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.
Friday, September 24, 2010
Wednesday, September 15, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, September 7, 2010
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.
Join me on Mary Kathryn Tyson's page to hear about my buddy, Tre.
Wednesday, August 25, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, August 3, 2010
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.
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.
Tuesday, July 20, 2010
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.
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.
Saturday, July 10, 2010
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.
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.
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