Cheeseburgers and Ministry

I would be remiss if I did not bear witness to what is perhaps the best burger in existence (with all due respect to Mrs. Penny).
Last week on our way to the beach, the family and I stopped in at Johnson’s Hamburgers in Siler City. I had long heard rumors of Old Man Johnson’s unyielding dedication to his craft. I felt compelled to taste for myself. Two words.....as advertised. As moved as I was by the dining experience at Johnson’s, it is the not-so-secret secret to his success that I find most worth sharing. Turns out, Old Man Johnson takes in the same amount of fresh, grain-fed beef every day. It’s the very same amount he has been unloading for the past forty-plus years. In spite of growing demand, this blue-collar businessman refuses to up his order. He cooks what meat he has. Then he shuts it down. Some days the burgers are gone in three hours. They never last more than four. He likewise refuses to increase the size of his restaurant. Twelve stools and a hand full of booths are his max. Patrons who want a burger and a seat will have to get there early and wait. Ornery? Perhaps. Meticulous? Without doubt. But here we find more of an artist than an entrepreneur. A man I picture weeping over his burgers as he patties them to perfection. In the end though, it’s not so much that he despises growth, or refuses to evolve. Mr. Johnson is simply unwilling to compromise the product for the sake of increasing production. He understands that in his efforts to get more people to come, he may make his eatery no longer worth coming to.
I’m asked pretty often where I see the Bridge Project going. How will we expand? How will we facilitate growth? In answer to these questions, I will stand beside the old man and say....we may not go anywhere, we have no plans of expanding, and we refuse to grow if it means watering down the recipe. In burgers and in ministry, it is never wise to sacrifice quality on the altar of success.

Defining Racism

From day one, a defining characteristic of The Bridge Project has been our calling to stand as a witness against racism. That calling continues as a driving force behind what we do. That part has not changed. What has changed, or I should say is changing, is how exactly we define racism. For the longest time, I viewed and spoke of racism in terms of individual bias. Racism happened when one person judged another strictly on the basis of his race. I’ve noticed that my non-white friends have a distinctly different take on the constitution of racism.
Whereas I often speak of an individual harboring a racist grudge against another, my non-white cohorts seem to speak more of institutions which chronically favor one race over another. Their view of racism is more in line with the classic definition of the word. According to this definition, racism is not just prejudice. It is prejudice plus power. I think of it this way......if someone calls me a name it hurts my feelings. It hurts my feelings a lot worse though if the government agrees with him.
Opening myself to this definition of racism forces me to face-up to an ugly truth. That truth is that I have benefited greatly from the color of my skin, and that my privilege has been to the detriment of others. America was made for white people. For the first four-hundred years of existence, America legally documented black people as “sub-human.” Although we may have publicly repented of our sin, the deep root of white-supremacy remains intact. We don’t notice, but minorities do. They notice because they remain on the business end of the lie that one man can stand over another.
Our work has been aimed at stopping the bleeding in the black community. It’s good to stop the bleeding, but it’s ultimately futile if the wound is not healed. The Black Panthers had a saying for white folks who were sympathetic to their cause. They would say, “Go home and save your own people.” Maybe they were right.

A Revolution of Fidelity

In our ministry, we are currently embarking upon one of our most seemingly futile attempts to date. About two weeks ago, I began an abstinence initiative with two separate groups of young men. One group is comprised of fifteen to eighteen year olds. The other consists of nineteen to twenty-two year olds. I assure you that the absurdity and even the humor of this initiative are not lost on me. Even so, with each group, I find myself gravitating back to this one subject. Most of my guys are already sexually experienced. Some of them have already born the consequences of sexually transmitted diseases. Two of them are already raising sons of their own. Why then do we spend so much time and energy on what is, by all appearances, a lost cause?
I have three reasons. First, I believe they can change. Each time these young men engage in illicit sex, they are making a conscious choice. As long as they have breath, they have Gods’ grace working in their favor. As long as they have Gods’ grace, they can choose correctly. Secondly, I believe they must change. Restoring sex to its proper place in the black community is not an option. For too long, these young men have used a certain part of their anatomy as a wrecking ball to destroy the surrounding community. Poverty and brokenness will continue to be the birthright of this community if healing does not take place. And third, it is my responsibility to tell them the truth whether they listen to me or not. I am humbled that God has given me access to this pivotal group of young men. I love them, and I am a firm believer in their potential for leadership. As long as I have their ear, I will do my best to point them in the direction of life.
It won’t be easy. There is a momentum of infidelity working against these gentlemen. It is a momentum that has been gaining strength over the course of successive generations. Yet new possibilities are seldom realized before they are first imagined. Can you muster the faith to imagine with me a movement of young black men committed to sexual wholeness? Can you imagine a revolution of fidelity where you least suspect it?

Remembering Martin

As I write this, we are one week from the annual Martin Luther King Jr. Celebration. Come next week, I and many others will gather together to hear words of remembrance, and to march in unison to the mournful tune of the old spirituals. We will watch clips of the man speaking his most enduring words in the shadow of Lincoln. We may reflect on how far we’ve come, or how far we’ve yet to go in the realization of his ideal. But to comment on how close we are to realizing his vision is to imply that we understand it. Worse yet, it may imply that we understand the man himself. I’m not sure we do.

