small town Sunday: mosaics

Sunday after Sunday, these last few weeks, I have sat in my pew in Green Mountain Falls with the same thought: "I need to write about this." It has become a mosaic of beautiful and challenging moments in my mind. And so that is what I come to offer now: tiny, colorful pieces of faith and community, drawn from the deep well of my small town Sundays.

At the opening of every service, our Pastor asks the congregation if there is anything they are thankful for. There is seldom the awkward silence that one might expect (in fact, one time there was such a silence, and the Pastor exclaimed, "What's up? Usually I can't shut you guys up!"). My favorite moments of thanks almost invariably come from the two small children that are usually sitting in the pew in front of me. They will raise their tiny hands, and to my delight, the Pastor never fails to call on them. The outcome is usually hilarious. One time, the little girl--maybe 4--spoke loudly: "When you're in the snow, you'd better wear boots!" Last week, she simply asked a question: "Does Jesus live in Woodland Park?" Shortly thereafter, her younger brother took his turn. "It's snowing today," he proclaimed, "And I want lots of bouncy balls!" Smiling from two feet behind, I thought, "I am thankful for these kids, for a church that validates them." And, of course, for the giant bowtie around the neck of the 10 year old behind me.

Our church follows the liturgical calendar, and the first Scripture reading for the day is often read by a member of the congregation--sometimes adults, sometimes children. My favorite is an older man, who walks to the lectern slowly and reads at about the same pace. It is beautiful. Recently, upon reaching the lectern, he held up a torn piece of paper in his shaky hand. "You might notice," he spoke slowly, "that my Scripture has been eaten by a large, black dog," and then continued with his reading. A couple weeks later, again having concluded his slow walk to the stage, he paused and announced, "I'm a little off balance today. One of my hearing aids is dead." And on with the reading.

The sermons, of course, usually leave some sort of mark on me, whether laughter or deep thought. When the liturgy presented us with Jesus' apocalyptic words from Luke (I think), the Pastor began with, "I figure if Jesus could sum up the end of the world in about ten lines, I should also be fairly brief this morning." And he was. On the Sunday following the tragic earthquake in Haiti, he opened with a bold statement: "Those who stand in pulpits this morning and claim to have answers, I would argue, are blaspheming." I have always appreciated that he is willing to call his congregation to wrestle with the difficult and seemingly nonsensical aspects of the world we live in, of the gospel, and of what it looks like to be a disciple. There are moments to be treasured from the children's sermons as well. One week, after trying to perform a rather obvious magic trick, he led them through this simple prayer: "Thank you, God, for silly magic tricks and for miracles. Help us to know the difference." Yes, God, help me to know the difference.

Last Sunday, it was a visiting preacher who left a mark on my life. He had cerebral palsy: His gestures were awkward, and his words were difficult to understand. And yet, he was one of the most gifted speakers I have ever heard, and his simple presence taught me something of courage. This man had followed God's call to preach even when it seemed like a crazy proposition. I thought of Moses, who claimed he was not good with words and yet was called to speak to Pharaoh. I thought of a poem by Ruth Bell Graham:

He is not eloquent
as men count such;
for him
words trip and stumble
giving speech
an awkward touch,
and humble:
so, much
is left unsaid
that he would say
if he were eloquent.
Wisely discontent,
compassion driven
(as avarice drives some,
ambition others),
the old, the lonely,
and the outcast come;
all are welcome,
all find a home,
all — his brothers.

Behind him
deeds rise quietly
to stay;

And those with eyes to see
can see
all he can say.

Perhaps he'd not have spent
his life this way
if he were eloquent.

"God uses ordinary people, " this courageous man reminded us, "because frankly, God likes ordinary people." And so, having followed God into an unlikely calling, he left an indelible mark on the lives of an entire congregation of ordinary people.

Tomorrow, I will make the drive up the pass, my insides slowing down as I make my way out of the city and onto the quiet street that runs through Green Mountain Falls. I will experience the presence of God in the gathering of his ordinary people. And tomorrow, sitting behind thankful children in my favorite pew, I will likewise be thankful. Thankful for snow boots and bouncy balls, for Scripture-eating dogs and silly magic tricks, for bowties and sermons and potlucks. Thankful, that is, for the whole mosaic of my treasured small town Sundays.

love for the oppressor

After only a few months of living in our neighborhood, my roommates and I made up a little ditty about the fine folks we pay rent to; It was called, "Mr. Slumlord", and was sung to the tune of Mr. Sandman. In this low-income setting, where we have come with the goal of showing the love of Christ to those we call neighbors, it has been difficult to watch them taken advantage of again and again. Charging outlandish rents (when compared with the assessed value of the actual trailers) and ignoring code requirements in the name of being cheap, our landlords seem to have no problem kicking folks while they're down. Meanwhile, they drive home to a huge house in the richest part of town, and take annual vacations to Hawaii. I don't understand it, and it makes me angry. I want to hate them, and I consistently rip on them. I have somehow come to the conclusion that I should love my neighbors and disdain my landlords. Love the oppressed, hate the oppressor.

It is not the gospel.

That is the message God has been opening my eyes to over the last few weeks. It is true that our landlords actions are wrong, and I am in no way called to condone, or even to remain silent about them. Yet I am unequivocally called to love them. The gospel speaks of a God who sends rain on the just and the unjust alike. It speaks of a Messiah who came for both the oppressor and the oppressed. It speaks of One who, when being brutally nailed to a chunk of wood, asked God to forgive those who were swinging the hammer. "If you love only those who love you, what good is that...?" asks Jesus. And so I begin to ask myself--and to ask God--what it would mean for me to show extravagant love to the oppressor in our midst.

Now it is important that I chose to love simply for love's own sake, but I will admit that I am becoming more aware of the strategy in loving my landlords. They are the people of greatest influence in our neighborhood. If their hearts are changed, and their actions follow suit, then the situation of every single one of our nieghbors could improve. The oppressor may become the advocate, the catalyst for change.

If I am honest, sometimes I think it's actually a kind of righteousness, my hatred for the oppressor in my midst. And indeed, some of David's great laments suggest the same. Yet the one to whom I have chosen to follow, the Christ whose truth I am banking my life on, calls me to love. "Love never fails..." THIS is the gospel. May I learn to live it well.

lessons from a Christmas Eve candle

Christmas Eve in Indiana. I found myself in a small church sanctuary in Mishawaka, listening to the traditional Scripture readings of the season and singing carols. Sadly, the music did not include my favorite lyrical reflections: O Holy Night, and O Come, O Come Emmanuel. They are the songs which call me back to the deep longing into which the Christ child was born. A people who mourned in lonely exile, who pined away in sin and error--these are the people to whom a savior was given that night. The songs remind me to hear the call of Christmas: Rejoice! Emmanuel has come, and the soul has felt its worth.

The service ended as most Christmas Eve services do, with the lighting of small candles while we all sang Silent Night. (Though at the church I used to attend in Carbondale, they actually play the Hallelujah chorus instead.) As we sang, I stared at the candle. I watched as the wax melted into a clear pool of liquid around the wick and then dribbled down the side and into my protective plastic holder...thing. I turned and saw Tim tip his candle toward his bulletin, playing with the wax in the way that, if we are honest, every person in the sanctuary wants to do. Verse by verse, the candles continued to burn. A year or two more of keeping vigil over the singing of Silent Night, and the candle would be gone, melted entirely and spilled on perhaps a few more Christmas Eve bulletins.

