God has given Oaks of Righteousness a new home.
Oaks now owns the former St. Patrick's Roman Catholic Church in North Troy and its sturdy brick rectory to the south -- just a half a block from our current rental location in the old M&M Diner (where we've been since 2012). We plan to transplant our ministry into the remodeled rectory building and to give the church building -- which is far too big for us to handle -- to a local philanthropist who plans to repurpose it to bless the community.
Meanwhile, we finally get to tell you incredible God-story about how this has taken place. You may want to sit down.
It all began with the faithfulness of a little church across the river from us. Beginning as far back as 2013, Mother Hannah Mudge and I began asking God for a bigger building -- we were often crammed with wall-to-wall kids (making it hard to play, serve food, and simultaneously teach Bible classes), and it proved to be tough to convince adults to worship God in an old diner. In June 2014, God answered our prayer through the faithfulness of Trinity Church Watervliet.
The parishioners at Trinity have a deep commitment to giving and outreach. Fifteen percent of every dollar that enters their coffers goes right back out the door to bless others. So, when the parish received a generous bequest from a parishioner who went to be with the Lord, they asked God where the roughly $100,000 tithe/offering should go. God told them. Just imagine our surprise and joy when Fr. Marty Wendell called us out of the blue and said, "Our parish would like to buy you a building."
Our building search began. We limited our search to the local neighborhood, not wanting to lose any of our parishioners (many of whom are children and/or are without cars). The result? No luck. Month after month of dead ends. We searched foreclosure lists, called realtors, prayed and prayed again.
Finally, we shared our frustration with Bishop Love. He suggested we give the owners of the closed-down charter school a call, just to test the waters on what they might charge us. The school was once owned by the Roman Catholic Diocese of Albany, so I gave them a call. Found out they'd sold the school.
"While I have you on the phone, I wondered if you'd be interested in what you'd ask to sell us the rectory of St. Patrick's," I said.
For a good price, I was told, although I'd have to take the church building along with the rectory. Both properties for, say...$100,000?
I was floored by the price. Thought and prayed about it all day, on and off. Ended up that night at a session of School of Healing Prayer I was taking at the time. We all began to discuss how we wished there were more places, outside of a traditional worship service, where people could access prayer. Like an urban prayer center, right on the bus line. One of my classmates said she wished Oaks could accommodate such a center. I said pray for it -- we're looking for a new building.
"How about St. Patrick's?" our instructor said, with a smile. He was joking, but I stared at him. Before I could tell him about the phone call I'd made earlier that day, another classmate piped up: "Yeah, what ABOUT St. Patrick's? I was on the front steps of that church two nights ago, praying with others that God would re-open it for his glory."
Stunned, I shared with my class what was going on. We prayed. And, days later, Hannah and I shared with some local intercessors what was going on. We prayed again. One of our intercessors said, "Let's be bold." And right there, she asked God for another $100,000 to do repairs to the rectory. I thought she was a little nuts.
We toured the properties. The rectory was so perfect, it was like it was made for us. Room for a chapel. Room for designated youth space. For food space. For offices and a meeting room. For prayer rooms. For living quarters. The church? Structurally pretty great, but a big, very expensive mess inside. We were deeply discouraged and figured the deal was off.
Then, the Roman Catholic Diocese called me. They explained they couldn't separate the properties -- we still had to take the rectory and church together. But, they would "sweeten the deal" because of the longstanding goodwill between our Diocese and theirs.
"How about we give you both properties for free?"
And, in that instant, the hutzpah of our intercessor was rewarded. We could have the rectory building with $100,000 from Trinity that could all go to much-needed remodeling and repair. We told the bishop and went to our Trustees. But, there was still the big, beautiful, expensive mess of a church that we couldn't take on.
Then, one afternoon outside Oaks Cafe as Mother Hannah was giving one our kids a talking-to, a man she'd never met walked up and asked if she was the one looking at St. Patrick's. Because, he wanted the church.
And so, we met our philanthropist. As we discussed the terms of handing the church over to him, I admitted one qualm -- I envied his bells. I wished we had a bell like the glorious old bells in St. Patrick's to ring each Sunday and let people know God is alive in the neighborhood.
"Oh," he said nonchalantly. "I have a bell. Would you like it?" Apparently, our philanthropist has an unused church bell that he is willing to donate to Oaks, along with a big metal Celtic cross to hang outside the rectory. Which works pretty well since we're tentatively planning on christening the new chapel in the Oaks building "St. Patrick's" in gratitude for the faithful Christians who have gone before us in this neighborhood.
That, friends, is the story. One final note.
Negotiating the transferral of the buildings took several months, and Mother Hannah and I got discouraged. This is how God encouraged us:
In July, we were doing a Sunday morning Bible study of Joseph and were discussing his dreams. We asked our parishioners if they've ever had dreams from God. The next day, one of the teens from that study told us, "Hey, I had one of those dreams you were talking about yesterday. I just don't know what it means."
This teen, who knew nothing of our plan, dreamed about the big stone church across from her house (St. Patrick's). She had a dream people were inside, singing praises to God. She climbed up to one of the high, broken windows and looked in.
"There weren't many people in there," she said. "But they were LOUD."
Even if we are few in number, may our Lord Jesus Christ use us and those who come after us, that our sound may go out into all lands and our message to the ends of the world! Soli Deo Gloria.
Wednesday, January 6, 2016
Saturday, December 27, 2014
Songs in Exile
People ask a lot how Oaks is going. I don't ever know how to answer
that question. But here's a little snapshot of my own thoughts as we
have journeyed through Advent and Christmas.
There has never been an Advent in which I understood so well the words to O Come, O Come Emmanuel. We sang that hymn the week following all of the riots and protests and racism demonstrations. I realized afresh the depravity of my own heart and that of the world around me. My heart was already broken by the world I live in - the world my kids live in - and then we sang.
O come, o come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel
that mourns in lonely exile here
until the Son of God appear.
Oh God, come and save us. Save us from our brokenness. Save us from our sin. Save my kids from the path that our twisted world has laid out for them. Save them from the expectation of poverty and discrimination and prison and death and abuse and drugs and violence. Put right the wrongs that are done to them, whether physically or mentally. Put right our thinking and our society. Bring justice to our class divisions and our city divides and our racial biases. Bring your love and your peace to our streets. Bring fairness to our police and courts. Break the death that inhabits our streets. Bring your kingdom - bring us back from exile.
The next week, someone threatened some of our kids with a gun while sledding.
The next week, my friend died.
The Sunday before Christmas, I ended up preaching a sermon about exile. The readings were about David and God's promise to build him a kingdom and a house that would last forever. And while that is a message of hope, it is also a promise that seems to be in stark contrast to the world around me sometimes. Terrible things happen. Cancer kills. People get shot on the corner. We are in exile. Waiting for our king to come back.
That Sunday, we sang these words:
Though I am small, my God my all
you work great things in me.
And your mercy will last from the depths of the past
to the end of the age to be.
Your very name puts the proud to shame
and to those who would for you yearn
you will show your might, put the strong to flight
for the world is about to turn.
My heart shall sing of the day you bring
let the fires of your justice burn.
Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near
and the world is about to turn.
God is not done here. He will come. He will put things right. He is doing it.
But now, I understand our exile more. This year in North Central, Christmas was a celebration. It was also a raw cry to the living God to come and save. Come and break death.
36 kids and adults worshiped together - families whose members have murdered one another, who bully one another, who have maimed each other, who were baptized together. And we all acted out the Christmas story together. And we all prayed together for God's kingdom to come - for God to come and save us. And they all clapped and thumped and stomped a beat together as we sang:
Rank on rank the hosts of heaven
spreads its vanguard on the way
as the Light of Lights descendeth
from the realms of endless day;
that the powers of hell may vanish
as the darkness clears away.
Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.
_____________________________________
There has never been an Advent in which I understood so well the words to O Come, O Come Emmanuel. We sang that hymn the week following all of the riots and protests and racism demonstrations. I realized afresh the depravity of my own heart and that of the world around me. My heart was already broken by the world I live in - the world my kids live in - and then we sang.
O come, o come Emmanuel, and ransom captive Israel
that mourns in lonely exile here
until the Son of God appear.
Oh God, come and save us. Save us from our brokenness. Save us from our sin. Save my kids from the path that our twisted world has laid out for them. Save them from the expectation of poverty and discrimination and prison and death and abuse and drugs and violence. Put right the wrongs that are done to them, whether physically or mentally. Put right our thinking and our society. Bring justice to our class divisions and our city divides and our racial biases. Bring your love and your peace to our streets. Bring fairness to our police and courts. Break the death that inhabits our streets. Bring your kingdom - bring us back from exile.
____________________________________
The next week, someone threatened some of our kids with a gun while sledding.
The next week, my friend died.
The Sunday before Christmas, I ended up preaching a sermon about exile. The readings were about David and God's promise to build him a kingdom and a house that would last forever. And while that is a message of hope, it is also a promise that seems to be in stark contrast to the world around me sometimes. Terrible things happen. Cancer kills. People get shot on the corner. We are in exile. Waiting for our king to come back.
That Sunday, we sang these words:
Though I am small, my God my all
you work great things in me.
And your mercy will last from the depths of the past
to the end of the age to be.
Your very name puts the proud to shame
and to those who would for you yearn
you will show your might, put the strong to flight
for the world is about to turn.
My heart shall sing of the day you bring
let the fires of your justice burn.
Wipe away all tears, for the dawn draws near
and the world is about to turn.
God is not done here. He will come. He will put things right. He is doing it.
______________________________________
But now, I understand our exile more. This year in North Central, Christmas was a celebration. It was also a raw cry to the living God to come and save. Come and break death.
36 kids and adults worshiped together - families whose members have murdered one another, who bully one another, who have maimed each other, who were baptized together. And we all acted out the Christmas story together. And we all prayed together for God's kingdom to come - for God to come and save us. And they all clapped and thumped and stomped a beat together as we sang:
Rank on rank the hosts of heaven
spreads its vanguard on the way
as the Light of Lights descendeth
from the realms of endless day;
that the powers of hell may vanish
as the darkness clears away.
Maranatha. Come, Lord Jesus.
