How Do You Respond?

Poverty surrounds us. I mean all of us. None of us are so insulated that we are spared at least occasional contact with the broken. We know, of course, that poverty is not merely a physical issue. I would suggest that it’s not even primarily a physical issue. Poverty is all too often a complex network of brokenness that starts at the center and works its’ way out to the surface. Since we all see it, we may find it helpful to ask….how should we respond to it? Well, there are tons of wrong ways to respond. Denying, avoiding, and blaming would be a few. I’m learning though that there may be as many right responses as there are wrong ones.

When Bill Gates saw it, his response was to start a foundation. Through his charitable efforts, an inconceivable amount of money has been pumped into the poorest of poor communities. And he has raised as much awareness as he has money. A long, long time before Bill Gates was conscience- stricken by the presence of poverty, St. Francis had his heart stirred by the sight of beggars. His response? He stripped stark naked and ran into the woods. He gave away his possessions, spent the bulk of his time in prayer, and preached the Good News to the poor.

Here we see one issue provoke two profoundly diverse responses. Who was right? I think they both were. The contrast between them can be at least partially explained by their gifts. Bill Gates was given a keen intellect and a resilient drive. His response was measured. It was practical. St. Francis was given a sanctified imagination and a high tolerance for embarrassment. His reaction was absurd. Then again, so was the inequality he was faced with.

When you see poverty, how do you answer? Do you run to the bank or to the woods? Do you come up with a plan, or do you get down on your face? I guess the important thing is that we all do something. The world could sure use more conscientious entrepreneurs. LORD knows we could use a lot more naked saints.

not alone

When I was younger, I rarely had occasion to be home alone. If my folks were both out of pocket, they generally left Matt and I in the fairly capable hands of our older brother Kris. But I do vividly recall one exception. Mom and dad were going to pick up Matt from camp, and Kris was working. I was only ten or eleven, but I begged mom and dad to let me stay home so I could watch Jaws. That's correct. Eventually they relented. They pulled out of the driveway. I was by myself, and excited for it. I cut on the TV, adjusted the rabbit ears and watched with rapt attention as a mammoth man-eater stalked his prey. Here's the deal with Jaws....Jaws is scary if you're actually in the ocean. I was easily a hundred miles from the nearest respectable body of water. But I was scared out of my mind. I don't know if it was the ominous music or the phantom dorsal fin that kept poking through the fuzzy lines on my television screen. Anyway, the reality of my aloneness hit me hard. The house felt quiet and empty. My family would return in a matter of hours, but I seriously felt like I would be alone for the rest of eternity. In my panic I did what any self-respecting youngster would do. I intentionally locked myself out of my house and asked my neighbors if I could watch Star Trek with them until my people returned. They obliged and I didn't feel alone anymore.

That's one story about one time that I felt alone.It's not the only story. Honestly, feeling alone has been sort of a recurring theme in my life. I haven't always felt alone, but there have been times when I have felt utterly so. Many well-intentioned people have counseled me to remember that God is there in spite of my lonely feelings. That doesn't really help. What did help was the revelation that God isn't just there in spite of my loneliness. He is in my loneliness. Actually, without getting too mystical about it, I have learned that God is my loneliness. He has placed within his children a deep, deep longing for him. It's a longing that God made but refuses to fill, even with himself. It is this longing that draws us slowly but surely to the heart of our Creator. We were created in his image. I take that to mean that there is a little piece of God at the center of us all. So my hunger for intimacy, and my yearning for security is nothing more than the action of God searching for himself. The truth that I am not alone is displayed by my loneliness. If I were truly alone, I would never feel lonely.


"Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there."

The Nantahala

Last weekend, we went rafting. Actually, we went camping and rafting. We thought it would be fun to take some of our middle school boys into the woods for a couple of days. There were eleven of us total. We left Friday, and headed up to the Nantahala, where we camped Friday night. We had in mind a sort-of return to nature. Or in some cases an initial introduction. Thus we confiscated all personal gaming devices and mp3 players. Fortunately, the inevitable protests that ensued were not the highlight of the weekend.

We spent the evening by the fire. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and told really bad ghost stories. Saturday, the much awaited rafting commenced. As with every trip down the river, ours was a mixture of the good and the bad. First, the bad….The water was COLD. Dae Dae fell in. Tre got thrown in. We nearly knocked an old man out of his kayak. Our guide was a young lady who had lived in a tent all summer and was covered with a lethal combination of tattoos and dreadlocks.