I realized something as I stared at my candle. That small flickering light is meant to symbolize the light of the world, the call to let my flame flicker bravely in the darkness in the name of the one whom we celebrate each Christmas. What I realized was this: the continual, vigilant burning does not end well for the candle. The candle receives no honor or award for longevity or faithfulness: The candle disappears. Its form--it's existence--is sacrificed to its purpose.

In many ways, this is the gospel. As John the Baptist once said, the goal is that Christ would become greater, and his servants would become less. The fire of the Holy One is all consuming, and the life of faithful discipleship is made of a million small deaths. We sacrifice ourselves to our purpose, which is to let God burn so brightly in our lives that we ourselves are less and less visible, and eventually we disappear into the love that burned us up. We give up self preservation because we trust that we will one day be re-formed and made new in that place which is invisible to us while we are in the world.

This little light of mine, may God help me let it shine. And may he create in me a heart that is willing to disappear so that some may find their way home.

small town Sunday and me: we will be just fine

Green Mountain Falls may be a blip on the map. Population less-than-800, its few businesses don't even fill two sides of one street. One gets the feeling of being at least a little insulated from the rest of the world and its tragedies at times. Yet GMF is no less vulnerable to recession than the rest of the nation right now, and my small town Sunday church is feeling it. Outside the sanctuary, charts can be seen with dollar signs on them. I've seen such charts before, usually showing how much money is needed to build the new addition or fund the mission trip. This chart, however, simply shows how much more red the church can handle before it goes under. Not growth, not expansion, not needless spending--just fiscal survival.

As one who cringes at the mention of money during services, I wondered what to expect when the Pastor was slated to give a report from the team dedicated to "stand in the gap" between today's offering and an empty bank account. I wondered what the admonition might sound like, since I know the pastor well enough to imagine that he likewise cringes in such settings. He stood, stared down at the podium for a few seconds, and began.

My pastor never once told his people to give more money that day. Instead, he told them how much he loved them, and how proud he was of the way that they were loving one another and loving the community. He praised them for standing by one another, for embracing every person who walked through the doors, and for seeking to be people who authentically live out their faith. He reminded them that "giving" was about money yes, but about so much more than that. He paused, the continued with the tired but resolved look of a man surrendered to faith. "I know," he said, "that I may not have a salary in 12 months. I know that. But if we keep doing what we are doing, we are going to be just fine. If we keep loving each other, if we keep sharing God's love with the community, we are going to be just fine. Peace be with you." I got home and realized that I had just heard the words of Jesus: Seek the Kingdom, seek righteousness, and you will be just fine.

There was a sermon on Sunday, but for me the moment of transformation was his "report" from the cash committee. I am in my own time of staring at a dismal fiscal forecast. I feel confident that I have followed the road God pointed me down, and it seems to be leading to anything but the farm where the cash cows are kept. Without eyes of faith, things might look rather grim. Yet on Sunday, my pastor called me home to a great truth. There are bigger things at stake in life than money. If I seek God wholeheartedly, if I follow him as best I know how and try to love the world around me, I will be just fine.

Hallelujah. We will be just fine, my small town Sundays and me.

bolted doors and barred off lives

St. Gregory's Abbey. Though it has been years since I sat in its worn pews, I often think of and long for the warmth of that enormous stone sanctuary where I often went to meet with God in silence. At the time, I was a college student at a Southern Baptist University, a denomination not known for its contemplative practices or use of silence. Southern Baptists are, well....loud. And so I would often slip away to the nearby campus of St. Gregory's University--also a functioning Benedictine monastery--and enter into the deep silence of its beautiful stone abbey. As is the standard among Benedictine places of worship, the doors were always open. Whatever time of day or night I needed to sit with God, I could enter in. My years since leaving OBU have made me painfully aware of what a privilege it is to live just miles away from such a monastery. I am often at a loss when I feel the hunger for hours alone in a silent sanctuary.

The tragedy, of course, is not that a lack of monastery means a lack of churches. They are all over. In fact, it doesn't necessarily mean that there aren't any grand stone sanctuaries there to wrap me in their cavernous regard for the holy. The tragedy is this: most of those grand sanctuaries are locked. It seems that monastic communities are one of the only places where the doors remain always open to the seeker, the penitent, the lover of God.

Earlier this week, I needed to sit in silence with God. Bitter winter winds made a journey into the wilderness near my house unappealing at best, so I drove off in hopes of spending a few hours in the tiny mountain church where I attend lenten taize services. The sanctuary is simple and snug, holding 100 people at the very most. I smiled at the thought of feeling its warmth.My smile faded, however, when I walked to the door and found it locked. Somewhat disheartened, I got back in the car and drove toward the beautiful Episcopal church I had passed on the way. Huddled against the wind, I made my way toward the great, red doors feeling hopeful. I pulled at the small latch, and the smile that had faded at the first church now disappeared entirely. It was locked. Locked like so many other churches I have tried over the years. I felt lost and somehow rejected. I muttered frustration, turned toward the chilly wind, and walked back to my car.

Thankfully, I recalled one large chapel, situated on a local college campus. Nestled in the company of people who are awake at all hours, it locks its doors only when its flock has all gone to sleep: never. Day or night, the great stone walls welcome those who seek sanctuary, whether from the bitter winds or the harshness of life. In that chapel, out of the cold, I sat in the balcony and breathed. My restless heart had found a place to rest.

How sad it is that that beautiful chapel was a 'lucky find.' To me, this closing and locking of the doors is one of the most grevious losses in our current church setting. The brokenness of our culture and the depravity of our human condition has won out. We have conceded defeat in some small (big?) way. In order not to have our sanctuaries damaged, our space abused, or our churches robbed, we lock the doors. Penitents may come when someone is on guard, and with that they will have to be content. The trouble is, the doors are open only for services, classes, potlucks....they are open for activity. For the moment alone, for the welcoming embrace of silence, the doors are locked.

My encounters with locked doors earlier had made me a little angry. I was frustrated to be shut out of the sanctuaries where I had hoped to find solace. As I went through the day, however, my eyes were opened to another tragic element within the church. Shut more tightly than any church or chapel door are the intimate spaces of our stories. So very few of us live hospitable lives: not hospitality in the sense of welcoming others into our home, but of welcoming them into the deeper parts of our own lives. The church--the body of believers that transcends any structure or building--is even more the place where people should be able to find acceptance and sanctuary. How often, however, do they come in out of the cold, feeling hopeful, and find the doors locked tightly. I ask this of myself. Have I, along with the keepers of so many church buildings, allowed the brokenness and depravity of my world to win out? "Don't come in. I do not know if you are safe and I don't want my heart to be vandalized." Is this what my life says? Or do I live a life that is more like that precious Benedictine Abbey or that great college chapel, one that says, "Come and be welcomed, not matter your state, no matter the hour. The one who indwells me is able to care for me, and he calls me to welcome you in."? Of course, there are times for boundaries. There is no way around that. Yet it may be that strict boundaries, locked doors, were made to be more of the exception than the rule. Perhaps the rule is one of hospitality, of welcoming in.

May the both church of stone and the church of flesh both begin to stand in trust again, to refuse to concede defeat. May we remove our locks and re-open our doors to those who, huddled against the harshness of weather and life, come seeking sanctuary. Let us pray they would find it waiting there.

small town Sunday: coming home

I sat near the back, as I always have. My favorite stained glass windows filtered in the sunlight at my left, while in front of me the old woman who once shaved her head for cancer funds made an announcement that her recent prayers had been answered. After a year away, I was home again, home under the great wooden beams that keep vigil over my tiny church in Green Mountain Falls.

