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.