Saturday, August 9, 2014
Tiny Redemptions from Great Tragedies
Many things have happened recently...a teenage boy we knew stabbed to death at a party, a man from the local halfway house asking for a Bible study, confirmation classes, interactions with drug dealers, prayer, money for a new building, so very many baptism classes.
This summer, I have seen two striking and tiny incidents of God taking evil and turning it into little sprouts of good.
___________________
A boy was stabbed. He's been in the cafe a few times, but he was the best friend of many of our regulars. Many of our boys vowed to kill the boy who stabbed him. One saw him when he was dead before the police took over the scene. It was "his first dead body."
Earlier this week, one of the older boys was encouraging a tiny boy to beat up on a tinier boy in the cafe. I kicked the older boy out for a bit, but decided that since everyone thought it was so funny, it needed some further discussion.
So the next day, when he was doing something similar, I pulled him aside and said, "Look. I know it's funny to watch little kids try to fight, but it's only one step from teaching them to fight one another to one of them winding up stabbed at a party. And I don't want that for them. I don't want that for you."
And he heard me. I think that's the first thing he's actually heard that I've said to him in a year. And he stopped. I just pray that some day the voice he hears will be God's.
____________________
The other incident happened today. I have been teaching a lot of baptism classes recently (6 this week!) and one thing that we have consistently struggled with is the Sermon on the Mount - specifically with regards to understanding persecution and generosity.
Today, the persecution of Christians in Iraq was burning on my heart, so I told three of the girls about it and how even little kids were being killed for following Jesus. We talked for a bit about it, and one of the girls asked why they didn't just say they weren't Christians.
"Well," I answered, "Which would you choose? Heaven and eternity with God, or living a little longer?"
"Yeah...I'd pick God," she said.
We then went around the circle and prayed for them all and for their protection, something they have never done before...praying for someone they never met. Afterwards, I told them that I was going to send some money to someone I knew who was helping the people who had escaped from being killed and had no food or clothes or blankets. I asked if they wanted to also. Now, these kids occasionally get a dollar to get something from the store. They don't have much to work with, and generosity is a completely foreign concept. One of the girls is quite proud of the fact that she never gives anything to anyone.
So I offered them an option. We usually have them do cleaning jobs and put it in a little notebook of "Oaks Credit:" $2 for a 15 minute job. I told them I could take some of their credit money and send it to the people in Iraq. After all, which is more important: a brownie, or someone's life?
One of the girls decided she wanted to do jobs all afternoon, and just keep 50 cents for herself for next week. Her sister decided she was going to do a sidewalk sale of some of her toys because she wanted to send more money than just her credit. And, most miraculously of all, my little tightwad even contributed a dollar of her earnings.
There is so much deep and abiding tragedy in this situation with our brothers and sisters in Iraq. But across the globe, God is using it to teach three little city girls about what really matters, to the tune of $10 of love in a selfish world.
This summer, I have seen two striking and tiny incidents of God taking evil and turning it into little sprouts of good.
___________________
A boy was stabbed. He's been in the cafe a few times, but he was the best friend of many of our regulars. Many of our boys vowed to kill the boy who stabbed him. One saw him when he was dead before the police took over the scene. It was "his first dead body."
Earlier this week, one of the older boys was encouraging a tiny boy to beat up on a tinier boy in the cafe. I kicked the older boy out for a bit, but decided that since everyone thought it was so funny, it needed some further discussion.
So the next day, when he was doing something similar, I pulled him aside and said, "Look. I know it's funny to watch little kids try to fight, but it's only one step from teaching them to fight one another to one of them winding up stabbed at a party. And I don't want that for them. I don't want that for you."
And he heard me. I think that's the first thing he's actually heard that I've said to him in a year. And he stopped. I just pray that some day the voice he hears will be God's.
____________________
The other incident happened today. I have been teaching a lot of baptism classes recently (6 this week!) and one thing that we have consistently struggled with is the Sermon on the Mount - specifically with regards to understanding persecution and generosity.
Today, the persecution of Christians in Iraq was burning on my heart, so I told three of the girls about it and how even little kids were being killed for following Jesus. We talked for a bit about it, and one of the girls asked why they didn't just say they weren't Christians.
"Well," I answered, "Which would you choose? Heaven and eternity with God, or living a little longer?"
"Yeah...I'd pick God," she said.
We then went around the circle and prayed for them all and for their protection, something they have never done before...praying for someone they never met. Afterwards, I told them that I was going to send some money to someone I knew who was helping the people who had escaped from being killed and had no food or clothes or blankets. I asked if they wanted to also. Now, these kids occasionally get a dollar to get something from the store. They don't have much to work with, and generosity is a completely foreign concept. One of the girls is quite proud of the fact that she never gives anything to anyone.
So I offered them an option. We usually have them do cleaning jobs and put it in a little notebook of "Oaks Credit:" $2 for a 15 minute job. I told them I could take some of their credit money and send it to the people in Iraq. After all, which is more important: a brownie, or someone's life?
One of the girls decided she wanted to do jobs all afternoon, and just keep 50 cents for herself for next week. Her sister decided she was going to do a sidewalk sale of some of her toys because she wanted to send more money than just her credit. And, most miraculously of all, my little tightwad even contributed a dollar of her earnings.
There is so much deep and abiding tragedy in this situation with our brothers and sisters in Iraq. But across the globe, God is using it to teach three little city girls about what really matters, to the tune of $10 of love in a selfish world.
Friday, June 20, 2014
Faith and Impudence
I was asked recently, "Is there anything you have asked God for that he has not given you?"
I thought about it for a minute and answered, "No."
Faith is knowing God. Faith is knowing God to be so good, so loving and so powerful that there is not a moment of hesitation in our thoughts that God may not do what we ask when we are aligned with his will. Faith is remembering and expecting.
I forget, and therefore, I doubt.
I need to share these stories of faith so that I do not forget, and so that we all can be encouraged in our faith when there are no visible signs of God at work. This is why God told Israel to celebrate all those festivals in Exodus and Leviticus and Deuteronomy: to remember who God is by celebrating what he has done.
Because there is nothing God has not given me that I have asked for - nothing hinders me except my own doubt and reluctance to throw myself all in and give up control. But faith remembers and gives control to God. And once faith remembers, it asks impudently. Faith makes outrageous requests, just like Jesus tells us to in Luke 11.
God can do anything. And when I ask, he gives. Simple as that. Not always as quickly as I would like, but he has never failed. So here is a list of remembrances that he has given me in the past 5 years:
- Permission to start the ministry in Troy
- Ordination
- A people in North Central
- A ministry partner - actually, many ministry partners
- The cafe building
- My cat came back after 2 weeks on the streets
- Money to quit my job and do ministry full time
- Friends
- Megablocks, etc.
- An altar
- A foosball table
- Finances for 4 years of ministry
- The middle-school girls
- The kid that I baptized
- An apartment
- A car
- Money to complete my STM degree
- The teenage boys in the park
- The adult community in North Central
- Beaver Cross scholarships for 10 kids
- Money for a new building to accommodate the growing ministry
- Now I am asking for the building
God has told us to ask for the city of Troy. I look at that list and wonder how I can think that is impossible. This blog exists so that we can all remember who God is. So, let's remember and ask. Boldly. Impudently. Without ceasing. And remembering the lavish, abundance of God's goodness to those who surrender to him.
I thought about it for a minute and answered, "No."
Faith is knowing God. Faith is knowing God to be so good, so loving and so powerful that there is not a moment of hesitation in our thoughts that God may not do what we ask when we are aligned with his will. Faith is remembering and expecting.
I forget, and therefore, I doubt.
I need to share these stories of faith so that I do not forget, and so that we all can be encouraged in our faith when there are no visible signs of God at work. This is why God told Israel to celebrate all those festivals in Exodus and Leviticus and Deuteronomy: to remember who God is by celebrating what he has done.
Because there is nothing God has not given me that I have asked for - nothing hinders me except my own doubt and reluctance to throw myself all in and give up control. But faith remembers and gives control to God. And once faith remembers, it asks impudently. Faith makes outrageous requests, just like Jesus tells us to in Luke 11.
God can do anything. And when I ask, he gives. Simple as that. Not always as quickly as I would like, but he has never failed. So here is a list of remembrances that he has given me in the past 5 years:
- Permission to start the ministry in Troy
- Ordination
- A people in North Central
- A ministry partner - actually, many ministry partners
- The cafe building
- My cat came back after 2 weeks on the streets
- Money to quit my job and do ministry full time
- Friends
- Megablocks, etc.
- An altar
- A foosball table
- Finances for 4 years of ministry
- The middle-school girls
- The kid that I baptized
- An apartment
- A car
- Money to complete my STM degree
- The teenage boys in the park
- The adult community in North Central
- Beaver Cross scholarships for 10 kids
- Money for a new building to accommodate the growing ministry
- Now I am asking for the building
God has told us to ask for the city of Troy. I look at that list and wonder how I can think that is impossible. This blog exists so that we can all remember who God is. So, let's remember and ask. Boldly. Impudently. Without ceasing. And remembering the lavish, abundance of God's goodness to those who surrender to him.
[I thought I published this months ago, but apparently it never went through. Apologies]
North Troy is a neighborhood without fathers.
Amid the drugs, despair, poverty, gangs and anger, we constantly see children and teens who don't know the faithful, loving presence of a father in their lives.
So we tell them about The Father. The Good Father, who isn't like the fathers or mothers they've known. We tell them the story of the Prodigal Son enfolded in the Father's arms. We tell them so they can know the Father and become true fathers and mothers in the next generation.
There's a 7-year-old boy at Oaks who's preparing for baptism. His dad is in prison, and we see him struggle with turned-in anger and telling the truth. But, he has heard of The Father.
One Saturday during dinner, a few boys asked me why I always wear a crucifix. This little boy piped up, "I know why!"
I smiled at him. "Why?"
He said with beautiful confidence, "You wear it so you remember that God is your Real Father."
North Troy is a neighborhood without fathers.
Amid the drugs, despair, poverty, gangs and anger, we constantly see children and teens who don't know the faithful, loving presence of a father in their lives.
So we tell them about The Father. The Good Father, who isn't like the fathers or mothers they've known. We tell them the story of the Prodigal Son enfolded in the Father's arms. We tell them so they can know the Father and become true fathers and mothers in the next generation.
