The Margins

Two weeks ago, Kevin Blue (one of our teaching pastors) gave an excellent message at church titled: “Malcolm, Martin, and Messiah.” Part of his message traced the histories and teaching of Malcolm X, Martin Luther King Jr., and Jesus, and asked the question: what, ultimately, was the hope or vision that these leaders pursued?

He suggested that for Malcolm, there was no belief that Whites and Blacks could ever peaceably co-exist. Kevin suggested that, for Malcolm, the ultimate aim was segregation: his hope was to see Black people free to live and develop and govern completely apart from Whites. In fact, his hopes for segregation were so strong that he actually had meetings with leaders of the Ku Klux Klan because of the commonality in their respective visions.

Next he looked at Martin, and if there was a word to summarize his hopes for Black ands Whites and for America it would be this: integration. Achieved primarily through the vehicle of legislation, King’s dream of integration reflected his belief that Blacks and Whites could co-exist; that Blacks and Whites could sit at the same table.

Lastly, Kevin commented on the message of the Messiah, Jesus. The Messiah’s vision was different from both Malcolm’s and Martin’s in that Jesus taught a radical message of reconciliation. Jesus’ teaching (and living) reflected a belief that only the transformation of the heart, and reconciliation with the Creator, could in fact open the door to authentic relationship and love across whatever holds the power to divide.

This week, Kevin preached again, and at the beginning of his message he asked us to turn to our neighbors and talk about where we see those three visions (segregation, integration, and reconciliation) playing out in the world around us. As we go about living our lives, whose vision and ideals (Malcolm’s, Martin’s or the Messiah’s) do we see followed and where? After we shared in our groups, he asked for a few people to volunteer some of the things discussed.

Someone mentioned housing: one of our church members who is Asian told the congregation how a black family moved into a predominately white housing development in the city where his parents live, and within weeks, the homes on either side of this new family were up for sale. A clear example of the value for segregation.

Another person volunteered how in their high school, many races were represented and students studied together and had amicable relationships in the classroom. But that was really as far as it went across racial lines. An example of integration.

Another person spoke up about the ongoing tragedy of the Harbor Gateway community here in L.A. that is suffering a series of race-related killings. Clearly the ideals of segregation taken to the extreme of annihilation.

He then asked us who we thought had won out in American politics and culture: whose voice had most impacted the government and society here in the United States? We all readily agreed that, for the most part, our nation had embraced Martin’s message and sought, primarily through legislation, to live out some form of the ideal of integration. Thus a national holiday.

Then Kevin turned to us with a different question: whose vision and ideals are most visible in the American church?

The answer to that question felt especially sober. Someone finally broke the silence and said out loud: “Malcolm’s.” For as is said often enough: “11am on Sunday morning is the most segregated hour in America.”

Here is a place where Jesus and the testimony of scripture are so infinitely clear about how we are to live and relate as new creations with one another. And yet we don’t. And the list is long that answers why…

Lord, have mercy on us.

Update: Kevin’s most recent book, Practical Justice, was just released through Intervarsity Press. Rumor has it that it sold out at Urbana, and I would strongly recommend it to anyone wrestling with what it means to walk justly in this world.

I often feel a bit behind in terms of what is going on in the world. Like the other day, it was my mom in Seattle who informed me that there was snow a few miles away in Malibu! We don’t have cable (and network news is really heinous here in L.A.), we don’t get the L.A. Times (though I catch the occasional article online), and I rely on my Newsweek subscription that my dad continues to buy for me to remain remotely in the know. Doug regularly listens to NPR during his commute, and he does a good job of helping me stay on top of some of the significant things going on in our world. We also now receive Wired magazine (thanks, Dad!) so I expect to be much cooler and more informed in the near future.

All that to say, I was a bit surprised the past few days to read a collection of blog posts and articles about race-related gang violence here in L.A. There have been a series of incidents in a specific community that are tragic and that very clearly demonstrate the evil of racial hatred expressed through gang violence. Children are dead because of it. What surprised me was not that there was considerable press being given to these tragedies, but that everyone was talking about it as if it was this very new phenomenon and threat.

For the past year, our neighborhood has seen a series of killings that have been racially motivated. After a young (Latino) boy in our youth group was shot and killed by gang members (African American), it was a matter of weeks before a young African American man (homeless, with no known gang ties) was shot and killed on the street behind our house (the word on the street is that it was done by a group of Latinos). This one instance describes a cycle that we see played out regularly where we live.

