fielded such a question. His response, “I’m not sure…don’t worry about it.” But we kinda do worry about it, don’t we. I’m not ready to poke fun at these people saying the end is coming on Saturday because I’m reminded of a story in Genesis about a dude building a big boat. The end really did come for a lot of people then. But I’m also not ready to buy into this new end of the world scenario because this scenario, like many of its predecessors, tells us that God is going to get the “righteous” people out of this mess of a world (in this case 2% of the population) and leave the “bad” people to burn and suffer. Here’s my issue: this is just not consistent with the theme and flow of Scripture. God doesn’t usually “get people out.” Rather, time and time and time again He calls His people to stay in the midst of the mess, the suffering, the pain – and many times to suffer with others and even sometimes to die in the midst of this pain and suffering. In the Biblical message, God’s people don’t “get out” – they “get to be in.” And this “being in” is exactly how God works in the world.
God’s message to His people, the church: Stay. Engage. Love. Suffer alongside. And I will be right there beside you and within you. I'm not pulling you out, I'm putting you in.
God doesn’t call us to “get out.” He calls us to “be in.”
So maybe we’ll have demo days. Maybe we'll get to continue the restoration project after all. I sure hope so.
Monday, May 9, 2011
Hoopin'
Sometime last spring a bunch of the kids in the neighborhood were talking about how they wanted a good hoop to play basketball on. At that time the kids had few options. Some of the kids tried to play at Washington High School, where there were so many kids playing that they would have to wait to get in a game. Some of the kids were too young to join in with the older kids that played there and others weren’t always allowed to go there to play anyway. The only other option was playing on an old, beat up hoop, so bent that it was better to shoot line drives through rather than giving your shot some arc.
The kids wanted a good hoop that would be easily accessible to them. So I began to ask questions about how much a hoop costs, and where they could get that money. The overwhelming majority thought that selling candy bars was going to get them the money to get a hoop. We set up a deal where I would buy the candy bars, and walk with them around the neighborhood to sell them. They would pay me back out of the money they made, and anything above that would go towards buying a hoop. After the kids learned that eating the candy bars wouldn’t help them make money, we started making progress. We sold a lot of candy bars. And we had one very unsuccessful lemonade stand. It took awhile, but eventually we had some money for a hoop. But then it started getting cold. Winter came, and I told the kids to wait until spring and we would get a hoop.
About a month ago I went out and bought the hoop and a few days after that we started putting it together. Despite the adversity of Tim coming by and seeding the backyard and thus watering us as much as the backyard, we got the hoop up.
Now the hoop is being used constantly. Everyday someone will come over and ask me to “take out the court.” It has been used almost every day from after school until dark, and all day on the weekends. The kids love having a good hoop they can play on. They are taking ownership of it too. They are keeping an eye on it and making sure that it is being taken care of, and put away safely at night. This is the hoop that they worked for.
The kids wanted a good hoop that would be easily accessible to them. So I began to ask questions about how much a hoop costs, and where they could get that money. The overwhelming majority thought that selling candy bars was going to get them the money to get a hoop. We set up a deal where I would buy the candy bars, and walk with them around the neighborhood to sell them. They would pay me back out of the money they made, and anything above that would go towards buying a hoop. After the kids learned that eating the candy bars wouldn’t help them make money, we started making progress. We sold a lot of candy bars. And we had one very unsuccessful lemonade stand. It took awhile, but eventually we had some money for a hoop. But then it started getting cold. Winter came, and I told the kids to wait until spring and we would get a hoop.
About a month ago I went out and bought the hoop and a few days after that we started putting it together. Despite the adversity of Tim coming by and seeding the backyard and thus watering us as much as the backyard, we got the hoop up.
Now the hoop is being used constantly. Everyday someone will come over and ask me to “take out the court.” It has been used almost every day from after school until dark, and all day on the weekends. The kids love having a good hoop they can play on. They are taking ownership of it too. They are keeping an eye on it and making sure that it is being taken care of, and put away safely at night. This is the hoop that they worked for.
Tuesday, May 3, 2011
Love and Justice
Leslie Newbigin is one the most influential voices in the area of missiology (the study and practice of mission). I was reading over some of his work in "the Open Secret" and again was amazed by the quote below. It is something the church needs to hear again and again.
I once heard someone say, "If we cannot hear the cry of the oppressed then we are probably the oppressors." The work of the church - whether local or international must be centered around the work of Christ's love for the world and God's desire for restorative justice. Salvation is only complete when the two held together like a double helix.
How can we hold these two together today in our context?
I once heard someone say, "If we cannot hear the cry of the oppressed then we are probably the oppressors." The work of the church - whether local or international must be centered around the work of Christ's love for the world and God's desire for restorative justice. Salvation is only complete when the two held together like a double helix.
