Life as a Protest

Thomas Merton was a promising young writer, destined to become a martini-sipping socialite in 1940's New York. Fortunately, a radical conversion rescued him from the jaws of decadence and landed him squarely in a Cistercian monastery, deep in the woods of Kentucky. From there Merton, a monk stripped of his worldly identity, would become a best-selling author, amassing a legion of fans who would never lay eyes on him. Much of Merton's writings were spiritual in nature, offering a transparent glimpse into one man's search for Transcendent Truth. Yet every now and again, the good Father would point his pen directly at the sinful structures of American culture.

He wrote scathing rebukes of American foreign policy, and gave articulate expression to the injustices of racial intolerance. In this way, Merton was a paradox, both relevant and reclusive. Much of this paradox was reconciled after his death in 1968. It was then, upon venturing into his hermitage, that his fellow monks found stashes of News Week magazines and Bob Dylan records piled high next to his collection of theological commentaries.

So what would possess a gifted writer with a social conscience to take on the life of a hermit? Though he had many reasons for his pursuit of solitude, one of his most provocative motivations was the making of his life into a symbol of protest. It wasn't a rejection of the world, but of its values that led Merton into self-imposed exile. He rightly saw that a perverse quest for power stemming from deep shame on a personal level, led to nuclear warfare and genocide on a grander scale. He considered it to be the calling of every Christian to let their lives stand as a ringing indictment of a sinful society. And so, he lived his life as a resounding "no" to a value system that stood in opposition to the Good News of Christ Jesus.

In contrast, I find my resounding "no" to be muffled by the undeniable presence of greed and selfish-ambition. Likewise, if we Christians are supposed to be living life as a protest, I must say that we form a pretty sad picket line. At best, our witness is more of a resounding " Uh, I'm not so sure about this."

Our Little One

Here's Anna Grace making pottery... while sleeping.

She loves her daddy and her daddy loves her.

A smile!

A tough mind and a tender heart

One of my favorite preachers of all time is Martin Luther King Jr. He is, by general consensus, one of the most persuasive speakers to ever step into a pulpit. In his collection of sermons entitled the Strength to Love, he uses his typical imagery and alliteration to state that Christians are to have both a tough mind and a tender heart. He draws from Jesus' command to be as wise as serpents and as innocent as doves to solidify his point.

I never really understood what Jesus or Dr. King meant until this past week. We here at the Bridge Project had our first outreach event in east Asheboro just a couple of days ago. By the grace of God, and with the help of a lot of committed church people, we delivered over 1500 dollars worth of school supplies to some financially less fortunate young people. Some of those who worked with us had done this before. Most of us hadn't, and it showed. We were perhaps naive and over anxious to be of service. Maybe we gave some of those book bags to the wrong people. Maybe there were people who needed them worse than those who got them. Maybe that old lady with the unlit cigarette in her mouth really doesn't have sixteen kids whose book bags all got stolen by a masked bandit with a hook for a hand. I know I need to have my mind toughened, and that until I do, I might get taken a few times. I just hope I don't trade my tender mind for a tough heart.

Doozie of a Two-zie

Usually on this blog, we deal with issues related to our ministry. But right now, I would like to pause and reflect upon the pleasures and perils of parenthood. I apologize in advance. We took Anna Grace home from the hospital on July 22. Since then, we have experienced the full-range of highs and lows, all punctuated by a seemingly endless supply of poopy diapers. During her first two days at home, there was virtually no bowel activity to speak of. Naturally, we were concerned. I found myself doing what I never imagined I would do; praying for someone to poop in their pants. That prayer has since been emphatically answered.

That her intestines are functioning at full capacity was never more clear than yesterday afternoon. What began as a routine diaper change quickly descended in to an astonishing display of fecal fireworks. Perhaps sensing that her hiney was finally unfettered, Anna Grace let loose with a barrage of human waste. Laura and I stood by helplessly as our little princess morphed into a merciless projectile of poo-poo. Our baby room used to be decorated in pink. Now it's decorated in a mixture of pink and a brownish-yellow. I just hope the world is ready for her highly interpretive art work. Call me old-fashioned, but I find it all a bit too edgy.

The Newest Bridge Builder

Anna Grace LeRoy has arrived!

Patrolling for Prostitutes

Have you ever been shocked at your own capacity to hate? To me, there's nothing more humbling than coming face to face with my personal monster of maliciousness, especially when he springs forth unannounced. I had such an encounter just this afternoon. Driving through the east side neighborhood which we hope will become the home of the Bridge Ministry Center, I was approached by two young black males. Before I had time to think, I had two new, uninvited passengers in my pick-up. I was instructed to peruse the block in search of "chicken heads" (don't ask). After mentioning that I was a pastor, my two companions thought better of my abilities to locate prostitutes, and I was alone once again. Yet what remained was a lingering skittishness regarding people of color.

As tempting as it is to chalk this skittishness up to common sense, I suspect it has a lot to do with fear's dominion over my fallen nature. Common sense is not driving down Brewer Street with my doors unlocked. Locking out an entire race just to be on the safe side is another matter entirely. To fear is to hate, therefore you cannot love that which you fear. That's why, for Christians, the fear of man is not an option. But the fear of man is not the only emotion that I must guard against in these situations. In many ways, the only thing worse than fearing/hating a people group, is feeling guilty about fearing/hating a people group. Guilt-induced pity is nothing more than a sugar-coated poison that only serves to secure the chains of those that we feel bad about oppressing. In my relationships with those of a different persuasion, I need less fear, and therefore less hate, and therefore less reason to feel guilty. Only through the annihilation of these base emotions can love rule my actions. I could also use power locks, but that's beside the point.

Gettin' Settled

About a week and a half ago we moved into our new home here in Asheboro, and I (Josh) have only eaten at Bojangles twice. We've been extremely busy these past couple of weeks, but feel that the Lord is already confirming our calling . Pastor Charles and I are currently mulling over an idea for a ministry center in an impoverished section of our city. Every vacant building I drive past has become a possible suspect. I'm spending a lot of my time driving through the streets and praying for open eyes and open doors. Yesterday morning was spent in "Real Cuts" on Martin Luther King Drive. I exited the premises with an impeccable fade and a pocketful of stories.

In other news, Laura is doing great, and looking beautiful. Today is our fifth anniversary, and we plan on eating somewhere really nice (Bojangles perhaps?). The little one seems to be doing great, but her mama is starting to get a bit anxious.

Continue to pray for us as we spend our summer presenting our vision to the local churches.