Does the Grinch live on Silver Avenue?

Warning parents: if your six-year-old reads this blog, please have them skip this entry because we will be discussing the "S" word here (Santa).

"So, do you all have Sanata at your house?" This has been the million dollar question of late, due to the season. And despite a nagging feeling that I am depriving my kids of a rite of childhood, Diane and I have chosen to tell our children that Santa Claus (as perpetuated by the media and culture) is not real, that he will not be coming down our non-existent chimney, and that he will not be bringing them toys this Christmas (we don't talk about it quite that bluntly). We do tell them about Saint Nicholas and the things he did for the poor because of his love for Jesus.

The reason for our choice is that we are really trying to be intentional about making Christ the focus of our Christmas preparation and celebration, and Santa sort of gums up the works because he becomes the star of the show on Christmas morning. It's hard enough to stem the cultural tide of consuming and making Christmas so dependent upon presents; adding an expectation that even more gifts will be coming from Santa just seems counterproductive.

And yet I can't help but feel like the Grinch when I tell friends that, no, we don't have gifts from Santa for our kids. It's not that I catch any overt grief, but all of my reasons sound so self-righteous, especially when I say them to fellow Christians. "We really want to be intentional about Christ being the focus of Christmas." (Oh, so my Christian friends who do the whole Santa thing aren't focused on Jesus at Christmas?) "We really want to fight against consumerism." (Oh, so my Christian friends who do the whole Santa thing are just wasteful spendthrifts?) And the subtle implication of our Western culture is that if you don't get your kids amazing gifts, you might not love them as much as other parents love their kids.

Yes, there is something beautiful about childlike faith, about cookies and milk being left for Santa to nibble. There is something very sweet about the openness to wonder and miracles that goes right along with the Santa idea. But I want my children's faith to focus on the wonder of Emmanuel, God with us. On the miracle that the Lord loves them so much that He would come near, as a baby, a child just like them, in order that they might know God in the deepest parts of their heart and soul. I know that there is only so deep that this faith and understanding can go at a young age (heck, at any age). But what better time of year, a time of lights and giving and joy, to sow seeds of faith in Christ and to really embrace the adage that Jesus is the reason for the season. Perhaps there is a convincing argument that Santa doesn't hinder that at all, and that he even enhances it by opening our hearts to simple faith. I can hear that, but I can't get past the thought that faith in something that isn't true is perhaps faith that is misplaced. Growing comfortable in our decision make take some time.

I think the secret is safe with our kids – I told the girls that some of their friends will still believe in Santa and that they should not tell them otherwise, and Psalter with all seriousness said, "I will never, ever tell them."

Permission to Transition

In January it will be one year since I left full-time staff with InterVarsity and moved to ¾ time with my church. I think I am still realizing how hard it has been for me to live with one foot in each world, transitioning from the parachurch to the Church, and that realization has been hard, yet refreshing. I thought the transition would be seamless. I had already served as an elder at Grace for over a year, my IV office was upstairs at Grace, and I was friends with most of the church staff people that I would be working with. I had been at Grace for 10 years as a member, and I had led many outreaches and worked closely with ministry leaders at the church. In my mind, I was merely changing addresses, leaving the Youth Offices for the administrative offices on the first floor – I even had the same commute from 3 blocks away. But in reality, I was changing so many things.

For fifteen years (counting my undergraduate days), I have been on a college schedule, which has nice ebbs and flows and ready-made breaks every 4-5 months. I was used to the rhythm of having seasons of very busy times and seasons of a more relaxed pace. But in the church it feels like every day is pedal to the metal, something that I think is not unique to Grace and something that I would love to see change. In church, Sunday comes every week whether you are tired or not, and those that you serve don't go home for Christmas break or graduate after 4 or 5 years. In church, finding time to meet leaders and invest in them requires schedule juggling and is mostly limited to the hours of 7:00 am – 8:30 am and 11:45 am – 1:00 pm, unless you want to add a dreaded night meeting s. In IV, I had so much freedom to change directions in ministry, to try new things with fewer consequences, whereas at church, every decision must go through several filters and affects hundreds of people, some of whom have very strong feelings about what you are doing. I was very good at what I did with IV – I knew how to develop student leaders (I don't know how to develop adult leaders yet); I knew how to connect with the hearts of students who were ready and available to learn and grow (it's hard to find time to connect with adults at church); I knew how to cast vision for ministry on a college campus and had folks who were eager and willing to risk and try new things; I knew how to love IV staff and equip them to love their students. I was on campus at UNCG the other week to meet with one of my after school tutors, and I had a wave of emotion come over me, remembering the hours and years I spent on campus there and how much I love working with students.

I didn't leave IV because I didn't like the work or because I thought that moving to church was the next rung in the vocational ministry ladder. In fact, I loved my job as Associate Area Director, and I was getting good at it. I left because I felt (and feel) called to Grace and the ministry God has for me and Diane there. But because the parting was from calling, not burnout, and because the transition has not been as sweet and smooth as I hoped, there is a real loss to leaving full-time IV staff. And while I left IV (except for part-time), I was not forced to grieve because I wasn't really going away.

