Devices and Disguises
“We all have our devices, yours make you look terrible, mine make me look good.”
My words as we discussed the Beatitudes at South Street’s Sunday fellowship. We were discussing the backwards nature of the Kingdom of God. As we entered into conversation, I knew the place of my own heart: distant and stale. A spiritually lazy week had yielded a short-tempered, selfish version of myself that I knew how to properly disguise.
My disguise of productivity. Before South Street gathered I was working. I cleared the snow off the van and picked up friends and neighbors to come to worship with us. When I arrived at the Front Porch, I set up the sound system, changed the trash bags, set out pastries, made a fresh pot of coffee, and bought Styrofoam cups (so that I wouldn’t have to do dishes as well I suppose).
No one was the wiser. My productivity disguise doesn’t just blend into most Christian cultures, it thrives there. I answered questions and addressed concerns. I ran the sound for the service. However as Duane began to paraphrase the Beatitudes, discussing the ‘goodness’ of mourning, or being cursed, or being poor, my productivity facade began to chaff the spirit within.
I sat with friends, some my age, one significantly older who is quite straightforward and has a silver tongue (that is no stranger to the baser words of our discourse). He quickly connected with the Beatitudes. He knew mourning, poverty, and hardship far better than I. He knew times of walking with God and times when his devices mad him far worse off.
“We all have our devices, yours make you look terrible, mine make me look good.” I responded. The discussion continued, but the disguise continued. I set up a video to play, drove some folks home, and proceeded home to get some work done.
And I did. And the rush was validating. I finished a flier for South Street’s 15 Year anniversary (MArch 9th!!) and revised the website. For some reason, I decided to visit the Chapel’s new service, the Gathering. I had perfected my disguise at the Chapel. I had authentic days and false days, but few were aware. Throughout the hard days I was not blessed, I was disguised.
The service was well attended and youthful. My reputation proceeded me and I was greeted by old and new friends. We worshiped and I sang loudly. I love the sound of my voice.
I stopped singing. My falsehood was intolerable, and the inner spirit once again chaffed against the disguise. The sermon spoke well to my condition and after a good deal of socializing I went out with an old friend and his wife. I had walked with this couple through a great many hardships and their Beatitude blessing was apparent to me.
“We all have our devices, yours make you look terrible, mine make me look good.” I thought again.
I headed home, tired from a long day of doing, with little essence of being. My disguise sat on the floor of my truck, stripped off through conversation, conviction, and exhaustion. The hardship with a productivity disguise is that eventually the burden of performance is too much to bare.
I was blessed that day. I was blessed to talk at South Street, to accept a word from friends and neighbors who had no pretense of productivity. I was blessed to worship at the Chapel and recognize the vanity of my own soul. I was blessed to sit at Luigi’s and listen to the genuine hardships and pain of friends.
And I am blessed to be rid of that wretched disguise. I am blessed to ask for help instead of always give it. I am blessed to be still and rest.
So I started blogging again, just not here…
I made a blog for South Street, where I now work and serve. If you followed this, I am going to start publishing at:
http://southstreetministries.wordpress.com/
Here’s the entry to save you some time, but sooner or later I’ll start posting exclusively over there (and on facebook, and the South Street website, so I guess not that exclusive at all…)
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On St. Patrick’s Day amidst a sea of green revelers, four representatives of South Street Ministries entered Tangiers, one of Akron’s more celebrated and ornamented halls. We strayed into the hall seeking our place with some degree of confusion. We hadn’t worn enough green, rather we were wearing ties (a rarity in our line of work/service).
A woman redirected us to our correct room, a small hall reserved for the reNEWal Realty group. A group of Christian realtors that meets monthly to discuss, network, and share in the struggle to mix faith and business in the housing market. Duane was their speaker for the luncheon.
Duane spoke of his story, of moving into Summit Lake 14 years ago and the start of South Street Ministries, noting the stupidity of his move from a realtor’s perspective. After some abstract talk about culture, poverty, and psychology, Duane hit home with the insight that realtors persuade and control some of the forces (for better or worse) of the housing market. Moreover, with this controlling power comes a necessary call to Christian social justice.
And it is to this call my writing now turns, I moved onto Bachtel Ave. approximately a year and a half ago to live life with the people there and to serve with them. I was then a single bachelor capable of such a move without much consideration for a wife or family, and I wasn’t the only one. However now our group of urban-renewal peers has come to a dynamic crossing: is this the place, the community, the neighborhood, where we set up shop?