I have come across a fair number of people of late who are tired of the conversation about race (can you guess their ethnicity?). They would much prefer to talk about class (which I totally agree is central to any conversation about race and power) and many of them believe that by and large we have moved past outright racial hatred and discrimination. I would love for that to be true. But the things going on in the streets of L.A. remind me of our capacity for evil in how we think about and value people whose skin differs from ours. And I do not think my neighbors are somehow radically unique and especially fallen. I believe that in their desperation, they are acting out what we all silently battle.

I will never forget watching the firefighter whose job it was to wash the blood from the ground where our African American neighbor had fallen. Bucket after bucket of water was thrown, and the blood did finally wash away. Yesterday Doug and I walked to Ralph’s with the kids, a route I take regularly, and we passed over that place that was once marked by blood. The blood is of course gone, but I would be foolish to believe that the hatred is.

“As a Bible teacher, one of my basic concerns has become simply to get people to read the Bible with open eyes. Some people learn to; others do not. I want people to read the Bible, to be open to finding there things that they had not realized were there, to be enthralled and dazzled and appalled and infuriated and puzzled and worried and stimulated and kept awake at night by these extraordinary words from God, to let their minds and hearts and imaginations and wills be provoked and astonished by them. I want them to follow these words.”

From Walk On by John Goldingay

I came to Fuller Seminary as a visiting student back in 1995. I had started seminary studies at North Park Theological Seminary but, having completed my undergraduate work at the college, I felt a desire for some change. I distinctly remember sitting in a Starbucks in Chicago with my trusted friend who happened to be a New Testament scholar. I had selected the courses I thought I would take at Fuller and wanted his approval.

One class I had selected was Systematic Theology III: Eschatology and Ecclesiology. Probably not a likely choice for a student who was essentially just getting started with her theological education (I think the I, II and III perhaps suggest these things should be done in order), but the professor looked intriguing to me (both the uniqueness of his name and the fact that he was wearing a bow-tie in his catalog photo), as did the subject matter. My friend gave his hearty approval and some additional recommendations for other courses I should look into.

And so it was that, a few months later, I was spending every Tuesday afternoon sipping cappuccinos (his drink of choice) with Miroslav Volf and a handful of other students after lecture (except for the day he blew us off to have a private conversation with Richard Bauckham when he guest lectured).

Now, I had heard, coming to Fuller, of students giving standing ovations to professors after a lecture. Honestly, that was a hard thing for me to picture. After our first class session, I suddenly understood. Not a Tuesday or Thursday went by when my life wasn’t shattered: shattered in a really good way. We read Moltmann’s “The Coming God,” Grenz’s “Theology for the Community of God”, excerpts from Volf’s “Exclusion and Embrace” and “Work in the Spirit”, and his manuscript for “Theirs is the Likeness.” We also read Bauckham’s “Theology of the Book of Revelation” which remains one of the most influential books I have ever read.

So here’s the confession (because I am so utterly sure that he will never read this website): while I was at Fuller, I lived with my sister. We shared a tiny bedroom in the home of some very gracious friends in Claremont. She had this very old computer set up for me in our little bedroom, and that is where I would write my papers, often in the wee hours after late-night shifts at Macy’s. The name of my hard-drive? “I love Miroslav”.

So it thrills me to read and hear of his continued influence, and the ways his “standing ovations” so to speak are now given even more widely.  By the time I made it back to Fuller to actually complete my degree he was long gone. I remain so grateful for the three months when every Tuesday and Thursday Miroslav Volf had something to say to me.

When we were in Portland last month, we had a big family outing to the Portland Zoo. I had never gone to the zoo when I lived in Portland, and I think I was as excited as the kids were to see some animals! I was especially excited for Aaron to see tigers. He LOVES tigers, and he will growl wildly at any mention of the word. Since his only frame of reference was books and a plastic figurine, I couldn’t wait for him to meet the real thing. We lucked out and there were two beautifully regal tigers sitting quite near to the fence, and Aaron spent probably twenty minutes growling at them. The day was a success.

As we were heading up a long walkway to the park’s exit, there appeared out of nowhere a giant peacock, strutting calmly toward us. Now, peacocks are pretty much the most majestic bird I can imagine. All the colors, those feathers, and the sheer size of their tails definitely leave an impression. Mercy was totally intrigued: this bird was a far cry from the ghetto pigeons she most often sees. The thing was as big as she was (or bigger), and that too was cause for some very wide eyes.

