The Margins

Because Mercy has been sick and has been coughing so badly lately, Doug and I have been taking turns cuddling her in her bed at night while she falls asleep. Last night as I was lying with her, I heard a series of horrible yells and screams outside. It turned out to not be a crisis, just some new neighbors accross the street who regularly make a lot of noise.

Mercy has finally started to be affected by the noises here at night. I used to marvel at how she never seemed to be bothered by the chaos that often surrounds us here. But that seems to be changing. We were recently summoned to her room by frantic cries and when we got to her she told us that two men had come into her room. There were guys outside making noise and talking, and because they were right beneath her it did sound like they were actually in her room with her.

After the screaming subsided, I started to get up from her bed when some loud cars came ripping down our street, tires screeching. I felt Mercy’s little body flinch. I waited a bit longer and again was about to leave when the sirens began. A helicopter passed overhead and a fire truck or ambulance cruised down Jefferson at top volume. She tossed and turned and whimpered. Eventually, there was enough of a break in the noises outside for her to relax and settle and fall fast asleep.

I thought about the way this captures how life here can sometimes feel: the longing for enough of a stretch of peace to allow your mind and heart to rest; the tense waiting, when it actually is quiet, to see if the quiet will stay. And the disappointment when the next siren, gunshot, or scream comes.

Our church is growing. People’s lives are being changed by encounters with a living, loving God. And yet it seems that there is a steady stream of oppression, affliction, and setbacks that just don’t seem to stop. I need to learn how to dwell in the midst of this; to not be paralyzed by what is but to also not lose the ability to hope for what is not. I need a peace that surpasses understanding; a peace that defies and transcends what I hear and see. And like my daughter, I need the comfort of safe and steady arms that cover and hold me.

“Show me the wonder of your great love, you who save by your right hand those who take refuge in you from their foes. Keep me as the apple of your eye; hide me in the shadow of your wings from the wicked who assail me, from my mortal enemies who surround me.”

Psalm 17:8-9

In the last three days I have been reminded by a series of unconnected people and circumstances of the importance of showing love to my neighbor. It seems like such a straightforward thing, really. And it is not a difficult concept to grasp or remember! And yet it continues to be the thing we fail at doing; it is the thing we would always rather replace with prayer or reading or church events in our longing to be spiritual people. Loving my neighbor is something that has risk and death (to self) firmly attached. No wonder it is something I avoid.

I love the question posed to Jesus: “Who is my neighbor?” Inherent in this question is the assumption, dare I say the desperate hope, that there are people who are not. My brother-in-law was one of three individuals who moved into our South Central community here fresh out of college, immediately following the tragedy and destruction of the L.A. riots. The simple, single force behind his decision? A heart conviction that he did not truly know what it meant to love his neighbor. My brother-in-law believed that Jesus indeed had the words of life, and so he did what could only have been viewed by most as irresponsible, foolish, and insane. He obeyed.

The other night I pulled into my parking space at Ralph’s, and immediately noticed a young man on the side of the road with a disabled vehicle in front of me. The hood was up and he was sitting on the little wall that divides the parking lot from the sidewalk. It looked like he had been there a while and I assumed he was waiting for the tow truck or a friend. I went inside, did my shopping, and when I came out with my cart full of groceries, I saw that he was still there. Only now he was kind of pacing around a bit. By the time I got to my car, he was leaving his and making his way to one of the pay phones outside of Ralph’s. As I saw him fishing around in his pockets, obviously searching for quarters, I hollered out at him: “Do you need to make a phone call?”

He stopped dead in his tracks and stared at me. He turned around to see who it was I must be talking to, and then pointed to himself. I asked him again. He stared some more, and then said, “yeah” and walked toward me. I reached into my purse and handed him my cell phone, then went back to my cart and started loading my groceries into my car. He made his call (I could hear him talking to his mom, I think, asking if so and so had left yet to come and get him), and when he was done came back over to my car and gave me my phone. He looked at me, suspicion and surprise still lingering in his eyes, and said “thank you.”

As I drove home I realized that for this young man, I represented his opposite: culturally, racially, socially. And his reaction to me and to my offer of help revealed how far we are from the life Jesus envisions. And I realized too how small, and in many ways simple, the steps are that we can take toward this life.

Tuesday night, Scot McKnight reminded us that loving our neighbor does not usually come in the packages we would choose: his neighbors do not ask him to help them with Greek exegesis (his strong and comfortable suit) but rather with shoveling snow or car repairs. And our response to those invitations, those acts of service we do not choose or prefer, is exactly where conversion is manifest.

When I saw my young man at Ralph’s and realized he may need help, I did a quick risk inventory in my head: there have been shootings and muggings in that parking lot, and Doug actually does not like me going there at night. It was dark but there were enough people around that I decided the biggest risk I was taking was losing my cell phone, and that was fine. And so I reached out. Again, the tangible steps we can take toward loving our neighbor are actually quite simple and small. But I was also reminded of when they are not.