Do the schools, broken as they may be, become our kids schools? Do the streets, and backyards, and alleyways, and cuts become the paths that we travel daily? Because the presumed answer in the realty market is a “Hell No!” That is if the question is even asked. That is if we even pause to wonder if where we choose to live (let alone that we have the luxury of choosing) is a deep spiritual choice. It is a question that I think we would often rather avoid.
Because the alternative, choosing a life that contradicts the normative (and possibly idolatrous) values of our day gets complicated. As Shane Claiborne puts it, it gets messy:
And that’s when things get messy. When people begin moving beyond charity and toward justice and solidarity with the poor and oppressed, as Jesus did, they get in trouble. Once we are actually friends with the folks in struggle, we start to ask why people are poor, which is never as popular as giving to charity. One of my friends has a shirt marked with the words of late Catholic bishop Dom Helder Camara: “When I fed the hungry, they called me a saint. When I asked why people are hungry, they called me a communist.” Charity wins awards and applause but joining the poor gets you killed. People do not get crucified for living out of love that disrupts the social order that calls forth a new world. People are not crucified for helping poor people. People are crucified for joining them. -Claiborne: Irresistible Revolution-
And I can’t help but ask those same questions as I walk around Summit Lake. When abandoned homes, vacant lots, and broken down properties are discouragingly commonplace, when the school building is closed down so the kids can be bussed to other schools, when young men know more about prison and child support than algebra or history, I can’t help but ask why.
And I know some of the answers: generational poverty, poor life choices, unfair (and dare-I-say racist) punitive policies, and many others ‘reasons’. But I can’t help but seek the depths of the question, to examine my own motivations for serving, my own hidden bias, prejudice, and pride.
And it is this same question that we posited to a group of concerned realtors on St. Patrick’s Day. Will we continue to encourage upward mobility, when our departure cripples the neighborhood we leave? Will we champion security over community? For those of us who are lucky enough (or rather privileged enough, for luck has clearly little to do with it) to choose where we live, will we choose with the Spirit-led discernment that calls us to lay down our lives, love our neighbors, and guard the rights of the oppressed?
I don’t know.
I hope so, though.
-Grace and Peace, amidst the wrestle-
Post Script –Let me be clear that I am NOT advocating for all Christians to move into the poorer parts of town, nor am I condemning those who live in nicer parts of town (or out of town). But I will be clear on this: wherever we live, we ought to live differently. If the culture of the world says bigger is better, than the culture of Christ says ‘small is beautiful’ (serendipitously the title of one of my favorite economics books). If the culture amongst us says ‘show some skin,’ we ought to remind ourselves and live in the truth that God looks at the heart. If we are pressured to make much of ourselves, then we ought to follow the Spirit’s leading in making much of Christ instead (and practice making less of ourselves for that matter…)
Wherein Joe talks about comic books, then compares them to his life…
My favorite hero died this week. Literally, my favorite superhero died this week, in a comic book.
Nightcrawler, aka as Kurt Wagner, longtime member of the Uncanny X-Men died in this week’s issue of a weekly crossover event occurring throughout all the x-books. Now I realize that to many of you this is an insignificant event. It affects your reality in no way, shape, or form. But his passing has marked my week. And this death has not moved me in a nerdy way {although I will freely admit that I have some fairly nerdy traits}, but in the way that stories are intended to move us.
Let me explain.
Nightcrawler, was one of Marvel’s premiere odd-looking mutants (He has blue fur, a prehensile tail, and resembles a demon, most of you will recognize him from X2). He epitomized the X-Men’s credo of ‘protecting a world that hates and fears them.’ However the truly remarkable (and perhaps the draw to make him my fan favorite) aspect of Nightcrawler’s character was his faith. He was written as a devout Catholic, whose moral compass often redirected the team or prevented them from succumbing to the likes of their adversaries. Thus in more recent story lines, Nightcrawler’s presence began to symbolize aspects of faith and morality. (Contrast this with a character like Wolverine who may be more apt to symbolize resilience or ferocity.)
He died saving a younger teammate in a beautiful 2 page spread. The art captured the depth of the scene and the words were few, save a prayer cited by the protagonist as he mustered his strength one last time for a final heroic act. Well written, fantastic art, my favorite character in one last hoorah (not that he’ll stay dead anyway, comic books bring back characters to life all the time), it all made for a moving read.