So my soul has been heavy here at our IV Regional Staff Conference, because I am grieving and feeling a bit out of place amongst my peers. Not that they treat me any differently, but rather our worlds and what we primarily think about are so different that I just feel like an outsider during ministry strategy sessions.

As you can tell (if you are still reading), there is a significant transition that has occurred, though on the surface so much seems the same. Eleven months at a new job has not erased or replaced the fondness of eleven years at my other one. Eleven months at Grace and I still don't feel like I have much direction or vision for what it means to work at church (I probably have more than I give myself credit for – it just still feels a bit foreign). And I am not sure that either of my places of work really understand how I don't quite fit either place right now. Interestingly, I felt somewhat like this for a couple of years after moving into Glenwood, not comfortable in my poor neighborhood because I was the richest guy on the block, yet not comfortable amongst my peers because their life and neighborhood was so different from my reality. The good news is that tension has mostly gone away now; the hard news is that the transition took time.

I need to give myself permission to grieve, permission to transition, and to receive grace and patience as I learn. I don't have it all together, though I think people expect me to. Grace and peace. Grace and peace.

Blaze

Mother Teresa once said, "We can do no great things, only small things with great love." I feel like our church lived that out this past Saturday in Glenwood. A group of about 10 folks showed up for our GO and Know, which is an outreach to the community where we simply do acts of kindness and try to meet our neighbors. Some of those who showed up lived in Glenwood, some didn't, and they set out with invitations to our upcoming Christmas Banquet and boxes of Christmas lights. Not exactly Publishers Clearinghouse coming to the door when we knock, eh? We seemed so small, and the things we carried seemed so simple. Small things with great love.

My friends from Grace went out and met our neighbors (I was stuck at home with a backed up sewer line) and guess who God led them to? Ray and Denise had recently moved in on my street. They are raising 5 of their grandkids, and the day before we came, Denise prayed, "Lord, you know I don't have anything for these kids for Christmas, not even lights to put up." And here came the Brown family, lights in hand, a living answer to prayer. Around that same time, a man was calling Grace and asking if there were a family he could bless with some beds and with some toys for Christmas. Had he called on Friday, I would have sent him to another agency, but on Saturday, we met Ray and Denise, who needed both beds and toys.

Another woman had recently moved into a home her mother used to own, and the rood was in need of major repairs. Guess who God sent to her? A member of our church who works for a housing repair non-profit.

We talked with men who were homeless and to people who were addicted and struggling. And all were greeted with a smile, were invited to a free banquet next week, and were shown the great love of Jesus in small, ordinary ways.

In The Message, John 1:5 is translated, "The Life-Light blazed out of the darkness, and the darkness couldn't put it out." These days there is precious little good news, precious little light shining, and so when people do something kind, no matter how simple or ordinary, I believe that it blazes all the brighter. Ten people handing out lights and postcards were nothing great. But they did small things with great love. And the Life-Light blazed into the darkness.

Back to the Basics (the key is in the blog name)

Since August I have posted one time, only three times since June. The reason? I'm tired. Not physically, but spiritually and emotionally, I have been worn out. A year or so ago, I posted a series on margin, and recently, a friend showed me a quote from one of those posts. It said, "Simply giving Jesus what we have, recognizing and accepting the limitations, and trusting Him to make it 'enough' is the beginning to having space and rest in our lives."

How true, how true. But truth works best when it is applied, and over the past four months I've lived as though I had no limitations and that Jesus wasn't enough. Each week I get calls at church from men and women, moms and dads, who are facing eviction or their power being cut off or their gas being turned off. Most callers are desperate and the expectation is that the church has to help, and in my heart I began to believe that I had to help every time. When I couldn't or didn't, I felt like a failure, and it spurred me to do more, to try harder. With three children at home, there was little margin for rest or recuperation, and as I drove home to my wife and kids, I would pass people on the street who I knew needed help, and I added their needs to the weight on my shoulders. In addition it's been hard to find a rhythm working at a church when I've been used to a college schedule since 1993. And being out of rhythm for almost one year now has taken a toll.

And so most evenings, when the kids went to bed, I talked to Diane or watched TV (mostly the latter), paid bills or puttered around the house (I hesitate to say I fix anything; I leave the hard stuff to Diane) and went to bed. Blogging seemed like a chore, as did reading the hundreds of blog posts that had accumulated on my google reader. Some of my friends who blog took an official sabbatical at some point and kind of announced it on the blog or over email. I just stopped writing because I didn't have the heart to.

But I need to write and I want to write. I am a writer. I know that like any exercise, it will take some time and discipline to get back into shape. But putting truth on "paper" here helps me see more clearly, reminds me of the truth, and moves me to think more deeply about the things I see and experience.

