The Margins

I took a great course at Fuller Seminary that explored the significance of the cross in the New Testament. In one of the final lectures for the course, our professor summed up how she has come to understand the death of Jesus: “The crucifixion was the consequence of the incarnation.”

If there is one element of “the missional church” or “missional theology” as I understand it that at once compels and terrifies me, it is the invitation to live an incarnational life. Philippians two tells me that my “attitude should be the same as that of Christ Jesus” and then it describes the most terrifying emptying of all power, privilege and self-preservation imaginable. An emptying that leads to death, and not just any kind of death but one so humiliating and horrific that it would not have been discussed in polite company.

I think if there were one thing I would want us to remember today as we consider all things missional, it would be that as we talk about incarnational living and incarnational ministries and being incarnational wherever we live, we are talking about a way of life that leads to the cross. It did for Jesus, and if I read Philippians correctly, it should for us as well.

My church here in Los Angeles began with the calling of four people who moved to the end of the street where we now live seeking an answer to this question: “Do you love your neighbor as yourself?” And when I think of the stories that have filled sixteen years of following Jesus here, it is remarkable to see how very consistently our community has been called to die. And not in the “Oh, there will be some suffering from time to time” kind of way but in the day to day, hour by hour choosing of other over self.

There is a fondness in missional circles for speaking of how Jesus came and dwelt among us and how we too are called to “come and dwell”; to incarnate in our communities; to “move into the neighborhood” so to speak. Coming from a church context where all members live within two miles of one another and most within walking distance, I can testify to the ways that committing to dwell in a place powerfully impacts witness, community transformation, and discipleship.

The commitment to making one’s family of faith something that does not involve a commute is radical and offensive to many, yet it is truly the thing we appreciate most about our church. It is also the thing that, in so many ways, continues to press for us the death of self-love. When your parish is blocks and streets and not a given social or ethnic or age demographic, the mission field surely holds a hefty does of the people you would not readily choose to invite to your table. As my denomination’s president once so aptly put in response to a well-known church-growth expert saying that pastors should build their congregations out of people who they would most enjoy spending a vacation with or playing some leisure sport: “Who wants to play tennis with Lazarus?”

I think too of my church in Portland where a black pastor had every reason to plant a black church in (at the time) a mostly black part of town. But he kept bumping into white folks who lived in the stately homes the next community over, and God nudged this minister toward recognizing a call to be their pastor as well. Everyone encouraged him against planting a multi-cultural church: it will be slow to grow; the white people will try to take over; there will be too many conflicts. But Pastor Henry was faithful to God’s invitation to embrace a community over a demographic and so our church was born. And that was a choice that resulted in all manner of struggle and sacrifice that he could have politely declined and been affirmed for his “church-planting wisdom.” But he chose to suit up and hit some balls with Lazarus instead.

The consequence of the incarnation is the crucifixion.

A few months ago, my three-year old daughter was painting and as I walked by her easel I exclaimed happily: “Mercy, you painted a cross!” She stepped back from her paper in horror, and looked at me with confusion and even fear. For her, the cross is something terrifying; gruesome. And here I was praising her like she had painted a pretty rainbow or a happy butterfly. Mercy understands the scandal of Jesus’ death, and I hope that those of us seeking to imitate an incarnate God really understand that that means following a crucified One.

Listed below are the forty-nine other bloggers participating in today’s global synchroblog answering the question: “What is Missional?”
Alan Hirsch
Alan Knox
Andrew Jones
Barb Peters
Bill Kinnon
Brad Brisco
Brad Grinnen
Brad Sargent
Brother Maynard
Bryan Riley
Chad Brooks
Chris Wignall
Cobus Van Wyngaard
Dave DeVries
David Best
David Fitch
David Wierzbicki
DoSi
Doug Jones
Duncan McFadzean
Grace
Jamie Arpin-Ricci
Jeff McQuilkin
John Smulo
Jonathan Brink
JR Rozko
Kathy Escobar
Len Hjalmarson
Makeesha Fisher
Malcolm Lanham
Mark Berry
Mark Petersen
Mark Priddy
Michael Crane
Michael Stewart
Nick Loyd
Patrick Oden
Peggy Brown
Phil Wyman
Richard Pool
Rick Meigs
Rob Robinson
Ron Cole
Scott Marshall
Sonja Andrews
Stephen Shields
Steve Hayes
Tim Thompson
Thom Turner

Today my kids ate PB&J’s on cheap, nutrition-less white bread for the first time ever.

