Protest & Privilege
I was at the Trump rally in Chicago that was shut down.
I was in Chicago this past week for a leadership cohort with other ministry and church peers and practitioners. A few of the leaders heard of the rally in town and decided to attend in protest. I decided to go as well.
The week was spent visiting Chicago ministries, discussing organizational dynamics, and sharing with friends. It wasn’t until the day of the rally, that we discussed what going to the rally could look like. It was a conversation and night I will never forget.
One of the cohort leaders opened up the conversation with the caveat, “No one needs to go to this if they don’t want to. We opted to spend an extra day in Chicago to sight-see, if you don’t want to go to protest or just want to go sight see, no judgment here!”
I had an out.
Some folks opted in, some opted out, some checked their flight schedule for the possibility of staying. I remained in the room and opted to go with the consensus of the group. I’ve never been one for confrontation anyways.
Another cohort leader spoke up, an African-American brother from North Carolina. He asked us to share, from a theological and personal perspective, why we would choose to go to a rally in protest. And the group began to share.
The man from NC shared about his family’s history of protest. How his mother and grandmother had advocated, and marched, and sat, and voted for civil rights. He shared about Palm Sunday and the juxtaposition of Jesus paraded into Jerusalem on a donkey versus Caesar marching in on a war-horse. He talked about the spirit of protest that compelled him to speak out, to stand-up in the face of challenge and hate.
A sister from El Paso shared. She is Mexican-American and 7 months pregnant. She shared about the kids in her youth programs about their fear that their parents will be deported. She talked about the pain of discrimination.
Given the news of violence against protestors and her pregnancy, we asked this woman what type of protest she would like to do. Something outside with other protestors? Something inside the rally itself?
Her response was the bravest thing I’ve heard in a long time.
“I want to go inside. I want them to see my humanity.”
A few others shared their thoughts and feelings. I did not. We were interrupted and took a quick break. When we returned, we talked through our plan of protest.
Had I shared, I would of confessed my cowardice. My two friends had just shared how their very spirits compelled them to go protests, whereas I felt the exact opposite.
Opt out. Don’t go. This isn’t your fight. You don’t like confrontation anyway.
I’ve never had to fight for my rights. I’ve never had to stand-up for my personhood. It has always been. No one has ever told me to go back to my own country, followed me through a convenience store, or challenged my integrity and humanity based off the color of my skin.
Every year on Martin Luther King Day I reread his Letter From a Birmingham Jail. It is a scathing indictment of the inaction of the white church during the civil rights movement. The white churches of the South questioned King’s tactics of engagement. They challenged him to wait and put off efforts to protest. I found myself reflecting on its contents as we prepared for the rally.
Like the white church of the South, I could have opted out of the protest. I could have checked out a local comic shop or visited Millennium Park. I could return home, lament from the comfort of my couch the state of American politics and the vitriol of this candidacy without any real negative affect on my life. I didn’t need to suffer or step out or speak out.
I don’t like confrontation anyway.
I will forever remember the bravery of my friends that day. It was their conviction that love is louder than hate, their belief that the image of God is in and on each and every one of us, and their resolution that their ancestors and families had also sacrificed, and stepped up, and spoken out that invited me into protest that night.
We practiced a Christian verse that we would sing in protest of some of Trump’s more un-Christian policy suggestions. We never got to sing it. The rally was cancelled amidst a strong showing of protestors inside and out.
From my point of view there were 4-5 violent skirmishes that ended quickly enough without major incident. (I was inside the stadium, not outside). There were individuals, from both camps, who tried to exit the stadium peacefully and contain incidents.
We cheered with the other protestors that the rally had been cancelled and exited outside to the thousands of other protestors in the streets. There was an exuberance of hope.
One of my greatest challenges as a leader is my dislike of confrontation. As a white male, I am privileged with the possibility of stepping out of the conflict. The deceptive caveat seemingly dismisses me from engagement.
After my experience last week, I know that that is no longer true. This is my fight.
Because it is the fight of my brothers and sisters of color. Because the white church has too long stood on the sidelines of the confrontations of justice. Because perfect love drives out fear.