I heard a great wedding sermon once where the preacher was talking about servanthood. He said that there are occasions where being a servant to someone feels good. Most of us are willing to serve as long as we remain firmly in control of when and where and how much we will be inconvenienced, threatened or displaced. But he reminded us that the “dipstick moment” so to speak is when we are actually treated like a servant or slave. That is when the true condition of our servant’s heart is revealed. I can say from my own experience and heart that this is most certainly the case.

I am not sure anyone says it better than this:

“The Christian way is different: harder, and easier. Christ says ‘Give me all. I don’t want so much of your time and so much of your money and so much of your work: I want You. I have not come to torment your natural self, but to kill it. No half-measures are any good. I don’t want to cut off a branch here and a branch there, I want to have the whole tree down…Hand over the natural self, all the desires which you think innocent as well as the ones you think wicked—the whole outfit. I will give you a new self instead. In fact, I will give you Myself: my own will shall become yours.”

(From C.S. Lewis Mere Christianity)

That is the good news.

You have heard it said: always make sure you are wearing clean underwear in case you get in a car accident and you are taken to the hospital (I have also added to make sure you keep your apartment clean in case the L.A.P.D. needs to ascertain whether your home is a crime scene).

But I also say to you: always keep the floor of the front seat of your car free from random paper, toys, a nalgene bottle and a golf ball in case you need to give Scot McKnight a ride up to the house where he is staying after a fantastic lecture at Pepperdine University.

At least he appreciated the golf ball

Tonight when I put Aaron down to sleep, I held him a bit longer than normal before laying him down in his bed. He snuggled right up with his head tucked under my chin and his arms draped over the tops of mine. He is no small child: his nickname “little man” suits him just fine.

Wanting to cuddle him a bit longer, but feeling the ache of arms that had already held him much of the day, I opted to lie down on the bed on my back with his body splayed out on top of mine. He was quite sleepy having declined his afternoon nap today, and so he lay warm and still over my heart. Today was Aaron’s first birthday, and I had tears in my eyes as I marveled that one year ago we lay together in such a similar embrace: our first. He was so fragile then, so small and new. Tonight he could not fit on my chest; his long arms and legs hanging off the edges of me.

We had Aaron very soon after having Mercy, sooner than any sane person would recommend, and there was something about that I think that caused me to take the miracle of him for granted: the miracle of a little life that grew into a person inside of me; and the miracle of that life finding its way out! We have good friends who recently gave birth to a beautiful baby boy who was born with severe heart defects. I have hovered in prayer for them, and have rejoiced in his healing and recent homecoming. He was a good reminder for me that nothing about having children should ever be taken for granted: conception, gestation, delivery, and those early days of their life outside the womb. And, in fact, every day after that.

Lying tonight with my baby boy, my little man who has already seemed to abandon his infancy too quickly, I cherished the miracle.

So I was reminded by our coastal drive yesterday that Scot McKnight had mentioned on his blog that he would be giving a lecture at Pepperdine which is located just north of us in Malibu. After a bit of investigating, it looks like it will be possible for me to go and hear him speak, something I have looked forward to having the opportunity to do for some time. Though Scot and I intersected briefly in our years at North Park, I never had the opportunity to have him as a teacher. So I have appreciated him from a distance via his blog and of course through his books.

One thing I always really loved about living in Chicago was that I had so many opportunities to hear many great people speak in various venues there. It seemed like EVERYONE came through Chicago, and I was quick to take advantage of as many authors and theologians and poets as I could. Of course, being a student at Fuller has afforded me some great opportunities to hear some really great folks, but since living here I have missed enjoying a range of lectures on a more regular basis. Perhaps that says much more about my life stage than it does about the city of L.A. That said, I am looking forward to a little evening away tomorrow, and a chance to hear some good words from a great scholar.

After yet another trip to urgent care today with one of our children, we ended up taking a little coastal detour and enjoying a beautiful drive on the PCH. THe kids had both fallen asleep after leaving the doctor’s office, so rather than risk short-circuiting their naps by trying to transfer them, we decided to make the most of a little quiet time in the car. January really is the most beautiful month here in Southern California: something about the sun and light is just different, and the scenery tends to be quite beautiful. So we were happy to take some time and appreciate the sun and waves.

As we cruised north of Santa Monica and into Malibu, we both had to comment about all of the luxury vehicles that surrounded us. We were both struck by the sheer glamour of what people here drive, and how really expensive cars are the norm for so very many people. After passing the sixth Bentley, we stopped even commenting to each other.

I do not have a mind that wraps very well around economic theories. And I am certain that the things I long for in terms of some semblance of economic justice in our world simply will never occur this side of a new earth. But it does not stop me from longing, or from being flabberghasted at the absurdity of some things. Like Bentleys.

What should we get out of worship? Wrong question. Worship is not a utility but an offering, i.e. a sacrifice, an economy of grace that interrupts and critiques the feverish cycles of production and consumption – which is why the collection is not fund-raising but cultural critique. If you want relevance, excitement, or profit, go to a rally, a concert, or the stock exchange. To put it most counter-culturally: Blessed are the bored, for they will see God.