It is our involuntary instinct to reduce individuals, especially famous ones, to a sound bite. To us, Dr. King was the immortal crusader who sacrificed it all so that black folks and white folks could live with equal dignity. He was the supremely confident-and sometimes downright defiant- champion of integration. He was the guy who wore his heart on his sleeve and asked for no more than a decent seat on the next Greyhound back to Birmingham. For all of the bombastic eloquence of his “I have a dream” speech, there is something harmless and nonthreatening in his appearance. He almost looks cute up there! I don’t know what, but something of the past four decades has softened his legacy. The repetition of the tight, articulate, seventeen minute oration has sanitized him. But rest assured, he was not who you think he was.

Yes his heart beat for equality, but it was not the essence of his message. His vision had to do with something far more dangerous than equality. He was after unity. He didn’t want to be treated as an equal. He wanted to be treated as a brother. He didn’t want to take your seat on the bus. He wanted to sit with you. He saw in the liberation of the black minority the betterment of all creation.

More than a crusader, Martin was a prophet. As such, he deeply identified with how division afflicted the Father heart of God. This awareness broke him. But like his favorite prophet Jeremiah, it broke him and compelled him all at once. He wasn’t just out to heal a rend in the fabric of his country. I think in a way that he nor we could ever fully understand, he was out to heal a rend in the heart of his Maker. There’s nothing cute about that.

when helping hurts

I’ve been reading a good book lately. It’s called When Helping Hurts, and it’s written by two Christian economists from Covenant College. The premise of the book is that there are essentially right ways and wrong ways of alleviating poverty. Some methods are deemed to do more harm than good. According to the authors, many well-intentioned initiatives actually serve to perpetuate the very poverty they were created to alleviate. If you’re thinking their argument is a denouncement of liberal politics or government welfare programs, you’re mistaken. The intended audience is the church, not the lawmakers.
Here’s my attempt to sum-up their case...when the church eyes the poverty stricken around her, she is too quick to diagnose a lack of material resources as the problem to be solved. Instead, she should possess the patience and spiritual insight to see the inner brokenness that birthed the outer deficit. Poverty is not birthed by a lack of resources. Poverty is birthed by depravity. The collective depravity of mankind, not just that of the financially destitute, keeps the cycle of poverty in perpetual motion. The poor man suffers from feelings of low self-worth and hopelessness that is spread like wildfire in low-income communities. The rich man suffers from the misguided belief that he is responsible for his own good fortune; and therefore assumes to have the tools to pull the poor man out of his wretched state. Apathy meets arrogance. Brokenness meets brokenness. The result? The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer.
Our ministry serves an area that is impoverished by American standards. How we approach the needs that confront us has a lot to say about what we truly believe. This much we must keep in mind; the poor need God, and we’re not Him. By confessing that we don’t have all the answers, we make room for the only answers that matter.

spaghetti

I am a planner. I like to know of things, events, schedules, etc. way in advance. I love to write things down in my little red calendar. So when Josh tells me, Saturday afternoon, we're having some East Side kids over for Sunday lunch, my reaction was less than enthusiastic. I quickly go into 'how am I going to cook for a bunch of kids when I'm not that great in the kitchen?' mode. And then the 'how are we going to pay for this?' mode. And then sadly, 'wouldn't it just be easier to take them back home after church?' mode. However, as we headed into the busy Wal-Mart that evening, we came up with a meal that would be easy and cost efficient: spaghetti. Noodles, sauce, texas toast, a box of chocolate chip cookies and some Capri-Sun to finish it off. That wasn't so bad.
As the nine of us gathered around our table to share a meal together, I realized it wasn't so bad. In fact, it was good. Something happens when you open your home, your table, your family to others. The meal didn't last very long, Anna Grace didn't eat very much, and the spaghetti itself could have been much better but it was the start of something new. May God bless our table and those who come and eat.

dear mama

Today is Mother's Day. I thought I would take the opportunity to salute two of my favorite ladies, and the two best mom's I know. The first is my very own mother....AKA Mrs. Cynthia... AKA Mama LeRoy ...AKA the architect of the finest in southern cuisine. If you don't know my mom, it's your loss. Her selflessness, sincerity, and generosity are well-founded, and her chicken spaghetti is the stuff of legend. She consistently and without exception puts others before herself, and never gives up on anyone. If she thinks she has unduly offended you, she will not only apologize for the trespass, but will also abstain from sleep for the next week just to make sure. We pick on my mom a lot because she tries so hard to please everyone, all while taking as many pictures of them as is humanly possible. But we would never change her. Like any mom, she is not without her flaws. Yet flaws are far easier to excuse when they spring from a heart of genuine compassion.

Then there's Laura. Of course I was in love with Laura long before she became a mom. I first knew her as a friend , then as a girlfriend, and then as a wife. I've only known her as a mother for a couple of years, but knowing her as a mother is to know her on a level much deeper than before. I'm not sure if motherhood unearthed something that has always been there, or if it created something entirely new. Whatever it is, and whenever it came into being, I now see something in Laura that humbles me as I endeavor to raise a child with her. As I type this, Anna Grace is running a fever. When Anna Grace is well, it may appear to the untrained eye that Laura and I love her equally. But the higher the temperature, the wider the gap between her love and mine. There is a fierceness in a mother's love that even the most affectionate of fathers fall short of. It's not always pretty. In fact, I find it to be every bit as frightening as it is beautiful. A mother casts aside common sense, moderation, and many other virtues in her primal pursuit to lavish love on her children. Thanks ladies.