Bikes, Cops, & kids
For me, summer means one thing: Bike Shop at South Street Ministries. Bike Shop was my first step into south Street Ministries over a decade ago through my Eagle Scout Project. (South Street has had a long and treasured connection to the Boy Scouts). Years later, when I returned to Akron, Bike Shop was the first program I began to volunteer with, and when I started on staff with South Street, I found that the Bike Shop program was (and still is) grant-writing gold.
The model is simple enough, South Street receives donated bikes. The Bikes are repaired by the neighborhood kids alongside caring, Christian, adult volunteers. The kids receive their bikes when they complete a set number of hours based on their age. So kids learn how to fix and maintain their own bikes AND earn a bike in the process.
At least that is the theory. The reality of Bike Shop follows the above model, with the appearance of organized chaos, 25+ kids working on bike simultaneously asking for help, and the occasional theft or fight. I remember one stressful night a few years ago when a neighborhood skirmish passed through the bike shop. We had to close the program early and call the police. By the time they arrived the squabble had moved elsewhere, but quite a few kids were upset that the few ruined the night for the many.
We had the police at Bike Shop last night too. Although they arrived on time and came to help with the program. Three Akron Police Department Officers in uniform spent their Monday night fixing chains, repairing flat-tires, and talking with kids. Generally at Bike Shop, kids come to me with concerns and repairs, I then have to direct them to one of the other adults present for help. A young girl (13) asked me for help with her chain and I pointed her to one of the officers who had a moment of downtime, she paused, so I walked over and introduced her, and they proceeded to repair her bike together.
I write the above narrative very aware of the black and blue dynamic in our country. I am not simplistically absolving the heinous acts of some officers of the law in light of the good done by many. Nor am I writing a fluff piece to puff up the perception of the APD. I write to share a witness to what God is doing at South Street and why I value it deeply:
- Unlikely Partners — Within South Street’s mission is the idea of Unlikely Partners people from different worlds coming together to work towards advancing God’s Kingdom. Last night at Bike Shop represented that dynamic to me. There was a myriad of community leaders coming together to help kids repair bikes and talk with them throughout their time together.
- Akron’s Finest — Remember that term? As I have talked with police officers about some of the nation-wide dynamics around policing and #blacklivesmatter, one of the consistent themes I hear from them is the lament over the loss of the prestige of the position. ‘Being a cop used to mean something…’ I hear them say. I saw Akron’s finest last night. Three were cops. Two were neighborhood mothers checking out a new program. 4 0r 5 were South Street volunteers from around the greater Akron area. 2 were neighborhood kids stepping into leadership at South Street for the summer. And 25 were some of the finest, funniest, best kids I know.
- Walking Humbly — There are needed conversations in this country — How and why and who we police? What a return to community policing looks like? The definitions of protecting and serving? All centered around dynamics of race and class. I am not submitting this blog as one of those conversations, but I will say this — what I appreciated about the officers at Bike Shop last night was their service. They came and fixed bikes. They didn’t patrol the site to make sure kids weren’t stealing. They left discipline issues to be handled by the staff. They were humble in their presence at Bike Shop. The verse Micah 6:8 has become a tagline for many churches concerning issues of justice. I would encourage folks to learn from the last stanza ‘walking humbly with your God.’ Humility has served me very well as I approach these very conversations with neighbors, leaders, friends, civic officials, and others.
Grace & Peace
Christmas Songs
A week ago, my wife and I attended service at The Chapel, as we drove home from the service, we discussed our thoughts and a few points from that conversation have stayed with me throughout the week.
“In the End, we will remember not the words of our enemies, but the silence of our friends,” those are Martin Luther King Jr.’s words from his Letter from a Birmingham Jail. They are in reference to the silence of so many white churches throughout the civil rights movement. At South Street these conversations are commonplace. We speak actively about issues of race, justice, and poverty. However as we drove home from The Chapel that Sunday, we were saddened that there was no mention of the Eric Garner case, nor any mention of the continued protests in Ferguson. I was reminded why so many of my friends are so vocal about these issues over social media, there is a large contingent of America that still doesn’t talk about the issues of our day.
The second point of conversation my wife brought up, it was amount lament. The sermon that Sunday focused on the diversity of songs throughout the Christian tradition and Bible. However, there was no mention of lament, even though the Bible has an entire book dedicated to the theme in Lamentations. A Biblical lament is a dour recognition of the wrong and sin that is around us (and in us) and a deep cry for God’s coming and redemptive good.