So this is my first attempt to bang out a post, to get my creative wheels turning again. I'm also working with Diane to restore balance to our family, and trusting that God will also lead me to trust Him to make what I have 'enough.' It's good to be back.

The Gift of Appendicitis

On Wednesday evening, Diane had her appendix taken out (the doctor said that while it had not ruptured, it was “gangrenous”, which made me think of Will Ferrell’s cameo on Austin Powers). Of course, this experience was not much fun for her, but as far as surgeries go, an appendectomy these days is pretty routine – it is done laparoscopically with three small incisions and she was home the next morning.

It seems that a lot of little things have been sort of piling up lately, from our fridge conking out to Jacob being sick for almost a week to a guy running off with $1200 of our money after we hired him to build a fence. But God has been showing me ways that this instance has been a gift (and I am sure that the hospital will also have a nice gift for us in a few weeks after Blue Cross does their part).

1) Rest for Diane – my amazing wife keeps up with our kids and me, runs a great household, and works part-time cleaning homes (including getting up at 5:30 am on Tuesdays to clean a barber shop). She is not one to rest, and she has been very tired the past two weeks (due to Jacob being ill and probably due to her gangrenous appendix). She would not have taken rest unless she had to, and this has forced her to rest, as well as given her “permission” to let me and others do things for her.

2) Empathy for Diane – on Thursday I got the chance to keep up with our kids all day, and it’s just not as easy as Diane makes it look. By the end of the evening, I was exhausted and ready to give them all away. It made me appreciate why Diane looks at me with relief when I come home each evening.

3) Time with my kids – at the same time, I had the gift of being with my children more than I might normally have. Thursdays are my day off, and while I do spend some time with the kids, I also do other things on those days. But Thursday, Friday, and Saturday I had lots of time with my children and I really enjoyed it (when not wanting to give them away).

4) Time with my dad – who came up on Friday evening to take me and the kids to Chic Fil-A and then stayed to play Disney Princess Memory with Eliza and Psalter. We don’t get to hang out with granddaddy enough!

5) Time with my in-laws – who came up late Friday night and have stayed all weekend (thanks, Suzanne, for letting them have you apartment!). The house has stayed clear of clutter as Grandma helps pick up after the kids, and Grandpa has helped me repair our leaky toilet and our storm door, things that were easy fixes but I did not have the confidence or time to tackle by myself.

6) A chance to serve my wife – Diane does so much for me, it was my pleasure to take care of her.

7) An outpouring of love – we received many calls, emails, and cards over the last few days, as well as had several meals prepared for us. I knew we had great friends who loved us, and this just reinforced that to us.

And so all in all, though I am sure Diane would rather have not been laid up for a few days, I can say that this has been a pretty sweet, non-stressful time. That is the grace of God in our spirits and the grace of God manifested in those who have cared for us.

Seven Things

Seven Things About Me:

1) I’ve always been wanted to be tagged in one of these things but never had been. I think that this ties into my wanting to be significant.

2) I really like ABBA and it was my idea for me and Diane to go see “Mamma Mia” this summer. I also like Stryper, Keith Green, and musicals.

3) I used to pretend to be the UNC Tar Heels playing against Duke and NC State in my driveway (back when it was still fun to play imaginary against State, since they were competitive then). I would run out from the garage as though I were running out of the tunnel at the Dean Dome, and the “radio commentator” in my head would tell how we were at the outdoor arena for the game. UNC would always win.

4) I used to pretend to be Dale Earnhardt while mowing the grass on the riding mower, and when I could put it into neutral and coast downhill, picking up speed, is when I would pass everyone for the win.

5) I like to collect music. Not in terms of “vintage stuff” but I just like to have lots of music and lots of different kinds. There are over 3900 songs on my iPod but I only listen to maybe a third of them with any regularity. The others I just like to know that I have them.

6) I am addicted to being liked. This is an addiction I am trying to break, and sometimes God gives me “detox” by letting me make decisions that make others angry. I really desire to be free from this addiction, because I want to be led by the Spirit, not by what a person thinks about me.

7) While I now shave my head because my hairline is going backwards, I originally did it because I just like having a shaved head. The first time I did it was in 1997, after Urban ‘96. I don’t know why I like it. It’s fun to cut all my hair off, and I just prefer it most of the time. This May at Rockbridge I tried to shave my head with a disposable Bic and I cut a half-inch gash in my head that was really deep. Blood was dripping down in the shower and I looked like a total dork (especially when I had to explain to people how I hurt my head). Always, ALWAYS use a Mach 3.

I am tagging:
Shawn Morrison , one of my best good friends, because he needs to get back to blogging.

Miles Travis because who knows what he will let us in on that we don’t already know, and because he’s about to be a daddy again.

Cory Cavin for the same reason as Miles (except for the daddy part)

Justin because he is way cooler than me (and he has to suffer through life as a State fan).

Meredith because her blog is the funniest one that I read (along with Cory’s), and because she probably will think that being tagged in something like this is lame.

