The Margins

I spent Sunday’s worship service helping out in the nursery. At one point, we headed outside to let the kids play on the playground and I stayed in the covered area with Elijah. It was an unusual worship service that focused on prayer, and a few youth had opted to hang out in the back with their skateboards instead of participating. I was sitting there with my baby when I saw a group of three youth come around from the other side of the building carrying skateboards and I realized that they must be in the practice of hopping the fence to skate behind the school.

We didn’t talk much. I mostly enjoyed watching them practice different jumps, and our two boys joined in with what they were doing. The whole skateboarding culture here still cracks me up. It brings back too many of my own memories of junior high.

As I watched them skate, I thought about our friends who joined our church family as a result of meeting us in the park where we met and they slept. Warm coffee and good food shared opened the door to meaningful relationships: with us and with Jesus. I was bummed when I saw that we didn’t have any food this week after the service because I wanted to invite these boys in for something to eat.

There is something good about being a sojourning church. There is something Acts-like in moving about, colliding with people in their everyday pursuits. Mark Galli wrote an interesting post on the importance of a building from his Anglican perspective. He writes:

Every Anglican parish is an icon of Israel, a people with a unique call from God to not wander but to settle down, not to live in exile in strange places, but to gather together on a certain piece of land where Jesus will take on flesh and dwell among them, a place that will become holy.

When I consider Church of the Redeemer, and the community that makes us, it makes sense that we wander: that our “space” speaks of what it means to be aliens; that we sit outside a land of milk and honey and still we choose to worship.

This past week, Doug wrote a guest post here that received extensive comments resulting in a quality dialogue about the identity of the church. I thought I would post a few excerpts here:

I think the concept of outreach versus inreach itself strikes a dissonant chord in me. When I read through the gospels, I find no striking characteristics that necessarily made someone in or out. There are those who are in, who are also out (Judas) and those considered most definitely out, who are ultimately elevated to kin-relationship with Jesus (woman with hemorrhage). Yet even those who are healed and want to follow him are not always given “disciple” status. Troubling!

Before you became a monk/nun you participated alongside the brothers/sisters in their work. Even those who didn’t intend to join were still welcome to participate. Some things were explained outright, other things were left for later explanation when they would actually make sense. Our consumerist mentality demands getting things right now and lacks patience in learning - thus it challenges this type of learning and undercuts any type of successful mentoring. Recently I read that those working toward baptism into the faith community in the first couple centuries had a three year process. For one year they studied Mark - nothing else. For the next year they studied Matthew - nothing else. For a third year they studied Luke/Acts - nothing else. And at the conclusion of that year they were offered (or not offered, mind you) baptism into the community. Then, only after baptism, they were given the gospel of John.

I think the way outreach is conducted is crucial. Without a clear ‘mentoring’ and ‘discipling’ focus that makes use of vigorous outreach as the crucible for growth right from day one, I think ‘delivery systems’ do little to help people mature.

Seems like Jesus developed the disciples ‘on the fly’ and ‘in the midst of mission’ because He used their experiences together in mission as an opportunity to intentionally teach and develop folks.

I think the primary goal should always be out, not in. If the purpose of outreach is ultimately to get people in, then we still have the wrong focus. It is the very fact that we don’t see our purpose as going out that those who are “with us” never become devoted apprentices.

Outreach isn’t just for those who are especially gifted in evangelism. Unless we see our primary identity as disciples sent into the world, we will never reach some imaginary moment of maturity and enlightenment wherein we will be compelled out to the world.

The focus of discipleship is going out, not plugging in.

Check out the entire conversation here.

We were somewhere recently when I had Elijah with me and I was trying to keep him happy and had given him his pacifier which is normally reserved for naps and bedtime. He kept taking it out of his mouth and playing with it, so I decided to try giving him some Cheerios instead. As I laid the Cheerios out in front of him, he immediately put the pacifier back in his mouth and proceeded to pick the Cheerios up in his chubby little fingers and try to put them into his mouth. I laughed at him and told him that he was going to have a hard time eating any as long as the pacifier was blocking the way.