We had run out of bread and I was watching my friend’s daughter for the day so I called Lauren and asked if she could help me out with some bread. She brought over her loaf of white “Bimbo” brand bread, purchased at the little corner market at the end of our street, and we laughed because she knows that the kids always eat some kind of whole grain bread (since she makes their sandwiches as often as I do!). “They’ll love it!” I told her.

All three kids devoured their sandwich, crust and all. And demanded more. All three ate a second sandwich. I was laughing realizing how exotic cheap white bread was to my children. I wonder what would happen if they got bologna!

I recently came across the work of a man named Gerry Straub, a former Hollywood producer who, following a conversion experience in Rome, has devoted his time and his treasure to “put the power of film at the service of the poor.”

Having exhausted his personal savings, he writes this about how he finances his film projects:

“In an odd way, I learned how to finance my films at the St. Francis Inn. There’s a friar there named Brother Xavier. He is a simple man, of Hispanic background, and all the street people love him. One day, he was cooking dinner. A volunteer entered the kitchen and asked, “What are you making, Brother Xavier?”

I make my films the way Brother Xavier makes potato soup…by trusting God will supply what I need.”

Thirteen people were murdered this weekend in Los Angeles (the L.A. Times offers details on eleven of the slayings).

We have all noticed an increase in activity lately in our neighborhood: sirens, screaming, the pounding of helicopters that hardly ceases…”Do you know what was going on last night?” is a common question between neighbors.

Meanwhile life goes on and days are spent chasing marbles up and down our driveway, starting swimming lessons, going to birthday parties with neighbors, and welcoming new babies into our church family.

But thirteen people were murdered this weekend.

Ed Gilbreath writes an excellent blog, and his post today includes a collection of interesting links I would recommend. One is to an article discussing the gentrification that is happening in my old neighborhood in Portland. Our recent visits to our old neighborhood and church have surprised me by how very much the neighborhood there has changed since we left in 2002.

I realize that the same is true for my old neighborhood in Chicago, and it makes me wonder what the future holds for our little corner of South Central. Already there is a substantial population of “gentrifiers”, and that trend is on the rise both here and in urban centers throughout the nation. Bob Lupton, who has inspired many in our community through his years of ministry in Atlanta, speaks of “reweaving the fabric” of frayed communities by bringing people of resources (read money, education, and power) back into under-resourced communities. In this article, Lupton shares about being confronted with his own identity as a “gentrifier”.

But during prayer and sharing times at our neighborhood church we began to hear prayer requests for housing needs. “Please pray for us – our rents have just doubled.” “Please pray for us – we’ve just gotten an eviction notice.” It wasn’t until Opal, a church member who lived within sight of the church, came in weeping one morning that I first made a disturbing connection. She had just received an eviction notice from the home she had lived in for many years – the city told the landlord to fix it up or board it up and he had decided to board it up until property values made it attractive to sell. For the first time it dawned on me that as my property value was nicely increasing, so was the value of the surrounding affordable homes. As my wealth was accumulating, Opal’s poverty was deepening. It was my investment that was the catalyst for her displacement. I could no longer sit in the circle and pray with integrity. I was the problem!

Driving in Pasadena this morning, I pulled up next to an enormous, shiny black luxury SUV with rims that probably cost double what my car is worth. Living in L.A. for almost six years now, I am so accustomed to car-bling that the vehicle itself was not enough to grab my attention. However, the Fuller Seminary parking sticker on the back was. Remarkable.

And coming home, as I neared my off-ramp on the 10, I swapped lanes with a shiny black Mercedes sporting a custom license plate that read: “DVA4GOD”. Really.

When did luxury cars with ridiculous rims and self-proclaimed “diva”-hood become even remotely compatible with Christ crucified?