Michele , because she is crazy.

And Chris because his blogs always are poignant and point me to grace.

Expecting to be Forgotten

A few weeks ago, a group of guys were hanging out in the parking lot of our church, and I had driven up to make sure that they would be moving along by nightfall. One of them needed a ride home, and so I said that I would be glad to help him, once I got my family home and got my kids to bed. When I came back a half hour later, he was gone, and his buddies said that he just thought I wasn’t going to come back. Around the same time, a man had approached me after church asking for money to buy food, and I told him that I’d be glad to drive home and get him some food and bring it back. Ten minutes later I was back, but he was gone. I bet he thought I wasn’t coming back.

I’m finding that this fear of being forgotten and let down is a pretty common theme with many that I work with. When we have an event for the neighborhood kids, they will call 5-10 times in the hour preceding it to make sure that they are being picked up, asking where their ride is, are we coming. Over and over and over. Many times if I make a promise to help someone financially through our church, they will call back multiple times to make sure that it is being taken care of.

We all have this desire to know that we matter, that we are important. And it makes me sad that there are many in this world who have it communicated to them over and over that they are not important, that they don’t matter, that they are an afterthought.

Last week at our Wednesday Community Fellowship, one of the guests who is homeless told me that there had been a newspaper article that day about a homeless man found dead in a building on High Point Road. He wondered if I would mention that to the group. And so I got up during our announcement time and just spoke about this death, a man that most of us did not know. As I spoke, the Lord reminded me that He said that God knows when even a sparrow falls to the ground, and that the very hairs on our head are numbered. Even when no one else knows, God knows. He reminded me to tell the group that He was with that man as he died, not abandoning him.

I have never been homeless, but if I were, long-term, I can imagine that one thing I might wonder is, “Would anyone notice if I wasn’t here?” Not in the sense of just giving up, but just wondering if I matter, if my life has purpose because many treat the homeless and the poor as a faceless nuisance.

But the more I am in relationship with folks who happen to not have as much as me, the more I know that they have stories and longings, and they want to know the same thing that I do – "Do I matter? Am I significant?" And God says to all of us, “Yes!” Those of us who know Jesus are to be the living embodiment of that “Yes,” that those who think they are forgotten might know that they are remembered by a God who loves them.

Not Forgotten

Recently I was loading our car and a woman who works the streets walked past. I had seen her out for weeks now and had sometimes felt angry at her presence and other times burdened for her. A few weeks ago I had stopped to talk with her outside, and when I spoke to her, she looked at me with smile that could only be described as hungry. When I told her that my wife and I lived here and that we didn’t know if there was anything she needed, her smile faded from hungry to warm, and she said she was just trying to get some food, which we gave her. I learned her name that day, and then didn’t see her much again for a while.

So back to our recent meeting – when I saw her, I told her hello and used her name. She smiled, surprised, and said, “You remembered my name?” and walked on. As she left, I felt like the Lord had something more to say to her, and so, when she passed by again, I called her name and said, “You know that God knows your name, don’t you? He does. And He loves you.” She mumbled something and walked on.

As I drove off a few minutes later, I passed her again, and as I waved, I could see her wiping tears from her eyes. The Lord’s heart for her, simply being reminded that no matter what she was doing, God still knew her name, still loved her, had broken through.

On Monday of this week, I saw her again, walking the streets, and I tried to talk with her, to tell her that there was another way than the life she was living right now. But a wall was up. She wasn’t going to let the Lord touch her heart again, at least not right then. It’s dangerous on the streets to show weakness or need, to face the pain and darkness for what they are. But hopefully Diane and I are reminders to her that there is a God who remembers her name, who loves her, and who offers another way.

NoiseTrade Widget

WWJD?

Every question and fear and objection to working with the poor or homeless that I have heard at my church or from others over the years, every one of those resides in my heart. Last night a homeless couple came to the door. Diane and I had helped them last week, and they were still on the street. I sent them away with a blanket at 10:30, saying "I can't help you right now." But ultimately, I was choosing not to help them, because we had space in our house for them. I was afraid - what if they come back the next night and the next. What if this teaches them to not have boundaries? What are we supposed to do, help everyone who comes to the door? What if they eat our food and we have to buy more? And as I lay back down in bed, I recognized these questions. I have heard them before, and the feeling behind them were very real.

At the same time, I heard the words of Christ - I was hungry and you did not feed me. I was homeless and you did not shelter me. And the reality was, we did have a sofa bed in our living room not being used, and I could not bear the fact that I actually could help them. They had proven themselves trustworthy in the past, and the reality was it was going to cost us very little to give them some simple food and a simple bed. The reality is that every homeless person in Greensboro was not coming to our door - only this couple was. And so they stayed with us.

The reason I tell you this is not to toot my horn. The lack of love in my heart when they came to the door is enough to remind me I don't have much to brag about. Instead, it is to say I am acquainted with struggle and questions, and I can't fault anyone for having them. I wrestled last night. I was angry at being bothered when all I wanted to do was go to sleep.