The welcome I received should have not surprised me, yet I none the less found myself caught off guard by the hugs and questions and excited hellos. The announcements began, and I settled into the quirkiness of the place. The pastor announced that the church had been called upon to contribute 80 boxes of jello for a local Thanksgiving food drive. Of course, in the land of small town Sundays, the jello will not be stored in bags or boxes; there in Green Mountain Falls, a jello tower will be erected. Perfect. Other announcements included an abundant pumpkin harvest, one of which had been brought as a donation to the church. A choir member stood and announced that he had been married to his wife for 40 wonderful years. A high school student asked prayers for her upcoming audition with the city orchestra. I listened to it all smiling, feeling as if I was in a congregation that had its priorities straight.

Midway through the announcement, I watched the pastor's wife walk in holding their son, nearly 2 and looking like a miniature of his father. I remembered the day when our pastor held his cell phone up to the microphone and announced that they were going to have a baby. Another is now on the way. Beautiful.

One of the things that kept me in Green Mountain Falls in the first place was the pastor's unwillingness to candy coat the difficult side of the gospel. Sunday's sermon did not disappoint. He told the story of a drug lord in Brazil, a man named Fernando who, even after "converting" to Christianity, continued to provide drugs and contribute to poverty and needless death. He spoke of his initial reaction to this man--scorn, the same scorn that we all felt as we listened to the story from our pews. Yet as he related it to the passage for the day--the story of blind Bartimeus, who would have been understood to be a sinner by virtue of his disability--he called us back to the reality of the example set for us by Jesus. The gospel, he reminded us, is not only for the poor, but for Fernando. It is a gospel that calls us realize that if a man like Fernando were to step onto the road and cry out, "Son of David, have mercy on me," Jesus would accept him as he accepted the blind man. "Are we willing to help the violent, the despicable, and not just the poor? That is the gospel, and I don't know what to do with that. Peace be with you." And thus the sermon ended.

As he prepared to speak the benediction, the pastor reminded us that we seldom listen to the postlude, though the women who play put effort into it every week. "Perhaps this week," he said, "we should stay and listen." It was one of the most beautiful piano pieces I have heard in a long time, and I would have missed it. I wonder what other small beauties I fail to take time for.

I ended my return to Green Mountain Falls with a potluck, several people gathering around me simply to ask questions about my year away and hear what was ahead for me. I felt it as the embrace of authentic love among the body. It was precious to me, this homecoming. The gift of God in the form of a small town Sunday.

thoughts from room 124

Alabama, USA. I have stepped into the thick Southern humidity for four days to visit a friend who goes school at Auburn. Until I set foot outside the airport, I had forgotten how much I hate the sticky feeling of the air as I walk, the feeling that I am breathing soup instead of oxygen. Yet I had also forgotten how much I love the rolling hills and vibrant greens, kudzu vines blanketing the landscape, draped over trees and bushes like a sheet tossed over seldom used furniture. And in accordance with Southern tradition, the people are so welcoming and gracious that you might as well just move in. Of course, there are elements of Alabama that are foreign to me, and sometimes quite funny. I was feeling a little guilty for making so many snide remarks, until a walk through the Piggly Wiggly revealed a shelf dedicated to pickled pig parts. Pickled pig lips, anyone? What planet am I on? The other evening highlight was a drive-in restaurant whose marquee read: "You gotta eat and we need the money!"

I write now from one of the sketchier motels I have ever graced with my presence, just off the highway in Phenix City, AL (yes, that is spelled correctly). I'm with one of the few friends who would join me in purposely finding a fairly trashy motel to stay in. As one who needs to explore the world this way, I am unspeakably grateful for such friends. So here we are, sitting on stained mattresses we hope don't have bugs and adjusting to the stench. The carpet is torn up in places, there is a filthy office chair where a normal sitting chair might be found, and an unidentifiable stain marks the wall next to my bed. Four paintings hang on the wall: three of them are the same print. I look at them and immediately begin the song in my head: "One of these things is not like the other..." (Thank you, Sesame Street, for helping me identify my world even 20 years after I abandoned you for cooler programming.)

Working with the homeless, and doing my best to learn more and more about the life of the American working poor, I look around this room and cannot help but think of the millions of Americans who are paying most of their paychecks to stay in such motels for months at a time. Unable to save the money for the huge up-front deposit on more suitable housing--indeed, more affordable housing--they shell out hundreds of dollars a week to keep a roof over their heads. It is not an option. It is the option. Not so for me, of course. If I wanted to, I could say "Dude, this place just reeks a little too much," and Kristin and I could pack our things and drive home, or check into a place that has a more diversified art portfolio. But my growing awareness of the part of our society for whom this rank room is reality makes me want to stay simply for that reason. Something in me wants to understand, even if it is on a limited level. We are arrogant indeed if we think we can fully understand, coming from a secure middle class world. I can come to understand the aggravation that comes with appliances constantly breaking, the discomfort of having no insulation in the walls, or the shame of walking through the world knowing that your clothing and hair reek of the room you slept in last night. But I cannot understand the hopelessness, the sense that this all there is. I cannot understand the isolation that is often a key factor in perpetuating poverty. And I cannot understand the depth of frustration that led the mother in the room next to us to scream at and slap her child into the middle of the night. I tried to report the incident, but I know nothing will be done. That child will experience the true plight of the poor in America: invisibility. Silence. As I lay in my bed on the other side of that thin, stained wall, listening to the horrible sound of a frightened child, I could not stop thinking of the Proverb God used to call me to the poor several years ago: "Speak up for those who cannot speak for themselves, for the rights of all who are destitute. Speak up and judge fairly; defend the rights of the poor and needy" (31:8-9)

In a few weeks, I am headed back to the low-income neighborhood where I lived before coming to work at FMS. I desire so much more than to be the school bus and the homework help and the Thursday night cook. Granted, I adore those things. I love simply living life at the Trailer. Yet I long all the more to speak up for those around me who have no voice. The child in a terrible home setting. The struggling family being cheated by the landlord. The injured working man who cannot get the insurance that would allow him to go back to his job. These people need a voice. It takes courage to be that spokesperson, courage that I do not always show. Looking at the months ahead, I pray that I might be brave. I pray for grace to love the invisible, and the courage to raise my voice.

the need for dignity

One cannot work with the downtrodden long without becoming aware that there is something they crave more than a meal: dignity. Dignity is why my clients are far more upset if our shower is broken than if our food has run out. It is why, much to our frustration, so many of them will turn down work that pays less than what they once made. It is why so many of them come in with heads hanging and with tears welling up.

Just yesterday, a man came down to register, and I invited him in to my office. I began as we always do when it comes to new folks that come down: "So, tell me about your situation right now." This man immediately reached behind him and closed the door, then began a desperate plea. He trembled and spoke quickly, his eyes looking anywhere but at me, clearly ashamed to be asking for help and afraid I was judging him the whole time he talked. "If I could just get a shower and wash my clothes. I won't ask for a place to stay. I'm staying in my storage unit. I can sleep there. But if I could just get a shower and get out of these clothes...I...I just need some help." He tried to hold back tears, and only partly succeeded. Before I went to get the registration forms, I asked, "Are you a hug man?" He wavered, "Well, yes, but I don't think you want to hug me. I'm pretty ripe." But when I gestured, he stood anyway, and I hugged him. I could feel him shaking. Later, I watched that same man emerge from the shower like a whole new human, still a little shaky, but with a calmer face. "Feel good?" I asked. "Oh! that was divine," he replied. My replacement, who started this week so that we can overlap for a while, looked at me and shook his head in amazement. "That's incredible." I nodded knowingly. It is indeed incredible what happens when you allow someone the dignity of being clean.