There's a 7-year-old boy at Oaks who's preparing for baptism. His dad is in prison, and we see him struggle with turned-in anger and telling the truth. But, he has heard of The Father.
One Saturday during dinner, a few boys asked me why I always wear a crucifix. This little boy piped up, "I know why!"
I smiled at him. "Why?"
He said with beautiful confidence, "You wear it so you remember that God is your Real Father."
Saturday, December 14, 2013
The Mentor is Mentored
Today, I team mentored a couple of boys from our neighborhood -- boys we've baptized at Oaks.
I had a teaching task ahead of me today -- these kids, a few times, have barged in and out of the Eucharist, interrupted everyone else's worship, and demanded communion. So the mentoring goal today was to teach them that worship is about honoring God and being fed by Word and Sacrament -- not just about the bread and wine isolated from everything else.
I began by saying, "You guys are baptized. Why did you get baptized?" I steeled myself to hear, "So we can drink the wine" -- a common initial motivation for the kids who request baptism.
Instead, their responses humbled me. "To have God live in me." "To follow Jesus."
Then I asked them to describe what we do in worship. Their answers: Pray. Eat the bread and wine. Sing praise to Jesus (here they sang a spontaneous medley of about five worship songs we do, including the Sanctus). Hear the Bible stories.
And did they know the Bible story about the bread and wine? They did -- it's about when Jesus was about to die. "It's Jesus' blood, the wine." "The bread is his body." And they pulled out our comic book Bibles and opened right to the story of the crucifixion. We talked about what it meant to remember him. And the point I wanted to make? It was made.
But my little brothers in Christ taught me today. I learned another lesson in perseverance.
Discouragement is a constant temptation in the ministry at Oaks. We work very hard, and we don't often see what the Lord is doing in the hearts of our people. It is tempting to think we're not making a difference. But the Lord condescends to my weak faith, and he sometimes gives me a morning like this morning -- to show me he's done more in the hearts of these two boys than I could ask or imagine.
Who but God can say what's he's done in the hearts of his people?
I had a teaching task ahead of me today -- these kids, a few times, have barged in and out of the Eucharist, interrupted everyone else's worship, and demanded communion. So the mentoring goal today was to teach them that worship is about honoring God and being fed by Word and Sacrament -- not just about the bread and wine isolated from everything else.
I began by saying, "You guys are baptized. Why did you get baptized?" I steeled myself to hear, "So we can drink the wine" -- a common initial motivation for the kids who request baptism.
Instead, their responses humbled me. "To have God live in me." "To follow Jesus."
Then I asked them to describe what we do in worship. Their answers: Pray. Eat the bread and wine. Sing praise to Jesus (here they sang a spontaneous medley of about five worship songs we do, including the Sanctus). Hear the Bible stories.
And did they know the Bible story about the bread and wine? They did -- it's about when Jesus was about to die. "It's Jesus' blood, the wine." "The bread is his body." And they pulled out our comic book Bibles and opened right to the story of the crucifixion. We talked about what it meant to remember him. And the point I wanted to make? It was made.
But my little brothers in Christ taught me today. I learned another lesson in perseverance.
Discouragement is a constant temptation in the ministry at Oaks. We work very hard, and we don't often see what the Lord is doing in the hearts of our people. It is tempting to think we're not making a difference. But the Lord condescends to my weak faith, and he sometimes gives me a morning like this morning -- to show me he's done more in the hearts of these two boys than I could ask or imagine.
Who but God can say what's he's done in the hearts of his people?
Saturday, November 23, 2013
Is Jesus glorified when we only seem to be making burritos?
Sometimes, Oaks Cafe is nearly empty. We'll have five adult volunteers hanging out with two kids. But those times are getting more and more rare.
Yesterday afternoon, we had the opposite scenario. A couple of adult volunteers and 45 people (mostly kids) coming through our little building in a 2 1/2 hour period.
It was pandemonium. Little kids racing around and playing with toys. Teens congregated on the window sills, playfully trash talking and flirting and occasionally picking a real fight. A cluster of kids around a table with coloring books. And a roving army of kids of all ages, following us around and firing off questions: Why isn't my burrito done yet? Where's my brownie? Why won't you move jobs back to Friday instead of Wednesday? Why isn't there a hip hop concert tonight? Why haven't you put out more apples yet? Can I play the guitar?
And so on.
On days like this, I feel like a mish-mash of a cop, a day care worker and a short order cook. One moment I'm in the back, mixing more burrito filling together. The next, I'm getting someone a glass of water or saying, "Please watch your language" or wedging myself onto the window sill in between the teens to keep a small riot from breaking out. Some of the time, in my better moments, I'm quietly praying under my breath.
And I'll admit, I find myself asking: Why am I doing this again? Is Jesus visible in the middle of this madness? Where is the gospel being seen or heard in this place?
Yesterday, a teen who isn't in much answered this question for me. She shook her head and said, "How on earth do you do this? I couldn't. These kids are rude. They never say please or thank you."
And I said, with all my heart, "Only by the grace of God."
She said, "I guess. You gotta know Jesus to be able to do this."
And there it was. Jesus getting the glory, in the middle of the crazy. Doesn't that make an entire day worth it? And weren't there other moments -- little stolen moments when I managed to pat a kid on the shoulder, call them by name, ask how their day was?
And then there was the 5-minute prayer service at the end of the day, when 8 of us stayed behind to sing and hear a Bible story on Jesus searching for the 1 sheep in 99.
"He would look for the 1," one of the kids said with confidence. "He counts all of them to make sure he doesn't lose any, and he looks for any that get lost."
That he does.
Yesterday afternoon, we had the opposite scenario. A couple of adult volunteers and 45 people (mostly kids) coming through our little building in a 2 1/2 hour period.
It was pandemonium. Little kids racing around and playing with toys. Teens congregated on the window sills, playfully trash talking and flirting and occasionally picking a real fight. A cluster of kids around a table with coloring books. And a roving army of kids of all ages, following us around and firing off questions: Why isn't my burrito done yet? Where's my brownie? Why won't you move jobs back to Friday instead of Wednesday? Why isn't there a hip hop concert tonight? Why haven't you put out more apples yet? Can I play the guitar?
And so on.
On days like this, I feel like a mish-mash of a cop, a day care worker and a short order cook. One moment I'm in the back, mixing more burrito filling together. The next, I'm getting someone a glass of water or saying, "Please watch your language" or wedging myself onto the window sill in between the teens to keep a small riot from breaking out. Some of the time, in my better moments, I'm quietly praying under my breath.
And I'll admit, I find myself asking: Why am I doing this again? Is Jesus visible in the middle of this madness? Where is the gospel being seen or heard in this place?
Yesterday, a teen who isn't in much answered this question for me. She shook her head and said, "How on earth do you do this? I couldn't. These kids are rude. They never say please or thank you."
And I said, with all my heart, "Only by the grace of God."
She said, "I guess. You gotta know Jesus to be able to do this."
And there it was. Jesus getting the glory, in the middle of the crazy. Doesn't that make an entire day worth it? And weren't there other moments -- little stolen moments when I managed to pat a kid on the shoulder, call them by name, ask how their day was?
And then there was the 5-minute prayer service at the end of the day, when 8 of us stayed behind to sing and hear a Bible story on Jesus searching for the 1 sheep in 99.
"He would look for the 1," one of the kids said with confidence. "He counts all of them to make sure he doesn't lose any, and he looks for any that get lost."
That he does.
Saturday, November 9, 2013
Twerps
Every teenager has moments of being a twerp, right? When they repeat every word you say in a mocking tone. Or say, "Can I have a dollar?" exactly 587 times. Or giggle because you're so uncool. (Can't say I blame them for that last one).
We have a small army of preteen and teen boys who cycle in and out of twerpitude. And in our less patient moments, we have to remind ourselves -- God is crazy in love with this twerp. Jesus died for these twerps.
So last Sunday, Hannah and I were beginning to worship. I'd just finished praying the Collect for Purity, and a big group of these boys come cantering into the Cafe, looking ornery. Hannah reflexively launched into a rousing guitar setting of the Te Deum, and we both sang our hearts out.
And something crazy happened. The boys got quiet, and they sat down. At the end of the song, improbably, they clapped.
I invited them to worship with us. And they did -- all of them! They listened intently to Hannah's sermon on Zacchaeus "the snitch" and thief, now redeemed by Jesus' kindness and his repentance. And you could see a new realization in their faces -- "I could be redeemed. I could be a saint like this short little snitch became a saint. I have a choice."
At the communion invitation, a few of the boys loudly proclaimed they'd been baptized and that they wanted the bread and wine. I paused, then explained what the Sacrament means. Taking Jesus' living presence inside of you. Living a totally new life for him -- and dying to the old one. The boys looked serious, whispered, and then admitted they weren't ready to receive. They had something I've never seen in their faces before -- reverence for the holy.
To top it off, after communion the boys began asking questions about God. For 15 minutes. What's heaven like? What about hell? Is it true the devil used to be an angel? A lady once told me I was going to hell because I'm Muslim -- is that true? And so forth. It was astounding.
We ate dinner afterward with the boys, trash talking each other's NFL teams and generally bantering. And when they left, Hannah and I looked at one another in amazement and gratitude.
The Lord did it again -- overwhelming us with doing miraculous work in the hearts of the people around us. And he was good enough to let a couple of twerpy priests see him do it.
We have a small army of preteen and teen boys who cycle in and out of twerpitude. And in our less patient moments, we have to remind ourselves -- God is crazy in love with this twerp. Jesus died for these twerps.
So last Sunday, Hannah and I were beginning to worship. I'd just finished praying the Collect for Purity, and a big group of these boys come cantering into the Cafe, looking ornery. Hannah reflexively launched into a rousing guitar setting of the Te Deum, and we both sang our hearts out.
And something crazy happened. The boys got quiet, and they sat down. At the end of the song, improbably, they clapped.
I invited them to worship with us. And they did -- all of them! They listened intently to Hannah's sermon on Zacchaeus "the snitch" and thief, now redeemed by Jesus' kindness and his repentance. And you could see a new realization in their faces -- "I could be redeemed. I could be a saint like this short little snitch became a saint. I have a choice."
