On my vacation a few days ago (really, only a few days?), I had the chance to worship at the church where I was ordained. Because of my weird, weird churchy past, it's the last place I can actually show up at and be more at home than at not. Ordination boundaries mean I check with the current pastor before showing up for worship, of course. Still, it's home in some way, which the churches of my childhood aren't.
But that's not really the point. I had lots of angst in the weeks before, wondering if it was really ok to show up. No one wants to read all the angst-y arguments that went through my head. Finally, I decided that yes, it is truly ok to return to the church where I was ordained because if for no other reason than the fact that I was ordained there, I am forever a part of them and them of me. So I went, with the kernel of one of the angst-y head argument resolutions that I was good for them.
And I was. Songs and laughter and Bible stories and tears and Spirit-breated unbelievable times together good for them. Really, it was spectacular. Yes, there were rough times and God knows I juggled church and seminary with varying levels of competency. But at the end of the day, I was good for them. That's absolutely true. I'm pretty sure they'd mostly agree with me, too. I was good for them.
The thing is, though, they were good for me. Maybe it's because I have a vocation tied to the church that I first consider how I contributed to that place. Maybe. In general, I think people who look for church are looking for a way to contribute to church. We want a place that realizes our presence matters so it's easy to forget that often, so often, church is good for us. Church has something to offer us. Church has something to invite us into. But that church was so good for me.
When I think of this church, I think of what they put up with from me. Yeah, I was pretty good at my job, but not all the time. There were certainly some cringeworthy children's sermons and a couple horrid times leading worship. Some of their children will probably mention at least one or two Ms. Abby inflicted things in therapy one day if they haven't already. (Yeah, I accidentally spit on a germaphobic kid. Long story, but oops.) Sometimes things fell apart when I decided to wing something I should have winged. Yeah, they put up with a lot from.
And when I think of this church, I remember that they trusted me. Really, really trusted me. Even the most protective parents, in the long run, trusted me to take their kids places overnight and listen to their kids when their kids weren't talking to them. They trusted me to have difficult conversations with their kids. They trusted me with keys and money and codes and all sorts of things. Even then, that seemed crazy. It was a holy trust, though, and one I'm pretty sure I lived into well.
When I think of this church, I know that they loved me. Maybe past tense is even wrong. They loved me in my overly nerdy, quirky self. Yes, I mostly taught kids, and the parents and kids learned together that I'm a Bible nerd and they (mostly) learned to love it, too. Someone left the Easter chocolate I really like on my desk each year. They adjusted to the ebb and flow of seminary work. Really, why on earth did the Christmas play and finals week always coincide? When I run across things that were gifts at my ordination, the names etched in book covers and on cards evoke far more than someone spending some money on me. They loved me.
Yes, I was good for the church, but they were so very good for me. They gave me space for many things, which included naming my call to ministry for sure, but much more than that. So very much more than that.
And for churches, whose numbers in the pews and in the budget are dwindling, that's easy to forget. For churches who will never be the megachurch whose shadow they live in, it's hard to believe. But it's true. Churches, never forget that. You are good for those people who walk in your doors. You are good for the people who choose to remain with you, even if you can't figure out why on earth they're staying. Church, you have something to offer. I promise. In fact, Church, you'll probably never know how very good you are for so many people. Trust that. Remember that. Take pride in that. Because yes, church, you are good for your people, even if you don't always know it.
Today, I am so thankful for how very, very good that church in the suburbs of Atlanta was for me.
Thursday, September 18, 2014
Thursday, September 11, 2014
"Thy Kingdom Come:" September 11
I, like most of my friends, know where I was thirteen years ago today. On this day, we remember those who died. We remember our fear. We pray something like that never happens again. In all those things, though, there is a deeper ache within me, a feeling that something is terribly wrong with how things look thirteen years later.
You see, in the fall of 2001, I was starting my senior year of high school. That day was the birthday of one of my classmates with whom I sat watching the news unfold. I think we were in a Sociology class together that day. The guy from Jostens came to yearbook class that day, so no watching the news during that class. I missed the breaking news because I was in choir and the teacher had her television unplugged. Most of all, I remember that interminable hope of 17 and 18 year olds. We weren't sure we would conquer the world. Most of us didn't even want to save it. We were, though, about to graduate high school and start something...new. We were filled with anticipation even if we couldn't have said that at the time. Something Else was coming.
Those next years brought a great deal of change for most of us. In those thirteen years, I graduated from high school, college, and a master's degree. I was ordained. I lived five different states. I had seven different part time jobs and two different full-time jobs. Maybe more jobs than that, depending on how you like to count. I could count that passage of time in a few different ways if I so chose.