Although I know many, many traditional Christmas songs by heart (and sing them quite often throughout the season), as I read throughout the Nativity this year, I am struck by the kinds of songs they sang. Prophetic songs that addressed the issues of their day, sad lamentations over grave injustices, hopeful chords sung in deep faith. I think these melodies may be needed today more than Rudolph and Santa Baby.
Mary’s Magnificat (Luke 1:46-55)
“My soul glorifies the Lord and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior,
for he has been mindful of the humble state of his servant.
From now on all generations will call me blessed, for the Mighty One has done great things for me— holy is his name.
His mercy extends to those who fear him, from generation to generation.
He has performed mighty deeds with his arm; he has scattered those who are proud in their inmost thoughts.
He has brought down rulers from their thrones but has lifted up the humble.
He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty.
He has helped his servant Israel, remembering to be merciful
to Abraham and his descendants forever, just as he promised our ancestors.”
The Angel’s Song (Luke 2:14)
Glory to God in the highest heaven,
and on earth peace to those on whom his favor rests.
Simeon’s Praise (Luke 2:29-32)
Sovereign Lord, as you have promised, you may now dismiss your servant in peace. For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all nations: a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and the glory of your people Israel.”
And a final Lament… (Matthew 2:18)
A voice is heard in Ramah, weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted,
because they are no more.”
As I consider these songs and words, and as we light the Angel candle today on our Advent wreath, I think about the broken places, I consider the hard economic realities that would cause Mary to say, “He has filled the hungry with good things but has sent the rich away empty.” I consider the racial and ethnic realities and tensions as Simeon declares, “For my eyes have seen your salvation, which you have prepared in the sight of all nations: a light for revelation to the Gentiles.
I think about the prophet Amos (5:23-24) and his declared word of the LORD,
Away with the noise of your songs! I will not listen to the music of your harps. But let justice roll on like a river, righteousness like a never-failing stream!
And that the Angel’s visited shepherds (not kings, nor priests) to declare God’s glory and peace.
But lastly, I think of the town of Bethlehem. That little town that hosted the Savior’s birth, than paid for it with a government enforced infanticide.
Matthew 2:16 — When Herod realized that he had been outwitted by the Magi, he was furious, and he gave orders to kill all the boys in Bethlehem and its vicinity who were two years old and under, in accordance with the time he had learned from the Magi.
Harkening the writer Matthew back to Rachel’s lament, “weeping and great mourning,
Rachel weeping for her children and refusing to be comforted, because they are no more.”
When I read that I think of Eric Garner’s wife and Tamir Rice’s mother. I have heard them in a few interviews weeping and mourning, and refusing to be comforted because their children or husband are no more. I think of the #blacklivesmatter campaign and the push to recognize (and address) the disparity in policing practices (amongst a great other things that that campaign represents). I observe the contrast of political marches in one part of our country while Christmas concerts occur in other parts.
I know from personal experience the desire to squelch the voice heard in Ramah. Her cry discomforts me. I would rather my days be merry and bright, than hear her somber cry, recognize her real loss, and acknowledge my inability to comfort her.
Stay woke this Advent. Listen to the lament of those around you, and recognize it as one of the songs of Christ.
A Little Less Racist than I Used to Be…
It is easy for me not to care about an unarmed black kid that is shot and killed by a police officer.
There. I said it. It is easier to malign Mike Brown’s character, to categorize him a criminal, or to simply label the whole Ferguson incident a black issue rather than to feel the profound emotion attached to the loss of life, to wrestle through the dynamics of social injustice, and to try to love my neighbor.
Love takes a lot of work. And a deeper love takes a lot of lessons.
Lesson 1: White Privilege — It is easy not to care about Mike Brown’s life and it’s tragic end, because as a white-American male I don’t have to. There are many items in the Backpack of White Privilege, perhaps one of the most insidious is the capacity to disconnect from the sufferings of others because they are not like me: The loss of life for the Brown family is a black issue. Immigration is a Latino issue. I can recluse myself from the conversation because I and folks of my hue are not frequent victims of police brutality or are not checked for citizenship. I have the racial/emotional capacity to pretend that #Ferguson (and many other issues) doesn’t affect me.