Sometimes it is difficult to know how to use dignity as a motivator. As I mentioned in a previous post, there is debate about whether offering work to an alcoholic may help them out of their addiction by offering dignity and curbing boredom. The situation I mentioned in that post ended with the client in question guzzling 6 bottles of cooking sherry (high alcohol content and can be purchased using food stamps) and spending the next few days in the hospital after a minor heart attack. Strike one.

Another client, Tom (not his real name), recently got a job at Wal-Mart and lost it within a week because of his drinking. Of course, he later confessed to me that he had also mouthed off to his manager because he couldn't handle the idiotic way they were going about a shipping/stocking task. True, most of our guys are skilled tradesman. It must be painfully difficult to be a peon at Wal-Mart, accepting orders from someone who doesn't know what they're doing (in regards to the mechanical/technical side of things) because you aren't the professional in that setting and have no say. Still, a job is a job--some dollars is an improvement on no dollars-- and so we encourage our guys to get rid of excuses, even when we understand where they come from.

When Tom came into my office to vent about the situation, he was drunk again. I listened for a while and debated about how to respond. "Suck it up," was an option. "You're going to have to deal with your drinking, man, and take what work you can get." In some cases, that is the right response. But in Tom's case, I just asked, "Tom, what did you do before you were homeless?" He told me about his work in mechanical engineering and electrical jobs and plumbing. He's a very skilled guy, a jack of all trades. Watching him light up, I took a different angle. "Then go do what you're trained for, Tom. You're good at your work. Go find it." I could see the wheels turning in his head, the sudden boost of confidence. "Yeah. You're right. Hey, there's a place I used to work. Can you look up their number for me? I did good work for them. I know that if they can, they'll hire me." I typed in the business name--a construction place in Michigan--and handed him the number. "Tom, you are better than living in a tent. You are better than Wal-Mart. Go and do th..." He stopped me short, stepping in right after the word Wal-Mart. "Thank you, Katie. I heard that. Thank you." And then Tom, who has shown almost no motivation from the moment he registered at FMS, walked out my door straight to the phone, and called Michigan. He didn't get the job, but he has been calling other people ever since, and left early on Thursday because he had some day labor to attend to.

I never know when it is a good idea to say, "You're better than Wal-Mart", and when I should say, "Hey man, I know it isn't the professional setting you're used to, but it's a good job. Suck it up." I'm learning that it just takes case by case discretion, and that such discretion will only come through relationship, through me putting in the time that helps me see the difference between Tom's mindset and that of any other client in my office. But the need for the Church to establish that kind of relationship with the downtrodden is a whole different blog...

For now, I just say again that dignity seems to be at the heart of healing for the folks I work with, and for so many others around us. To be called by name, to have a shower and a shave and some clean clothes, to know that their skills are recognized...these things are as important as the loaf of bread we might offer. May we always seek to acknowledge and affirm the dignity of those who need our help, but not our condescension.

a prodigal comes home

The paper has become a stranger now.
I have forgotten the feel of it:
[my thoughts stretched out across thin blue lines,
a thousand-word self portrait,
the moment of finding myself on the page]
I want to return somehow, like
a prodigal wordsmith
a wanderer coming home.

Here, notebook open
I imagine myself, small,
timidly stepping out onto the first of 33 thin horizon lines.
I pause, look around wide-eyed, taking in the whiteness
hearing it call to me like a field of untouched snow.
I make a mark
step back, look
make another.
And before I know it, there I am dancing
jumping and climbing from line to line
flinging ink
laughing.
I flip my wrists, let my thoughts fly, fall where they wish
big words
small words
scratches
scribbles
re-writes.
Reaching the bottom, I plop down exhausted
breathless
and dangle my legs over that last blue precipice, #33.
I am covered in smudges,
my face stained with the messy markings of self-expression.

Reacquainted with the once-blank page, content
I lie down there and sleep
peaceful, dreaming
like the prodigal wordsmith
a wandering poet come home.

it's not about breaking the rules

Lately I have been reminded of something about myself: I am pretty prone to idolatry. Not so much the carving images out of wood variety of idolatry, or the kind that has platinum hubcaps or custom plates. My idolatry tends to be a little less visible, but it is there all the same. It is more in line with what the dictionary calls idolatry: "blind or excessive adoration of something" often something that is "visible but without substance". In many ways, I simply have an addictive personality, a tenacious devotion to the people and things I value. I am an all or nothing kind of kid, to be sure; it is both a strength and a weakness. Sadly, I often get mixed up on which things get my all, and which ones get my nothing.

Most of the time when I am confronted with my tendency for misdirected devotion, I feel my conscience chide me for breaking the law of the Torah: "You shall have no other gods before me." I live a pretty rules oriented life, unfortunately, and so I process most failures as simply an inability to live up to the standard of the law. This time around, however, has been a little different. I am seeing the same problem through a different lens.

Recently, God has been doing some pretty amazing things in and around me. He has answered prayers in ways that have dropped by jaw, and has sent confirmations and encouragements from the most unexpected places. It has been a sweet time of sensing him walk closely with me. His kindness toward me has been undeniably relational and undeserved. Now, as I again feel the pull toward idolatry, this kindness sets a new backdrop. Idolatry is not a law that condemns me. No, idolatry is a lie that cheats me.

Even in the midst of sweet expressions of love from the Father, I find myself reaching toward my most common idol: people. I want a love that is tangible sometimes. I want it in writing I can read, a photo I can stick on my bulletin board to look at when work feels depressing. Those aren't necessarily bad things. In fact, those very things are often expressions of love from God ("every good and perfect gift comes from above"). The problem comes when I offer those people--those words, those pictures, those phone calls--my "blind and excessive devotion." The problem comes when they, rather than God, consume my thoughts and efforts. And the problem is this: those things are always going to fail me at some point. They are only a shadow of the love that is steady and reliable. No matter how sweet those sources of love are to me today, there will be a day when I find that they fall woefully short, and I will be crushed, because I threw my all into them.

But like I said: this isn't a law thing for me right now. It's not a shameful violation of standard for me to put all my eggs into an unreliable basket. Instead, it is the sad exchange of what is better for what is only good. And the love of God is always better--better than life, if you ask the Psalmist. Better than any letter in the mail or photo on my bulletin board. It is the great reality behind those shadows, and the framework in which I am meant to enjoy them and yet not rely on them. The God who is love is the only safe and worthy place to offer my "excessive (even blind!) adoration." May I let him capture that tenacious devotion in me, and allow him to take my addictive personality and satisfy it with the only thing that won't ever leave me dry. As I wrote once before, may I choose to live a live that speaks aloud: "The love of God is better."

faith and trump cards

Lately I've been revisiting some thoughts on Hebrews 11 that I wrote about a few years ago. At the time, I was struck by the notion of the "even though" and the "because": Even though Abraham was way too old to have a kiddo, he became a father, because he believed that God would be faithful to his promise. In light of his because, Abraham overlooked a pretty big even though, and he experienced the power of God in a jaw-dropping way (see v. 11-12). As I read through Hebrews 11 this time, the notion amazed me all over again. This time, however, I was struck by choice these great men and women of faith had in the matter. I realized that the story could very well have gone like this instead: Even though God promised Abraham a son, Abraham remained childless, because he didn't believe God was powerful enough to overcome the fact that he was too dang old to have a kid. Or perhaps, even though God had called Moses to lead the people out of Egypt and had shown his power, Moses stayed because he feared the King's anger (see v.27). What made these people of faith remarkable, what made them worthy of remembrance some thousands of years later, was that they made God the trump card in their lives. They decided that God was going to be the because behind everything they did, and that everything else was going to have to be an even though.They were living examples of the call in verse 6: "But without faith it is impossible to please God, because everyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him." They were confident that God existed, and they banked everything--and I mean everything--on his promise to reward those who seek him wholeheartedly.