Some members of my class ended up enlisting in the military because of September 11. Honestly, I lost touch and don't know what happened to them. I imagine some are counted among the wounded and the casualties.
That day, though, I remember waiting to hear the U.S. President speak, waiting to hear what would happen as a result of the attacks. At barely seventeen, I didn't have a strong opinion, which is and was a rare thing, even at seventeen. Now, I know I wish I had heard something different, something that, somehow, echoed the notion, "Peace."
I'm now strangely conscious of the fact that the bombings and bloodshed and occupation of countries as a result of the 9/11 attacks have shaped my entire adult world. I have few words about what to do with this reality. I have few ideas about what could actually, truly make things better. So I let the words of Jesus echo around me, "Thy kingdom come." Bold, terrifying, assuring prayer that those words are, that somehow God's reign could rush in and take hold, I hope, "Thy kingdom come."
I hope it, because thirteen years ago, I never would have imagined the fear of that day would still feature so prominently in our lives. "Thy kingdom come."
He shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more.
(Isaiah 2:4)
You see, in the fall of 2001, I was starting my senior year of high school. That day was the birthday of one of my classmates with whom I sat watching the news unfold. I think we were in a Sociology class together that day. The guy from Jostens came to yearbook class that day, so no watching the news during that class. I missed the breaking news because I was in choir and the teacher had her television unplugged. Most of all, I remember that interminable hope of 17 and 18 year olds. We weren't sure we would conquer the world. Most of us didn't even want to save it. We were, though, about to graduate high school and start something...new. We were filled with anticipation even if we couldn't have said that at the time. Something Else was coming.
Those next years brought a great deal of change for most of us. In those thirteen years, I graduated from high school, college, and a master's degree. I was ordained. I lived five different states. I had seven different part time jobs and two different full-time jobs. Maybe more jobs than that, depending on how you like to count. I could count that passage of time in a few different ways if I so chose.
Some members of my class ended up enlisting in the military because of September 11. Honestly, I lost touch and don't know what happened to them. I imagine some are counted among the wounded and the casualties.
That day, though, I remember waiting to hear the U.S. President speak, waiting to hear what would happen as a result of the attacks. At barely seventeen, I didn't have a strong opinion, which is and was a rare thing, even at seventeen. Now, I know I wish I had heard something different, something that, somehow, echoed the notion, "Peace."
I'm now strangely conscious of the fact that the bombings and bloodshed and occupation of countries as a result of the 9/11 attacks have shaped my entire adult world. I have few words about what to do with this reality. I have few ideas about what could actually, truly make things better. So I let the words of Jesus echo around me, "Thy kingdom come." Bold, terrifying, assuring prayer that those words are, that somehow God's reign could rush in and take hold, I hope, "Thy kingdom come."
I hope it, because thirteen years ago, I never would have imagined the fear of that day would still feature so prominently in our lives. "Thy kingdom come."
He shall judge between the nations,
and shall arbitrate for many peoples;
they shall beat their swords into plowshares,
and their spears into pruning hooks;
nation shall not lift up sword against nation,
neither shall they learn war any more.
(Isaiah 2:4)
Wednesday, August 13, 2014
Hope When Broken is Normal
The world seems more broken lately. It's hard to even make the list of how exactly it is broken. The news cycle ebbs and flows with stories of violence between Israel and Palestine. News from Ukraine and Syria fill the ebbs, at least as far as world news goes, with some ebola sprinkled in for good measure. Riots follow the death of Michael Brown. And yes, Robin Williams' suicide fits in there, too. I admit, I feel differently about his death than I would most celebrities' deaths. Some gifts that people share with us are life-altering; his definitely was.
Yet, it's strange, because somehow, all this brokenness feels normal. It feels like the reality of the world I was born into. I make it into the category of "millennial" no matter who is drawing the lines. Sometimes I just squeak in with my 1984 birthday. Others people who study demographics draw the line a little earlier, 1981 or so. As with most things, there's ambiguity about when something truly begins or changes. Suffice it to say, though, that I am thoroughly a millennial. My distrust of institutions surprises even me. Friends are family and I trust friends to help me make decisions more than other generations have. And yeah, I'm just fine with making pot legal and a liberal view of economics is putting it mildly. The list could go on and on.
My personal theory is that being born in the United States after Vietnam created a lot of the world views for my particular version of millennial, particularly distrust of institutions. I've also grown up as 24 hour news cycles were being created. In my lifetime, the shift from evening news to news bombardment has happened. Now it's a world of clickbait to see which news sources can get the most traffic. I don't remember a world where there weren't US troops somewhere in a desert on the other side of the world. At times, it's a frightening echo of the book titled for the year of my birth, 1984: we're always at war somewhere. In my lifetime, we've mostly not called the endless something somewhere war. Partly due to where I grew up, the problems of poverty have always been part of my life, even if my family was mostly comfortable. The Great Recession just took what I knew beyond the hills of Kentucky.