When I left my house this morning I realized that my car was on empty so I swung into our neighborhood gas station to fill up. As I was leaving, I saw our friend David approaching and he was not looking very good. I stopped my car and rolled down the window and we talked for a bit. I gave him eleven dollars (what I had in my purse), and I knew that that equivalent of a morning Starbucks run for two would totally change his day.

I like to listen to the old-school mix on the local hip-hop station if I happen to be in the car mid-day. One of the songs played today used the phrase “Viewer discretion advised” in the context of speaking it’s message about life in the hood. Those words kept ringing in my ears as I thought about what it means to live as a disciple of Jesus in our cultural context. Honestly, and I know I do this too, it is just so easy to censor what we don’t want to see or admit or acknowledge around us, especially when doing so would demand a response. And so we create our own safe little play-lists that enable us to pursue “the American dream with a Jesus overlay” (can’t remember where I first heard that phrase) and simply tune out the Davids in our midst.

Doug read to me some staggering statistics the other day about the number of hours and images a typical person receives from the media in a week, and clearly the message spoken through television, movies, advertisements and the like is compelling, perhaps more so than the narrative of God With Us. Which is why we barely turn our heads at the Escalades and status symbols of the week that find their way into the lives and witness of the people of God and make for themselves a comfortable home. And so Lazarus sits, hungry, while we live in excess, and I wonder at the extent of reversal we can anticipate at the end of this life.

My friend, Jamie, tagged me with a meme he is starting. Reflecting on a quote from St. Francis he writes:

“The life of the Christian should be burning with such a light of holiness that by their very example and conduct, their life will be a rebuke to the wicked.” (St. Francis)

In an era where Christians are largely known for the sin they oppose, this wisdom could not be more timely. Francis calls us to face the compromises of our culture by becoming living alternatives with how we live.

In light of that, here is the question he is asking:

1. Consider aspects of our culture where we have too easily compromised, issues that you passionately oppose.

2. Then, ask yourself what it would mean for you, both as and individual and as a part of a community, to be a living alternative. Write about it.

3. Link back here to this post.

4. Tag others to participate.

I’m going with my first reaction to his question, and that is holding tightly to money and possessions: hoarding rather than holding loosely. While I could certainly write a long answer describing all the ways I have hoarded rather than given, I do have a few testimonies I can share. Alternatives to hoarding in my community have looked like this:

Not purchasing/owning a washer and drier and instead using a neighbor’s machine across the street.

Giving cars away (when our pastor joined our community, a couple gave them their second car and just this week, our friends gave their really nice Honda to my sister and her family).

Receiving inheritance money and giving a substantial portion of it away rather than stockpiling it.

Owning one pair of shoes that you wear every day.

Paying someone’s hospital bill outright rather than loaning the money.

Giving away thousands of dollars a year in rental assistance to a family struggling to get out of debt.

Buying a bunch of stuff at Costco for a friend repeatedly and refusing reimbursement because that friend’s finances are really tight.

Giving a large cash gift to help a growing family buy a van.

Offering to pay for some expensive self-defense classes for someone struggling with fear following a physical attack.

Sending monthly grocery gift cards to a single-mom with five children.

Choosing to give away the majority of your income to further the work of the church among the urban poor.

Buying Doug a new, really nice guitar when his strings were breaking weekly and it was held together with rope.

Living way beneath your means to free up money to give away.

Well, I could surely go on but that is a fine start. Thanks, Jamie. It was a blessing for me to rehearse these testimonies of generosity and sacrifice.

“Do not store up for yourselves treasures on earth, where moth and rust destroy and where thieves break in and steal…You cannot serve both God and money.”

Oops! I forgot the tagging part:

Jim

Eugene

Sonja

I read something today on my denomination’s website that moved me.

While I have been concerned by the ways short-term international trips have largely replaced local ministry involvement at my alma mater in terms of student enthusiasm and commitment (After Hours, the local outreach I founded at NPU was recently closed down due to a lack of institutional support), I was grateful for this very real and raw reflection written by a NPU student who visited Zambia.

I too was a young person whose life was changed by the red soil of Africa, and I remember that feeling of coming home to a world and culture and church that no longer made sense.

Thanks, Matt, for this piece. Godspeed on your cross-country bike trip!