Now the good….The sky was beautiful. The sun was shining. Everybody laughed a lot. And finally, our guide was a young lady who had lived in a tent all summer and was covered with a lethal combination of tattoos and dreadlocks. Thank you LORD for your amazing creation and the unique way you meet us there. You didn’t have to but you did.

Called to feel

As I have sort of alluded to recently, I went through a pretty difficult time a little over a year ago. A big part of my struggles revolved around ministry. Here's a little something I wrote a couple of months ago as I looked back on that time.....

My attempts to unbreak my people broke me. It was physically painful. A numbness; like someone you love just punched you in the gut and left you praying for air while they walked off without remorse. For weeks I prayed that God would heal whatever it was that broke. I wanted to be fixed so that I could be a healer. The harder I pleaded the more distant God felt. What did he want me to do? Where was he? Why would he call me to something that I not only couldn't handle, but that would render me unable to handle anything? And so, we wrestled. There were only two ways this wrestling match could end. It was either going to kill me, or I was going to have to cry uncle.

It took me losing all of my strength before I would finally quit fighting. In my surrender I saw what until then I could not see. God wasn't going to give me rest from my brokenness. He was calling me to rest in my brokenness. To sit down. To feel the pain that my people feel on a daily basis. To hurt for them, and to remain present in a place that most folks try to escape from. I asked God to make me strong. He was delighted that I had finally been made weak. The place that I wanted to hide was the place that God wanted to show the world for my own good, and for his own glory.

I now know that in order for ministry to mean something, it has to hurt sometimes. How often do we rush into ministry, but away from pain? We want to save others, but forget that we can't save anyone that we have no empathy for. I am called to carry the pain of a people. I long to carry it with dignity and sobriety. Sometimes I still try to fix others before they break me. More often though, I'm reminded that only if I allow them to break me do either of us stand a chance of being fixed.

The sacred shrug/ Everywhere part 2

Sometimes "I don't know" is the best answer. Sometimes a shrug speaks more truth than an over-confident fist pump. Please don't get me wrong. I love the church, and she has been far better to me than I have to her. But at times I see a church dressed with certainty; a church with little to no tolerance for the transcendence of the Eternal. Maybe the best evidence is the lack of silence in our public and private lives. With silence comes mystery. With mystery comes uncertainty. With uncertainty comes a lack of control. And if we're not in control, then just who the heck is? We could give control to God, but he's so unpredictable, who knows what he might do. We are left then with two choices. We either strip God of his mystery, or we strip ourselves of our false certainty. We are reluctant to take the second option for one primary reason....nothing scares us more than nothing scares us. Stepping into the abyss of Gods' mystery scares the junk out of us because there is a perceived loss of identity. Being hidden in Christ precludes us from advancing our own cause.

And so we fake it. We cling to our idols of the intellect that bear a slight resemblance to the Deity they represent. We develop systems of belief that appease for the moment our existential angst. The end result is that God no longer moves in our churches. Every time he tries to, we freeze him in mid stride.

Senior Projects

One of the privileges that we have in our ministry is the opportunity to build relationships with some pretty cool senior citizens. In addition to providing groceries to the residents of East Side Homes, we have been blessed with the volunteers and the resources to pitch in and repair some houses. This ministry is reserved solely for senior citizens.
Recently, we hosted our first work team consisting entirely of middle-schoolers. Not one of these youngsters had any experience painting, nor of having grown over five-and-a-half feet tall. Yet what they lacked in experience and stature, they more than made up for in heart. They painted, cleaned, and weeded for two days straight. Nary a complaint was heard. They even paid eager attention as Mr. Harvey told tales of his long passed childhood. Mr. Harvey is an eighty-five year old resident of the East Side, and a recipient of some of our groups’ kindheartedness. Remind me to tell you more about this remarkable man later.
After a couple of days of hard work, these young folks headed back to Kernersville with some good stories and a few new friends. We capped the weekend off by taking them to church with us. It’s a red-letter day on Martin Luther King Drive when two vanloads of white kids walk into the sanctuary of Greater St. John Baptist Church. Pastor Kearns gave them the full treatment as he plunged headlong into one of his famous singing sermons. Despite the anticipated culture shock, our team seemed to enjoy it. One of them even volunteered to be an usher.
All in all, it was a great weekend for everyone involved. Some young people got to expand their horizon. Some old houses got a free touch-up. I got to stand back and soak it all in. Thanks guys.

Hey - I'm guest-posting over here today: http://marykathryntyson.wordpress.com/2010/09/07/hope-for-tre/
Join me on Mary Kathryn Tyson's page to hear about my buddy, Tre.