I don't say any of this with anger or even disillusionment. I'm mostly neither optimist nor pessimist, just realist. In fact, plenty of people find my detachment and analytical habits maddening. (And I'm good with that.) Yet, all the things that make me so typical of my generation lead me to the thing that makes me atypical for my generation: I'm still doing church.
I might have SBNR leanings in my faith language. I might have just as little hope and trust in the institution of church as I do other institutions. I'm a religious sampler in a lot of ways and a Christian tradition sampler in many more ways. Being in ministry within a particular tradition is a near-constant negotiation for me. No one would ever describe me as orthodox; I call it mannerism in practice. In the midst of all of my doubts and weirdness about my faith, though, I can't shake the hope of the reign of God.
The idea that maybe, probably, hopefully, the reign of God is at hand, breaking into this world at any moment, ready to redeem, to pull us out of the worst messes, holds my imagination. I get glimpses from time to time. There's are brief, glittering moments when it seems like something so new, straight from the hands of God, is about to take over all the brokenness. Then the glimpse is gone. And I want it again so much that I keep going, keep putting faith in the fact that it was not merely a glimpse, but something new coming.
And I live that hope with the church. The broken, often-crazy, weird beyond all belief thing that is the church. I do it despite church life being out of sync with my life a great deal of the time because they're the people who get it. They're the people who have also seen the glimpses and long for more. They're the people willing to say, "Yes, let's give this reign of God thing a shot," even if they're not remotely sure what that looks like right now.
So I do church. And I proclaim faith that God is doing a new thing in the midst of all the brokenness. And somehow, it gives voice and life to all the millennial who-knows-ness I feel most of the time. So I do the reign of God things that I understand and I pray that God will redeem all the messes and mostly, I live in the hope that God is not done with this world or with me. And maybe, just maybe, there is salvation after all.
Yet, it's strange, because somehow, all this brokenness feels normal. It feels like the reality of the world I was born into. I make it into the category of "millennial" no matter who is drawing the lines. Sometimes I just squeak in with my 1984 birthday. Others people who study demographics draw the line a little earlier, 1981 or so. As with most things, there's ambiguity about when something truly begins or changes. Suffice it to say, though, that I am thoroughly a millennial. My distrust of institutions surprises even me. Friends are family and I trust friends to help me make decisions more than other generations have. And yeah, I'm just fine with making pot legal and a liberal view of economics is putting it mildly. The list could go on and on.
My personal theory is that being born in the United States after Vietnam created a lot of the world views for my particular version of millennial, particularly distrust of institutions. I've also grown up as 24 hour news cycles were being created. In my lifetime, the shift from evening news to news bombardment has happened. Now it's a world of clickbait to see which news sources can get the most traffic. I don't remember a world where there weren't US troops somewhere in a desert on the other side of the world. At times, it's a frightening echo of the book titled for the year of my birth, 1984: we're always at war somewhere. In my lifetime, we've mostly not called the endless something somewhere war. Partly due to where I grew up, the problems of poverty have always been part of my life, even if my family was mostly comfortable. The Great Recession just took what I knew beyond the hills of Kentucky.
I don't say any of this with anger or even disillusionment. I'm mostly neither optimist nor pessimist, just realist. In fact, plenty of people find my detachment and analytical habits maddening. (And I'm good with that.) Yet, all the things that make me so typical of my generation lead me to the thing that makes me atypical for my generation: I'm still doing church.
I might have SBNR leanings in my faith language. I might have just as little hope and trust in the institution of church as I do other institutions. I'm a religious sampler in a lot of ways and a Christian tradition sampler in many more ways. Being in ministry within a particular tradition is a near-constant negotiation for me. No one would ever describe me as orthodox; I call it mannerism in practice. In the midst of all of my doubts and weirdness about my faith, though, I can't shake the hope of the reign of God.
The idea that maybe, probably, hopefully, the reign of God is at hand, breaking into this world at any moment, ready to redeem, to pull us out of the worst messes, holds my imagination. I get glimpses from time to time. There's are brief, glittering moments when it seems like something so new, straight from the hands of God, is about to take over all the brokenness. Then the glimpse is gone. And I want it again so much that I keep going, keep putting faith in the fact that it was not merely a glimpse, but something new coming.