Aaron has not been as quick of a talker as Mercy was. Like his sister, his first word was “ball” (much to his father’s chagrin–he certainly received much more coaching on the word “dada”), and his second, and probably favorite word is “duck.” Aaron loves the pictures of ducks in his books and he is passionate about the little rubber ducks that share his bath. But I was not prepared for his reaction as he spotted the giant peacock: “DUCK!” he shouted, pointing. “DUCK!”

There was something so sweet and comic about his misnomer. And so highly insulting to that poor, proud peacock.

This morning I attended our monthly staff meeting for Servant Partners. Toward the end of our meeting, we discussed a hope for the development of a “retreat house” ministry that would serve our different sites across the globe. I was unfamiliar with the concept, and so we spent a few minutes fleshing it out. The idea is to send individuals or couples overseas to live near to our missionary teams (and either work as tentmakers, or raise support as missionaries themselves), and to establish homes outside of the slum areas where our teams live and work that can be places of rest, recovery, safety, and hospitality. Colleagues from another mission’s agency had shared with our leadership the ways this specific type of ministry had contributed to longevity for their workers on the field.

I was struck by how helpful this kind of ministry would be, and how significant. I thought back to my own experience as an urban minister in Chicago, and there were three families specifically whose homes served as my “retreat houses”: places I could go if I became severely ill; places I could go for a weekend to simply rest; places I could go for good food, great conversation, and cable .

Here in L.A., Doug and I have been blessed to have a family from our sister church in Pasadena offer that same sort of hospitality. When they go out of town, they are quick to call and invite us to stay over at their house for a few days of quiet rest, and they are consistent in inviting us over for food and play. I don’t think I can begin to measure the blessing that this kind of hospitality imparts.

Doug had the day off yesterday so we decided to drive out to Joshua Tree with the kids. We took Mercy there when she was about six months old, and she LOVED it. Since we don’t want poor Aaron to have total second child syndrome (though it’s probably too late), we though it would be fun to go again.

The church-planting leadership in the Covenant uses the phrase “a well-conceived plan” to describe a project that has good potential in terms of the right church-planter, the right community, the right partner church, the right vision, etc. Well, we thought our trip yesterday was just that: a well-conceived plan. We had packed and planned thoroughly, and had the timing of things figured out just right in terms of naps in the car, etc. But the day ended up being a total disaster.

First, we arrived at Joshua Tree to high winds that made the very cold temperatures (which we HAD anticipated) basically unbearable. It was so windy that Aaron, who is now walking, could not. So, my nice picnic that I had envisioned having in one of the picnic areas turned out to be a frustrating grump-fest in the crowded car.

Second, as we left the grumpy lunch realizing we were not going to play outside as much as we had imagined, we at least were excited about driving around inside the massive park and checking out all the “silly trees” and hoping to see some coyotes. But, as we started the car, the strange smell coming from the car that we had endured for the last hour of our drive in became unbearable. The fact that we were in the middle of the desert and very far from home helped us decide that maybe we better just turn around and head home. We could enjoy the scenic drive out of the park and certainly the kids would fall asleep soon as it was already time for their naps.

It was about this time that Aaron began to cry. And cry and cry and cry. The poor guy had not been out of his carseat all day at this point, and I am sure his little body was going crazy! Mercy had the chance to run around with Doug a little bit, so she was better off. So Aaron cried which made Mercy start to whine, and I told Mercy not to cry or she would scare off the coyotes. That got her quiet fast but then when Aaron kept crying she got so upset at him and started shouting at him to stop scaring away the coyotes. At this point my anxiety over the car, my disappointment over not getting to play at the park, and my frustration with Aaron’s crying was pushing me over the edge.

We got out of the park and started making our way back to the 10 with Aaron still screaming in the back. I told Doug that we needed to stop at a McDonalds with a play area and let him run around for a while before the long drive home. So the first McD’s we saw, we pulled in and if this was not the epitome of the day’s failures…kids dressed and ready for rocks and sun stuck inside a garish plastic structure that they could not even enter because they were too small. We were consigned to running laps up and down the length of the building chasing a bunch of balloons that a sweet mother of FIVE (watching her made me feel a bit better) gave to us. It was the happiest the kids had been all day.

I could pretty easily draw some parallels here between our “well-conceived project” and what can happen in even the best-intentioned church-plant efforts. Let’s just say that sometimes, in spite of your best efforts and strategies and even your faithfulness, your day at Joshua Tree can turn into an afternoon at McDonalds.