But I shouldn’t. So many of the authors I’ve been reading of late (here comes Lesson 2…) reflect that oppression/racism distorts both the oppressed AS WELL AS the oppressor. In this case, the option to not care distorts my humanity. It is a willful rejection of another human being’s existence and the value of that life. In my faith, I believe that all life is valuable. That I am called to love my neighbor.
I have to choose to do this. I have to choose not to ignore the passing of a life. I have to choose to love. It is a choice to forsake ignorance, abstraction, and misdirection and to step into the mess of loving someone who is other than myself.
I titled this blog “A Little Less Racist than I Used to Be…” as both a confession and challenge. A confession that I live comfortably in a Euro-centric world and am often OK with the privilege that affords me. And as a personal challenge to continue to grow. As a Christ-follower, I want to be more like Jesus, to love like He loves. That often means confessing the realities of the world I live in and learning the realities (and hardships) of the world around me.
Lesson 2: You are what you read — Six years ago (thanks to Mission Year) I resolved to read at least one book a year by an author that wasn’t white. (The fact that I considered this progressive is telling in-and-of itself). My most recently completed read was Aliens in the Promised Land by Anthony Bradley. The book reflected on Minority Leadership within the White Church and Religious Institutions. The book includes a 1994 report on Racism and the Church published by the Missouri Synod of the Lutheran Church. Essentially the report said that racism is an issue, it is a sin, and it is something that the power of Christ can overcome. I stumbled on this 20 yr. old Missouri report on racism the week Michael Brown was shot.
This is still an issue — be it police brutality, over-militarization of local police, or media portrayal of African-American men. And I confess my ignorance to these issues. I have been thankful this past week for the many blogs that have challenged and educated my way of thinking. Here are a few of them:
This is Why We’re Mad About the Shooting of Mike Brown; The Front Lines of Ferguson; If They Gunned Me Down; When Terror Wears A Badge; Becoming a White Ally to Black People in the Aftermath of the Michael Brown Murder; The Police Are the Issue In Ferguson, Not Michael Brown’s Character; The Unacceptable Silence Of Asian American Christians In Response To Ferguson
I’ve been reading a lot more recently from a diversity of authors. It has helped me immensely in being a little less racist than I used to be.
Lesson 3: A Little More Loving than I Used to Be — It is no longer as easy for me not to care about the shooting of an unarmed black kid. It is no longer as easy for me not to care about bombings on the Gaza Strip or the plight of Afghani people. I have tried to center my life on loving God and loving my neighbor, and this has caused me a whole world of grief. Grief over lives lost, over injustice, and grief over my own ignorance to the pain around me.
As I pray for Shalom (God’s peace and justice) for Ferguson, Gaza, Israel, Ukraine, Iraq, and my own Akron I recognize on so many levels that I am a lot more racist or selfish or sinful than I realize. By God’s grace, I am a little less so than I used to be. And I pray that I can be a little more loving than I used to be as well.
Continuing in advocacy and prayer.
I can do all things…
As I grew up in Christian culture one verse (aside from John 3:16) rose to the forefront as the poster-verse for Christianity —
Philippians 4:13. I can do all things through him who strengthens me.
Generally this verse might be attached to a basketball hoop and ball implying that the good Christian could play better or more through his relationship with Christ. Per the picture below the reader would be empowered, a Christian Superman if you will.
The context of that verse however has been something that has paused my spirit (and my blog) for a few years now. Paul writes in Philippians 4:10-13:
I rejoiced greatly in the Lord that at last you renewed your concern for me. Indeed, you were concerned, but you had no opportunity to show it. I am not saying this because I am in need, for I have learned to be content whatever the circumstances. I know what it is to be in need, and I know what it is to have plenty. I have learned the secret of being content in any and every situation, whether well fed or hungry, whether living in plenty or in want. I can do all this through him who gives me strength.
So the context of “I can do all things through him who gives me strength” is not a sports context, nor a inspirational context, not even a Christian culture context. It is financial in nature. Plenty and need. Poor and rich. Paul expresses that he has learned the secret of being content whatever the circumstances. He then expresses that he can do all things (not play basketball better) — live in situations of dire need AND live in situations of affluence.