And I live that hope with the church. The broken, often-crazy, weird beyond all belief thing that is the church. I do it despite church life being out of sync with my life a great deal of the time because they're the people who get it. They're the people who have also seen the glimpses and long for more. They're the people willing to say, "Yes, let's give this reign of God thing a shot," even if they're not remotely sure what that looks like right now.
So I do church. And I proclaim faith that God is doing a new thing in the midst of all the brokenness. And somehow, it gives voice and life to all the millennial who-knows-ness I feel most of the time. So I do the reign of God things that I understand and I pray that God will redeem all the messes and mostly, I live in the hope that God is not done with this world or with me. And maybe, just maybe, there is salvation after all.
Tuesday, August 5, 2014
Sell Everything?
His name was Michael, that charismatic cook at a rescue mission. His theological language never matched my own, but I could never help but smile around him. He always had his volunteers sing at the end of our time together, re-writing songs most of them had never heard with Christian lyrics. I always giggled inwardly, wondering what these beloved but self-sheltering people would do if they knew how much profanity was in the original lyrics.
As we circled up at the close of the evening, he pulled a black, well-weathered Bible from somewhere and would hand it to one of us to look up a Bible verse or two. At least twice, he had us read the story of the rich young ruler. The adjectives are taken from a multiple Gospels, but the story is the basically the same. Someone comes to Jesus asking what he should do to enter the kingdom of heaven. When Jesus tells him, "Keep the commandments," he answers, "I've done this since my youth." Then, the more difficult response comes, "Sell everything you have and give it to the poor." In at least one Gospel account, the man goes away very sad, for he had great wealth.
Michael would always add, "This is not a commandment, but a prescription for this particular man's ailment." I don't know if that's actually what he believed or if it was his way of letting off the hook the people who came to his kitchen to volunteer. After all, most were overwhelmingly wealthy by the standards of the people who ate from his kitchen every day. Living comfortably in the US, by global standards, means everyone there was rich.
For what it's worth, I'm pretty the real answer was somewhere in between. The man standing there with us knew better than most do about how difficult it is to bridge the world between people who are firmly middle class--able to pay all their bills and have some disposable income--and the people who are the poorest around. He was the one gently telling our teenage girls to not walk between the tables. He was the one who had called the police more times than he could count. He was the one who had spent many years hearing the same stories of addiction and illness coming out of so many mouths.
I'm more sympathetic that that rich young ruler than I would have been a few years ago. Yes, he probably was too attached to his wealth. But as someone who has now regularly turned away the poor for a few years, I don't think he was a bad guy so much as he knew the difficulty of loving the poor, which yes, includes giving them your money.
Last week, a man I recognized came to the church mid-week. I was in a part of the building where he saw me, and I sent him to the secretary. I knew his story, or at least the one he would offer. He lives in his car and needs some help with a hotel. I first heard this story over a year ago, the first time I told him we had no funds for that sort of thing. Back then we had a conversation about where he could go for help, where he could find a program that would help him get a home and not have to live in his car. He wasn't interested in it. He was just fine where he was, if I could just put him up in a hotel for the night. The secretary had run into him at one of the other churches where she works as well. He offered the same story there.
Two weeks ago, a woman came asking for help with money to get her into Section 8 housing. I found a couple holes in her story pretty quickly. I know she lied to me about at least one thing. She used every guilt-tactic possible to get me to give her something else. While we were talking, one of her kids jumped the fence into the church courtyard where the playground is. The others let themselves into the building and found their way through the classrooms out to the courtyard, too.
Ask your pastor, or your church secretary, or anyone who regularly works with the poor. All of them will have stories of being yelled at, of vandalism, of scam artists, of calling police. All of them will have stories about how very, very difficult it is to love the poor.
Back to Michael's interpretation of the rich young ruler. Actually, I don't think Jesus' words were a specific prescription to that one person in that one place. I think they were words for us all. "Sell everything you have and give the money to the poor." I also know they're crazy hard words to hear, much less live. I think that's why we've had to read and hear them over and over and over again for a couple millennia. Let's start with confessing what we often refuse to admit: loving the poor is hard. Jesus reminds us we have to do it any way.
As we circled up at the close of the evening, he pulled a black, well-weathered Bible from somewhere and would hand it to one of us to look up a Bible verse or two. At least twice, he had us read the story of the rich young ruler. The adjectives are taken from a multiple Gospels, but the story is the basically the same. Someone comes to Jesus asking what he should do to enter the kingdom of heaven. When Jesus tells him, "Keep the commandments," he answers, "I've done this since my youth." Then, the more difficult response comes, "Sell everything you have and give it to the poor." In at least one Gospel account, the man goes away very sad, for he had great wealth.