At the communion invitation, a few of the boys loudly proclaimed they'd been baptized and that they wanted the bread and wine. I paused, then explained what the Sacrament means. Taking Jesus' living presence inside of you. Living a totally new life for him -- and dying to the old one. The boys looked serious, whispered, and then admitted they weren't ready to receive. They had something I've never seen in their faces before -- reverence for the holy.
To top it off, after communion the boys began asking questions about God. For 15 minutes. What's heaven like? What about hell? Is it true the devil used to be an angel? A lady once told me I was going to hell because I'm Muslim -- is that true? And so forth. It was astounding.
We ate dinner afterward with the boys, trash talking each other's NFL teams and generally bantering. And when they left, Hannah and I looked at one another in amazement and gratitude.
The Lord did it again -- overwhelming us with doing miraculous work in the hearts of the people around us. And he was good enough to let a couple of twerpy priests see him do it.
Thursday, August 8, 2013
Reflections from the Defendant's Chair
Today, I accompanied one of my parishioners to court for an eviction hearing. Wore full black clericals and my collar and Franciscan crucifix. Got lots of stares.
My parishioner wasn't especially upset about going to court. She wanted to be evicted -- in the dizzying world of social services, she said eviction is one of the most effective methods to bring about a move to a different part of town that isn't an emergency. She went to court today quite willing to meet her landlord's request to get out -- she just asked to stay where she was for two weeks.
For her and her three kids, two weeks would make the difference between moving straight into her new place or moving temporarily into a shelter. She wanted to spare her kids that. So did I, so I went with her.
The landlord, who eyed me somewhat nervously, seemed like a decent guy who had no problems helping my parishioner out. He simply wanted legal backing to protect himself in case she stuck around past her grace period. I can't blame him.
Sitting in court today, watching case after case go before a straight-shooting, wise-cracking judge, several things occurred to me:
First, most of the folks sitting in the defendants' chairs were black, and most of the folks in the plaintiffs' chairs were white. At least half of those white people were attorneys.
Second, it was clear from the way the cases proceeded that some of the tenants were taking advantage of their landlords. In other cases, it seemed likely the landlords were allowing their tenants to live in lousy conditions. Some landlords extended a great deal of grace. Some wanted their tenants tossed out by the city marshal asap.
Third, as I anticipated sitting beside my parishioner in a defendant's chair, it occurred to me that I didn't want to. I even felt scared and embarrassed to sit there, although neither my comfort nor my good name were at stake. Why? Because the defendant's chair had a strong aura of guilt and powerlessness. And, I didn't want to sit in a seat with no power.
Fourth, I noticed, in a different way than I ever have, that my collar gave me a weird kind of power. The landlord was intimidated by me. The judge greeted me. People stared at me. And, my parishioner assured me, my silent presence helped make it possible for her kids to avoid the homeless shelter.
So, when the case was called, I marched my pious-looking self over to the seat with no power. And I thought, "This is the seat you deserved years ago, Christina. You drove drunk so many times in the past. You deserve the worst this seat can throw at you, and sheer mercy saved you."
And then I thought about Jesus. Sitting in the defendant's seat. Sitting in the seat with no power. Taking the worst it could throw at him.
The judge greeted me. "What church are you with, Reverend?"
"Jesus' church, sir."
"Well, yes. Which one?"
"The Episcopal Church, sir."
"One of many."
"Yes, your honor."
The thing a priest can't escape is -- no matter where we go -- we represent the church. And today, I got to represent the church by sitting in the seat with no power, and that was used for good. That gives me joy and satisfaction.
But -- more than anything -- sitting in that seat today made me love Jesus more.
My parishioner wasn't especially upset about going to court. She wanted to be evicted -- in the dizzying world of social services, she said eviction is one of the most effective methods to bring about a move to a different part of town that isn't an emergency. She went to court today quite willing to meet her landlord's request to get out -- she just asked to stay where she was for two weeks.
For her and her three kids, two weeks would make the difference between moving straight into her new place or moving temporarily into a shelter. She wanted to spare her kids that. So did I, so I went with her.
The landlord, who eyed me somewhat nervously, seemed like a decent guy who had no problems helping my parishioner out. He simply wanted legal backing to protect himself in case she stuck around past her grace period. I can't blame him.
Sitting in court today, watching case after case go before a straight-shooting, wise-cracking judge, several things occurred to me:
First, most of the folks sitting in the defendants' chairs were black, and most of the folks in the plaintiffs' chairs were white. At least half of those white people were attorneys.
Second, it was clear from the way the cases proceeded that some of the tenants were taking advantage of their landlords. In other cases, it seemed likely the landlords were allowing their tenants to live in lousy conditions. Some landlords extended a great deal of grace. Some wanted their tenants tossed out by the city marshal asap.
Third, as I anticipated sitting beside my parishioner in a defendant's chair, it occurred to me that I didn't want to. I even felt scared and embarrassed to sit there, although neither my comfort nor my good name were at stake. Why? Because the defendant's chair had a strong aura of guilt and powerlessness. And, I didn't want to sit in a seat with no power.
Fourth, I noticed, in a different way than I ever have, that my collar gave me a weird kind of power. The landlord was intimidated by me. The judge greeted me. People stared at me. And, my parishioner assured me, my silent presence helped make it possible for her kids to avoid the homeless shelter.
So, when the case was called, I marched my pious-looking self over to the seat with no power. And I thought, "This is the seat you deserved years ago, Christina. You drove drunk so many times in the past. You deserve the worst this seat can throw at you, and sheer mercy saved you."
And then I thought about Jesus. Sitting in the defendant's seat. Sitting in the seat with no power. Taking the worst it could throw at him.
The judge greeted me. "What church are you with, Reverend?"
"Jesus' church, sir."
"Well, yes. Which one?"
"The Episcopal Church, sir."
"One of many."
"Yes, your honor."
The thing a priest can't escape is -- no matter where we go -- we represent the church. And today, I got to represent the church by sitting in the seat with no power, and that was used for good. That gives me joy and satisfaction.
But -- more than anything -- sitting in that seat today made me love Jesus more.
Thursday, August 1, 2013
"I'm scared to have God inside me"
Last Sunday as I read from Colossians, one of our Baptismal candidates (a 9-year-old boy) sidled up to Hannah and whispered that he might not get baptized that afternoon after all.
After some questions from Hannah, he admitted, "I'm scared to have God inside me."
So, he got it. Hannah explained that's not a bad thing.
On July 28, two kids died with Christ in the waters of the Hudson River, just a block and a half from Oaks Cafe, and arose to new life as children of the Father Almighty, filled with the Holy Spirit.
One of them, the boy, has been passionately drawn to the person and story of Jesus ever since I introduced them back in 2011 in Ingalls Park (see blog entry: http://oakstroy.blogspot.com/2011/10/aslan-is-on-move.html).
The other new child of God, a girl, has dozens of questions and a hunger to learn. During the Baptismal vows, in response to the question, "Do you promise to follow and obey (Jesus) as your Lord?", she smiled with a quiet peace beyond her years and said, "I promise."
Now these two young people belong forever to Jesus. But Sunday's baptisms did more than that. Here are two things we witnessed:
1. The Baptisms exposed and confronted a hatred between families.
Ironically, the family of one of the baptismal candidates has a strong dislike of the other family. Let's just say the word "dirty" was being thrown around as everyone sat down for worship. So, we bluntly told the offenders that they'd be asked to leave for the day if they couldn't keep their mouths shut.
And then, there was Hannah's sermon. She pointed out that Baptism is death -- death with Jesus in the waters, death to our sins -- and rising to life with Jesus and freedom. And it's adoption -- to be God's sons and daughters. And that means....
"You," she said, pointing at the boy, "and you," she said, pointing at the girl, "are going to be brother and sister."
There was a small uproar of protest. And Hannah continued, firmly, to insist upon this truth. When the kids pointed to a family member we'd baptized months back, Hannah smiled a little impishy and said, "Oh, he's already part of the family."
2. The Baptisms are a sign that God is making all things new in our city.
When Hannah and I first came to Troy, we walked around and prayed a lot. During our walks, we happened by the Hudson River and the little gravel beach littered with broken beer bottles and scraps of clothing.
We sat by the water and sang worship songs to God. We asked him to cleanse the beach spiritually of things that had gone before. We touched the water and asked him to cleanse it. We asked God to make it holy. And we prayed and believed that, one day, we'd baptize someone on that beach.
And we waited.
During Easter Vigil 2012, a group of about 20 Christians from different denominations marched to that same beach. We renewed our baptismal vows. We felt the spray of water from the river, flung by an aspergillum. We remembered our own baptisms.
And we waited.
The wait is over. We have seen, yet again, God bring his promises to pass.
And we wait. There is more to come.
Monday, July 8, 2013
God Answers Prayer
Yes, I know. God answers prayer. You would think that I should have caught on to this little fact by now. But sometimes you just forget, in the general persevering of life, that when you ask for a miracle, you get one.
There is a kid (one of the first kids we met down there a few years ago) who is very, very angry. In the past year, a lot of things have happened in his life to make him even more angry and very hardened. Very grown up and business-like. With a shell around him that seems rather like a petrified dinosaur egg. I've been praying for this kid, trying to get through to him however I can, but he is just resistant to anything having to do with God. And yet, he is hurting so badly, and God is the only one who can help.
Christina said something on Wednesday that made me pray for him differently. (It really had very little to do with the matter at hand, but that is irrelevant.) Thursday, Friday, and Saturday I prayed that God would remove whatever spiritual components or interference was keeping him from seeking Jesus, or hearing about Him. Just three days of brief prayers when I thought of it.
Saturday, he sits down across the counter from me and starts talking about how all he can see playing over and over in his head was the night his dad was arrested. It never stops.
I told him, "You may not like what I'm going to say, but God can help you with that. But you need to ask him for help."
He put his professional face on and said, "Thanks very much for your advice."
I sorta grinned at him and replied, "Meaning, you're not planning on taking it at all."
Noncommittal grunt.
Ten minutes later..."Pastor Hannah, would you baptize me?"
Pastor Hannah: "Whhaaa? .....Do you know what being baptized means?"
"No."