I thought about the many things in my life that deliver an instant gratification that I choose over a harder but ultimately more satisfying pursuit. And I reflected on how the foolishness of what Elijah was doing was so visible: laughable, even. Yet if we are honest, that is exactly how we behave. Too much of the gospel is simply incompatible with the pursuits of the world, yet how many times do we choose allegiance to some pleasure or comfort or cultural norm over commands that are not hidden or far off or incomprehensible but simply unpopular or hard? What we choose can feel good and even satisfy for a season, but ultimately our body will perish if that is all we give it. Yes, the world is there for us to gain in every way, but the cost can be the only thing we have that truly lives.

As a preacher, I take seriously the role of proclamation in the life of the church. And as I stand in front of a gathered body, hopefully declaring what is true about God, I wonder at the ways we are individually and collectively sucking on pacifiers that block us from really ingesting God’s word. We all hear often enough the increasingly popular critique that “I just wasn’t being fed” as the reason for individuals swapping one church family for another. Could it be that some folks can’t taste the food because of the big rubber stopper that they refuse to spit out?

Lest that sound too critical, I believe that there is ample evidence as well for churches and preachers offering brightly colored, sweet-flavored soothers in place of the real flesh and blood food of the gospel. The critique absolutely goes both ways.

“I am the bread of life,” declares Jesus, and all are invited to come and eat. The table is set and the host delights in his company. But if we come to this table, it does not suffice to simply pick up the food and try to shove it in on top of something else. Whatever we have been sucking on to satisfy our heart’s longings must first be spit out if we want to receive this food. My own list is long of what these things are in my life. But that image of my son and the futility of what he was doing pushes me to pray.

My friend Tyler linked to this amusing piece for a Friday morning titled: Ten Reasons Why Men Should Not Be Ordained For Ministry

10. A man’s place is in the army.
9. The pastoral duties of men who have children might distract them from the responsibility of being a parent.
8. The physique of men indicates that they are more suited to such tasks as chopping down trees and wrestling mountain lions. It would be “unnatural” for them to do ministerial tasks.
7. Man was created before woman, obviously as a prototype. Thus, they represent an experiment rather than the crowning achievement of creation.
6. Men are too emotional to be priests or pastors. Their conduct at football and basketball games demonstrates this.
5. Some men are handsome, and this will distract women worshipers.
4. Pastors need to nurture their congregations. But this is not a traditional male role. Throughout history, women have been recognized as not only more skilled than men at nurturing, but also more fervently attracted to it. This makes them the obvious choice for ordination.
3. Men are prone to violence. No really masculine man wants to settle disputes except by fighting about them. Thus they would be poor role models as well as dangerously unstable in positions of leadership.
2. The New Testament tells us that Jesus was betrayed by a man. His lack of faith and ensuing punishment remind us of the subordinated position that all men should take.
1. Men can still be involved in church activities, even without being ordained. They can sweep sidewalks, repair the church roof, and perhaps even lead the song service on Father’s Day. By confining themselves to such traditional male roles, they can still be vitally important in the life of the church.

The other night I went to take the trash out down the two flights of stairs behind our house to the big cans out back. The kitchen trash was very full: it should have been taken out days earlier and I could barely lift the plastic handled bag out from the trash can. As I managed awkwardly through our back porch and out the back door, I realized that the handles were stretching out so much that I was afraid the whole thing was going to pull apart.

By the time I was half-way down the first set of stairs, the handles had pulled to the point where the bag was now dragging, or bumping actually, down each stair. I had the thought that maybe this was not a good idea, but honestly in the moment I could see no other way of getting the bag to the bottom.

As I reached the last stair, directly in front of Paul’s back door, I suddenly felt the bag become strangely light. And it was then that I realized it had split on the bottom and the contents of my trash were now pouring out onto the stairs and the landing where I stood. It was totally dark outside and the sensor light had not yet been tripped, so while I could not see the mess I knew instantly that it was substantial. I am pretty sure I uttered something I would not say in front of my children.