Michael would always add, "This is not a commandment, but a prescription for this particular man's ailment." I don't know if that's actually what he believed or if it was his way of letting off the hook the people who came to his kitchen to volunteer. After all, most were overwhelmingly wealthy by the standards of the people who ate from his kitchen every day. Living comfortably in the US, by global standards, means everyone there was rich.
For what it's worth, I'm pretty the real answer was somewhere in between. The man standing there with us knew better than most do about how difficult it is to bridge the world between people who are firmly middle class--able to pay all their bills and have some disposable income--and the people who are the poorest around. He was the one gently telling our teenage girls to not walk between the tables. He was the one who had called the police more times than he could count. He was the one who had spent many years hearing the same stories of addiction and illness coming out of so many mouths.
I'm more sympathetic that that rich young ruler than I would have been a few years ago. Yes, he probably was too attached to his wealth. But as someone who has now regularly turned away the poor for a few years, I don't think he was a bad guy so much as he knew the difficulty of loving the poor, which yes, includes giving them your money.
Last week, a man I recognized came to the church mid-week. I was in a part of the building where he saw me, and I sent him to the secretary. I knew his story, or at least the one he would offer. He lives in his car and needs some help with a hotel. I first heard this story over a year ago, the first time I told him we had no funds for that sort of thing. Back then we had a conversation about where he could go for help, where he could find a program that would help him get a home and not have to live in his car. He wasn't interested in it. He was just fine where he was, if I could just put him up in a hotel for the night. The secretary had run into him at one of the other churches where she works as well. He offered the same story there.
Two weeks ago, a woman came asking for help with money to get her into Section 8 housing. I found a couple holes in her story pretty quickly. I know she lied to me about at least one thing. She used every guilt-tactic possible to get me to give her something else. While we were talking, one of her kids jumped the fence into the church courtyard where the playground is. The others let themselves into the building and found their way through the classrooms out to the courtyard, too.
Ask your pastor, or your church secretary, or anyone who regularly works with the poor. All of them will have stories of being yelled at, of vandalism, of scam artists, of calling police. All of them will have stories about how very, very difficult it is to love the poor.
Back to Michael's interpretation of the rich young ruler. Actually, I don't think Jesus' words were a specific prescription to that one person in that one place. I think they were words for us all. "Sell everything you have and give the money to the poor." I also know they're crazy hard words to hear, much less live. I think that's why we've had to read and hear them over and over and over again for a couple millennia. Let's start with confessing what we often refuse to admit: loving the poor is hard. Jesus reminds us we have to do it any way.
Tuesday, July 29, 2014
The Punch in the Stomach
Last night, my congregation hosted the local interfaith emergency housing program. Basically, that means homeless people sleep in our church and we provide food. Some folks who provide food will stay and eat, too. I'm usually one of the ones who sits down to eat with our guests for the evening. I often get the side-cocked head of confusion when I tell them I'm the pastor, but it's mostly good, easy conversation.
Well, kind of. It's weird conversation because it's a weird set-up. I feel weird even talking about this program that makes me feel a bit self-righteous because oh, look at us, we help the homeless. And it's awkward for our guests, too, because, hey, everyone in the room knows beyond a doubt that they are homeless. So I try to make it less weird. I introduce myself and ask their name. I ask about their life beyond being homeless. Where they grew up. What they like to do. I want to see them as more than homeless, as people. It has always seemed like something Jesus would do.
During last night's dinner conversation, we were talking about movies and what new movies we'd like to see. As I proclaimed my love of horror movies, which I often do, the conversation naturally turned to The Purge: Anarchy. It's the recently released sequel to The Purge. The basic premise of both movies is that for one night a year all crime is legal. Murder is included in that. I have yet to see the first one, but one of my dining companions had.
"You know," he said, "I really didn't like that part where they killed all the homeless people."
And silence took the place of words. Because what do you say to that? What could I say to that? I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.
What could I say when reality trumps ideals? Yes, the people I had dinner with last night are people. They are neighbors Jesus calls me to love. They bear the image of God. I do those people a disservice when I dehumanize them--we all do--but I also do those people a disservice when I don't see them as homeless. Like it or not, homeless is part of their identity, especially when they're sleeping in my church.
And homeless means vulnerable in a way most of us never experience.
Homeless means mostly sleeping where you could be attacked. At the very least, you could be ridiculed and harassed because the broader culture says that's ok. Oh, and you know how we're taught to worry that the homeless person is high on drugs? Or drunk? Or mentally ill? Those same worries exist when you are homeless. It doesn't help that popular culture continues to say, "These are the people who don't matter." I'm not much help when I want to talk about things other than being homeless. For better or worse, "homeless" dictates a lot that goes on in the life of homeless person.