How can we hold these two together today in our context?
"Any talk of salvation apart from action for the liberation of the exploited is false. It is part of a false theology that is determined by an idealist philosophy and not by the revelation of God as he is the in the Bible. Wherever we look in the Old Testament we find that the prophets and psalmists speak of salvation in terms of actual historic happenings: deliverance from famine, sickness, danger, enemies, and oppression. Therefore, for the biblical writers, to “know the Lord” is not a matter of intellectual contemplation or mystical union; it is a matter of doing justice and mercy in concrete situations. When Jeremiah comments sarcastically on the kings’ building program, he contrasts the king’s conduct with that of the king’s father and says: “He [the father] judged the cause of the poor and needy; then it was well. Is not this to know me? Says the Lord (Jer 22:16). Those who claim to know the Lord but do evil are deceived. They are far from God. And the same teaching is given in the New Testament. There is no knowledge of God apart from the love of God, and there is no love of God apart from the love of the neighbor. “He who does not love does not know God.” Love and justice are distinct concepts, but where justice is denied love is certainly denied. If the economic order is such that the owners of land and capital can and do exploit and oppress the workers, then the commandment of love must mean more than marginal acts of personal charity; it must mean action to end exploitation. It must mean actions for liberation of which the Exodus is the model, and this must mean taking the side of the exploited and fighting against the exploiter. Fundamental to the theology of liberation is the refusal to allow a separation between truth and actions."
Leslie Newbigin “The Open Secret” p. 97
Thursday, April 28, 2011
Dye
The week before Easter the rain descends upon the city. It gathers everything in its toothless mouth and gums until everything is glop. Across the street from our house, in a tree, there is a pale plastic bag hung on a branch. It looks like the shroud of a ghost. It sags as though it once carried something heavy and now is empty.
The local newspaper’s website reports that publicly funded food assistance is a fraud. Some recipients sell their food cards for cash. Some for drugs. The newspaper subscribers comment about what should be done.
A detective knocks on our door and warns of a young man in a dark hooded sweatshirt who has been abducting young women and assaulting them in abandoned garages. “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?” He asks. I look around the neighborhood. “What is out of the ordinary?” I ask.
At Bible Study the children attempt to dye eggs and succeed in dyeing their hands; it looks like they have strangled rainbows. With water and soap they rinse and wash and rinse and wash but the stains are still there.
The week after Easter the rain descends again upon the city. Most of the bag is gone; a few tattered strips are the only evidence of it. Something must have carried it away.
The local newspaper’s website reports that publicly funded food assistance is a fraud. Some recipients sell their food cards for cash. Some for drugs. The newspaper subscribers comment about what should be done.
A detective knocks on our door and warns of a young man in a dark hooded sweatshirt who has been abducting young women and assaulting them in abandoned garages. “Have you seen anything out of the ordinary?” He asks. I look around the neighborhood. “What is out of the ordinary?” I ask.
At Bible Study the children attempt to dye eggs and succeed in dyeing their hands; it looks like they have strangled rainbows. With water and soap they rinse and wash and rinse and wash but the stains are still there.
The week after Easter the rain descends again upon the city. Most of the bag is gone; a few tattered strips are the only evidence of it. Something must have carried it away.
Wednesday, April 20, 2011
Children of God
Even as a child I hated children. I saw them as messengers from Satan. He planted mockery in their moist minds and it bloomed out of their mouths and I kept that vile bloom in a vase. I grew up changing the water, giving it fertilizer, keeping it alive. Until as an adult I hated children.
Then God asked me to move into this community house, in a neighborhood swarming with children.
“God!” I laughed, “You are so funny.”
“I am,” He replied, “But now I’m serious.”
God has a sense of humor, but I have no sense, so often he is reduced to a running joke, which runs me over until I understand.
“God!” I shouted, “I’ll move in. Are you happy?”
“I am,” He replied, “Now do it.”
So I did. I took things down and put them up. I lifted things up and set them down. I sat down and I stood up. I thought, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know why I’m doing it.
And the children came unto me. Loudly.
Actually, they came unto a weekly bible club. It's led by my 4 housemates, who in personality and/or appearance resemble a Doberman Pinscher, a Border Collie, a Golden Retriever and a Beagle. They make a good team.
I am the Chihuahua. At every child's squeal, my eyes bulge and my body trembles.
This week the leader is talking about how even though Jesus was God, He washed the feet of people. Even those He didn’t like. Even His enemies.
The leader requests that the children remove their socks. After reveling in a theatrical ecstasy of disgust, they do. He takes old ice cream buckets and fills them with water. His big hands lower their little feet into the water. Their squeals sound different.
“Could I wash someone’s feet?’ I say, but none of us hear me.