But I also believe that last night was an opportunity for me and Diane to really live out what we say we believe about the Lord. That He is our provider, that He blesses us to bless others, and that we can take Him at His word. There are plenty of what-ifs that I still have, that will need to be answered tonight, possibly. But I also see that many of my what-ifs complicate the simplicity of the teachings of Christ. Sometimes I think that I make things more complicated because the pointed, clear truths of Jesus make me squirm.

She loves the broken ones

Eliza’s favorite thing to do at the beach is to collect shells. I think that it’s the introvert in her, which loves to just be alone, wandering nearby the action, seeing what she can find. She brought home several freezer ziplocks, full of shells, most of which were not the typical “put on display” variety. Most of them were broken, missing huge chunks. Not the kind that I would pick up and keep; I like my shells to be well-shaped, un-mussed by the tide (kind of the way I like my life to work, too). When I asked Eliza why she liked to pick up broken shells, she really surprised me. She said, “I like them better because they have interesting shapes. They have all sorts of cool shapes and colors.”

The very thing that I thought made the shells unattractive is what draws Eliza to pick them up. In brokenness she sees beauty. What a contrast to how I usually view brokenness. Brokenness is something to be left “on the beach,” hidden from the critical eye of the world.

But my experience in life, thankfully, is that brokenness is what endears my friends to me and me to them. When I see the frailties of my own life, and when others allow me to see theirs, we become more real, not versions dressed up for display.

I hope that Eliza extends her love of brokenness from the shells on the beach to the people that she encounters in life, that she finds them interesting and beautiful not in spite of their brokenness but because of it.

I went on a walk today and collected some broken shells to show Eliza; I’m learning to see the beauty in them, too.

El Guapo, El Glenwood

In previous post called "Sinking Sand", I addressed that all of us have fears that we need to push through for the Kingdom's sake. I was reminded of a great scene in The Three Amigos (to my younger readers out there, please rent this classic movie!), where one of the amigos is trying to fire up a small village to face the villain El Guapo. He says, "In a way, each of us has an El Guapo to face. For some, shyness might be their El Guapo. For others, a lack of education might be their El Guapo. For us, El Guapo is a big, dangerous man who wants to kill us. But as sure as my name is Lucky Day, the people of Santa Poco can conquer their own personal El Guapo, who also happens to be *the actual* El Guapo! "

I rewrote that in the context of Glenwood. "In a way, each of us has our Glenwood that we are afraid to reach. For some, their parents who don't know Christ might be their Glenwood. For others, their neighbors who seem to have it all might be their Glenwood. For others, embracing the call to "go" overseas to serve might be their Glenwood. For us, Glenwood is a neighborhood that can be beautiful and peaceful on one block, and on another block you can buy crack and see lots of police cars. But as sure as my name is Marshall Benbow, the people of God in 27403 can transform their own personal Glenwood, which also happens to be the actual Glenwood."

Perhaps it's funny just to me. I dunno.

Spiritual formation for your mp3 player

My friend Cory recently put a blurb on his blog about the site Pray As You Go, put together by Jesuit Media Initiatives. I have been using it for a couple of weeks now on my iPod and I want to commend it to my readers. Each podcast lasts about 12 minutes and follows the same format. First is a song, usually by nuns or monks, and a time to reflect on what the song is saying. Then there is a Gospel reading (and the people who read and speak on each podcast are Irish, so their voices are very soothing, almost like listening to Desmond from "Lost"). After the reading, they offer questions for reflection on the passage, with space for you to think while peaceful music plays, and then they read the passage again, inviting you to listen for the words or phrases that stand out to you the most. Also on the site (not via podcast) is an mp3 for a "Review of the Day", which guides you in thinking through your day and where you saw God at work. I've found it very helpful and encouraging, and the podcast downloads 5 reflections for each week, M-F.

Worship, Surrender, Glory, and Abiding

I love it when God teaches me themes in Scripture and in life with Him that work together as one.

Some of you know that for years, John 15 has been one of those “anchor” passages for me in Scripture, a place where I return to time and again to remember that Jesus is my source of life.

In recent months, I have been re-reading a book called “How to Worship Jesus Christ”, which is less of a “how-to” and more of a “why-for” book. As I have tried to spend intentional time in worship, focusing on God and who He is rather than what He can do for me, I am realizing that tied in with worship is surrender. If God is God at all, and if I am worshipping Him, it means that my heart and my life must be more and more surrendered to Him. It means yielding control over areas of my heart and life that I have held onto.

Interestingly, this dovetails very nicely with abiding. Surrendering to God in every moment, submitting to His leadership, is only possible as I abide in Christ. And abiding is really a form of surrender, because in abiding I say that I cannot make life work on my own, but instead I depend on God in all things.