"Okay. It means that you're going to follow Jesus, and you're adopted into God's family. You also have to do a bunch of classes so you can learn about who Jesus is and what all that means."
"Ok."
"Why do you want to be baptized?"
"I would do anything to not feel like this. That might help."
___________________________________________
That was one of the miracles for the day. God cracking the hardened shell on a very needy little boy. Now I'm asking you all to join in my prayers for a miracle. Pray that he follows through and that he meets Jesus and that nothing will get in the way of that. Pray that he finds the Prince of Peace.
There is a kid (one of the first kids we met down there a few years ago) who is very, very angry. In the past year, a lot of things have happened in his life to make him even more angry and very hardened. Very grown up and business-like. With a shell around him that seems rather like a petrified dinosaur egg. I've been praying for this kid, trying to get through to him however I can, but he is just resistant to anything having to do with God. And yet, he is hurting so badly, and God is the only one who can help.
Christina said something on Wednesday that made me pray for him differently. (It really had very little to do with the matter at hand, but that is irrelevant.) Thursday, Friday, and Saturday I prayed that God would remove whatever spiritual components or interference was keeping him from seeking Jesus, or hearing about Him. Just three days of brief prayers when I thought of it.
Saturday, he sits down across the counter from me and starts talking about how all he can see playing over and over in his head was the night his dad was arrested. It never stops.
I told him, "You may not like what I'm going to say, but God can help you with that. But you need to ask him for help."
He put his professional face on and said, "Thanks very much for your advice."
I sorta grinned at him and replied, "Meaning, you're not planning on taking it at all."
Noncommittal grunt.
Ten minutes later..."Pastor Hannah, would you baptize me?"
Pastor Hannah: "Whhaaa? .....Do you know what being baptized means?"
"No."
"Okay. It means that you're going to follow Jesus, and you're adopted into God's family. You also have to do a bunch of classes so you can learn about who Jesus is and what all that means."
"Ok."
"Why do you want to be baptized?"
"I would do anything to not feel like this. That might help."
___________________________________________
That was one of the miracles for the day. God cracking the hardened shell on a very needy little boy. Now I'm asking you all to join in my prayers for a miracle. Pray that he follows through and that he meets Jesus and that nothing will get in the way of that. Pray that he finds the Prince of Peace.
Saturday, June 22, 2013
Holy Week at Oaks 2013, Part 1: Palm Sunday and Maundy Thursday
Note: We have a backlog of stories from Oaks of Righteousness that we wanted to share with you. This story is from a couple of months ago.
The Lord met our people during Holy Week this year. On each day, we watched him reach out to different people in different ways. Here are the highlights:
Palm Sunday: For those of you not accustomed to liturgical worship, this service can give you whiplash. It goes from joyful singing and palm branch waving to the bloody horror of the cross.
We began our worship with the blessing of palm fronds and a rowdy rendition of "Blessed is He who Comes in the Name of the Lord" that included ukulele, an African drum, an Peruvian drum box, and miniature tamborines, wood blocks and a triangle. And frantic palm-waving.
Then, we flipped our white stoles to red, and the story of Jesus' suffering began. One of the most wonderful things about ministering at Oaks is seeing many of our people hear the great story of the Bible for the first time. The kids sat, remarkably silent, and heard details of our Lord's sacrifice. It was, simply put, holy.
Maundy Thursday: Our plan -- which seemed a bit ambitious -- was to do a Christian Seder Dinner, followed by Eucharist with foot washing and stripping of the altar.
To be honest, we didn't have high hopes that anyone would come to either dinner or worship. We had commitments from no one, though we mentioned it to several folks. So we baked chicken and bought grape juice and matzo and asked God to send who He pleased.
The time came, and our little Passover table suddenly filled to capacity. Out of nowhere, a dozen kids showed up and crowded around the table -- kids who don't normally get along. We solemnly warned them that dinner would be long, and they had to stay for the whole thing. They stayed.
And? They LOVED it. The four cups. The hand washing. The different foods and symbols associated with each. Especially memorable was the stampede of grossed-out kids who bolted for the bathroom to spit out horseradish.
"Why would you make us eat that?" one of the boys asked, his face contorting in disgust.
"Because slavery tastes bad." It was obvious he agreed.
I'm also guessing most Christian Haggadahs don't include the afikomen being hidden in a foosball table. It wasn't traditional or even dignified. But we watched the Lord bring a group of kids who curse and punch one another on the playground to one table. And they tasted his story of liberation from slavery -- the slavery of Egypt, and the slavery of sin.
When the meal ended, there was another stampede out the door. Suddenly, Hannah and I were sitting there at an empty and catastrophically messy table. After a moment of savoring the silence, we stood up. It was time for worship.
No one returned for the Maundy Thursday service. And both of us commented afterward, that seemed to be the Lord's doing. It was a gift of himself, to us. A time of holy intimacy. And we felt him in the foot washing. Heard him in the Word. Took his name upon our lips in the Taize music. Tasted him in the bread and cup. And felt our hearts ache and burn as we stripped the glory and beauty of the altar away.
It was all love. And, a great preparation for the days to come.
The Lord met our people during Holy Week this year. On each day, we watched him reach out to different people in different ways. Here are the highlights:
Palm Sunday: For those of you not accustomed to liturgical worship, this service can give you whiplash. It goes from joyful singing and palm branch waving to the bloody horror of the cross.
We began our worship with the blessing of palm fronds and a rowdy rendition of "Blessed is He who Comes in the Name of the Lord" that included ukulele, an African drum, an Peruvian drum box, and miniature tamborines, wood blocks and a triangle. And frantic palm-waving.
Then, we flipped our white stoles to red, and the story of Jesus' suffering began. One of the most wonderful things about ministering at Oaks is seeing many of our people hear the great story of the Bible for the first time. The kids sat, remarkably silent, and heard details of our Lord's sacrifice. It was, simply put, holy.
Maundy Thursday: Our plan -- which seemed a bit ambitious -- was to do a Christian Seder Dinner, followed by Eucharist with foot washing and stripping of the altar.
To be honest, we didn't have high hopes that anyone would come to either dinner or worship. We had commitments from no one, though we mentioned it to several folks. So we baked chicken and bought grape juice and matzo and asked God to send who He pleased.
The time came, and our little Passover table suddenly filled to capacity. Out of nowhere, a dozen kids showed up and crowded around the table -- kids who don't normally get along. We solemnly warned them that dinner would be long, and they had to stay for the whole thing. They stayed.
And? They LOVED it. The four cups. The hand washing. The different foods and symbols associated with each. Especially memorable was the stampede of grossed-out kids who bolted for the bathroom to spit out horseradish.
"Why would you make us eat that?" one of the boys asked, his face contorting in disgust.
"Because slavery tastes bad." It was obvious he agreed.
I'm also guessing most Christian Haggadahs don't include the afikomen being hidden in a foosball table. It wasn't traditional or even dignified. But we watched the Lord bring a group of kids who curse and punch one another on the playground to one table. And they tasted his story of liberation from slavery -- the slavery of Egypt, and the slavery of sin.
When the meal ended, there was another stampede out the door. Suddenly, Hannah and I were sitting there at an empty and catastrophically messy table. After a moment of savoring the silence, we stood up. It was time for worship.
No one returned for the Maundy Thursday service. And both of us commented afterward, that seemed to be the Lord's doing. It was a gift of himself, to us. A time of holy intimacy. And we felt him in the foot washing. Heard him in the Word. Took his name upon our lips in the Taize music. Tasted him in the bread and cup. And felt our hearts ache and burn as we stripped the glory and beauty of the altar away.
It was all love. And, a great preparation for the days to come.
Saturday, June 15, 2013
Doing Life Together
Today, I taught a 7-year-old that Mary is Jesus' mom and that God is Jesus' dad.
We sat on tall stools in the Cafe on either side of the long counter, doodling stick figures of all the characters in the story. We drew an impressive winged Gabriel and a smiling, bearded Joseph. We drew a family tree with lots of arrows pointed from "God the Father" to "God the Holy Spirit," across to "Mary" and down to "Jesus, Son of God."
And the bottom of the page were the words, "Jesus is God. Jesus is Human." By the end of the doodling session, this 7-year-old could explain why both statements about Jesus were true.
On the other side of the room, another adult discipler, Joe, was telling an age-appropriate version of the story of King David's affair with Bathsheba and murder of Uriah. He was using a Manga comic rendering of the story. The kid he was mentoring agreed the murder was "messed up."
Afterward? We went to the mall, ate soft pretzels, looked at video games and talked to the mannequins inside Old Navy. Then we took the kids home, dropping them off with a simple prayer for their protection and blessing.
We usually call this "mentoring" at Oaks. Two adults, two kids. Christian teaching along with doing life together -- going to the mall, planting flowers, playing Frisbee, baking cupcakes, looking at a waterfall, doing a Dunkin Donuts run.
We have seven kids in mentoring partnerships now, and 17 are on our waiting list for mentors. And although the kids don't understand this, we're not mentoring. We're discipling.
Of all the things our Risen Lord is working through at Oaks -- wonderfully and invisibly -- I often wonder how he's using these times of doing life together to establish eternity in the lives of these children.
One day, we'll know.
We sat on tall stools in the Cafe on either side of the long counter, doodling stick figures of all the characters in the story. We drew an impressive winged Gabriel and a smiling, bearded Joseph. We drew a family tree with lots of arrows pointed from "God the Father" to "God the Holy Spirit," across to "Mary" and down to "Jesus, Son of God."
And the bottom of the page were the words, "Jesus is God. Jesus is Human." By the end of the doodling session, this 7-year-old could explain why both statements about Jesus were true.
On the other side of the room, another adult discipler, Joe, was telling an age-appropriate version of the story of King David's affair with Bathsheba and murder of Uriah. He was using a Manga comic rendering of the story. The kid he was mentoring agreed the murder was "messed up."
Afterward? We went to the mall, ate soft pretzels, looked at video games and talked to the mannequins inside Old Navy. Then we took the kids home, dropping them off with a simple prayer for their protection and blessing.
We usually call this "mentoring" at Oaks. Two adults, two kids. Christian teaching along with doing life together -- going to the mall, planting flowers, playing Frisbee, baking cupcakes, looking at a waterfall, doing a Dunkin Donuts run.