So why bother to post this on facebook? Why not blog about it on a nerd site where other geeks can enjoy (or rebuke) your review? Well because I want to expound upon my week in light of the above story. In light of what happens to a team when faith is killed.
I read Nightcrawler’s death on Wednesday (new comic day), and spent Wednesday evening sneaking into my old Scout camp with 3 of my old Scouting friends. We reminisced, caught up, and hiked the paths of our childhood. We all received our Eagle award together a 18 and we are all now 25 and adrift. It was a time of nostalgia, but also a present reminder of change, of the loss of innocence, and of the painful realities of the present.
After a late night, I woke to teach my last 7:45 class. I ended the class, threw up in the bottom floor restroom, and proceeded home to fight a newly contracted 24 hr- stomach flu. I spent the remainder of Thursday on my couch watching movies and praying for consistency (although this time I wasn’t asking for consistency in my life but in my stool).
Friday I felt better. Showered and shaved some. Taught my last class for the semester and again headed home. The finality of it all was again clear. I was done teaching at Akron for a time. I have no summer classes to teach and consequently no income coming from The U of A.
At home, the neighborhood kids were quick to rush my house. I played an adorable game of cards with some of the younger kids (kids not in elementary school) and then hosted my kitchen to 5 girls in South Street’s Girl Scout program so that they could prepare a meal for an event on Saturday.
As they cleaned-up and left, I headed to First Glance where I worked the door, then spent the rest of my time there updating my Myspace (which for the record I ONLY use to keep in contact with First Glance kids and staff) with Tom, one of the student leaders, as my guide.
It had been a long day. I was tired.
I drove a student home, then proceeded to Anne’s house for a well needed drink, movie, and pizza. We watched Good Will Hunting, it was wicked good (I’ve seen it before, but it’s always good) and a wicked good time, save a little teasing from Anne and Hillary about some of my relational difficulties.
I went home. Slept. Woke up early Saturday to drive to Cleveland to help my grandpa with yard-work. He is the primary caretaker of my grandmother now and (although doing a fantastic job for an 87 year old) needs some help. I pulled weeds, mowed the yard, then enjoyed some Chili together before I left.
My Grandma is doing better. But again the once figurative death of my favorite hero took on a literal reality as I spent time with my Grandma and lamented her ailing condition. (Although I will note as well, that my Grandma is equally as stubborn in her Alzheimer’s as she is into giving into any kind of frailty.)
I drove home. Played frisbee golf with a bachelor party of guys for Cody Swiger’s upcoming nuptials, then worked the entirety of the night at an after Prom for Solid Rock Sports.
I drove home, re energized by some assuredly unhealthy drink, read a somewhat crushing letter from a would-be-potential-more-than-friend, showered and realized that sleep wasn’t really an option. I had too much on my mind.
Nightcrawler’s dead. I’m more or less unemployed this summer. (That isn’t entirely true I have some options, but it feels more true than it is). My friends relationships are falling apart. I can’t start a relationship up to save my life.My days are spent hanging out with neighborhood kids or teens from Kenmore. I have no long term plan (and barely even a short term plan).
So I watched the sunrise. Or tried to, the early morn wasn’t much of a morn at all, more like an early drizzle. But birds were still chirping, and two robin-red-breasts traversed through my yard, searching for their morning meal. And I thought of sparrows and worrying and Matthew 10, and just couldn’t grasp it.
Of course I should worry. Birds just need to eat and shit on cars and feed their kids. I need to have a wife or something and a career and significance. I thought of Luke 9 and one of my favorite verses,
“For whoever wants to save his life will lose it, but whoever loses his life for me will save it.”
And I thought aloud a secret thought that has haunted me for months: I don’t feel like my life has been saved much, rather in losing my life I feel like, well, a loser.
Like in the comics, faith had died.
(Let me quickly note here that I am clearly being melodramatic. I am not recanting my faith, rather I am doing the very thing that Jacob did before he entered the land promised to him, wrestling with God. I do not need a barrage of encouraging posts, this is a small aspect of what is presently going on in my spirit and it will change as my day changes and as God continues to work in me. I just needed to write this down, get it out of my head, and felt somewhat compelled to share it with anyone who cares to read it online, with which the exception of my Mom, I’m not quite sure who checks these things anyway)
Grace and Peace, one of these days.
