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.

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.

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.