I walked far enough down for the light to come on and then turned to address my mess. What I realized was that, while the bag was indeed overfilled, that had not actually been the problem. The issue was the broken plate that had been sitting at the bottom of the trash. Heavy and sharp, the plate had easily sliced through the already straining plastic.

As I scooped up egg shells, coffee grounds, and lots of mushy stuff I could not identify, I thought about my life. I usually think that I know what is hard about what it is I am carrying or trying to do, but it is actually quite common that there is some unknown threat, some piece of brokenness that really has the potential to create a huge mess. Relationships are certainly like this. How many times have I been surprised to find out that in the midst of the messiness of human relationships, there is a big jagged piece of something that I did not know was there doing some pretty heavy damage.

I remember in seminary we talked about the “unspoken narratives” that can exist in a congregation: stories from the past that, while they may not even be known by subsequent generations, continue to dictate what happens. These are a bit like my broken plate: hidden, heavy, powerful.

I eventually got all the trash into the trash can, and made my way in the dark to get the hose. I dragged it over to the stairs and sprayed down each stair and the landing. The whole ordeal was exhausting (it was late), and scary (I don’t like being out back when it is dark–especially with the recent driveway rapes and of course the gunman trying to evade the cops). Which is what it can be like to deal with unspoken narratives, be they in the church, in families, or in relationships.

But I can say that those back stairs are now cleaner than ever.

On Saturday, we drove down to the Long Beach Aquarium to meet up with our good friends, Steven and Jennifer and their little baby Evan. Our kids love the aquarium, and we have been members since we had Mercy.

The day was a little bit crazy. Between all of the feedings and changings and trips to the potty and time on the little playground, Jennifer summed it up well when she asked: “Did anyone see any fish?”

I confess that that is often how life feels now. For all the effort it takes to mobilize my little crew, the actual events or destinations themselves are often overshadowed by the journey. This can be exhausting and even disheartening and I am learning to accept a very different set of “results” as my definition of success.

Like the other day: it took me over an hour to get my kids changed and pottied and shod and ready to hop into the van to drive up to Pasadena to see their Dad. By the time we got to Fuller, an hour after I had planned to arrive, Doug had to run off to a meeting with our pastor. We said hello, the kids ran outside for maybe three minutes and got hugs from their pastor, we gave Daddy his cupcake and then turned around to drive back home.

Relationships are often like this too, I think. I have spent time around people for whom friendships are always productive: time spent with people is about accomplishing some set purpose. Doug and I swing to the other side a bit when it comes to relating to people: the thing that touches us the most is when people enter our little world and make themselves at home in the chaos. We rarely “entertain”, but we delight in sharing our life, with all of its rough edges, with people willing to just come and be.

When Doug was on jury duty a couple of weeks ago, we invited people over every night for dinner (because he was able to get home early because of jury duty). It was funny to see some people hesitate over the invite, thinking that to accept would mean saying yes to a long evening with us or to some set of expectations that we held about the evening. “No, really, you can just come and eat with us and leave!” we ended up saying to a few. There were those that stayed for hours, those who left soon after eating and others who came late and sat and ate on the living room floor long after the rest of us had finished. And we enjoyed each and every one.

My close relationships right now are with those people willing to lower their expectations of what will be “accomplished” when we spend time together. But the barrier I erected in my relationship with God when I felt like my chaos was not an acceptable companion to our relationship reveals my own tendency to value myself in terms of what I can produce or give. It is funny how we can hold very different expectations for ourselves…

Driving all the way to Long Beach; shelling out a bunch of cash for admission; it is natural that we expected to see some fish. But the bottom line is that we were together and maybe the things we gained were different from what we had expected but good nonetheless. And whether I go to church longing to have some spiritual hunger met and end up instead playing with toddlers, I am trying to learn to release expectations and accept what I am given. No, not just accept but appreciate and enjoy.

I missed our block club meeting on Monday night, so when I saw Lauren the next day I asked her what had been discussed. She gave me the update on police activity over the past few weeks, and it turns out that they did finally catch the two guys who were raping and robbing women on our street. While I felt this huge sense of relief hearing the news, it was also devastating to learn that it was a pair of kids, sixteen-year-old gang members, targeting the moms and grandmas of our neighborhood. My stomach still feels sick over this.