It’s Been A While
If I’m going to try to blog again (which I have been trying…) I feel as though some context is in order, so my present life entails:
I’m 25 yrs old. Work part time at the University of Akron teaching math courses. Volunteer full time in South Akron and Kenmore with South Street ministries and First Glance. Live in South Akron in a somewhat intentional house in a needier neighborhood. I’m single (for the most part). And find myself in the classic twenty something state of directional ambiguity.
So, onto my thoughts.
I read Ephesians the morning of the fight. I read Paul’s prayer that
‘I pray also that the eyes of your heart may be enlightened in order that you may know the hope to which he has called you, the riches of his glorious inheritance in the saints, and his incomparably great power for us who believe. That power is like the working of his mighty strength, which he exerted in Christ when he raised him from the dead and seated him at his right hand in the heavenly realms…’
It had been a somewhat academic devotion. I read, observed, was somewhat moved in my spirit, then resolved to think about that threefold prayer (hope, rich inheritance, power) as I went about my day. I taught, returned home, hit up Stricklands for some ice cream, and went to work on First Glance programming.
As I walked to my wireless hotspot (The Upper Room of South Street) the pre-fight rumblings were evident. Kids running back and forth antagonizing each other with call-outs and insults. The threat of a fight is an event in and of itself. I sat and worked aware of what was soon unfolding, but unmotivated to involve myself.
As I concluded my work and walked back to my house, I passed the familial (and I use familial in the there were a lot of them and they were all family sense, not the warm, fuzzy sense) march to the street. Mother, daughters, aunts, and riled up son, marched to meet the here to for spoken threats of violence.
And the threats were answered. In true hood form the crowds swelled with neighbors and passer-byers. Two boys met with their fists, their words and threats now actualized into a pathetic, little brawl made worse by the coaxing of their family. The mother especially. They ensured that the fight was fair, stopping other boys from jumping in, and in doing so creating an eruption of mini-fights as well.
The boys continued. Noses bloodied, fists raw, faces flushed. Finally, the neighbors interceded, the fight was more or less over, and the threat of the police seemed all the more increasing. The mini-brawls ended with choice words and ‘choice-ier’ shouts and the crowds dispersed.
I had stood there the whole time. An observer. Powerless to change or stop anything. I walked home. Angry, disappointed, unsure, frustrated, guilty.
I talked with my neighbors and heard the story of the fight recounted through multiple perspectives. Glorified, glamorized, exalted. Some of the older ones called it out for the foolishness that it was, but their wisdom was casually cast off. Their words were pearls before swine.
I had planned on meeting friends for a cheap dinner ($1 burgers at the Main St. Saloon!!) and I came late. I sat on edge waiting for my burger and wrestling with this lingering feeling of powerlessness. Impotence.
Ephesians came to mind. his incomparably great power for us who believe. Did I believe that?
That power is like the working of his mighty strength, which he exerted in Christ when he raised him from the dead… It was three days before Easter, did I believe in that power?
I didn’t feel like it. I sat there wondering, praying, for a power that would change neighborhoods. That would teach peace, a deep Shalom. Like most of my prayers of late they were left unanswered (but not unheard).
Would Christ have walked amidst the violence? Would he have sat down and written on the ground something that caused the crowds to cast aside their tempers and return home? Would he have spoken a word that calmed the clashing families like he calmed the storming sea? Would he have asked to be the victim of the violence rather than let it befall on someone else?
Would he have interceded when I only watched?
Would his power have changed anything?
And if that power is in me (as Paul prayed), why was I so powerless?
Days passed. Life on the street continued as normal (well as normal as can be). It was Good Friday. I reread Ephesians and went about my day. Paul’s words haunted me, deep but unfelt. True, but unexperienced to me. The power went out at First Glance in Kenmore. We quelled the storming fights outside the now dimly lit parking lot.
I ended my evening at a friend’s house and found myself in a rather unexpected spiritual discussion.
As we spoke about faith, and gay issues, and whatever else was on the minds and spirits of my buzzed friends Paul’s words to the Ephesians were again on my mind, an inexplicable hope, a rich and glorious inheritance, and a deep power.
And I realized I did believe it. I believed (and still believe) in a power that conquers death. I believe that a power worked against a grave and that a man was dead and then was not dead anymore. As I discussed and laughed with friends, I remembered that I had faith in God. I had faith in His power. Death was defeated.
And if death is defeated, violence stands no chance.