From Kim Fabricious via J.R. Woodward

and…

It is our desire not to merely have a church service, but to create an experience through song, video, messages, and any other tools the Holy Spirit might place in front of us. Sure, we’ve been accused of entertaining people, but I would much rather entertain people than bore them. Jesus didn’t mind creating experiences, and His church shouldn’t either.

We are serious about making Jesus’ name famous, and that just can’t happen when church is boring. I believe a boring church is a sin! So, we are going to always do all we can to make sure that when a person attends our church on Sunday that it is one of the best hours of their week. I believe people should look forward more to church than 24, Lost, or American Idol.

From Perry Noble at Out of Ur

Last night I left Doug in charge of bath and bed, and I hurried off to the post office to pick up our held mail, and to Ralph’s to buy soy milk. As I stood in line at the post office, I marveled at how there could be so many employees present in the service windows while only one employee was regularly inviting customers to come forward. One of them was taking down Christmas decorations while talking to another who did not appear to be doing anything. Maybe they were off the clock; maybe they really were engaged with important tasks. All I knew was that for the long line of us waiting and not moving, it was frustrating.

Yesterday I received an email update from friends of ours who serve with Samaritan’s Purse in Mozambique. I was struck by their description of the ways their life, the things they expect, need, and require, have changed because of where they live. They write:

After more than a year of living here, we realize that the annoyances we felt when we first moved here are now part of the daily adventure and joy of living in Africa. For example, it’s frustrating how complicated it can be to do everyday things such as buying the groceries you need, making sure there’s electricity in your house, and checking your email. The great things about these “inconveniences” though, is that you get to meet and talk to a whole lot of people in the course of everyday life. We don’t just talk to faceless phone operators or go online to fix problems. We now have personal relationships with the computer guy, the person who sells bread at the supermarket, our plumber, the kid who sells oranges on the corner, and so many others. What we lose in time and efficiency, we have easily gained many times over in relationships and friendships.

There are any number of things that make life in my neighborhood frustrating. They range from inconveniences to outright injustices, and I cope with them better on some days than on others. Consistently opening up food from our grocery store that is rotten drives me crazy. The fact that grocery chains can so obviously send items past their expiration dates to urban stores that serve the poor is absolutely infuriating.

Coming off of six weeks in places like Portland and Seattle, the contrast in the level of service and accommodation and convenience I can expect here is dramatic. My friends’ email from Mozambique was a good and necessary reminder of what my options are for how I deal with this. First, I am certain that what I face is utterly negligible in the inconvenience category compared with my sisters and brothers in most of the world. I can’t really put inefficiency at the Dockweiler post office alongside running water or electricity when talking about hardships. And that compels me to remember how skewed our North American perspective can really be, and repent for what that reveals about me.

And second, I am humbled by my friends’ clear demonstration of what it looks like to move in this world as people who recognize their abundance; as people eager to engage people as people, and not means to whatever self-satisfying end; as people more concerned with being Christ’s hands and feet than their internet connection speed or plumbing.

God bless you, Joseph and Joanna!

I am struggling right now with the wave of suffering that has struck our families recently. I am struggling with my role, once again, as a long-distance family member. I am struggling with reconciling Jesus’ words about who we are and how we are to be as family to one another and my own emotional pull and longing for proximity to those I love and care for that I happen to be related to. It is not any lack of desire to be family to people here: people in my church and people on my street. It is just a very deep and real desire to be a daily, consistent, present person to those we have left behind.

Our first day back, we got a call from our good friends who live around the corner from us. They invited us over for cupcakes and trampoline jumping (much to Mercy’s complete delight), and as we walked to the corner we were both caught off guard by the appearance of our street. Directly north of our house, Kenwood looked completely different than it did when we left and it took us a second to figure out what was so strange. The street looked plucked; bare. And we realized that a series of trees had been removed and others had been thinned and topped. The overall effect is that our street that was once almost completely canopied is now exposed.

When L.A. hosted the Olympics years ago, our neighborhood received some hasty beautification measures due to our proximity to the events. A series of large, leafy trees were planted to line our street, and I am certain that they indeed had a transforming effect on its appearance. A side effect that was either unforeseen or disregarded, however, was that the root systems of these trees were stronger than our sidewalks, and it was simply a matter of time before the roots erupted, causing giant fissures in the cement. The end result is that if I wish to walk my children to the park in a stroller, I am forced to use the middle of the street since it is impossible to steer a stroller over the giant cracks. I am sure that these “mountains” as Mercy and I call them provide great fun for kids on bikes, however they make our street prohibitive to anyone in a wheelchair, and they force moms like me to risk sharing the road with the cars that race recklessly down our street to avoid the traffic on Normandie.

Kenwood has also always been the darkest street in the neighborhood, and the heavy foliage cover has certainly contributed to this. I have seen the city come and trim the trees once in the four years I have lived here, and that was a few months ago.

All this to say, I should be grateful that a problem in our community is finally being addressed. And I am. But my immediate reaction was to how ugly the street is now without the color and texture given to it by those trees. It is interesting how we sometimes get the thing we long for, the thing that is good for us, and then we end up wishing we still had the thing that caused all the problems in the first place.