I wish I knew what to do with all that. I wish I had some great revelation to share. Mostly, I'm just pondering the fact that adjectives do matter and that it's ok to let them matter. Sometimes, loving my neighbor means loving my homeless neighbor in particular.
Well, kind of. It's weird conversation because it's a weird set-up. I feel weird even talking about this program that makes me feel a bit self-righteous because oh, look at us, we help the homeless. And it's awkward for our guests, too, because, hey, everyone in the room knows beyond a doubt that they are homeless. So I try to make it less weird. I introduce myself and ask their name. I ask about their life beyond being homeless. Where they grew up. What they like to do. I want to see them as more than homeless, as people. It has always seemed like something Jesus would do.
During last night's dinner conversation, we were talking about movies and what new movies we'd like to see. As I proclaimed my love of horror movies, which I often do, the conversation naturally turned to The Purge: Anarchy. It's the recently released sequel to The Purge. The basic premise of both movies is that for one night a year all crime is legal. Murder is included in that. I have yet to see the first one, but one of my dining companions had.
"You know," he said, "I really didn't like that part where they killed all the homeless people."
And silence took the place of words. Because what do you say to that? What could I say to that? I felt like I'd been punched in the stomach.
What could I say when reality trumps ideals? Yes, the people I had dinner with last night are people. They are neighbors Jesus calls me to love. They bear the image of God. I do those people a disservice when I dehumanize them--we all do--but I also do those people a disservice when I don't see them as homeless. Like it or not, homeless is part of their identity, especially when they're sleeping in my church.
And homeless means vulnerable in a way most of us never experience.
Homeless means mostly sleeping where you could be attacked. At the very least, you could be ridiculed and harassed because the broader culture says that's ok. Oh, and you know how we're taught to worry that the homeless person is high on drugs? Or drunk? Or mentally ill? Those same worries exist when you are homeless. It doesn't help that popular culture continues to say, "These are the people who don't matter." I'm not much help when I want to talk about things other than being homeless. For better or worse, "homeless" dictates a lot that goes on in the life of homeless person.
I wish I knew what to do with all that. I wish I had some great revelation to share. Mostly, I'm just pondering the fact that adjectives do matter and that it's ok to let them matter. Sometimes, loving my neighbor means loving my homeless neighbor in particular.
Wednesday, July 23, 2014
A Train Ride
The guy was dressed head to toe in Cubs gear, having obviously been to support his favorite team at the game. He was ready to talk to anyone. He joked with the teenager who had a teddy bear in an Arizona Diamondbacks t-shirt. "You put a cub in that?"
A stop or two later, another man got on the train. This guy's clothes were shabbier; I'd bet he was a far more regular rider. He was wearing an Arizona Cardinals t-shirt. The Cubs guy had to jump on that, arguing that baseball was the better sport, not lowly football. Cardinals guy wasn't biting. Cubs guy then started an argument with him about whether or not there are actually cardinals in Arizona. It was a calculated move, so calculated that one of the people standing nearby said, "What you're trying to start a fight about is stupid. Stop it." Yes, random man on the train, you are correct.
Cubs guy did stop, for a while, but tried to make conversation with a couple other folks. The train was crowded; there were plenty of other possibilities. When Cardinals guy got off the train, Cubs guy tried to talk to me. "You taking the number…?" I don't remember what bus he asked about. I said no and refused to make eye contact, again. I'd figured out early on that this guy was a pretty off. Still, it was a pretty calm train ride overall. Cardinals guy did crowd my space, but my bubble is so large that it doesn't take much.
As in many places in the US, public transit sucks where I live. Out of either conviction or guilt, I take the bus and the train whenever it's actually somewhat convenient. That mostly means trips to the airport or downtown Phoenix. Getting anywhere else is prohibitively complicated and time-consuming. Taking the bus to work would take at least an hour; the drive is under five miles and takes under ten minutes if I miss all the lights.
I'm not going to lie, weird stuff happens on public transit, especially the buses. All the in-person arrests I've seen have been on public transit, though I've yet to see anyone arrested in Phoenix. Sometimes, people make out for extended periods of time. There's always a smelly guy or two. The conversations are often colorful; let's say they're not for the modest. I often think of the kids who are overhearing these conversations, too. I was twice their age before I knew the word they just heard 5 times in under a minute.
Still, I take the bus and the train and wish I could do so more regularly. The world there is different than the world I live in. It's a class difference, especially on the bus. I get that. I know how far into the next town I am based on who's getting on the bus. The divide is visible between a community that's struggling and one that's doing well. I also have the privilege of choosing public transportation when it's convenient for me, not being limited to it.