Lately in my Old Testament reading, I have been struck with God’s glory. One of
the passages that most stood out to me is in 1 Kings 8:10-11. Solomon has just brought
the ark of the covenant to the newly constructed temple, and the priests were set to go to
work. But “the cloud filled the temple of the Lord. And the priests were unable to
perform their service because of the cloud, and the glory of the Lord filled the temple.

God’s glory was so great that it inhibited the priests, the “religious workers” from doing
their job. In the Bible, there is something about God’s glory that will stop a person in their tracks. Sometimes it brings joy, sometimes dread, sometimes fear and awe. But it is not something you pass by without noticing. When was the last time His glory arrested me?

God is very concerned with His glory, so much so that one of our main purposes, if not THE maing purpose, is to bring Him glory. Ephesians 1:11 In him we were also chosen, having been predestined according to the plan of him who works out everything in conformity with the purpose of his will, 12 in order that we, who were the first to hope in Christ, might be for the praise of his glory.

God is The Glorious One, which makes Him alone worthy of our worship. As we worship, we should move to a place of surrender, recognizing the supremacy of God in our lives. And that surrender takes us to the place of realizing that we need the life of Christ in us and through us at every moment of the day, abiding, that we might fulfill what we are created for, which is bringing glory to God.

I called my friend “B” on the way to the concert that night, and he continued to express his frustration with Grace and with Urban Ministry, blaming us in part for his problems. He said that many of our neighbors in Glenwood share that sentiment, though I have not heard it yet. And as I listened, I was not completely sure how to respond. There was no defensiveness welling up in me, thankfully, but as I listened, I realized that in some ways, my church and I were being called out.

We have been in Glenwood for years now, but I don’t think that we are making effective, systemic changes which are affecting our neighborhood. We do have ministries of mercy (emergency financial assistance, a weekly dinner for the poor and homeless, a tutoring program and dance program for kids), but thinking systemically with our dollars and our programs hasn’t happened. Again, this is not a rant, but rather an honest assessment. In Hebrew, the word for justice can also be translated mercy and healing and righteousness. All of those things are wrapped up together in one, and to do one without the other is incomplete. Yes, do merciful things, but don’t stop there – move to justice as well. In fact, I see secular organizations like The Hive making more of a dent in Glenwood than our church is, and in a relatively short time. At this time I am not sure how to move to a more holistic and systemic strategy for Glenwood. I have some thoughts – more on that later.

Sometimes I feel stuck in the middle in my position at church. There are some who believe that we are not doing enough for the poor, who critique some of the ways that we deal with the homeless who come to us for help. Then there are those who think we do too much and enable the poor to be vagrants. And in the middle, I just want to be liked, to be told that we are doing an OK job. I also want to reach people for Christ – I don’t want our ministry to the poor to be a hindrance for my friend B in knowing Jesus. I don’t want to hinder the poor who don’t know Christ because of something we don’t do for them.

In reality, my audience is no person, no critic. My audience is Christ, and I do sense that He is calling us (Grace Community Church) to step forward with boldness. I sense that the time for us to move with radical love and commitment was yesterday, yet how to lead people with grace and love is hard.

Fresh from the Garden

This is from my latest trip to our garden plot. To the left you have "pile 'o lettuce" (and I gave away a bag that big from the same trip, too). In the center you have carrots and 'taters. And to the right are the mutant carrots (closeups at the bottom). It's been a lot of fun to have a garden, and I am amazed at how much food can come out of a 4x20 space. We've been eating lettuce from it for almost two months (and giving away bags of it, too), and we've pulled a few carrots out before this, too. Squash, corn, watermelon, and cukes are on the way.

Sinking Sand

One of the things that I am getting asked by people who know that we live near the shooting sight is whether or not it makes me afraid to live in Glenwood, and honestly, it doesn’t. I figure that the shooting was an isolated incident, targeted at a specific person, not a random act of violence (although reading the newspaper article does give me pause). In some ways it bothers me how little the incident shook me and makes me wonder if I am losing compassion. I mean, the incident would have shaken me if it had affected my family or someone I knew, but instead it was a stranger on the other side of the street. Am I calloused in my heart? In some ways, I feel the same about the incident with my friend “B” – I am sad for all that has happened to him, but the incident didn’t make me afraid. It was tied to someone breaking into one of his rental units that was not lived in. The mugging at the store didn’t bother me because I know not to go down there at 11:00 at night. But I don’t want to harden my heart to protect against fear (because fear can rule me) and miss having compassion on those who are being affected.

I am also asked if it makes my wife afraid to live in Glenwood, and from all that she has told me, it doesn’t. Sure, she had twinges of that when she thinks about the kids and wonders about things like stray bullets even if an incident does not directly involve us. But nowhere is completely safe. Not the suburbs. Not the school. Not the mall. Not a university campus. There is an illusion of safety, an illusion that we can protect ourselves 100% from harm and fear, but that’s a lie. God alone holds our lives in His hands and He alone numbers our days.