She also shared that there had been a pretty major bust within one of the local gangs with something like twelve or eighteen arrests. That would explain the flurry of police activity we have been seeing during the recent weeks. “Things should be quiet now…at least for a while,” was the word from our Lead Officer. As I write this, a helicopter circles overhead.

And so it goes.

I remember it was Easter Sunday our first year living here when we experienced our first homicide on our street. I remember standing on our front porch watching while the area was taped off and and the LAPD worked the scene. I remember watching the coroner’s van arrive to take away the body of the man who had been shot and killed while sitting in his car. I remember what a sober ending it was to our day of celebration.

It has been a tense week here in the neighborhood. The graffiti is shouting war right now, and the heavy presence of police helicopters, sirens, and occasional gunfire confirm it. Early in the week Doug was working hard on a final project for his class at Fuller, and as he sat typing, we watched and listened while a helicopter painted an area a few blocks from us for close to two hours, and every manner of law enforcement vehicle, some we had never seen before, flew down Jefferson with lights and sirens blazing. “We have the area surrounded” a voice declared over a loudspeaker about an hour into the ordeal.

We had the joy of spending the day today with a very dear friend of mine from Chicago. Annabeth was a young girl who lived a few blocks from North Park’s campus and who became like a sister to me during my years there. She witnessed much during her childhood, and we were companions through the loss of one of her best friends, a young man I loved dearly, who was murdered: shot at close range while sitting in his parked car.

Tonight Annabeth and I shared memories of Jamar, and talked about even recently ways that we have grieved his death. Mine was catching a brief movie clip last week on Oprah of a funeral procession winding through a manicured cemetery: alone, I started to weep uncontrollably. For me, it was our arrival at the cemetery to bury Jamar’s body that had pierced me with the finality of his death. After the burial, I remember standing in a sea of an almost surreal green, being held up by Jamar’s best friend and crying louder than I knew was possible. I remember wondering if I would ever catch my breath.

This morning Doug offered an invocation where he shared a story about Aaron. This past week, Aaron was sitting at the dining room table when out of the blue he declared: “I love God…God is a train.” Doug shared how, for Aaron, he wasn’t as much describing God’s being as he was ascribing worth and delight. For Aaron, a train is the most majestic thing he knows. Doug commented that Aaron was doing what we all do when we seek to describe what God is through our always limited understanding.

And then Doug told the story of Mercy accidentally painting a cross on her paper this week, and how horrified she was when I pointed it out. And he contrasted Aaron’s desire to ascribe to God that thing of greatest value and glory that our imaginations can muster with the thing that God chose to ascribe to himself: the cross…something which makes us recoil in disgust.

Tonight I find myself considering the darkness around me, past and present, and desperately clinging to that crucified God. Tonight I find myself longing to touch the hem of that kind of love. Tonight I find my spirit remembering words sung with awe this morning:

Of all the songs sung from the dawn of creation
Some were meant to persist
Of all the bells rung from a thousand steeples
None rings truer than this…

It’s all God’s children singin’
Glory, glory, hallelujah,
He reigns…
He reigns.

And all the powers of darkness
Tremble at what they’ve just heard
Cause all the powers of darkness
Can’t drown out a single word.

Yesterday good friends of ours were married in a lovely ceremony in Pasadena. They asked Mercy to be one of their flower girls, and she performed her task beautifully. She didn’t make it very long up front, though. She and the other little flower girl were supposed to stand up with the bridesmaids until Daddy started the worship time, but a few minutes into the ceremony I caught her mouthing something to me where I sat in the second row. I motioned for her to stay where she was, which led her to annunciate with a bit more urgency: “Mom. I. Have. To. Go. Pee.”