Public transit reminds me, though, of how different my life is from Jesus' life. It's so rare that I'm in a place with people who need social service agencies unless I'm helping at the social service agency. I'd wager the same is true for most of the people in my congregation. I don't pass beggars on the street; I rarely walk down a street. I'm far away from anyone crying out for help. I rarely pass anyone asking for food. I don't know where the free clinics are and have only a vague idea of where an office of the Department of Economic Security is located.
In short, I participate in a society that has segregated classes, sometimes with frightening intentionality. Things like public transit are reserved for people who can't afford anything else. Serving people who are poor is in well-controlled environments. Relationships with people who are poor are hard to find. It's only in those minutes on a train or a bus that I realize that most of the people on the bus are not the people I encounter in my everyday life. They're literally my neighbors; we get off at the same stop. But I never see them at the grocery store or the gas station. They disappear into places I don't know about.
I can't shake the reality that "Love your neighbor" is really hard if you've never met your neighbor. I can't shake the idea that maybe our poor neighbors wouldn't have it so rough if we did know each other. I can't shake the feeling that a whole herd of the sheep Jesus told us to tend and feed are nowhere to be found. If we spent more time on the buses, we just might notice the neighbors who are missing from our lives.
A stop or two later, another man got on the train. This guy's clothes were shabbier; I'd bet he was a far more regular rider. He was wearing an Arizona Cardinals t-shirt. The Cubs guy had to jump on that, arguing that baseball was the better sport, not lowly football. Cardinals guy wasn't biting. Cubs guy then started an argument with him about whether or not there are actually cardinals in Arizona. It was a calculated move, so calculated that one of the people standing nearby said, "What you're trying to start a fight about is stupid. Stop it." Yes, random man on the train, you are correct.
Cubs guy did stop, for a while, but tried to make conversation with a couple other folks. The train was crowded; there were plenty of other possibilities. When Cardinals guy got off the train, Cubs guy tried to talk to me. "You taking the number…?" I don't remember what bus he asked about. I said no and refused to make eye contact, again. I'd figured out early on that this guy was a pretty off. Still, it was a pretty calm train ride overall. Cardinals guy did crowd my space, but my bubble is so large that it doesn't take much.
As in many places in the US, public transit sucks where I live. Out of either conviction or guilt, I take the bus and the train whenever it's actually somewhat convenient. That mostly means trips to the airport or downtown Phoenix. Getting anywhere else is prohibitively complicated and time-consuming. Taking the bus to work would take at least an hour; the drive is under five miles and takes under ten minutes if I miss all the lights.
I'm not going to lie, weird stuff happens on public transit, especially the buses. All the in-person arrests I've seen have been on public transit, though I've yet to see anyone arrested in Phoenix. Sometimes, people make out for extended periods of time. There's always a smelly guy or two. The conversations are often colorful; let's say they're not for the modest. I often think of the kids who are overhearing these conversations, too. I was twice their age before I knew the word they just heard 5 times in under a minute.
Still, I take the bus and the train and wish I could do so more regularly. The world there is different than the world I live in. It's a class difference, especially on the bus. I get that. I know how far into the next town I am based on who's getting on the bus. The divide is visible between a community that's struggling and one that's doing well. I also have the privilege of choosing public transportation when it's convenient for me, not being limited to it.
Public transit reminds me, though, of how different my life is from Jesus' life. It's so rare that I'm in a place with people who need social service agencies unless I'm helping at the social service agency. I'd wager the same is true for most of the people in my congregation. I don't pass beggars on the street; I rarely walk down a street. I'm far away from anyone crying out for help. I rarely pass anyone asking for food. I don't know where the free clinics are and have only a vague idea of where an office of the Department of Economic Security is located.
In short, I participate in a society that has segregated classes, sometimes with frightening intentionality. Things like public transit are reserved for people who can't afford anything else. Serving people who are poor is in well-controlled environments. Relationships with people who are poor are hard to find. It's only in those minutes on a train or a bus that I realize that most of the people on the bus are not the people I encounter in my everyday life. They're literally my neighbors; we get off at the same stop. But I never see them at the grocery store or the gas station. They disappear into places I don't know about.
I can't shake the reality that "Love your neighbor" is really hard if you've never met your neighbor. I can't shake the idea that maybe our poor neighbors wouldn't have it so rough if we did know each other. I can't shake the feeling that a whole herd of the sheep Jesus told us to tend and feed are nowhere to be found. If we spent more time on the buses, we just might notice the neighbors who are missing from our lives.