This is the hope to which we are called. A hope against reason. A hope for angry neighbors with hot tempers and dysfunctional families. A hope for Kenmore kids who fight because it’s all they know. A hope for twenty-somethings who struggle with direction and relevance.
He Is Risen indeed.
Grace and peace.
Why I Don’t Blog Anymore
My Mum sent me a facebook message claiming that she missed reading my blog.
And true to her observation I have been notably silent concerning online updates, thoughts, or anything for that matter.
So let me expound some reasons why.
First and foremost, I have no wireless at my house (much to my liking) thus I have to travel somewhere in order to post, which honestly at times is enough to discourage me from even posting.
Second, there is no organization that is ‘encouraging’ me to post. While in Mission Year, online updates were encouraged and a great way to keep in touch with my support base and those praying for me.
Third, and this is where we get real, I haven’t felt comfortable sharing most of my recent reflections with the online community. From the end of MY to the turn of the year (thats August to December) I’ve been in a process of sorts. I didn’t think it would affect me as much as it did, errrr.. has, uhmmm.. is.
Leaving Philly was what I wanted to do. Coming back to Akron was where I felt God leading me. Living in South Akron, volunteering with First Glance were and are all things that I was and still am excited to do.
Yet when I go to blog, when I go to reflect, most of the reflections reveal an extent of brokenness, that again I am reluctant to post explicitly about. I still blog, of sorts, I just don’t click on post anymore. Sometimes I delete the entry, other times I save it as a word doc and file it away. Sometimes, I go truly old school and just write in my journal.
But to post online… To post online is an open expression of truth. And the truth hurts at times. (and sometimes I worry about sounding like a ranting adolescent haha…)
So online readers, rest assured God is still working in me. It’s just of late His lessons, His touch, in my life has been so close, so bare, that to post online would be to cast my pearls before swine (not that any of you are swine, or Gentiles {w.ell we are mostly Gentiles, but I digress…}). So if you care to hear, feel free to ask. In person. (I’ll also talk on the phone)
And I’ll try to post here again. sometime
Ever under grace and ever seeking peace.
Direction Discernment
I reject the concept of the GPS. As cool as they are to drive with and no matter how interesting you can set the automated voices to be, I reject them on principle alone. I like the principle of using a map, of having directions to where you are going. This is because I like knowing where I am heading.
However knowing one’s direction (or let’s be honest and personal here; rather knowing my life direction) is often not as clear cut as a map might allow. I have found myself returning to the city where I grew up after a year spent in another city trying to discern some semblance of life. Moreover, I am trying to discern some semblance of the Christian life, which I presently assert must look different to life as we know it (what this difference is is a discussion/blog for a later day…).
And truth be told it is confusing. Depressing. Exciting. all in one day. At my age there is talk of potential and actualization. People buy homes, get married, start families, begin careers, change majors, volunteer, travel, live simply, live extravagantly, or waste their time. And we choose between these things. We (I) make conscious decisions to live, act, work, and play a certain way. And in true economic fashion there is an opportunity cost to every decision. There is something gained and sacrificed when deciding this over that.
And this process is wearing me.
There exists then the temptation of the GPS. A voice that clearly tells you where to turn, how many miles till your next exit, and options for fast food along the way. However, I feel that this ethereal life-GPS must be rejected as well as its tangible, plastic counterpart.
But how? and why? I can clearly state that I don’t like actual GPS devices because I value a good sense of direction and orientation, but what do I exchange for the scripted GPS of life? And is the exchange worth it?
When these questions permeate my mind I find myself inclined toward a particular story. It involves a man who finds a treause in a field. He consequently sells all he has in order to possess the field and the treasure within. And I can’t help but to ask myself if I am so enraptured by the Kingdom of God that I would leave behind everything iI know, have, love, and do for the treasure that awaits.
Even if I can’t describe the contents of the treasure?
Even if I don’t know what type of life awaits me in my newfound field?
Even if the GPS can’t get me out?
Grace and Peace
My Life as a Semi-Professional Mover
Over the past weekend, I have helped 3 friends move. My wages have been soup, drink, an offer to have my shorts patched up, a shoe rack, and gas money. Over the past month I have helped around a dozen friends move. And I love it. Why?
Let me expound: First off, I enjoy driving my truck, henceforth referred to as the Tucktruck, and moving requires that extra challenge of loading, strapping, and driving with extra weight and objects in the bed. Moreover, I find that like a wedding (which I also love being in, I’m thinking of making a minor career as a groomsman) moving is a new transitional time in someones life. And the act of moving someone into their new house is essentially an invitation from them to me (or whoever the mover may be) to join them in their next chapter of life.