I know the power of fear. For the first year or two in Glenwood, it was all I could do to walk my dog or visit the local park. I still struggle with being a fearful person, when left to my own devices apart from Christ. But there is a love that is bigger than fear and a calling that is greater than self-protection or protecting our children from the world. If we as Christians really believe that Christ is THE way; that He alone is God; that people are lost without Him; that He truly loves each and every person; and that He truly loves us and will supply all that we need, then shouldn’t that move us through fear, past fear, into places where we are forced to trust Him.

I don’t necessarily believe that God is calling all Christians to live in a neighborhood like Glenwood. But I do believe that He is calling more than the few families that I know of living there. The time for Christians to take radical steps of faith, to live with eternity in mind, is now. It is not time to wait for “those people” who are called to “that ministry.” It is time to put aside fears, which are very real feelings, and embrace faith with courage and dependence. This can be ministering to the poor; it can be sharing your faith with a neighbor or co-worker; it can be taking a stand for Christ even if it costs you money or standing in business. Fear needs to take a backseat to faith.

Near the end of a movie called “The Second Chance”, an affluent white pastor who has relocated to a poor inner-city church is leading the hymn “On Chris the Solid Rock I Stand”, and he says, “I wanted to serve God as long as I could stay comfortable, stay where it was safe. But comfort is sinking sand. Safety is sinking sand.”

I am not sure how this reads to someone outside of Glenwood. Does it seem like an angry rant? Does it seem like I am bitter? My heart doesn’t feel any of those things as I write. I do feel a prophetic passion to see more people step out of the sinking sand of comfort, people like my friends the Browns, who left a large house way outside of town to move into Glenwood with their two children. Now they deal with homeless folks coming to the door needing money, with power tools being stolen from the shed, with being misunderstood by their friends, and with the joy of meeting Jesus in the midst of trusting Him. There is joy in the margins; I see it most every day. I apologize for my second really long post. Sometimes it just pours out of me.

Last Week on Silver Avenue....

(Actually, lately what happened last week has been atypical of Glenwood in recent months, but it goes to show you that it’s still not just any ol’ neighborhood.)

On Tuesday morning, the kids and I were driving back from getting groceries at Aldi and we saw at least six police cars parked on the street near our house, lights flashing. I wasn’t sure what was going on and I had milk and yogurt with me, so I just got the kids out, took them in, and proceeded to get the groceries into the house. On my last trip, one of my neighbors from across the street came and told me that someone had just been shot in one of the apartments in the house that he lived in. Soon there were eight police cars, over 20 officers, and even swat team members with semi-automatic rifles out on our street. (Note: It’s never fun to call your wife and say, “Honey, when you come home, our street may still be blocked off by police cars, but everything is fine with us. Someone just got shot, that’s all.") Honestly, it seemed like the police response was a little excessive, but it was what it was. The man who was shot was shot through the side and was actually out of the hospital and walking around later that afternoon. When I saw a report of the incident online later that morning, it turns out that the shooter was a local drug dealer who I had recently tried to speak to and learn his name while walking up from the park. He was caught the next day.

Later, I learned that the shooter was also a suspect in a mugging on Monday night at the convenience store near the park. Four men jumped one guy and took the money from his wallet at about 11:00 at night. Case in point as to why I don’t go in that store after dark.

Then, on Friday I was dog-sitting for some neighbors and taking their dog for a walk before Diane and I were to go to a concert. As I stepped into their yard I heard, “Help! Help me! Please, somebody help!” I recognized the voice, it was a landlord friend of mine, and I took off running towards him. When I got to where I could see him, he and another man was on the ground and it appeared as though my friend B were helping the other man, who maybe was having a heart attack (I also saw several cars drive right past the scene without stopping, although I think one did call the police). As I got closer, B was actually wrestling with the other man, trying to hold him down, and he urged me to call the cops. I knew the man he was wrestling with – he used to be around our church a good bit, and we had tried to help him with housing and recovery. I urged him to calm down, and was wondering how/if I should jump into the scuffle. I think my presence sort of stunned him and everything sort of calmed down. Just as I dialed 9-1-1, a squad car pulled up and separated the two men. Apparently B heard a noise in one of his properties and saw this man breaking in (this is at 5:30 pm). The man began to walk away, and B followed him at a distance, calling the police. Eventually the man got tired of being followed and pulled a hammer out of his bag and attacked B (this is B’s version of the story, to be fair), and B began to wrestle and hold him down. There was a hammer lying in the road, and the man did not dispute that he had attacked B (though he said B also attacked him).

As I sat by B, he began to rant that Greensboro Urban Ministries and my church, Grace Community, were to blame for incidents like this and for many of his properties being broken into. People were stealing the copper wiring and pipes from his houses, which costs thousands to replace and had almost sunk him financially. He said that GUM and Grace, by helping the poor and the homeless, were enabling them and ruining Glenwood.

After giving my information to the office in case they needed a statement from me, I went back to the car, where Diane was waiting, oblivious as to why I had been gone so long, and off we went to the concert. Before the concert I had another conversation with B, which I will talk about in another post, as this one is getting long.