Wednesday, July 16, 2014
The Forgotten Commandment
I spent last week in western New York state in a lakeside community that is only full nine weeks out of the year. A very few people are year round residents. I was there for a new clergy program and spent the week hearing lectures and good preaching every day, alongside talented colleagues also in their first years of ministry. Nights brought opera, ballet, concerts, and front porch gatherings.
There, among Victorian houses complete with brick walking paths, there was an intentional presence of a bygone era. For those of us who were guests who applied to a program rather than guests who paid for their time there, we had plenty of discussions of privilege and what it meant to walk on those grounds. Retired people could more easily visit than those still working. Those who rented homes and brought their children with them to this place were well above the middle of the middle class. The community was less diverse in race and class than the places we call home.
Even for us, it was a place of leisure, as it was for the other guests. We had wonderful, engaged conversations. "Continuing education" wasn't a misnomer. Yet, I walked along the lake between lectures and the dinner that someone else was preparing. I sat with new friends in the cool of the evening air, talking. (They drink beer; my drink of choice was not available.) Meals brought plenty of laughter and conversation, too. In church world, that sort of re-creation is normally called Sabbath.
In that place of such privilege, I couldn't ignore the privilege of leisure time. I knew before that days off are a privilege not granted to many. Of course I knew that vacations, especially ones away from home, are something many people cannot afford. Then, there are those of us who have jobs that allow us time away and enough money to fund time away, but still feel we can't afford to take it. Leisure always has a not so pretty economic side to it.
But the truth is, it always has. I had to memorize the Ten Commandments in various forms throughout my life. Yes, we covered both numbering systems. Sometimes I had to recite them verbatim, other times I just had to provide the gist.
Among those commandments (which I shall refrain from numbering), the commandment to keep Sabbath has the most explanation--several sentences more explanation than any other, actually. Here's the whole thing, "Observe the sabbath and keep it holy, as the Lord your God commanded you. Six days shall you labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work--you, or your son or your daughter, or your male or female slave, or your ox or your donkey, or any of your livestock, or the resident alien in your towns, so that your male and female slave may rest as well as you. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the sabbath day."
And still, we choose slavery. We choose not to rest. We create and support economic systems that do not allow other people to rest. We enslave ourselves and others, thereby denying God's claim on our life.
Part of the week was joining a Jewish community for their service welcoming the Sabbath--bowing, singing, eating, all out celebrating God's gift of a time of rest. May we all one day celebrate the gift of Sabbath rest.
There, among Victorian houses complete with brick walking paths, there was an intentional presence of a bygone era. For those of us who were guests who applied to a program rather than guests who paid for their time there, we had plenty of discussions of privilege and what it meant to walk on those grounds. Retired people could more easily visit than those still working. Those who rented homes and brought their children with them to this place were well above the middle of the middle class. The community was less diverse in race and class than the places we call home.
Even for us, it was a place of leisure, as it was for the other guests. We had wonderful, engaged conversations. "Continuing education" wasn't a misnomer. Yet, I walked along the lake between lectures and the dinner that someone else was preparing. I sat with new friends in the cool of the evening air, talking. (They drink beer; my drink of choice was not available.) Meals brought plenty of laughter and conversation, too. In church world, that sort of re-creation is normally called Sabbath.
In that place of such privilege, I couldn't ignore the privilege of leisure time. I knew before that days off are a privilege not granted to many. Of course I knew that vacations, especially ones away from home, are something many people cannot afford. Then, there are those of us who have jobs that allow us time away and enough money to fund time away, but still feel we can't afford to take it. Leisure always has a not so pretty economic side to it.
But the truth is, it always has. I had to memorize the Ten Commandments in various forms throughout my life. Yes, we covered both numbering systems. Sometimes I had to recite them verbatim, other times I just had to provide the gist.
Among those commandments (which I shall refrain from numbering), the commandment to keep Sabbath has the most explanation--several sentences more explanation than any other, actually. Here's the whole thing, "Observe the sabbath and keep it holy, as the Lord your God commanded you. Six days shall you labor and do all your work. But the seventh day is a sabbath to the Lord your God; you shall not do any work--you, or your son or your daughter, or your male or female slave, or your ox or your donkey, or any of your livestock, or the resident alien in your towns, so that your male and female slave may rest as well as you. Remember that you were a slave in the land of Egypt, and the Lord your God brought you out from there with a mighty hand and an outstretched arm; therefore the Lord your God commanded you to keep the sabbath day."
And still, we choose slavery. We choose not to rest. We create and support economic systems that do not allow other people to rest. We enslave ourselves and others, thereby denying God's claim on our life.
Part of the week was joining a Jewish community for their service welcoming the Sabbath--bowing, singing, eating, all out celebrating God's gift of a time of rest. May we all one day celebrate the gift of Sabbath rest.
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