Upon moving a couch into someones new living room, I can rest assured that I will soon sit there and enjoy the company of my friend. When I haul a tv from the Tucktruck to the house, I imagine that at some point I too shall enjoy a movie from that screen. And I love moving a dining room table in. Because the table goes deep. To share a meal together, that’s something special.
So it was my delight to have a triple round of movings this weekend. I also find that the invitation into someones life extends to the personality of the house and family itself. Whether it is a set of electric candles set to ‘burn’ until peace is seen in the Middle East or a floor mat supporting the troops and celebrating the Iraqi victories, I find that moving (or just being in someones house) reveals much about the personality of a house. What they value (an impressive DVD collection or a well-greased bicycle) , what they enjoy (a pool table {never really that fun to move} or a bookshelf), or just personality quirks (oh the eccentric furniture I have seen) are made evident when moving.
And I’m amazed by the diversity of it all. Why some people stay close to home, others are ‘moving on up’, and a few crazy ones decide to move into neighborhoods below their means. Some dedicate rooms to entertainment, others to socialzing or hosting.
Any point here? Maybe. I guess I’m just excited to move myself. I have been with the ‘rents for the last month, and fun as it has been I am excited for my own house, neighborhood, yard, vision, and house personality. Because having moved many friends and acquaintances myself, I see the value in how a house is set up. I hear what it says about the household and the neighbors nearby.
A journey that I am soon about to embark upon again.
Grace and peace
on the Persecution (or lack thereof) of the American church
After 4 weeks back in Akron, I finally returned to the Chapel for a morning service. Pastor Halley spoke on Revelations 3, the church in Philadelphia. The serendipitous connection was clear.
Halley belabored the idea that the Philadelphia church withstood the persecutions of the day by staying true to God’s Name and Word. He cited modern day examples of persecution in other countries, reflected on his own minor ethical choices to follow God, and exhorted the congregation to ‘hold on’ to the faith even in tough times.
Which got me thinking about persecution. Halley had said something that is often said from American pulpits. Something to the effect of, “Thank God that we have the freedom to worship freely here in the States,” and he went on to note the lack of persuction here. Which I wonder about…
In other countries are Christians persucuted solely because they are Christian? For that matter does any sect, faction, group endure suffering solely because it is what it is? I think not, let me elaborate.
Consider the history of race in America. Slavery and segregation did not just happen because blacks were blacks, rather there where economic, social, and political factors that encouraged and maintained this oppression. Likewise the persecutions endured by the early church were at times financially driven (consider the silversmiths in Acts 16) or politically fueled (consider most of Paul’s imprisonments).
Thus my inquiry as to modern day persecution and the lack of it in America. I wonder what systems are at work throughout the world that fuel violence and suffering against Christians. And moreover I wonder if the Amerian church were to be more ought-spoken against such systems and the many wrongs within our own country if there would not be a little more persucution our way (albeit still not on the level of those worldwide, I imagine)
Hmmm. I’m not to sure on any of this, but I’ll post it anyway.
Grace and peace
Deserts, Exile, Jeremiah 29, and my Akron Homecoming
I confess that it has been far far too long since I updated. Sorry.
So what is what? Let me fill you in:
I have recently finished my year long service in Philadelphia (Mission Year). I decided to return to Akron, explore community there, commit myself to some organizations that work with the poor, find some part time work, stay close to family, and figure out if this ‘mission year’ life is sustainable outside of a program.
So in lieu of newsletters, I am hoping to post more. I have been back in Akron for two weeks and have thought through a great deal. It is my hope to try to process those thoughts and convey them here as best I can.
So my thoughts,
I recently started attending South Street church. This church is significantly different than any other past church I have attended. It is around 60 members and a significant portion of those members are either low-income, ex felons, wives of ex-felons, homeless, or radically concerned about poverty and the urban area. (I thimk it worth noting that I probably fall into the low-income bracket {and worth noting as well that I did land a part time job teaching math at the University of Akron!!}) I enjoy the church alot. I enjoy the presence of the poor there and the openness we try to all have about our own sin and brokenness.