After months of quiet on Silver and in Glenwood, that week was an aberration. Was it because it had turned hot the past couple of days? Was it a reflection of the increasing financial strain that is coming on all people, especially the poor? Was it just coincidence? In any case, it reminded met that there is still much to be done in Glenwood.

This comment left on my post “Jesus Loves the Rich: Part 2” was so interesting and thoughtful that I thought it merited a post all its own (you'd need to read it right quick to catch the rest of this post).

First, I don’t think that 90% of the Gospels deal with Jesus’ ministry time with the elite, though they were around a lot. What I mean is that He didn’t target the elite with 90% of His time and message. They did seem to always be listening in, represented mostly by the Pharisees and teachers of the Law.

I like how Miles pointed out that Jesus didn’t necessarily go “under bridges” to pursue the poor. The poor came to Him, or people reached out to Him as He walked along , and He didn’t ignore them. Rich and poor alike came to Jesus, and He loved them all. I think that was more the point of my post – Jesus received all who came to Him and He loved them, no matter their class or status. When the woman with the issue of blood reached out to Jesus for healing, He stopped to restore her spiritually and socially, not just physically. When the blind man called out, “Son of David have mercy on me,” Jesus stopped and helped him to see. He pursued the tax collector (Zacheus), received the synagogue ruler (Jairus) and the centurion. He pursued the widow whose son had died, the demoniac in the tombs, and the woman at the well. He received Nicodemus, who came under cover of darkness. It is an interesting commentary on the Church today to consider whether people are drawn to Jesus, coming to Him as they see Him in His people, elite and poor alike, and whether people outside the Church feel pursued by Him as well.

Miles also seemed to be quietly commenting that Christians tend to compartmentalize ministry to the poor as being something we go and do at certain points, while with Jesus, it seemed to be part and parcel with His life. And perhaps one of the reasons that Christianity seems to model the “going under bridges” way of reaching the poor is that we aren’t comfortable with the “as you go/happenstance” ministry that God may provide. The ministry of interruption is not easy or convenient. That may be one of the reasons that he said he doesn't love the poor in the way that Jesus would want - we pass them by every day, not having time to stop (I do the very same thing).

It’s tempting for us to think that Jesus loved some people more than others, kind of remaking Him in the image of our choosing. If we are passionate about the poor, we think Jesus always hung out with the poor. If we are passionate for grace, we think He was always dissing the Pharisees. If we love justice, we emphasize the beatitudes in Luke. If we love spirituality, we emphasize the beatitudes in Matthew. But Christ loves every person, regardless of their race, class, social status. He loves them in the face of their sin and desires that every person come to know the life that He alone offers. Thanks to Miles for making me think more on this (and I imagine that he's not done yet).

Same Kind of Angry as Me

A few weeks ago, one of my tutoring kids informed me that she had not gone to school that morning because she had thrown up. We have a rule that kids who don’t go to school because they were sick cannot come to tutoring in the afternoon, even if they insist that they feel better. I pulled back to her house and had her go back in, at which point her parents and her sister began yelling out the door that she was all better and that she could go. Her dad came out to the van and he was clearly agitated, but he began to take it out on his son, who was in the van. He insisted that his son had come when he had been sick, and when his son protested, he yelled, “Shut up! You don’t know what you’re talking about!” and sort of lunged at him. It was very startling and somewhat frightening for me, not to mention for his son. And I confess I drove off thinking, “Man, what is their deal? It’s a simple rule, trying to keep kids from making other kids sick. There’s no need to get that mad, and certainly no need to yell violently at your son.” And I thought about how much better I was than him.

Fast forward to today. Eliza had a fever last night, but this was her last week of pre-school, and today was a special day where they were going to play water games outside in their bathing suits. She has already been sad to leave her class at the end of the week, and so we didn’t want her to miss out. We gave her some Motrin and headed to school, but when I told her teacher that she’d had a fever last night, she told me that there was a policy where kids had to be 24-hours fever-free to come (and it killed her to tell me that, I could tell). And while I didn’t show it right then, I was angry. Very angry. Eliza was upset and crying, not understanding why she couldn’t stay, and I hurt for her. It seemed unfair, and I wanted to be able to make my own rules, to be the exception. I slammed the door of the van and drove off, seething in my heart.

And as I drove down the street, I remembered that day at tutoring, and I discovered the same anger in me that had been in that father. I discovered the same protectiveness of my kids, and the same desire to have the rules bent for me. And part of the difference between me and him is that I know how to not show my anger, to not take it out on my kids (at least when others are watching).

I hope that another part of the difference is that somewhere in the midst of my natural reaction is the Spirit of Jesus, bringing self-control to bear when all I want to be is angry. And I long for that dad to have Christ in his life, because I see that his anger can be quick, violent, and frightening, and I wish his children did not have to bear the brunt of that.