We finally got home after a very long drive, much of it in three-day weekend traffic. Mercy never did sleep the entire ride, and Aaron resumed his screaming after a short nap. It was brutal. And it turns out our car battery was basically trying to explode. By the time we pulled into our driveway the sulfur smell was absolutely excruciating, and Doug almost passed out after lifting the hood. So today, Doug is coming home early to go get a new battery and take the car in to our mechanic. We have some repairs that we have been postponing that we just simply need to have done. And now, who knows what will be added. As always, it will require money that we don’t have.

When we got married, our dear pastor from Portland exhorted us to do three things, the last of which was to struggle. His exhortation was biblical, and it has been a true word to us. And on days like today, those white-dress memories of standing there, filled with so much hope and happiness, and knowing that God was with us and would continue to be, help me keep going.

“I have just received a letter from a white brother in Texas. He writes: ‘All Christians know that the colored people will receive equal rights eventually, but it is possible that you are in too great a religious hurry. It has taken Christianity almost two thousand years to accomplish what it has. The teachings of Christ take time to come to earth.’ Such an attitude stems from a tragic misconception of time, from the strangely irrational notion that there is something in the very flow of time that will inevitably cure all ills. Actually, time itself is neutral; it can be used either destructively or constructively. More and more I feel that the people of ill will have used time much more effectively than have the people of good will. We will have to repent in this generation not merely for the hateful words and actions of the bad people but for the appalling silence of the good people. Human progress never rolls in on wheels of inevitability; it comes through the tireless efforts of men willing to be co-workers with God, and without this hard work, time itself becomes an ally of the forces of social stagnation. We must use time creatively, in the knowledge that the time is always ripe to do right.”

Martin Luther King, Jr., Letter From Birmingham Jail

I’ve been tagged by More Than Stone, a blogger I very much enjoy!

So, here’s my stab at some answers while I get the kids ready for church:

1) What’s the most fun work you’ve ever done, and why?

The most fun job I ever had was working as a coffee roaster for Storyhouse Coffee in Portland, Oregon. Much of this had to do with the exceptional husband and wife team I worked with; two people with an amazing appreciation for humor, fun, generosity and kindness. I have been a coffee lover since college, so of course spending my days in what we called “the roasting palace” cooking beans to perfection was like a dream come true. And the days where we did the tastings when I was developing a new roast were like a very caffeinated party (when you taste coffee, you are of course encouraged to spit it out if you want to avoid the buzz but this never seemed right to me. And Doug wondered why I never slept when he met me!).

2) A. Name one thing you did in the past that you no longer do but wish you did?

Oil painting. Still lifes are my thing and I just can’t figure out a way to integrate this with our life here: space, time, children, and $ would be the obstacles to doing this again. But someday…

B. Name one thing you’ve always wanted to do but keep putting it off?

Write a book.

3) A. What two things would you most like to learn or be better at, and why?

I would love to take singing lessons and learn to surf.

B. If you could take a class/workshop/apprentice from anyone in the world living or dead, who would it be and what would you hope to learn?

I would want to hang out with Dietrich Bonhoeffer and learn what it means to live a “confessing” faith in my world.

4) A. What three words might your best friends or family use to describe you?

Compassionate, imaginative, disorganized

B. Now list two more words you wish described you…

Patient, and the word that describes someone who always sends thank-you notes and birthday cards and thoughtful gifts to people, and is great at staying in touch long-distance.

5) What are your top three passions? (can be current or past, work, hobbies, or causes)

After the obvious (D, M, and AE): justice and mercy in the city, reading and writing, preaching.

6) Write–and answer–one more question that YOU would ask someone

Favorite comfort food? I had it last night: grilled cheese and tomato soup.

Who to tag…I’ll try: Don Bryant, Bill Kinnon, and Susan Arnold

“If it was us, if it was our lonesome ass shuffling past the corner of Monroe and Fayette every day, we’d get out, wouldn’t we? We’d endure. Succeed. Thrive. No matter what, no matter how, we’d find the f—— exit…

That’s the myth of it, the required lie that allows us to render our judgments. Parasites, criminals, dope peddlers, whores—when we can ride past them at Fayette and Monroe, car doors locked, our field of vision cautiously restricted to the road ahead, then the long journey into darkness is underway. Pale-skinned hillbillies and hard-faced yos, toothless white trash and gold-front gangsters—when we can glide on and feel only fear, we’re well on the way. And if, after time, we can glimpse the spectacle of the corner and manage nothing beyond loathing and contempt, then we’ve arrived at last at that naked place where a man finally sees the sense in stretching razor wire and building barracks and directing cattle cars into the compound.”

From The Corner: A Year in the Life of an Inner-city Neighborhood, by David Simon and Edward Burns