Last Thursday, one of our very close friends here was robbed on the street. She has a baby the same age as Elijah and she was pushing him along in his stroller when two men ran up from behind and grabbed her purse off her arm, tipping the stroller over in the process. Thankfully, baby was strapped in and was not harmed. My sister was with her, pushing my two nephews in their stroller. Thankfully, my sister wasn’t touched and it was a grace that the boys slept through the entire attack.

When I got the call from my sister, my heart raced in that mix of terror at what had happened and relief that they were all okay. Tears stung my eyes as my heart felt all over again the violation of being attacked. There can be a temptation in circumstances like this to brush it off almost because everyone was okay and the crime itself wasn’t major. But I know that the pain of being attacked is more than the actual physical pain of bruises or cuts.

The thing I cannot shake is this: these women were pushing strollers with babies in them. I confess I have often told myself that I am safe out and about when I have my little ones all around me. Because what kind of monster attacks a mother carrying her children? But last week reminded me that crimes of desperation are just that: desperate. And while I never walk around with a purse in general, I am already thinking about how I will behave differently when I am out walking with my babies.

It is interesting to have my different false clams to security dissolve here. Like the realization that living on the second floor doesn’t mean that bullets can’t enter. Or now that pushing a stroller with a baby in it is not a reason for someone not to attack.

The other night, Doug and I were almost asleep when our apartment was filled with the sound of angry screaming coming from the street. It was around midnight, and we ignored it at first until the tone and language became so clearly violent. As we peered through our blinds, we saw a half-dressed young man walking wildly down the street screaming in rage. Another young man walked with him, and a cluster of young women walked at a distance behind them.

“You’ve never had your mom tell you you ain’t sh–. You’ve never had your dad wish you were dead.” And he went on, screaming through tears and punching the air.

“We’re in the middle of the street. You need to be quiet. Someone around here will call the cops,” one of the girls said, gently.

“Fu– them. Fu– the cops. They can come. I don’t care. They can kill me. I don’t care…”

My heart broke for that boy that night. I’m not sure how old he was, but he seemed so vulnerable. A child desperately wanting his mother and father’s love. A child who knew too well the language of despair. I remember the many conversations I had with young men in Chicago who genuinely doubted that they would live to see their eighteenth year. And I remember around the time of Jamar’s funeral finding out how many of them did not. This boy seemed to hold his life loosely in that same way: “I don’t care.” “It doesn’t matter.” “Fu– ‘em.”

There is so much that makes the system here what it is. And while I can point to all the great ways we are involved in the community; while I reflect on our afternoon spent swimming next door with a family whose son has been in and out of the juvenile system; while I consider the light that is our neighbor Elliot who is unflinching in his love for the youth of our street, I still struggle to not despair.

Just yesterday I was reading Christ Plays in Ten Thousand Places where Eugene Peterson writes that creation is not something that God did in Genesis, but rather the thing that God keeps doing in our midst: “it is not confined to what the Spirit did; it is what the Spirit does.”. He makes the point that the verb to create is used more times in Isaiah’s preaching to God’s people in exile than in the whole creation narrative: “The Spirit of God created life out of nothing in the Babylon of the sixth century B.C. just as he had done in the formless void when the ‘darkness was upon the face of the deep’.”

Hollowness. Darkness. Chaos. These words can describe our community, a community than can feel almost exilic. And when I think of my friend watching her baby tipped over in front of her; when I hear the cries of a youth’s broken life; when I consider the addictions and desperation that fuel gang wars and rapes and robberies, I can only drop to my knees and cry out for a new creation.

In our worship service on Sunday, Doug led us in a song based on Habakuk 3:2. We sang:

“Lord,
I have heard of your fame and I stand in awe of your deeds

Lord,
I have heard of your fame and I stand in awe of your deeds

Oh Lord.

Renew them, renew them
In our day, and in our time, make them known

Renew them, renew them
In our day, and in our time, make them known

In wrath…remember Mercy

In wrath…remember Mercy.”

I went to the Out of Ur blog this morning and noticed an advertisement immediately to the right of the day’s post. It read:

Men of Integrity
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