At the moment, I find myself facing my own test of faith, my own point of decision as to what is even though and what is because. God has called me to return to my previous home to pick up the lifestyle ministry he had me doing there. He's made the call quite clear. At the moment, however, there is no job waiting for me there. A life, a ministry, a call...but no income or insurance or any of the other things that my culture tells me must be the trump cards when I am making my decisions. Here is where I choose how my story reads: 1) Even though God answered every prayer for clarity and called Katie to go, she stayed where she was, because she didn't know how she was going to pay for things, or 2) Even though she had no idea how she was going to pay for things, Katie went, because she believed that the same God who answered her prayer for clarity could answer her prayers for every other need. There should be no question that the second option is how I'd like to be remembered. And so I make my choice. I will go. I will allow God to be my trump card, my permanent because.

I recently shared this with my church, and someone asked how this applies when we aren't facing decisions as huge as a job change or relocation. It is a valid question, one which gave me pause. As I think about it, though, I realize how many smaller parts of my story--parts not worthy of their own chapter, perhaps, but important--still present me with the choice. And here is what I desire. Even though I often feel inadequate for the things God asks me to do, I do them because I believe that he meant it when he said my strength is in my weakness. Even though it is scary as hell to be vulnerable about the broken places in my life, I open myself up because believe in a God of redemption and freedom. Even though my actions might invite the ridicule of others, and might run counter to even my personal notion of logic, I live out the gospel the best that I can because I believe that love and truth are worth so much more than conformity. I want it to run down to the tiniest details: even though I think 'm right, I hold my tongue, because I believe in God's promise that love never fails (1 Cor. 13:8).

Truly seeking the Gospel, it seems, will run us up against a million points of decision. Impossible odds, unconventional behavior, seemingly insane decision making. To live that Gospel is to consider it all an even though, and to make God our non-negotiable Because. It is to stand on the truth that, "With man, this is impossible; But with God, all things are possible." All things. Every single one. Let's bank our lives on it.

can't earn me love

I've never really doubted the wisdom of Paul McCartney on love: you just can't buy it. Buying love has always seemed a little ridiculous to me anyway, mainly because a) material things appeal to me less and less, and b) I have never exactly been rolling in any kind of dough. If love was a purchase deal, I'd be living off of discount fare for the rest of my life. Maybe even some food stamp kind of love. Thankfully, I know money has nothing to do with it.

Unfortunately, I seem to have adopted a version that isn't much better, no matter how noble it may sound sometimes. Apparently, I have settled for a barter system: I give you this, you offer me love. Sometimes I have even chosen downright hard labor, to earn my keep, I guess. Either way, whether I am scouring my closet for trade items, or sweating away in the fields of relational servitude, I often find myself doing my darndest to "earn me love". In fact, if I am honest with myself, that's pretty much what I'm doing all the time.

Recently I was talking with my friend, a fellow lover-earner, about that tendency. We comiserated about the effort that goes into garnering affection in our lives. In the midst of our talk, I suddenly felt compelled to ask her about the times in her life she has felt most loved (a question which she predictably turned back on me once she had answered it). We each shared stories from our lives of moments that had left us feeling overwhelmingly secure and loved: one totally unexpected apology from a distant Father, one moment of "dancing" with God in the midst of absolute brokeness, one friend who offered her company when I had absolutely nothing to offer her in return, and on and on. As we answered the question, one thing became
exceedingly clear: we felt the most loved in situations where we had not earned it, and perhaps felt that we least deserved it. Those were the moments when love was real, when love sank in and took root in our lives. All those other times, all the million times a day that we had been striving to earn love and maybe even thought we had acheived it, had apparently not felt like love in the end. They were a cheap substitute for the real thing, which must always be a gift, not a wage.

"Love is patient, love is kind....it keeps no record of wrongs. It always trusts, always perseveres....love never fails." The most explicit passage in the Bible concerning love sort of assumes that we will be unlovable at times. That we will require patience. That we will have wrongs that need to be scratched from the record. That it will take perseverance to truly love us. This kind of love, and this kind alone, never fails. It sinks deep into the heart and makes a home, no matter how small. It establishes itself in our memories, so that when we are asked when we most felt loved, it is the first to come to mind. Love that is not earned is the love that stays with us.

It follows, then, that the love we give without requiring others to earn it is the only love that will stick. To love others freely, without expectations or contingencies, is the only way to love in the name of Jesus. It is the only kind of love that can get to the brokeness of a person and bring healing. May God grant us the grace to live in a way that says to the world around us, "You don't have to earn my love."

the question of the undeserving poor

There is a question that has clouded the air around work with the poor for as long as such work has existed: Is there a delineation between the "deserving" and the "undeserving" poor? To the advocate for love, the latter designation might sound appalling. One might pontificate: "Well, we are all undeserving of the grace granted us by a merciful God." And such a statement would be theologically sound, perhaps stirring up some inner nobility among speaker and hearers alike. But the lines are not so black and white as nobility would wish, not even when the social service agency is a rock-solid group of Christ Followers. The question of "who deserves my help?" clouds the air of churches and agencies, a difficult and lingering haze through which social service ministries have to navigate pretty much constantly. The haze is familiar to me now, nearly 8 months into my work with the homeless. I no longer expect to see things clearly when I go to work--no, I know I'm going to walk in there and it's going to get fuzzy before I have a chance to look around.

Some examples:

1. A local pastor calls to let me know that he's considering hiring John, one of our biggest drinkers, to do some maintenance work on a weekly basis (he's already chatted with John about it). He asks me what I think, and my response is immediate: "I'd rather have you hire someoe else. John will without a doubt drink the money you pay him (I call it 'liquidating their assets'). I have some guys here who have been working on sobriety who need work, and I'd rather send you one of them, maybe Jesse." The pastor, as one who clearly lives under the call of the gospel, feels the same dilemma I do, even as I speak as if I didn't. Part of John's drinking comes from boredom and frustration. The job would give him a sense of dignity, which is half the goal for us. But I know the odds are more than overwhelming that he'll liquidate those assets. Jesse is over 5 months sober and will use the money for healthier purchases. He "deserves" the work more. What does the gospel ask me to do here? Not logic. Not even fairness. The Gospel.

2. Upstairs at the Salvation Army, requests for clothing vouchers and warm items come in at an over 100% increase from last year. The budget is tight, and many families with young children are coming in for help. Then one of our alcoholic clients from FMS walks in and asks for a clothing voucher and sleeping bag. He plans to continue camping and drinking, and responds to the urging toward rehab with an only slightly veiled version of "screw you". But he is a life, and his body will freeze to death in the cold the same way a more "deserving" person's would. What would Jesus do in this case?

