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.

Everywhere part 1

What do you think God is like? How does he feel? What does he think about? What does he like? What does he hate? Where is he? How did he get there? All of us have asked these questions at some point or another. Some of us have tried our darndest to come up with sensible answers. To the degree that we are locked into an answer to any or all of these questions is the degree to which we have developed a God-concept. A God-concept is a firm mental image of what you consider God to be like. God-concepts are not all bad. They almost always come with a measure of truth. Trouble gets to brewin' though when we lose sight of God for the sake of our ideas about him.

Up until last summer, I had a deeply rooted God-concept of my own. Over the years, and mostly unknowingly, I had built a statue of the Almighty within the recesses of my mind. I must say, he looked pretty doggone good. I kept him well-maintained, and chased the pigeons away when they got too close. By way of my God-concept, I found spiritual assurance. I pretty well understood God, and was rarely surprised. If ever a doubt crossed my mind, all I had to do was behold my omnipotent statue in all of its' concrete glory. Then the bottom fell out.

Disappointment with ministry. A realization of my own inadequacy. Those and a hand full of other things sent me headlong into a crisis of faith. What had always worked would work no longer. I could no longer answer the questions with confidence. I could no longer convince myself that I understood. The statue was wobbling, and soon it would come crashing down and shatter into a million pieces. I frantically tried to piece God back together, but the glue wouldn't hold. God, as I knew him, was dead. The silence was deafening.

Out of the ashes of my existential despair came a revelation. Now that I lacked a concept of how God was, I was free to experience him as he actually is. I found God by losing him. Through the painful, and sometimes unwilling relinquishment of my God-concept, I had a skin-on-skin encounter with the transcendent. Unbeknownst to me, God had been holding me the entire time.

Redemption

I recently returned from a week at children's camp. Allow me to sum up my experience via a little arithmetic. 6 black kids + 9 white kids + a duffel bag full of pharmaceuticals + 2 bed wetters + 2 fans + a quiver full of poorly aimed arrows + a snake that may have been an extension chord = Deer cabin 2010. With the race issue alone, there was drama from the get-go. There were times when I honestly wondered if I was at kids camp or playing a bit part in the prequel to the Longest Yard. Rocks were thrown. Words were exchanged. Tears were shed. And that was just among the counselors. Despite the apparent anarchy, we tried everything we could to salvage the week. Laying on of hands. Sad music and altar calls. Eloquent expositions on the harmony of the created order. Yet each new attempt to right the ship was ultimately dashed upon the same rocks that had heretofore been used as weapons.

When the sun rose on Friday morning, we had but one chance. One measly opportunity to rescue this week in the woods from the proverbial bowels of pointlessness. That one chance was the infamous Camp Relay. For those of you unacquainted with this ancient right of passage, the Camp Relay is a five-minute free-for-all across the campground that pits cabin against a cabin in a series of athletic feats. It demands an unbroken string of perfection, and a diverse array of skill-sets. As the race began that day, most leaders cheered their campers on with the predictable chants of " do your best", and " we're all in this together." We were slightly more ambitious. I personally ran the full gauntlet, screaming " for this you were created" into the pre-adolescent ears of my campers. It just so happened that it was our day. For one moment, we somehow managed to take all of the competitiveness, animosity, and malice and direct it squarely where it belonged....in the direction of 100 and some unsuspecting church kids. Wesley Kelly's dizziness- defying performance on the bat-spin was unprecedented. The three-legged race was as graceful as a fresh foal galloping over the green hills of eastern Kentucky. Don't even get me started on the leap-frog.

Well before the last leg was completed, the celebration had already begun. As we hoisted our fifty-pound bifocled bed wetter into the air, the entire week was brought into perspective. Five days of treachery were made right as we received first prize. What was the prize? All the corn dogs we could eat and a fresh mattress for bunk #5. Sweet justice.