This mystery secret confounded me for years (And by no means have I fully unearthed the answer at this point in my life — but I feel as though I have moved closer to Paul’s understanding). If I can write candidly, I grew up in a mega-church, at the time of my adolescence it was one of the largest churches in the nation. However when I graduated college, I moved to Philadelphia and lived and served for a year in North Philly in relatively small and comparably poorer circumstances. When I returned to Akron, the milieu of the large church of my youth was stifling. There was just too much excess there. It chaffed against me. I reflected on Paul’s words — the secret of being content no matter what the circumstances…
I was not content. That church was too big, had too much. I resolved to worship elsewhere for a time. Perhaps in the small context, Christ would be found. So I immersed myself in South Street (which also was my place of residence and place of employment) where a small but eclectic fellowship gathered throughout the week for church, ministry, and communion. For a season, my spirit flourished there (and I still make this fellowship my home).
Closing in on a year ago my aunt and brother-in-law died in the same week. I think I am just now unpacking the weight those passings have had on my spirit. Death is obviously the loss of life, but moreover death sucks the life from those around it too. There was a cloud in our house for some time. It stifled our spirits in normal ways (normal grieving ways) and as I think about this past year, I feel like the Psalmists who looked for God in a dry and thirsty land where there was no water (Psalm 63).
We (my wife and I) returned to the church of our youth this past weekend and found refreshment there. The material things that once posed such an impediment to my spirit did not hinder me from worship and reflection on the Scripture. I felt as though I had moved closer to Paul’s secret — being content no matter what the circumstances — and as the verse reads, it was through Christ that this reality was felt and embraced within my spirit.
It is my hope to step into a new season on the weeks and months to come. A reflective time of growth and life. I hope to write here more frequently and share some of my thoughts.
Grace and Peace
Who is Wayne Gordon (and why I am excited that he’s coming to Akron)
In less than three weeks, South Street, Urban Vision, and The Chapel will be hosting Wayne Gordon in Akron for a mini-conference that we have named “Real Hope for the City” Here’s the flier:
Recently, one of our board member’s asked, “Who is this Wayne Gordon guy anyway?”
I can reference you to his bio page, but I wanted to take some time on this blog to share his unique ties to Akron and local Akron leadership. 20 years ago, when many affluent Christian families were leaving the core of the city, others were prayerfully considering moving into the worst areas. Among them, Duane & Lisa Crabbs and Rodney & Jodi Matthews.
Among the veteran leaders of Christians who relocated to the city was Wayne Gordon, “Coach” as he was commonly known. Wayne and his wife Anne moved into the Lawndale area of Chicago and have been there for 37 years. The Christian Community Development Association began through the work and collaboration of partners like Wayne Gordon, John Perkins, and Bob Lupton.
Over the years, Akron has hosted the latter two several times. I can remember hearing John Perkins share about the three R’s (Reconciliation, Relocation, Redistribution) — it was his talk that encouraged me to get involved with local city ministries. I can recall Bob Lupton’s last two visits to the Northeast region of Ohio (one was for South Street’s 15 yr. Anniversary). He shared about gentrification with justice, avoiding toxic charity, and other economic and community development models.
But Akron has never hosted Wayne Gordon. In my opinion, Wayne and the staff, church, and people of Lawndale do some of the thorough-most Christian Community Development out there. Their health-center, their church, their economic initiatives — all are some of the best-practice models that we try to emulate at South Street. But as for me, it is Wayne’s capacity to empower neighborhood youth to lead and his organizations commitment to local leadership that inspires me most.
When I help at South Street’s After School program and envision the 4th and 5th graders there — I envision them leading our programs in 10 years. It is Wayne Gordon and Lawndale that gives hope to my vision. At the CCDA National Conference (generally an event that I try not to miss), John Perkins usually leads the attenders in a Bible Study first thing in the morning. This year, as John Perkins age began to catch up with, Wayne co-lead the Bible Study with John. It was great to hear Wayne Gordon’s thoughts. He knew deeply the struggles and challenges faced by all of us who work for God’s Kingdom advancing in the city.
I am excited for Wayne Gordon to visit Akron and share here. God’s Kingdom is advancing here and I am excited for others to hear his words and move towards God’s good for Akron.
More to come…
Blessed
It’s been a while. I have been writing, just not here. I’m actually thinking a lot about a certain idea that I may write (and have been thinking) substantially on.