Dilemmas abound: Do I buy a bus ticket to rehab for the woman who has already tried and quit twice, each timing coming back to drink and spewing hatred at us when we ask her why she left the program? Do I continue to provide services to the man who constantly disrupts the community and gets arrested, and then openly declares that he has no intention of changing his situation? Do I help with paperwork for the client who is applying for disability, even after he has manipulated every agency in town, even taking the pain meds they paid for and selling them, sometimes to kids? These questions rattle around in my mind day after day. The haze follows me home, clouds my thoughts, makes me wrestle with the gospel on a level I have never known before. I come back again and again to the story of Jesus and the paralytic (see earlier blog), and I wrestle some more.

I look often to the writings of one of my heroes, Dorothy Day (less for answers, more for companionship in the questions): "...there is nothing to do but love. There are families among us, destitute families, destitute to an unbelievable extent, and there, too, is nothing to do but love. What I mean is that there is no chance of rehabilitation, no chance, as far as we can see, of changing them; certainly no chance of adjusting them to this abominable world around them--and who wants them adjusted, anyway? What we would like to do is change the world--make it a little simpler for people to feed, clothe, and shelter themselves as God intended them to do. And to a certain extent, by fighting for better conditions, by crying out unceasingly for the rights of the workers, of the poor, of the destitute--the rights of the worthy and the unworthy poor, in other words--we can to a certain extent change the world; we can work for the oasis, the little cell of joy and peace in a harried world. We can throw our pebble into the pond and be confident that its ever-widening circle will reach around the world. We repeat: there is nothing that we can do but love, and dear God--please enlarge our hearts to love each other, to love our neighbor, to love our enemy as well as our friend." (taken from the Catholic Worker, June 1946)

Nothing to do but love. This doesn't necessarily clear up the questions, but it calls me to a default. In all the fuzziness, I will seek to err on the side of love. When in doubt, default to love. If I fail while trying to love, then I have at least ventured mightily, right?

More than this, I notice that the goal is to "make it a little simpler for people to feed, clothe, and shelter themselves as God intended them to do." This means seeking justice on a systemic level. I may have to wrestle a great deal over what to do with the alcoholic sitting in my office day to day. It is agonizing at times, and probably will remain so. But I can far more confidently seek out the systems that keep that person down and fight them outright. Then perhaps the question of deserving and undeserving poor will fade; then, perhaps, there will simply be fewer who are destitute. And that is the goal of love. I recall the prayer repeated again and again in the simple sanctuary in Green Mountain Falls: "God, we look forward to the day when sharing by all will mean scarcity for none."

Until that day, pray for those workers who face the question every day. It is just plain harder than you'd think.

God glasses

Sometimes I wish the ability to see as God does was a little more tangible. You know, you decide to follow Christ, and along with that "new believer's Bible" they hand out by the dozens, you get a pair of God Glasses. Yes indeedy, the key to spiritual 20/20. (The paradox, I suppose, is that that Bible is the set of glasses...but that's another post). Sadly, most of the time I find myself looking at the world through an unchanged set of eyes. I cast my glance around me and immediately make judgement based on less-than-holy standards: sometimes silently, sometimes (unfortunately) aloud.

Recently, I found myself feeling rather grumpy as I began the 25 hour train ride back from California. Hoping to nap, I was instead kept awake by a nearby teenager, talking at a typical teenage volume and playing songs recorded as ringtones on her phone (while singing along, of course.) I moved back to another car to rest, only to have a rather prudish-looking conductor mark the car "closed" after we stopped in Reno. I returned to my original seat, thankful that the teenager had succumb to a nap in the time I was gone. My relief was short-lived: a man across the aisle began staring at me in a way that made me more than uncomfortable. Frustrated, I gathered my things and went to sit in the lounge car, dreading the 22 hours that remained in the trip. I could ask for help from the conductor, I thought, but that guy looked uptight. I inwardly blamed him for being so, and for closing off my precious escape car. While standing outside with my dad at a brief stop, the conductor passed, and I nearly said out loud, "What a prick." I restrained myself, but only from the words. The thought remained, and I inwardly smiled at my wit.

I'm so glad I didn't utter those words. When I later ran into some other conductors and asked about the closure of the Reno car, they asked about my situation and immediately began looking for a way to help me out. Who was it, you might ask, that eventually came to the rescue more than anyone else? The prick. Ah yes, the prudish, uptight prick. He found me a soon-to-be-vacated seat in another car and marked it off so that no one would take it (even claiming the seat next to me as reserved). He offered me his own seat until that seat was cleared (at the next stop). He checked in on me a few times, checked out the creepy man, and made sure a man was seated there instead of another woman. The dude went above and beyond. Uptight? No. Kind and helpful in the extreme. What was that about God glasses?

Later I found myself surprisingly in need of...some toiletry items (ahem). The little on-train store carried no such items (can we say severe oversight, Amtrak?). I was directed to the woman who ran the dining car, but no amount of inquiring around on her part turned up any help for me. Sitting at the table post-dinner, feeling sorry for myself, I found myself looking at the hugely overweight woman who had barely squeezed into a booth nearby. She was an employee in the kitchen. The judgments that flew through my mind were atrocious--I am embarrassed to recall them. As I chatted with the dining car director again, the large woman overheard. Looking up from her silverware wrapping, she said, "Let me go look in my room." She disappeared for a while, and came back with a neatly wrapped care package put together with much consideration. "Thank you so much," I said. "You really saved my rear." "Of course. Happy to help." My mom asked if I owed her anything, and she laughed if off as a ridiculous notion. Walking away, I realized I had again falled victim to poor spiritual eyesight, and God had pointed out the fuzziness of my vision (probably with great delight, as he knows the deep beauty of that woman's heart).

These are minor examples of the adjustments that need to be made every day. In my work, especially, seeing people as God does in an often unsuccessful venture. Looking at a slobbering drunk, homeless person who is acting like a ridiculous jerk, I see,well, a slobbering drunk, homel....you get the point. I have a feeling that isn't what their Creator sees. The principle applies equally to the mirror for me. I look and pass judgement every day, failing to see myself through the lens of God's abundant, lavish love and grace.

May the people of God use the means given us (including that Bible) to begin to change the way we see our world. It isn't as easy or neatly packaged as a literal pair of God glasses, but the opportunity is there each day to seek God, and to allow him to take us from tainted eyes to spiritual 20/20.

time to write

I miss writing. I miss crafting words, capturing my thoughts and then stepping back to look at them as they appear in ink. Aha, I think to myself, that's what you look like! Yet I have not written much these last couple years. Some of that was natural. The move to the trailer meant the loss of home internet, as well as the loss of a great deal of what had previously been free time. As well, my most prolific years involved writing late into the night, which is less feasable now that I am back in the working world and on someone else's schedule.

Still, the excuses aren't sufficient. What did I do this week that was more important? I watched several epidsodes of The Deadliest Catch and scanned the internet for ideas for a fall trip. I wasted too much time on Facebook (Oh FB, how I love and loathe thee...). I took a bike ride. I spent an hour in Target trying to decide which notebook and bike lock to buy. I had tea and did some reading at a coffee shop. I met up with friends, inititally for tennis, but finally for coffee when the courts presented only puddles. Some of these things were important indeed. But some were by no means worth the loss of hours that could have been spent writing. It is a discipline that I have let fall slack. I need a good old fashioned kick in the hind quarters.