I watch and wait. I wait and watch. Long, longer, too long, long enough.
“Could I wash someone’s feet?’ I say again.
“Oh, I don’t think there’s anyone left,” The leader says.
Sadness settles around my heart. Something was opened for a moment, and I didn’t enter it. The children did.
Then God asked me to move into this community house, in a neighborhood swarming with children.
“God!” I laughed, “You are so funny.”
“I am,” He replied, “But now I’m serious.”
God has a sense of humor, but I have no sense, so often he is reduced to a running joke, which runs me over until I understand.
“God!” I shouted, “I’ll move in. Are you happy?”
“I am,” He replied, “Now do it.”
So I did. I took things down and put them up. I lifted things up and set them down. I sat down and I stood up. I thought, I don’t know what I’m doing, but I know why I’m doing it.
And the children came unto me. Loudly.
Actually, they came unto a weekly bible club. It's led by my 4 housemates, who in personality and/or appearance resemble a Doberman Pinscher, a Border Collie, a Golden Retriever and a Beagle. They make a good team.
I am the Chihuahua. At every child's squeal, my eyes bulge and my body trembles.
This week the leader is talking about how even though Jesus was God, He washed the feet of people. Even those He didn’t like. Even His enemies.
The leader requests that the children remove their socks. After reveling in a theatrical ecstasy of disgust, they do. He takes old ice cream buckets and fills them with water. His big hands lower their little feet into the water. Their squeals sound different.
“Could I wash someone’s feet?’ I say, but none of us hear me.
I watch and wait. I wait and watch. Long, longer, too long, long enough.
“Could I wash someone’s feet?’ I say again.
“Oh, I don’t think there’s anyone left,” The leader says.
Sadness settles around my heart. Something was opened for a moment, and I didn’t enter it. The children did.
Wednesday, March 30, 2011
Community House Impact
I was over at the community house yesterday doing some work on the outside, I'm going to put in a little sitting area with some paver stones and a bench in front of their porch. While I was there Bible Club was starting up - and about 15 kids wandered in from throughout the neighborhood and into Ben & Megan's house.
Sometimes even I am curious as to what type of things are going on over there - so they gave me a report. And here is what is happening at the Community House. As we talk about the season of resurrection, I can't think of better stories to illustrate the power of people making intentional choices about where they will live and then see the surprise and power of resurrection all around them like flowers blooming in an open field...
Sometimes even I am curious as to what type of things are going on over there - so they gave me a report. And here is what is happening at the Community House. As we talk about the season of resurrection, I can't think of better stories to illustrate the power of people making intentional choices about where they will live and then see the surprise and power of resurrection all around them like flowers blooming in an open field...
It’s difficult to break down into concrete “programs” and “activities” what happens at the Community House. In many ways, we’re just neighbors. Really nice neighbors who will hang out with your kids, shovel your sidewalk and invite you to dinner – no matter how many times you’ve turned us down.
In a strictly programmatic sense, we have three main foci: Bible Club, tutoring and mentoring. Bible Club meets every Tuesday’s after school. Each week anywhere between 6-15 kids gather in the lower of the Community House to sing songs, play games, do crafts and listen to a kid-appropriate Bible lesson with Kevin, Ben Cole, Ben Westra, and Megan. The Bible Club kids eat a snack each week before heading home, and once a month a family from the church sponsors’ dinner for the kids. During our monthly dinner, kids engage in table fellowship, learn basic manners, help prepare the meal and set the table and help clean up afterward. (Usually washing the dishes is accompanied by dance music from the 90’s and electric slide dance steps).
As we have gotten to know kids better through Bible Club, specific needs and passions have surfaced, leading us to begin the very early stages of a mentoring and tutoring program. Currently, we have a boy on the block who is very interested in art and graphic design, and a man from TCC meets with this student once per week to mentor and teach him more about art. We also have a 6th grade student who currently reads on a very primary level (1st-2nd grade), a lady from TCC meets with this student once per week to tutor him in reading.
We hope, as we continue to build relationships and discover more about our neighbors, to continue to build mentor and tutor bridges between TCC and 44th and 45th Streets.
Much of the other ministry that occurs in and around the house is more impromptu. Kevin and Ben regularly spend time with Malcolm, Donnie, Nick and Vernell – high school students who used to live on the block but moved away. Throughout the professional basketball season we take turns taking kids to Bucks games (and occasionally out to custard afterwards). Trips to the library, countless games of uno and monopoly, walks and bike rides in the park, and random pizza parties in the living room after kids shovel the entire blocks sidewalks (without being asked) – all of these are just a small part of what goes on day in and day out at the TCC Community House.