The idea is “Bridges Out of Excess,” framing Ruby Payne’s Bridges Out of Poverty from the other perspective. The main idea that I have been working from is:
It is unfair for me to ask my neighbor to step out of poverty, to understand and change themselves, without first being willing to understand and change myself. As I look to enter into friendship, fellowship, and community with those around me on the margins, I must step onto my own bridge – a bridge out of excess.
Here is a South Street story that begins to put these thoughts into perspective:
I pulled up to the roller rink with our ministry van – myself, two teen leaders, and four youth. The plan was simple – we would practice an anti-bullying drama that would be presented in a few weeks at a social-civic event, then spend time roller-skating. However the rink was closed.
Practicing the play was still necessary, and we quickly opted to practice at the house of one of the leaders. This leader is an engaged servant – he genuinely has a heart for the youth and for God’s peace and goodness in the city. We stepped into his home and proceeded to practice the play in his finished basement.
It was a nice house in a nice neighborhood. As an adult, I recognized that a home like this would be obtainable with a middle to upper-middle class salary. However our youth quickly responded, “Mr. Mike* you live in a mansion!” Kids say the darndest things.
Mr. Mike quickly and humbly responded, “Yes, yes, I am very blessed.”
After a successful play practice, I drove the youth home. The child who commented on Mr. Mike’s mansion did not live in a nice neighborhood, nor in a nice house. As an adult I know that thus youth’s home could be purchased for under 10 grand, that extended families work together to manage the expenses of the home, and that the resources for upkeep and maintenance are scarce and often-times costly.
As the youth left the ministry van, a thought crossed my mind, “If Mr. Mike is blessed (because of the house he lives in), what does that make these kids?”
Un-blessed? Not blessed? It was not an answer that I was content with because the basic assumption of the question is unfounded. Blessing does not come from a nice house, at least not according to Jesus.
“Blessed are you who are poor, for yours is the kingdom of God. (Luke 6:20)
Mr. Mike, for all of his commitment to Godly peace and justice, responded with a conversation stopper. His quick concession of personal blessing – a gut response to an awkward comment from an innocent youth – inadvertently labeled him as blessed and the youth(s) as not; a mistake that I, too, have made many times.
And from my own mistakes, I know why we tend to speak in platitudes. It is far easier to hide my own excesses and privileges in the realm of blessing, than to be honest with those around me.
It is far easier to claim God’s blessing, than my desire for comfort.
It is far easier to claim God’s blessing, than my propensity towards stuff.
It is far easier to claim God’s blessing, than live in the real world of economic tension, of slave and child labor, of income equality, of systemic injustices, and of generational poverty.
But just because it is easy, does not make it right, nor necessarily true. I do believe Mr. Mike is blessed, but his blessing is derived first and foremost from his relationships – his relationship with God through Christ, his marriage, and his God-honoring friendships with so many youth on the margins. Mr. Mike was not blessed because of his house, but rather because of the company he kept and the quality of his homeliness (in the best sense of the word).
If we are to take the words of Jesus seriously, that the poor are blessed and that theirs is the Kingdom, a new vernacular is needed – one that acknowledges privileges, shares blessings, and lives in honest tension with the materialism around us.
I am in the process of learning a new language of blessing. One that takes me out of my own excesses and into God’s Kingdom.
Grace and Peace
PS — I’m starting to copyright everything now… weird…
© Joseph J. Tucker and joetucker.wordpress.com, [2013-2014. Unauthorized use and/or duplication of this material without express and written permission from this blog’s author and/or owner is strictly prohibited. Excerpts and links may be used, provided that full and clear credit is given to Joseph J. Tucker and joetucker.wordpress.com with appropriate and specific direction to the original content.
Daily Bread When I Really Want a Loaf
I need to wash out my trash can tonight. There are maggots inside. (A gross start to a post, I know). Maggots always disgust me, and maggots remind me of the book of Exodus — the manna in the desert. If hoarded, if you took more than you needed the manna would rot the next day and maggots would infest it.
God describes the manna in the desert as both a provision and a test for the wayward Israelites. He provides food and sustenance for them daily, but tests them against Egypt’s and Pharaoh’s stockpiling practices. Can they learn to trust Him?