That said, any and all are welcome to offer such prodding. It is time to write again.

king David, a candle, and me

I understood something new of the Psalms today. Those who have read them have probably noticed that these songs and prayers of desperation, especially those attributed to David, often seem to have a sort of...mood swing element to them. David cries out in anger or distress for line after line of emotive poetry, and then, click--he spits out a resounding affirmation of God's strength or a beautiful remembrance of God's faithfulness. Psalm 13 is one example that has always lingered in my mind. Most of it betrays David's feeling that God has abandoned him, that David has been left to his enemies without hope of rescue. Yet that same psalm ends with this: "But I trust in your unfailing love; my heart rejoices in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, for he has been good to me" (5-6) At times such switches simply sound odd.

There isn't a really nice way to say it: I have been pretty depressed most of the time for the last few months. Life feels heavy and hard, and while God continually shows me of his goodness, I feel ignored by him in the deepest areas of struggle and suffering. Frustration, anger, and discouragement have been swirling around in my head, unvoiced to a large degree. Today, however, much of it came spilling out. In jaded and bitter words, I spoke of a God who doesn't rescue us when we call to him, who doesn't come to my aid. I spoke of hopelessness, and I attempted to voice an apathy that, of course, is no more than a cover up for caring so much that it nearly does me in. Hot tears welled up. And there it was: my pain, voiced and echoing in the air inside my car.

In that silence that followed, something in me stirred. Some deep part of me was not satisfied with the statements I had made, felt as if I had defiled the sacred. It was not so much a concern that I had said the wrong thing, or some need for a clean-cut religiosity; rather, it was the feeling that I had spoken untruth about One whom I love. And the feeling did not call me to set aside my emotions, only to acknowledge truth in the midst of them. The truth is that God does rescue his people and has so many times rescued me, even if he seems to have left me now. The truth is that there is no hope at all outside of him, because he is hope embodied, and that my pain at his seeming indifference simply underscores his preeminence in my life. That stirring, that moment of pause, was my own fifth verse--not forced, but rising up from the place in me where the Truth resides. There in that place, the Spirit who has made a home in me held a candle up against the dark feelings that threatened to overwhelm me.

Deep into my bones, I journey with David through the early part of Psalm 13 these days: "How long must I wrestle with my thoughts, and every day have sorrow in my heart?" Yet even as I voice my anguish, I see a flickering. There is a candle somewhere in that darkness, calling me to cling to the ankles of Hope for dear life. It calls me, no matter how weary my voice, to sing to the Lord: he has indeed been good to me.

what's 'want' got to do with it?

Any reader of the Gospels has likely noticed something about Jesus: he says some strange things. For all his oft-quoted eloquent maxims and parables, there are as many portions of his story that leave the reader scratching her head, wondering if Jesus has momentarily lost his marbles despite his divinity. He asks strange questions and gives even stranger responses to the questions others ask him.

One such moment appears in John 5, when Jesus comes upon a man who has been crippled for nearly 40 years, sitting on a mat near a pool famed for its healing properties. Deal was, the pool only healed folks when its waters were stirred by angels, and even then, only the first one in was in luck. It doesn’t take a genius to guess that the crippled man’s odds of being the first one in were not exactly good. There he sat, day after day for 38 years, hoping someone would help him be the first into the healing waters. When Jesus comes near the pool, he sees the man, and approaches him. He looks at the cripple and asks one question: “Do you want to get well?”

Hold the phone, Jesus. Are you nuts? This dude has been sitting on a dang mat for longer than you’ve been in a human body, and you wonder if he wants to get well? Is there a Greek word for “duh”?

It’s funny how life can shed light on things, though. My work with the homeless has given this story a whole new depth for me in the last couple months. As one of our own clients pointed out when we discussed this passage one Sunday, Jesus asks a legitimate question. As an alcoholic, my client knows that the issue isn’t whether or not he is able to get sober, but ultimately whether or not he wants to be sober. You see, despite the complaints we give, most of us have grown to be rather comfortable in our dysfunctions. It’s how we do life, right or wrong. And if we are honest, we hesitate when confronted with the difficulty of changing our habits, learning new coping mechanisms, and facing the challenges of reinventing ourselves. The crippled man, in many ways, faced the same things. A healthy body meant learning to take care of himself, having to work for a living rather than surviving on alms, and generally having responsibilities from which his health had previously excused him. That’s a big adjustment. Perhaps that is why Jesus asks the question: “Do you really want to be well?” [Of course, in this case the guy's answer reads something like, “C’mon, man. It’s not like I’m not motivated. I just can’t get down there on my own. Someone always beats me to it. Perhaps you haven’t noticed, but I’m crippled.” And Jesus, sensing the sincerity of his answer, heals him and sends him away walking on a brand new set of feet.]

The question I wrestle with again and again at work right now is this: What would Jesus have done if the guy had said no? “No thanks, Jesus, but I’m pretty used to this gig. Thanks anyway.” What then? Would Jesus have healed him? Rebuked him? Just walked away?

Doing case management with a population who consistently befuddles me by turning down the help that could get them out of their homelessness and addiction, I often think about Jesus’ question. In essence, I feel like it is what I am asking my clients: “Look, we are here to help you. But do you want to get well?” They may not say it outright (though on occasion, it’s pretty close), but their reply is often “no.” They don’t want wholeness badly enough to leave the familiarity of their dysfunction behind. Just this week, we offered an intensely alcoholic man who was being released from the hospital a warm place to stay for a couple weeks, if only he will commit to staying sober during that time. His drinking, of course it what landed him in the hospital in the first place, as he lay drunk in a tent for days and let his feet freeze and rot. His dad has given him much the same offer we have—fly him home, take care of him—if he’ll give rehab a shot. But it’s a no go. This particular client does not want to get well. So what do we do with him? It is a land of grays we walk through in situations like this.

Now I know that rehab is a lot more work than the miraculous healing the crippled man received. But all the same, the question is a fair one for all of us: Do we want to get well? When we call out to Jesus to change us, heal us, save us, are we really ready for the responsibility of living out that changed life? It calls me to pause, this notion. It calls me to dig inside to see what dysfunctions I may be asking for freedom from—to picture myself laying on that mat—and to be prepared to answer the willing but searching question of my Savior: “Katie, do you want to get well?”

holding on to hope

Hope can sometimes be difficult to find these days. As my life becomes further and further entwined with the broken lives of my clients, I realize the courage involved in this thing called hoping. Hope takes courage because it is risky; it involves putting ourselves out there, wearing our hearts on our sleeves with the full knowledge that things may not turn out as we’d wanted them to.

This has been especially apparent around Feed My Sheep these days. Two of the clients who had been winning their battle with alcoholism have relapsed entirely. We hear tales of them passed out in their own messes, or bruised after a return to those who abuse them. Three other clients finally hit bottom and asked for help—we sent two off to rehab and one back to be with supportive family. This is cause for rejoicing, and we hope for them. Yet we also feel the pull toward guarding ourselves from the possibility of their failure, from the prospect of a day when they, too, will return to the bottle and reacquaint themselves with a life of self-destruction. Others simply suffer, and we wonder how to speak hope to them. One man just found out that his daughter is in a coma, unlikely to recover. His other two children are already dead. As he stumbles into the shelter and cries out to me in his drunkenness that a man should not outlive his children, I feel at a loss for words.