I jumped up and made my way to the end of the aisle where she was already waiting, and with Elijah hanging on one side of me and my little poofy-dressed girl on the other, we hurried out of the sanctuary. We spent the rest of the ceremony hanging out in the back of the sanctuary in the largest kid-section I have ever seen in a wedding. There were a ton of infants and toddlers, and Mercy happily gave all the little girls turns with her flower girl basket and petals.

The day of the wedding, Mercy awoke with much excitement and anticipation for the day’s events. And one of the ways she expressed that was by setting up the wedding using some car tracks for the aisle and her princess figurines to represent the various members of the wedding party.

Mercy is the little Sleeping Beauty figurine standing up front with Snow White, the other little flower girl: I am the big Sleeping Beauty figurine, sitting in the pew. Her cousin, Jordan, is the little Cinderella with the other ring-bearer, Ariel.

I think my favorite were her choices for Pastor Kevin and the bride and groom:

When talking with various people about our church, our conviction regarding being a “parish” church is often the greatest stumbling block for folks. Especially here in the land of car and commute, making claims on where one lives and how that relates to where one worships can seem offensive to many.

This past week I repeatedly saw a man lingering on and around my neighbor’s property across the street. At different times in past weeks I have seen the same man on the porch trying the door handles of the four apartment entrances; another time he was crouched behind a pillar on the same porch looking through papers; still another time, he was down the driveway checking out the latch on the fence that protects the cars and toys kept in the back and looking around. I have called dispatch twice. Both times, he wasn’t doing enough to warrant a patrol car being sent out. Two apartments in this building are occupied by members of our church; the other two by good friends.

The other night I had fed my kids and we were beginning our evening clean-up in the living room when I caught a glimpse of him again. This time he was on the non-driveway side of the building looking up into the living room window of one of the first floor apartments where two single women in our church live. I grabbed my phone immediately and dialed 911. I probably would have just called dispatch but I could not find my cell phone and that is where I have that number stored. The 911 operator said that they would send someone over immediately after I described what I was seeing, as well as the pattern of this man’s behavior on the property. It was a few minutes before six o’clock, and I knew that our dear friend who lives in that apartment would be coming home from work (on foot) any minute. I also knew that her roommate had just left for a trip to Hawaii and that our friend would be coming home to an empty apartment.

I could not call my friend who at that moment could have been on her way home to what may have been a dangerous situation. She is from Texas and has kept her cell phone number from home and because I did not have my cell (and since we don’t have long distance on our land line), I knew I would be unable to reach her. So I called Doug at work and told him to call her immediately. After hanging up with him, I called my sister who lives a few blocks away and asked her to give me the phone number for the tutoring center where our friend works. I got the number, called, but no one answered, so I was left hoping that Doug had reached her.

This friend does not have a car, so I called my sister back and asked her to call our other friend who lives across the street to see if he could drive down to the tutoring center and pick her up so that she would not have to walk home (she does not have a car). Again, his number is a long distance call and I both did not have the number (in the missing cell with the rest) nor the capacity to call it. So, while still wondering if Doug had reached Lauren or if Anna had managed to get a hold of Elliot, I saw my sister’s husband arrive across the street. He had Lauren in his car and was dropping her off. Elliot was on the front porch waiting for her. By this time the police had already arrived and were driving around looking for the guy who had since left the property.

Later that night I was struck by how crucial our physical proximity to one another is (I was also struck by how utterly dependent I am upon my cell phone), and what an incredible difference it makes to me to have neighbors and friends who are a phone call, a house, or a block away. I think I forget how remarkable it is to have a life where the members of your faith community all live on the handful of streets that surround you. It really is an amazing way to approach a corporate life and witness together.

Oh, and the police did catch up with the guy. He gave them some story about how he had had a fight with his girlfriend and was there at the apartment looking for his friend. Right. The story makes no sense, and I had to laugh a bit when I heard this as it is honestly the “dog ate my homework” answer guys give on the street. I can think of two or three times at our block club meetings where our Senior Lead Officer has followed up on some criminal behavior we have reported only to come back to our meeting with the explanation that “the guy had a fight with his girlfriend and blah blah blah…” Apparently it is an answer that the cops willingly accept.