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.

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.

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.

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.

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.

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."

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.