Before Christmas, we threw the kids involved in Bible Club (about 12 at the time) a party at Paradise Landing – an indoor water park in downtown Milwaukee. The congregation at TCC sponsored kids so that we were able to provide a night of fun in the water park and more pizza than we thought would be possible to eat for free.
In addition to our ministry with the neighborhood kids Kevin hosts a young adult small group each week, and Ben and Megan take turns hosting a young married small group about once every other month. We look forward to seeing how God continues to grow the ministry in and around the Community House as our relationships in the community deepen and the needs of our neighbors become more apparent.
Wednesday, March 23, 2011
Runny Eggs and Ketchup
Late one night a while back I found myself sitting with a friend of mine eating breakfast for dinner at George Webb, (the waffle house of the upper midwest). I began by complaining about a bunch of people who rubbed me the wrong way that day. I talked about how I had been wronged and how they were so self-centered and egotistical. And while I was complaining about them to my friend, I began to notice that he was dipping his over easy eggs, with the centers all runny into a huge pile of ketchup. “Gross!” I thought to myself, “What’s wrong with this guy? How can he live like that? Who raised him so wrongly that he would feel that this behavior was socially acceptable? And I began to think of Bible verses that I might show him to prove that what he was doing was ungodly. And then it hit me – maybe the people around me aren’t the problem at all. Maybe my attitude is the problem.
The Apostle Paul says we should take on the same attitude that Jesus took on – that being God he did not consider equality with God something to be exploited but that he took on the nature of a servant. But I struggle with this because I want others to perform at high levels around me. But maybe I need to let go of this.
Lately I've been struggling with being highly critical of people around me. This is one of the least attractive things a person can do. Not only do you look like a huge jerk, you begin to look for faults in people and then make lists of these faults. In the final analysis, you begin to define people by whatever you perceive their weaknesses to be. This is what social workers call a "deficit model." It is incredibly destructive to our personal relationships and according to my calculations there is only one person that can stand up to such critique and I ain’t Him. I’ve been asking God to remove this flawed thinking and he sent me some comfort from a 600 year old dead guy.
I've been reading the Imitation of Christ by Thomas A Kempis, and he says that judging others like this is never very fruitful. Instead he sees great spiritual value in taking the effort which we normally employ to criticize others and use that energy to judge ourselves.
This is not a popular approach in our culture. We tend to think of being critical of ourselves as having low self-esteem. I don’t think this is exactly the case. It takes a certain level of courage to honestly take a look at our lives. And this level of courage seems to come from the Holy Spirit. So that we aren’t trying to wallow in self-inflicted guilt but rather to ask God how we can change in order to love others like Jesus does. It is positive movement rather than negative – it is looking at our lives and asking God to build us up into his image. And it is a normal part of the Christian life. The good news is that God is all about change. He loves us where we are and he loves us into movement toward Him. Perhaps you might take a moment today to inventory how you are treating others and ask God to give you a vision of how you might love them like Jesus – even the ones who dip runny eggs into ketchup.
The Apostle Paul says we should take on the same attitude that Jesus took on – that being God he did not consider equality with God something to be exploited but that he took on the nature of a servant. But I struggle with this because I want others to perform at high levels around me. But maybe I need to let go of this.
Lately I've been struggling with being highly critical of people around me. This is one of the least attractive things a person can do. Not only do you look like a huge jerk, you begin to look for faults in people and then make lists of these faults. In the final analysis, you begin to define people by whatever you perceive their weaknesses to be. This is what social workers call a "deficit model." It is incredibly destructive to our personal relationships and according to my calculations there is only one person that can stand up to such critique and I ain’t Him. I’ve been asking God to remove this flawed thinking and he sent me some comfort from a 600 year old dead guy.
I've been reading the Imitation of Christ by Thomas A Kempis, and he says that judging others like this is never very fruitful. Instead he sees great spiritual value in taking the effort which we normally employ to criticize others and use that energy to judge ourselves.
This is not a popular approach in our culture. We tend to think of being critical of ourselves as having low self-esteem. I don’t think this is exactly the case. It takes a certain level of courage to honestly take a look at our lives. And this level of courage seems to come from the Holy Spirit. So that we aren’t trying to wallow in self-inflicted guilt but rather to ask God how we can change in order to love others like Jesus does. It is positive movement rather than negative – it is looking at our lives and asking God to build us up into his image. And it is a normal part of the Christian life. The good news is that God is all about change. He loves us where we are and he loves us into movement toward Him. Perhaps you might take a moment today to inventory how you are treating others and ask God to give you a vision of how you might love them like Jesus – even the ones who dip runny eggs into ketchup.
Monday, March 14, 2011
New Blog
Hey world (and TCC) - this is our new blog. Here we will tell stories and share our thoughts. Check back as we add more soon!
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