We were discussing some passages at church and someone mentioned Jeremiah 29:11. This is a pet-peeve verse of mine. Jeremiah 29:11 is “For I know the plans I have for you,” declares the LORD, “plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you hope and a future.” This is the verse often seen on coffee mugs or graduation cards. We generally use it as a ‘well God has a plan for you, and its a good plan!’ type encouragement. But when reading through Jeremiah 29 you actually find that this verse is smack dab in the middle of Jeremiah’s letter to the Exiles of Jerusalem, this is a letter to refugees. And what Jeremiah tells them is hard. For 70 years (70 YEARS) they will be exiles in Babylon. Their culture will be challenged if not loss. Their names will be changed. They will be forc ed to learn new languages, and customs. Some will turn from God, others would remain faithful.
And in the midst of that future God gives them Jeremiah 29:11. In the midst of an exile, the Jews are given this promise of God’s plan and our ultimate hope in Him. Likewise, I think of the deset of Egypt. And the Jews that wandered around for 40 years before entering God’s Promised Land.
So what does this mean personally for me? I’m not quite sure. Was Philly the desert and Akron the Promised Land? Is God’s plan for me an exile to another strange land? Am I trying desperately to avoid wandering aimlessly like the Israelites?
I’m not sure.
But what I do know is that both of these stories resound within my spirit. Something about them rings true to me. That God brings us out of places of hardship and into places of plenty (and I’m talking Kingdom plenty here) and that God uses the exiles to refine His people; these ideas ring true. And although I can’t allegorize my thoughts perfectly, nor do I have to, these stories remind me of God’s promise.
And I felt that worth sharing.
Grace and Peace
Some thoughtson Galatians 2:9&10
So I recently changed some of my worksites and am now a teacher/tutor at Hunting Park Christian Academy (think less ritzy private Christian school and more poor parish Catholic school). I tutor the students in math and teach Bible to the 7th and 8th graders (this has been a surprisingly hard task). Anyway, the 8th graders are travelling with Paul and studying his various letters and cities, so I have had to read up on my Pauline epistles; one such review was the book of Galatians (my housemate Lindsey’s favorite book of the Bible).
And while reading and rereading the book of Galatians I happened upon this little gem of a verse that I thought quite applicable to the Church and those who minister. So, without further ado, Galatians 2:0-10
James, Peter, and John, those reputed to be pillars, gave me [Paul] and Barnabas the right hand of fellowship when they recognized the grace given to me. They agreed that we should go to the Gentiles, and they to the Jews. All they asked was that we should continue to remember the poor, the very thing I was eager to do.
So let me add a little context to elucidate why I like these verses. Paul and Barnabas have been called (sent, what have you) to spread the Good News to the Gentiles. Peter, James, and John have been focusing primarily on preaching to the Jews. The whole idea of preaching to the Gentiles was somewhat controversial, but the apostles approved it.
So we end up with two very different ministries going on. One group is preaching to their own, a monotheistic group of dedicated, well-versed Jews, telling them that the fulfillment of prophesies, the Messiah, has come and his name was Jesus. The other group is preaching to the Gentiles, pretty much anyone who wasn’t a Jew. So we have polytheists, pagans, heathens, diplomats, etc. People from different backgrounds and cultures. Two very different ministries. Two very different teachings (in some ways….the whole Jesus thing was kind of a mainstay….).
Yet, there was one call to commonality. Continue to remember the poor. As Peter, John, and James sent Paul and Barnabas out all they asked of them was to continue to remember the poor. They had no specific ministry conditions, they had no set destination for Paul and Barnabas to go to. Their sole condition (according to Galatians 2…) was to continue to remember the poor.
And I love what this implies about the Church. We minister at times to very different groups of people. Some work at summer camps, some serve in nurseries, some go to Philadelphia to work with kids, some go to Africa, some pastor within the church, some teach jr. high, some serve the elderly. Different ministries, different applicable lessons. But there is one consistent calling, continue to remember the poor. And I love this premise. That no matter where or to whom we minister we are asked to continue to remember the poor.
The very thing Paul was eager to do.
But I can understand Peter’s need for a reminder. For we often forget about the poor while choosing our ministry of preference. So Peter asks Paul to continue to remember the poor, no matter who he is ministering to Jew or Gentile.
Because the implication (and truth from Acts 6) is that the Jerusalem church (pastored by James, John, and Peter) was highly involved with helping and serving the poor. And I can imagine Peter (much like I have experienced this year) understanding the Kingdom value of proximity to and ministry with the poor.
So my encouragement to you, wherever you find yourself ministering, continue to remember the poor.
Grace and peace.