I would have maggot-y bread.
I would hoard that stuff everyday, just in case. After all, once a week it would hold it’s flavor for the Sabbath. Maybe it would run out? Maybe God would forget?
God doesn’t forget his people. My time at South Street has reinforced this faith. Time and time again our coffers have been low. We begin to discuss cuts, non-paid leave, and other options for lean financial times. But God is good, and like the Israelites we receive our daily bread. Sustenance to pay utilities and support hard-working staff members.
However like the manna in the wilderness, my desire is to hoard. I’d love a loaf of bread instead of a daily slice. I consider endowment funds or some committed foundation relationship. Part of my role at South Street is to think through these things – organizations need stability to run effectively.
Yet at South Street, God seems to prefer daily delivery. We have a fundraising event tomorrow that (to the best of my assessments) will fall far short of its goal. The target amount would have eased us through September and October into the more generous seasons of November and December.
As I reviewed the particularities of this event and why it wouldn’t garner the support I desired, God reminded me (and all of South Street) that He does provide. As I assessed rosters and participants, God brought a woman from a small neighboring church to the Front Porch. She brought a check to support the Cafe.
Later in the day, I am called to the back room to see a material donation someone dropped off. This happens frequently, and oftentimes it is stuff of little value or worth. That was not the case with this gift. Someone had dropped off coffee, lots of coffee. And creamer and sugar and cups and swivel sticks and filters.
I began to tear up. God uses these things as both provision and test. His provision was clear, His test reoriented my heart towards a position of gratefulness. Then as if to drive the message home, a Parole Officer who often visits the Front Porch (and meets with his cases here) donated a large box of salad dressings.
I was grateful to God.
These gifts do not displace some of our present needs, but they are reminders of God’s provision. I pray often for the provision of South Street. I care deeply about the work that takes place here, the community that gathers, and the Spirit that is fostered. And my faith is defined.
Maggots do not grow in bank accounts. Rainy-day reserves typically do not rot overnight. But our faith begins to atrophy in prolonged stability. Gratefulness, it seems, is best fostered through God’s provision and testing.
And we are grateful.
College
10 years ago, I moved into the University of Akron’s Gallucci Hall. I drove the car my parents gave me; I worked on the laptop my parents gave me; I used the bedsheets, towels, and clothes that my parents bought for me.
Last weekend I helped Dan* move into Gallucci Hall. He needed toilet paper, a lamp, a microwave, and bed sheets. He asked me how to best ration out his meal plan to last the week.
Dan’s parents aren’t in the picture of his life. Dan filled out his FAFSA himself on my laptop while at the Front Porch. (My mom made me apply for at least a scholarship a week my senior year of high school – helped with editing and sending the scholarships out). When Dan’s financial support for school came in, his ‘guardians’ wanted a cut. It was to be their ‘compensation’ for all they provided for him. Dan protested, expressing a need to use the school funds for school related needs (principally books). He contacted me expressing his concern.
I teach part-time at the University of Akron and I know a few things about college financing (and its many pitfalls). It is often easy to receive initial funding to attend higher education institutions, however it is conditional. If students drop out or fail out, those funds become academic debt that hangs over them until it is repaid. The debt is public and forbids you from entering any higher education training until it is repaid.
I know of a few families that abuse their 18, 19, and 20 yr. olds’ impoverished conditions as a quick access to academic financial subsidies. It is quick money with long term consequences. I warned Dan accordingly.
Dan called me a week ago. His ‘guardians’ were pressuring him to cash his academic funds. They refused to give him a ride to campus (to attend class) until he gave them compensation. He asked me for a ride.
I couldn’t help Dan that moment, but directed him back to the Front Porch where the cafe staff was able to take him (and his 5 bags of clothes) to campus. Dan missed class that day, but visited the Registrar’s office and was somehow placed into student housing.
I caught up with Dan that weekend. He felt bad for leaving his extended family’s care, but needed to escape the pressure of misusing his college loans & grants. I asked if he needed anything and he simply expressed a need for toilet paper.
We visited a few stores and purchased a few furnishings and supplies to begin Dan’s collegiate life. It was a few bags full (it took me 2-3 carloads to move into college…). We parted ways and I demanded (with a smile) that he stay in touch.