The battle for hope does not end with work. In my personal life, I find myself facing long struggles that seem never-ending. At times the weight of longing for freedom and healing seems too much. When eloquence is rendered futile by the unutterable things of the heart, I return often to Luther’s prayer: “I am yours; Save me” Teach me to hope, I ask the One whom Paul calls “the God of hope.” Teach me to hope.

A rereading of Hebrews 11:1 recently underscored for me the importance of this risky thing called hope: “But faith is the substance/realization of what we hope for; it is the proof/inner-conviction of things not seen” (translation mine). A look back at Hebrews 6 recalls the centrality of faith to being a true Christ-follower: “Without faith, it is impossible to please God…” Yet a closer look at verse 11:1 reveals that the definition of faith comes with an assumption: it assumes we are hoping for something. To surrender hope renders faith null and void: The verse would basically read, “But faith is the realization of…nothing.” We can’t lay aside hope, saying “I’ll believe it when I see it,” and pass it off as part of surviving the job. It is simply impossible to give up hope and still claim to be a people of faith.

I long for our ministry to be founded on deep and abiding faith. I hunger for my own life to be a life marked by confident trust. And so I must take the risk: I must never give up hope, no matter how painful and vulnerable it can be. I must never shut down the places of my heart that long for things I can’t yet see. Faith is the realization of hope that my clients can overcome, that broken hearts can find restoration, that long battles can be won. And hope is the daring choice to allow God the chance to prove that the promise is true.

finding God in Creation (no wilderness required)

Living in Colorado, and especially among the population of Christ-followers here, one hears a common statement: “I experience God most in his creation.” What they mean, of course, is that stepping away into the magnificent landscape that surrounds us allows for an encounter with the divine which is difficult to find in the midst of everyday life—in the midst of traffic and conversations with the boss. Of course, there is much truth to the sentiment. Just yesterday, as I descended from the summit of a nearby mountain, making my way through snow and Aspens under a blue sky, something in my soul was stilled; I felt as if God would have an easier time getting my attention in that quiet wilderness than he would during a day full of running errands.

Indeed, anyone who knows me well knows that I am addicted to the mountains. I can breathe out there. I can climb up to a higher view and look down at a world that is not as big and scary as perhaps I might have imagined. Yet something recently struck me as I thought through that statement again, that assertion that it is easiest to find God in “creation”. I was sitting in a worship setting, singing about how “the earth is filled with his glory,” and I became aware that I picture the same sort of wilderness setting every time I sing such songs about an earth that reveals God’s greatness. I picture the glory of God as displayed in “creation”. The thing that struck me (and the reason that creation is in quotation marks) is that the high point of creation—the only part said to be shaped in the image of the Creator himself—is humankind. It’s people like the ones you pass in traffic and the one who runs your office. Why, then, does my idea of encountering God in creation generally involve getting away from people, save for maybe a few that I really like? And what am I missing out on because of that narrow definition?

In the week or so since I began to ponder those questions, I have often found myself looking intently at others, especially at my clients at the homeless ministry, wondering what it means to experience God in the part of creation that is people. In some ways, it has simply shown me how much I need to allow my eyesight to be adjusted by the Creator, since I know that he is especially present in encounters with the poor. On the other hand, it has affirmed what has already been a big part of my focus lately: the importance of the Body of Christ really, truly living life together as a body. Here’s why:

I imagine that one of the reasons we find it so easy to encounter God in places like the Colorado Wilderness is that there we find a part of creation that seems at rest. It is an area that seems untainted, and gives us the sense that it might actually be close to how God intended it to be in the first place. No matter how much one might love a place like New York, it definitely doesn’t afford the feeling that the plot of land known as Manhattan in any way resembles the landscape in its purest form. We’ve made a bit of a mess out of many such places.

Likewise, humanity has become a polluted and chaotic form of what once reflected in the image of God himself. It is sometimes difficult to glance the divine within the face of an utterly broken life (though we need to look intently for God there, too, so that we can embrace all as his created ones). Here, then, is the importance of the Body of Christ. We are not the pristine mountains of humankind, but as Christ-followers, we have chosen to begin a journey toward being restored to the image of God. We have chosen to be a vessel for the display of his Spirit and likeness, no matter how imperfectly we fulfill that role at times. To seek to know God in his creation, then, means for the Body of Christ to look for him in each other. To truly do this means sharing life on an intimate and vulnerable level, offering one another access into the places of our lives where God’s great strength and redemption are being revealed in our weakness and trials. It means proclaiming his creativity by actively expressing the ways he’s gifted us, and doing so in community with others. It means helping one another to grow in the kind of compassion that will better allow us to see God in even the most broken parts of creation.

Knowing God in community with people is much messier than finding him in the woods and canyons. It’s more complicated and unpredictable, to be sure. But if we believe that God is revealed through his creation, then he is there in the midst of human ties, waiting to make himself known intimately through those “who have set their hearts on pilgrimage.” May we know him in the mountain peaks and crystal streams, yes. But may we also allow him to teach us even more what it means to know him through the part of creation which he shaped in his very image.

a different kind of messy

A few posts ago, I wrote about the messiness of loving people who are often bent on self-destruction, and who will only sometimes overcome. It the messiness of loving broken people. This week, I have come face to face with another side of that untidy process called love: it is the messiness of loving when the messy one is me.

For the most part, I thoroughly enjoy our clients. Most are kind and grateful, quck to share a story or a laugh. Some are a little obnoxious when drunk, but well...that's alcohol for you. Recently, however, we have been joined by a woman whom I find it almost impossible to enjoy. In the large group room, and then even more once in the women's room, she is often just plain hateful. She speaks in such a rude, attacking, and accusing way that I sometimes stand there just feeling like someone is spewing poison on me. And she goes for the jugular, attacking the legitimacy of my faith, my competence as a staff member, or simply my intelligence or general worth. It causes great wrestling in me, because my inner reaction is not what I would hope for it to be. Sometimes I feel like I hate her. I don't want her to come in, hoping that she can find somewhere else--anywhere else--to keep warm. Part of this is because she not only insults me, but often attacks others and almost always ruins the atmosphere of the room for the night. It doesn't help that she snores like a chainsaw from the moment she falls asleep to the time she wakes up. Shallow as that may seem, it just makes it so I am angry with her even when she's sleeping. I pray continually that Jesus would create compassion in me, eyes that see the hurt behind her bitter hatred. It is far easier said than done.

Jesus told us pretty clearly that sometimes the world will hate us just as it hated him. This should be no surprise. But how to respond is a difficult question for me because of the position I am in: I am called to be humble and meek--to disarm her with kindness--yet as a staff member I am also called to maintain authority and order in our shelter. The latter side of things seems to cancel out the option of silently turning a cheek and letting her rage unchecked. Yet the call to the former makes it difficult to embrace the decision to demand respect and possibly kick her out for the night. Of course, mixed into all this questioning is my own ugly reaction. I'll be honest: there are times when all I really want is to get rid of her. Oh, to be like Christ in this situation. What does it look like? I do not know, and so I continue to wrestle with the question daily.

In the midst of it all, at least one thing has begun to echo clearly. Jesus did not just warn us that we might be hated. He told us that to be persecuted is actually a blessing, a cause for rejoicing. To recieve insults and to encounter suffering--we are blessed to share in these things. I pray that I might be able to internalize this more and more. Perhaps someday I will find myself doing that ludicrous thing the gospel calls us to: standing before one who spews bitter poison and somehow rejoicing.