We have seven kids in mentoring partnerships now, and 17 are on our waiting list for mentors. And although the kids don't understand this, we're not mentoring. We're discipling.
Of all the things our Risen Lord is working through at Oaks -- wonderfully and invisibly -- I often wonder how he's using these times of doing life together to establish eternity in the lives of these children.
One day, we'll know.
Thursday, May 23, 2013
What's the point of being here?
Note: We have a backlog of stories from Oaks of Righteousness that we wanted to share with you. This story is from a couple of months ago.
Why did God call us to North Troy? What's he doing at Oaks? Is he doing anything?
All of the volunteers at Oaks Cafe reach a point where we begin to ask questions like these. We wonder if telling the kids in the Cafe "no" roughly every two minutes does anything for their spiritual lives. We recoil at the names people call one another and the celebration of violence. And we begin to wonder -- in our more cynical moments -- if all we're doing at Oaks is handing out brownies.
Months ago, I was asking God these questions in a rather angry tone. I was about to do a Bible study with Hannah, a few of our girls, and kids from another church. But when we arrived at the other church, no one was there. They'd canceled and hadn't told us.
So we decided to have the Bible study anyway with the people we had. Angry at being forgotten by the hosting church, I went out to my car to get my Bible and took the opportunity to fume at God. I asked whether any of my work had made any difference. Looking back, it seems I'd gotten it into my head that "my work" was what mattered instead of the transformative work God was doing, steadily and invisibly, in the hearts around me.
At any rate, I went back inside. We sat in a circle and Hannah gave the girls a challenge: tell us a Bible story, and then we'll tell you a story. And then it happened.
The girls told three stories. One described Jesus' crucifixion. The other described Jesus calming the storm and feeding the thousands. And, I knew where they'd heard those stories -- they'd learned them from me and from Hannah.
Tears filled my eyes, and I knew God was gently answering my angry diatribe. He was showing me that the kids really don't know anything about the Scriptures, and they won't know unless someone tells them. They won't know about a powerful, beautiful, joy-filled, holy God unless someone tells them.
Then it was our turn to tell a story. I'd thought of telling about Jesus raising Lazarus from death, but I felt strongly I was supposed to tell the story of him forgiving the woman caught in adultery. I told the story. The girls listened. Then it was Hannah's turn.
"What story are you going to tell?" I asked.
"The story you just told," she replied.
So there was the Holy Spirit again. Guiding us, steadily and humbly, right down to our story choice. Apparently, of all stories in the entire Bible, that was the story the girls needed to hear. The Lord put it in both my and Hannah's minds just to make sure we got it right.
Is God doing anything? More than I can see. More than I can ask or imagine. Apart from him, I can do nothing. And with him, nothing is impossible.
Why did God call us to North Troy? What's he doing at Oaks? Is he doing anything?
All of the volunteers at Oaks Cafe reach a point where we begin to ask questions like these. We wonder if telling the kids in the Cafe "no" roughly every two minutes does anything for their spiritual lives. We recoil at the names people call one another and the celebration of violence. And we begin to wonder -- in our more cynical moments -- if all we're doing at Oaks is handing out brownies.
Months ago, I was asking God these questions in a rather angry tone. I was about to do a Bible study with Hannah, a few of our girls, and kids from another church. But when we arrived at the other church, no one was there. They'd canceled and hadn't told us.
So we decided to have the Bible study anyway with the people we had. Angry at being forgotten by the hosting church, I went out to my car to get my Bible and took the opportunity to fume at God. I asked whether any of my work had made any difference. Looking back, it seems I'd gotten it into my head that "my work" was what mattered instead of the transformative work God was doing, steadily and invisibly, in the hearts around me.
At any rate, I went back inside. We sat in a circle and Hannah gave the girls a challenge: tell us a Bible story, and then we'll tell you a story. And then it happened.
The girls told three stories. One described Jesus' crucifixion. The other described Jesus calming the storm and feeding the thousands. And, I knew where they'd heard those stories -- they'd learned them from me and from Hannah.
Tears filled my eyes, and I knew God was gently answering my angry diatribe. He was showing me that the kids really don't know anything about the Scriptures, and they won't know unless someone tells them. They won't know about a powerful, beautiful, joy-filled, holy God unless someone tells them.
Then it was our turn to tell a story. I'd thought of telling about Jesus raising Lazarus from death, but I felt strongly I was supposed to tell the story of him forgiving the woman caught in adultery. I told the story. The girls listened. Then it was Hannah's turn.
"What story are you going to tell?" I asked.
"The story you just told," she replied.
So there was the Holy Spirit again. Guiding us, steadily and humbly, right down to our story choice. Apparently, of all stories in the entire Bible, that was the story the girls needed to hear. The Lord put it in both my and Hannah's minds just to make sure we got it right.
Is God doing anything? More than I can see. More than I can ask or imagine. Apart from him, I can do nothing. And with him, nothing is impossible.
Thursday, May 16, 2013
Prayer Does Stuff
Last Sunday, I spent about an hour praying outside Oaks Cafe for the neighborhood. A few of the local boys were bored, so they hung out with me. They talked to me about scary movies. Then, as I continued to pray silently, they talked to one another about sports. At one point, I turned to one of the kids and asked, "You know why I pray?"
"No."
"Because it actually does stuff. If it didn't, I wouldn't waste my time."
That's the Bible answer, right? God actually listens to us when we talk to him -- divine-human communication being the first thing that happens in prayer. Abiding in the divine presence through Jesus' intercession. That's the first flabbergasting miracle.
But there's even more to prayer than that. Sometimes, God tells you to pray stuff and you can't really see much happening. On Sunday, I felt called to walk around North Troy for another hour. My mission: to softly say Jeremiah 29:11-13 over and over and over again as I walked to prophetically speak the heavenly reality of God's agenda into the place he's redeeming.
I know that probably sounds pretty weird to some of you. And I didn't see anything dramatic happen with my eyes. Just tried to be obedient because being obedient is never a waste of time. It's a way to show the Lord I love him.
Then, other times, you pray and you see God do stuff.
Yesterday was one of those days. I went on a prayer walk -- a stroll around the neighborhood, praying however I felt the Holy Spirit led me. I ended up beside an apartment where I heard a horrible, profanity-peppered screaming fight taking place. I stood there and prayed softly in my prayer language (because I wasn't sure how to pray). After perhaps five minutes, the screaming gave way to civil tones.
Then I heard someone say, "Excuse me. Are you waiting for someone?" It was a woman peering down at me from the second floor of the apartment building. I told her I was praying for the neighborhood and that I'd move on shortly.
"Could you pray for me?" she asked. "I've been through a lot."
I said I would. She gave me her name and said she was grieving the death of a friend -- that very day was the 5-year anniversary of the death. She smiled at me.
"Having you show up here today to pray is a real blessing," she said.
"I guess God's looking out for you," I said and smiled back.
Sometimes I see it. Sometimes I don't. But prayer does stuff.
Thursday, April 11, 2013
Small Explosions of Beauty and Flame
"Do you want to see Jesus' crown of thorns? Come with me. I'll show you."
The kid asking this question isn't the most pious of our crew -- rarely wants to read Bible stories or pray. So, I was curious as to what he wanted to show us.
He lead a group of people outside the Cafe, turned right, and walked to the neighborhood park. He pointed to the fence. The top of it was laced with barbed wire. Jesus' crown of thorns, hidden in plain sight in North Central Troy.
Jesus' transfiguration was in a mountaintop blaze of glory, but his transfiguration of our hearts often seems visible only in a flash -- like lighting a match. If you look away at the right moment, you could miss it. If you're looking at the right moment, it is a small explosion of beauty and flame.
Last week, we were playing some baseball. One of our kids suddenly bounced onto his knees and dropped his head low. Then he looked up at me and half-asked, half-declared, "This is how God prays."
I thought for a moment, then remembered he'd watched a film version of Jesus' passion on Good Friday with us. "You mean the way Jesus prayed in the garden?" I asked. He nodded, looking at me with an indulgent expression that said, "Well, obviously."
Somehow, in the middle of the chaos of the ministry going on at Oaks, Jesus is becoming a reality in our peoples' lives. They are beginning to see Him in everyday things, amid the yelling and dog crap on the sidewalk and blowing potato chip bags and broken beer bottles and cop cars screaming past. They're seeing Jesus. They're thinking of Jesus.
The other day, a kid was being careless and hit one of our volunteers in the mouth -- not enough to draw blood, but enough to really hurt.
Now, full stop. The norm when you hit an adult: you run away. Why? The adult could scream at you. The adult could hit you. The adult may tell your parents, who could scream at you or hit you.
Instead, the kid immediately and sincerely said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." And the adult, being a Christian, chided the boy for being careless and then forgave him.
Don't look away, because this is a moment of beauty and flame. Because a boy who hurt someone didn't run. He's been around enough to know he can ask for forgiveness. And, it was granted.
Lord Jesus, only you can light these fires of transfiguration that I can see beginning to burn around me. May the grow ever brighter with your glory -- the Pascal glory of life coming out of death. Alleluia.
The kid asking this question isn't the most pious of our crew -- rarely wants to read Bible stories or pray. So, I was curious as to what he wanted to show us.
He lead a group of people outside the Cafe, turned right, and walked to the neighborhood park. He pointed to the fence. The top of it was laced with barbed wire. Jesus' crown of thorns, hidden in plain sight in North Central Troy.
Jesus' transfiguration was in a mountaintop blaze of glory, but his transfiguration of our hearts often seems visible only in a flash -- like lighting a match. If you look away at the right moment, you could miss it. If you're looking at the right moment, it is a small explosion of beauty and flame.
Last week, we were playing some baseball. One of our kids suddenly bounced onto his knees and dropped his head low. Then he looked up at me and half-asked, half-declared, "This is how God prays."
I thought for a moment, then remembered he'd watched a film version of Jesus' passion on Good Friday with us. "You mean the way Jesus prayed in the garden?" I asked. He nodded, looking at me with an indulgent expression that said, "Well, obviously."