I share Dan’s story for a few reasons: the contrasts of our college beginnings and family support (or lack thereof), another example of South Street’s ministry of presence, and to champion a young man who made very difficult yet righteous choices. I can’t imagine my family being antagonistic towards my success. My parents were so instrumental in my collegiate success and my overall success. I can’t imagine the journey without them. Dan faced applications, FAFSA forms, and orientation not only without his parents present, but in spite of a family that would take their quick gains over his long-term success.
When the structures of family crumble, the church has the capacity and the duty to step in. We call ourselves brothers and sisters, thus we must act accordingly. When a young brother such as Dan expresses a desire to walk rightly and to grow, we stand in the gap – offering rides, advice, and support as needed. These services don’t fall into the South Street program schema, it is a ministry of overflow and presence. Dan connected with us at the Front Porch, served with us at summer programs, and played with us at South Street softball. He became a little brother to many here because of our time together.
Yet the hero of this story is not South Street, not me or my parents, but this young man who chose to do right. Familial pressures are often the hardest to resist; they have given you so much. You can never repay your parents for the ways they provide for you, but should a young man on the cusp of college have to? Is he obligated to provide for the guardians that have provided for him for years?
These decisions that seem so clear from a vantage of privilege are confounding in the midst of poverty. Dan took a dynamic step walking the few blocks from his house to the Front Porch one week ago. He is and will be accused of being selfish, putting his needs and wants over his family’s. But I have a deep respect for this humble, young man. I know he loves his family and will continue to support him as he is able. I also know that he has a deep sense of right and wrong, and couldn’t bring himself to use his school funds incorrectly. I know he has a heart for Christ.
I e-mailed Dan to check in on him this week. He was thankful for my help. I referenced him to a few friends and programs on campus that may be good fits for him. I am thankful for Dan, through the choices he makes despite hardships he gives me hope.
Grace and Peace
Dollars & Distractions
$50,000. It’s the largest grant I’ve ever worked on. The e-mail notification came a few weeks ago, a large, local foundation was awarding capital grants. I could apply for much-needed funds for the second floor of the Front Porch.
I checked my calendar for an open day, free of meetings, to begin working on the grant. Tuesday seemed open. Most grants start with a fairly straight-forward information section, I filled it out quickly and efficiently. After the basic information, the grant asks for a project narrative. The why, how, and what. This is where you put your best foot forward. I began writing.
But was soon stopped. A South Street regular was drunk. He was actually drunk from last night, early morning drinking. It was now 9 am. We talked. He was committed to changing, talking about going to detox, and repeated often how much he loved us yet hated himself.
We prayed and other friends were present to watch and help this old friend. I returned to my grant writing. $50,000 is important after all.
I am interrupted again. A women that I’ve never met is asking for prayer. She had relapsed recently and just attended a recovery meeting for the first time since after her binge. Her mother is picking her up soon to get her into a sober house. I pray for her, for her sobriety and for her journey, for God’s strength and comfort. I ask her what else we can do for her; she replies that she just wanted prayer. She thanks me and departs.
I return to my table and to the grant before me. I’ve finished one section of the narrative, but still have three to go. I have a shadow who works beside me, a college student who is interning with South Street helping with website and media. He asks me about picture layout for an updated section of the South Street webpage.
My graciousness is waning. I quickly show him a few of the jpeg files and where to find them and who they belong to and return to my work. $50,000 is important after all. No more than a few minutes later (hardly enough time to step back into grant-writing mode) another college student steps in. He is hoping to volunteer for the day and wants to help out wherever needed.
I connect him with Eric who directs the young student to help another elderly South Street friend search for housing options. I return to my grant and finish the second narrative section. The day has passed quickly.
Two other friends stop to visit. The elderly man recently helped by the college students talks of old age and transitions, and one of the Cafe managers stops by to talk about the stresses of ministry and life in the city.
The grant can wait. (It’s not due until mid-August anyway). South Street is what South Street is because people are important. Conversation and presence and time together are important. Walking with someone through a hard season in important.
Moreover, these are the means by which the Kingdom of God grows. $50,000 construction grants are exciting. And I can control the words and presentation of the grant. I can’t control the words and presentation of drunk friends or idealistic students. But people aren’t distractions. They are worthwhile, worth more than a $50,000 grant.
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