Somehow, in the middle of the chaos of the ministry going on at Oaks, Jesus is becoming a reality in our peoples' lives. They are beginning to see Him in everyday things, amid the yelling and dog crap on the sidewalk and blowing potato chip bags and broken beer bottles and cop cars screaming past. They're seeing Jesus. They're thinking of Jesus.
The other day, a kid was being careless and hit one of our volunteers in the mouth -- not enough to draw blood, but enough to really hurt.
Now, full stop. The norm when you hit an adult: you run away. Why? The adult could scream at you. The adult could hit you. The adult may tell your parents, who could scream at you or hit you.
Instead, the kid immediately and sincerely said, "I'm sorry, I'm sorry." And the adult, being a Christian, chided the boy for being careless and then forgave him.
Don't look away, because this is a moment of beauty and flame. Because a boy who hurt someone didn't run. He's been around enough to know he can ask for forgiveness. And, it was granted.
Lord Jesus, only you can light these fires of transfiguration that I can see beginning to burn around me. May the grow ever brighter with your glory -- the Pascal glory of life coming out of death. Alleluia.
Wednesday, March 20, 2013
Prodigal update
A week ago, we asked you to pray for the young fella who broke our window at the Cafe -- that he'd own up to what he'd done and accept our forgiveness and invitation to get ice cream (see "The True Prodigal Son" entry below for more details).
Wanted to report back on the Lord's wonderful answer to your prayers. On Saturday, Hannah and I had a great talk with the young man in question. He owned up to what he'd done, we reconciled, and we shook hands.
On Sunday, we went out for pizza and ice cream with him and another one of his friends. We had a good chat -- just got to know one another better. The boys talked about typical stuff a lot of the time ... sports matches they've won or lost, gross-out injury stories, video games they've played, what girls are nice and/or cute.
And, they talked about shootings. One of the boys saw the body of a cousin immediately after he'd been shot to death over a rap video war on youtube. The other boy's father survived being shot nine times and killed his attackers in self-defense.
This violence is part of the fabric of our peoples' lives. In many ways, these kids understand the uncertainty and danger faced by people in much of the world better than I do -- including the uncertainty and danger that the people of God faced in Biblical times, throughout church history, and now. May the gospel of Christ speak into their lives as blazingly and hopefully today as it always has.
"O God, the author of peace and lover of concord, to know you is eternal life and to serve you is perfect freedom: Defend us, your humble servants, in all assaults of our enemies; that we, surely trusting in your defense, may not fear the power of any adversaries; through the might of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."
Wanted to report back on the Lord's wonderful answer to your prayers. On Saturday, Hannah and I had a great talk with the young man in question. He owned up to what he'd done, we reconciled, and we shook hands.
On Sunday, we went out for pizza and ice cream with him and another one of his friends. We had a good chat -- just got to know one another better. The boys talked about typical stuff a lot of the time ... sports matches they've won or lost, gross-out injury stories, video games they've played, what girls are nice and/or cute.
And, they talked about shootings. One of the boys saw the body of a cousin immediately after he'd been shot to death over a rap video war on youtube. The other boy's father survived being shot nine times and killed his attackers in self-defense.
This violence is part of the fabric of our peoples' lives. In many ways, these kids understand the uncertainty and danger faced by people in much of the world better than I do -- including the uncertainty and danger that the people of God faced in Biblical times, throughout church history, and now. May the gospel of Christ speak into their lives as blazingly and hopefully today as it always has.
"O God, the author of peace and lover of concord, to know you is eternal life and to serve you is perfect freedom: Defend us, your humble servants, in all assaults of our enemies; that we, surely trusting in your defense, may not fear the power of any adversaries; through the might of Jesus Christ our Lord. Amen."
Wednesday, March 13, 2013
The True Prodigal Son
This is a version of a sermon that I preached on Sunday. It draws heavily on something that happened at Oaks the previous week.
For those of you who don't know, I'm a missionary priest in Troy. We work in the inner city, mostly with children, in a pretty rough neighborhood. A lot of the ministry is done out of a diner that we reopened as a cafe and ministry center.
Last Friday, a group of boys got rowdy and very profane. They were throwing around racist and vulgar language, and a few of them began fighting in the street outside. My colleague, Mother Hannah, told the kids they weren't allowed in for the rest of the day.
To retaliate, they began throwing big chunks of ice at our windows, and one of them cracked. This is the same window we'd shelled out maybe $100 to fix very recently (it had a bullet hole in it previously, leftover from before we'd taken over the building).
Well, I was angry. I put on my big black coat and marched to the boys' parents' house, having two goals in mind. First, I was going to tell the exactly what their kids had done. Second, I was hoping to talk them into paying for part of the window replacement. Their mom wasn't home, so I left a note for her to call me.
So, here's the question: was there a problem with what I did? Wasn't I within my rights? Didn't I need to teach those boys that there are consequences for their actions? Don't I have a responsibility to be a good steward of the money entrusted to this ministry? Can I just let them walk all over me?
That night and the next day, I prayed about what to do. And I heard the Lord say this, "Christina, do you care about that window and your hurt pride, or do you care more about those boys?"
Because the boys live in the world of reaping what you sow. But, our Father doesn't play by those rules. His rules aren't fair. They're Kingdom rules -- overflowing with grace and mercy.
So the Lord told me, "Child, find a way to seek after those boys, not your own desire for payback." And Mother Hannah and I talked, and we figured out a way to approach the situation. We'll tell the boys next time we see them, "Whichever one of you who broke the window has to admit that you did it." (Because denial of wrongdoing -- absolute, unwavering denial despite the evidence -- is the norm in our community). "Until you admit what you did, you will not be allowed in the Cafe. And the moment you admit what you did, you'll be allowed back inside and completely forgiven -- not reparations or recriminations. In other words, your punishment lasts as long as you say it does. There's one condition of your being allowed back in -- you have to come out for ice cream with Mother Hannah and I so we can get to know you better."
So first, I'd ask that you pray for those kids and for that conversation, that they'd taste grace.
Secondly, why have I told all of you this story? It may be obvious that I was meditating on the gospel reading of the Prodigal Son as I was figuring out how to handle that pastorally. This gospel story is one of the most beloved in Scripture -- a moving account of the younger son falling away and his restoration by his gracious, loving father. I've heard a lot of commentators in recent years say this should be called the parable of the Gracious Father because it's all about him, and that's certainly true.
But here's the thing -- we all want to be the younger son in this story. And we are, in truth. We have all fallen away, and we need to feel our Father's embrace.
But despite what we want, I think we are more often the older son. That's us. Because who's the true prodigal by the end of this story? The older son -- standing in the dark, angry, refusing to enter into the celebration of his brother's new life.
And this is the good kid. The church kid. The kid who never did anything wrong. Who played by the rules.
That's who I was on Friday. I was just looking for what was due to me. But, that's not how the Father works.
And this begs the question: how often do good church people miss a chance -- as they're looking for something good and right that's due them -- to stop and say, "Father, what would you have me do? Can I set aside the broken window or whatever is fixating me and see a chance to pour your kingdom grace into a broken life?"
How many tax collectors and sinners to we put in second place behind our own agendas?
I've compiled a list of people I've heard Christians criticize over the years. This list is not exhaustive: black people, Roman Catholics, gay rights parade marchers, Tea Party members, environmentalists, atheists, Mormons, Jews, the media, Muslims, welfare moms, gun owners, drug addicts, politicians, conservatives, Mexicans and sex offenders.
Which of these people would Jesus refuse to sit and eat with? Which of these does the Father not look down the road for, long for, day after day?
The world should look at Christians and say, "Those Christians? They're crazy. They'll love anyone. They'll speak to anyone. They'll pray for anyone." We should be known for brave, reckless, extravagant love.
Do they say these things about us? They do not. And I'm not suggesting we compromise holiness or the truth revealed in Scripture. But, why do they not know we're Christians by our love?
I think we've failed. But this is Lent, a season of repentance, of turning toward new life.
And what will God do to us for our failure? He'll look into our eyes, with infinite love, and say, "Child, come inside. Rejoice with us."
St. Francis of Assisi tells a story that was important in his walk with the Lord. He used to hate lepers. Hated how they smelled. Hated how they looked. And God began to work on his heart and work on his heart. And, one day, he embraced and kissed a leper -- just as the Father embraced the younger son. And Francis found it was Jesus who he embraced.
What shall we do? Let us embrace the lepers in our lives, whoever they are.
And, when we come in from the fields doing what we hope is the Father's will, let us stop. Because the Father isn't in the house. He's outside, on the edge of the fields, gazing down the road. Let's stop, and stand by his side, and try to look where he's looking. Let's ask him, "Father, give me more of your heart to love and better eyes to see."
And let's watch with him and pray until every one of our brothers and sisters comes home.
In the name of God: the Father the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
For those of you who don't know, I'm a missionary priest in Troy. We work in the inner city, mostly with children, in a pretty rough neighborhood. A lot of the ministry is done out of a diner that we reopened as a cafe and ministry center.
Last Friday, a group of boys got rowdy and very profane. They were throwing around racist and vulgar language, and a few of them began fighting in the street outside. My colleague, Mother Hannah, told the kids they weren't allowed in for the rest of the day.
To retaliate, they began throwing big chunks of ice at our windows, and one of them cracked. This is the same window we'd shelled out maybe $100 to fix very recently (it had a bullet hole in it previously, leftover from before we'd taken over the building).
Well, I was angry. I put on my big black coat and marched to the boys' parents' house, having two goals in mind. First, I was going to tell the exactly what their kids had done. Second, I was hoping to talk them into paying for part of the window replacement. Their mom wasn't home, so I left a note for her to call me.
So, here's the question: was there a problem with what I did? Wasn't I within my rights? Didn't I need to teach those boys that there are consequences for their actions? Don't I have a responsibility to be a good steward of the money entrusted to this ministry? Can I just let them walk all over me?
That night and the next day, I prayed about what to do. And I heard the Lord say this, "Christina, do you care about that window and your hurt pride, or do you care more about those boys?"
Because the boys live in the world of reaping what you sow. But, our Father doesn't play by those rules. His rules aren't fair. They're Kingdom rules -- overflowing with grace and mercy.
So the Lord told me, "Child, find a way to seek after those boys, not your own desire for payback." And Mother Hannah and I talked, and we figured out a way to approach the situation. We'll tell the boys next time we see them, "Whichever one of you who broke the window has to admit that you did it." (Because denial of wrongdoing -- absolute, unwavering denial despite the evidence -- is the norm in our community). "Until you admit what you did, you will not be allowed in the Cafe. And the moment you admit what you did, you'll be allowed back inside and completely forgiven -- not reparations or recriminations. In other words, your punishment lasts as long as you say it does. There's one condition of your being allowed back in -- you have to come out for ice cream with Mother Hannah and I so we can get to know you better."
So first, I'd ask that you pray for those kids and for that conversation, that they'd taste grace.
Secondly, why have I told all of you this story? It may be obvious that I was meditating on the gospel reading of the Prodigal Son as I was figuring out how to handle that pastorally. This gospel story is one of the most beloved in Scripture -- a moving account of the younger son falling away and his restoration by his gracious, loving father. I've heard a lot of commentators in recent years say this should be called the parable of the Gracious Father because it's all about him, and that's certainly true.
But here's the thing -- we all want to be the younger son in this story. And we are, in truth. We have all fallen away, and we need to feel our Father's embrace.
But despite what we want, I think we are more often the older son. That's us. Because who's the true prodigal by the end of this story? The older son -- standing in the dark, angry, refusing to enter into the celebration of his brother's new life.
And this is the good kid. The church kid. The kid who never did anything wrong. Who played by the rules.
That's who I was on Friday. I was just looking for what was due to me. But, that's not how the Father works.
And this begs the question: how often do good church people miss a chance -- as they're looking for something good and right that's due them -- to stop and say, "Father, what would you have me do? Can I set aside the broken window or whatever is fixating me and see a chance to pour your kingdom grace into a broken life?"
How many tax collectors and sinners to we put in second place behind our own agendas?
I've compiled a list of people I've heard Christians criticize over the years. This list is not exhaustive: black people, Roman Catholics, gay rights parade marchers, Tea Party members, environmentalists, atheists, Mormons, Jews, the media, Muslims, welfare moms, gun owners, drug addicts, politicians, conservatives, Mexicans and sex offenders.
Which of these people would Jesus refuse to sit and eat with? Which of these does the Father not look down the road for, long for, day after day?
The world should look at Christians and say, "Those Christians? They're crazy. They'll love anyone. They'll speak to anyone. They'll pray for anyone." We should be known for brave, reckless, extravagant love.
Do they say these things about us? They do not. And I'm not suggesting we compromise holiness or the truth revealed in Scripture. But, why do they not know we're Christians by our love?
I think we've failed. But this is Lent, a season of repentance, of turning toward new life.
And what will God do to us for our failure? He'll look into our eyes, with infinite love, and say, "Child, come inside. Rejoice with us."
St. Francis of Assisi tells a story that was important in his walk with the Lord. He used to hate lepers. Hated how they smelled. Hated how they looked. And God began to work on his heart and work on his heart. And, one day, he embraced and kissed a leper -- just as the Father embraced the younger son. And Francis found it was Jesus who he embraced.
What shall we do? Let us embrace the lepers in our lives, whoever they are.
And, when we come in from the fields doing what we hope is the Father's will, let us stop. Because the Father isn't in the house. He's outside, on the edge of the fields, gazing down the road. Let's stop, and stand by his side, and try to look where he's looking. Let's ask him, "Father, give me more of your heart to love and better eyes to see."
And let's watch with him and pray until every one of our brothers and sisters comes home.
In the name of God: the Father the Son and the Holy Spirit. Amen.
Wednesday, February 27, 2013
"A Crown of Beauty"
"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me...to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, the garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair...."
So many girls and women in our culture struggle with beauty. They measure their worth according to the world's standards, and they find themselves lacking. They begin to get a warped picture of themselves, seeing internal and external ugliness instead of the glory and beauty God has given them.
And I'm no exception. I've struggled to see beauty in myself, physically, mentally and spiritually. Jesus has done a great deal of healing in me in this area, and I know he will do more.
Some time back, I hit a wall when it came to ministering in Troy. I thought of Isaiah 61 -- the Scripture God used to call Hannah and I to this city (and part of which is quoted above). And I said, "Lord, this Scripture speaks of you restoring hope and beauty to your people. And I don't have hope for my future. I don't believe I have any beauty. How can you use a person like me to do your work in this city? Why have you called a despairing, broken woman to be your priest in this despairing, broken city? I'm just like Troy."
And then Jesus began to heal me. And give me hope for the future. And place a crown of beauty upon my head.
So I was right. I had nothing -- absolutely nothing -- to offer my people here. But Jesus is healing me. And, he will heal my city.
I look in the faces of the girls and women, the boys and men, as they walk the trash-strewn sidewalks. And I know they cannot see their God-created beauty. They don't know yet, but their days of ashes, mourning and despair are coming to an end.
A crown of beauty awaits them.
Thursday, February 21, 2013
Peacemakers
Things are rough in North Troy. For several months, I have been pondering and praying about how to be a peacemaker in the constant fighting and chaos. Yesterday, I saw it. It was beautiful.
First of all, there is Boy 1 who we've been working with for close to a year now. He had anger management problems, demon problems, family craziness - you name it, he had it. A week and a half ago, I baptized this kid. It was a beautiful, miraculous thing. And he changed.
So, phase two of working with this kid is: how to love your neighbor and live like Jesus wants us to. He's not so sure about this bit. In his baptismal vows, this was the question that he answered, "Well, sometimes. Okay, yeah." But I think that yesterday, he had a taste of how that can be really good. He had an experience of peace instead of the war he expected.
He messes with other kids. He starts things, he insults people; he's a fighter. So Boy 2 is a new boy in the cafe recently, who is really sweet; his mother is a pastor somewhere. Incidentally she is also REALLY tall. She makes Christina look like a midget. I didn't know that Boy 1 had been messing with the new kid - I was busy stopping riots on the other side of the room and I can only assume that he was swearing at him or something. I didn't know anything about it until Boy 2 and his mother and a whole posse of other people came in. She is imposing, and everything went dead quiet. She asked who had been fighting with her boy. Boy 1 suddenly disappeared into the bathroom.
The room was full of Boy 1's cousins and siblings who immediately all started yelling about how Boy 2 had sworn at Boy 1 and he started it. His mom very firmly told them all that she didn't raise her son that way and that she is a pastor. Realizing that this tactic wasn't going to work, Boy 1's family turned on him, started yelling at him, and tried to drag him out to meet his doom - not unlike a lynch mob.
The way things work in our neighborhood is: if you mess with a kid enough to get his mother involved, it's BAD. She will chew you up one side and down the other, make sure you get whupped, and possibly get your mother involved, where you'll get it again. Or the mothers will go at it. I don't blame Boy 1 for hiding in the bathroom. Seems like appropriate personal safety protocol to me. However, this woman was just trying to teach her son about reconciliation - making peace while sticking up for him.
I made Boy 1 come out of the bathroom and he hid behind the little partition we have in front of the bathrooms. I told him over and over, "She's not mad. She just wants to talk to you." Finally, when Christina came over and said exactly what I had said, he agreed to a private meeting in the kitchen. So the four of us went back in the kitchen. Boy 2's mother told him she wasn't going to do anything to him and gave them both a little talk about how things happen, and we can agree to disagree and be civil to one another even if we're mad at each other.
Then she told her son to shake hands with Boy 1. I have never seen anyone so taken aback as Boy 1. It was an absolutely beautiful moment. He shook hands, and I suggested that he apologize to Boy 2 for their "misunderstanding." Without hesitation or irony (which is definitely a first), he said, "Sorry." And so did Boy 2.
I think he understood grace.
First of all, there is Boy 1 who we've been working with for close to a year now. He had anger management problems, demon problems, family craziness - you name it, he had it. A week and a half ago, I baptized this kid. It was a beautiful, miraculous thing. And he changed.
So, phase two of working with this kid is: how to love your neighbor and live like Jesus wants us to. He's not so sure about this bit. In his baptismal vows, this was the question that he answered, "Well, sometimes. Okay, yeah." But I think that yesterday, he had a taste of how that can be really good. He had an experience of peace instead of the war he expected.
He messes with other kids. He starts things, he insults people; he's a fighter. So Boy 2 is a new boy in the cafe recently, who is really sweet; his mother is a pastor somewhere. Incidentally she is also REALLY tall. She makes Christina look like a midget. I didn't know that Boy 1 had been messing with the new kid - I was busy stopping riots on the other side of the room and I can only assume that he was swearing at him or something. I didn't know anything about it until Boy 2 and his mother and a whole posse of other people came in. She is imposing, and everything went dead quiet. She asked who had been fighting with her boy. Boy 1 suddenly disappeared into the bathroom.
The room was full of Boy 1's cousins and siblings who immediately all started yelling about how Boy 2 had sworn at Boy 1 and he started it. His mom very firmly told them all that she didn't raise her son that way and that she is a pastor. Realizing that this tactic wasn't going to work, Boy 1's family turned on him, started yelling at him, and tried to drag him out to meet his doom - not unlike a lynch mob.
The way things work in our neighborhood is: if you mess with a kid enough to get his mother involved, it's BAD. She will chew you up one side and down the other, make sure you get whupped, and possibly get your mother involved, where you'll get it again. Or the mothers will go at it. I don't blame Boy 1 for hiding in the bathroom. Seems like appropriate personal safety protocol to me. However, this woman was just trying to teach her son about reconciliation - making peace while sticking up for him.
I made Boy 1 come out of the bathroom and he hid behind the little partition we have in front of the bathrooms. I told him over and over, "She's not mad. She just wants to talk to you." Finally, when Christina came over and said exactly what I had said, he agreed to a private meeting in the kitchen. So the four of us went back in the kitchen. Boy 2's mother told him she wasn't going to do anything to him and gave them both a little talk about how things happen, and we can agree to disagree and be civil to one another even if we're mad at each other.
Then she told her son to shake hands with Boy 1. I have never seen anyone so taken aback as Boy 1. It was an absolutely beautiful moment. He shook hands, and I suggested that he apologize to Boy 2 for their "misunderstanding." Without hesitation or irony (which is definitely a first), he said, "Sorry." And so did Boy 2.
I think he understood grace.
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