Gooder

His friend came with him to church for the first time. My heart always gives a teen-aged boy a little extra credit when he brings an unchurched friend with him from off the street corners where they've been hangin'. Their coming in and sitting in the back together brought me delight.

Now, why they chose to come in with the old folks like me at a prayer meeting instead of one of the youth services baffled me. I wasn't sure if they would engage well with what was going on.

So we were all a bit surprised when, as one of the older ladies expressed a prayer concern, this new kid's hand shot up in the air. Though at church for the first time, he wanted to pray for her.

Granted, I'd given my standard spiel to the group earlier in the service reminding them that prayer was simply talking with God and that we need not be worried or scared about doing so publicly. People usually pay about as much attention to that as they do safety instructions on an airplane. I guess someone was listening that night.

And the kid believed me.

His direct, heartfelt, and insightful few sentences drew to a close and he looked up at me with a "What do I do now?" expression on his face.

I said to him, "Amen?"

He grinned and said, "Amen."

And as he did, the boy who brought him opened his eyes and with a surprised look on his face pleasantly exclaimed, "He prays gooder than me!"

Like that kid, it's easy for me to be surprised when someone who is less experienced, less qualified, does something gooder than me.

I've been in church all my life. I've been to seminary and have a MA in Theology. I've been a pastor for a long time and have read and studied and prayed and served in many capacities. I have lots of experience and am qualified for the task --- just like the Pharisees and Sadducees and Scribes.

Though all these experiences and training are good and important, I can sometimes forget that these credentials are not qualifications in the Kingdom. An open and honest relationship with God, even if it's just begun after coming in off the street corner with your friend, is key.

And if I want to get gooder at what I do, then I need to remember to believe as that new kid did. Through his prayer we all knew the he believed that God is interested in hearing from him and was concerned about this stranger he was praying for. He believed that the exact words weren't as important as the fact that they were being said. He believed that he was as "qualified" as anyone else in the room to talk with God.

So on the days I get a little Pharisitic I hope God brings someone by who, when they do something surprising to me, will cause me to delightfully exclaim, "They did that gooder than me!"

Amen?

Amen.

Lord, teach me to walk humbly before you.

Turkey

It's been our congregation's tradition to have a "dessert only" potluck the Sunday evening before Thanksgiving. Everyone brings sweets to share under the mantra "Protein on Thursday, Carbs Tonight!"

We got a little mixed up one fall, though, when a local merchant asked if he could donate a turkey to the church. He and his family are first generation immigrants so our verbal communication is not always completely clear. In visiting with him about his gift, I was not sure if he was giving us a frozen turkey to give to a family in need or if he was giving us a prepared turkey to eat at church. Repeated attempts at clarification only made things murkier.

So, on Sunday morning I explained the situation to the congregation. They all chuckled and nodded their heads in recognition of occasional communication issues in the corner stores. I left them with the statement, "So, for church tonight, come hungry, but not too hungry."

Actually, coming to church hungry, but not too hungry, is a good guide for me every week.

Sometimes I come to church a little too full. On the weeks I've over-studied or under exercised I find myself not wanting to feast on the Word. I'm not really that open or receptive to other people's understandings, testimonies, or needs. A little hunger changes that completely.

Of course, if the week has been all about exercise and my Bible study time has been limited to the verses printed on bumper stickers affixed to the cars speeding past me on the freeway, then I come to church so hungry that the Word offered is more than I can handle, the same way that a person who is truly starving won't be healed by being dropped off at the all-you-can-eat buffet. I need to already have some food in the system if the available nutrients are going to give me strength, wholeness, and satisfaction.

If my spirit is to be healthy, I need to spend time digesting the meat of the Gospel throughout the week. That's not to say that Sundays should be without substance. Rather, there are things that I need to spend some lengthy, personal time on. I can't fit the deep mystery of God into a 40 minute sermon so I need time to chew on it and digest small bites at a time.

By the same token, I need to be in a group of the faithful to both speak and hear the testimonies of God in our world today. They give energy and invigorate for the tasks ahead. This kind of celebration (the icing on the cake?) can only really happen in a collective group. That's not to say my personal time with God should be without praise and celebration. Rather, the Spirit's promised presence when two or more are gathered in His name is something that can't be found in the same way when I'm alone.

If I don't get some good protein mid-week by chewing on the meat of the Gospel, I won't be ready for the carbs on Sunday when we celebrate God's goodness in our lives. And if I only get the carbs on Sunday then I'll crash mid-week when they're burned up in the work of the tasks God calls me to.

Protein on Thursday. Carbs Tonight.

Of course, that particular Sunday night before Thanksgiving we were delighted when, shortly before the service, the owner of the corner store pulled up to the church. His wife and and another woman carried in a roaster with a giant steaming hot falling-off-the-bone delicious turkey for the congregation to eat.

Hungry, but not too hungry, we were able to share in the blessings of the Banquet together.

Lord, let me worship You in spirit and in truth. Help me to honor Your name.

Happy

I was a little nervous about meeting her husband. She and I had been exchanging emails and making plans for several weeks. I wasn't sure what her husband thought of his wife's and my new relationship and I was now scheduled to meet with him in the parking lot of a shopping center just off the main highway.

He greeted me with by saying, "Thank you so much for what you've done for my wife." He went on to say that the things that make her especially happy include finding bargains and shopping for school supplies. Based on that information, she must have been a VERY happy person for much of the summer.

By scouring the sales fliers and engaging in strategic shopping for several weeks, she'd been buying up all the best deals on school supplies and sharing that information with me. Her husband's pickup bed was now full of crayons and notebooks and erasers and glue sticks and all kinds of things kids need to start the school year right. Through this she'd become that year's biggest contributor to our school supply drive at the church.

And the happiness just kept flowing. She was happy to shop. Her husband was happy to deliver her treasures. I was happy to distribute them to kids in the neighborhood. The kids and their parents were happy to receive them. The teachers were happy to have kids show up with what they needed to learn.

Who knows where (or if) that chain of happiness ends. I do know that some of the kids who received supplies that year are now the first in their families to attend college.

I often get overwhelmed and grumpy with the magnitude of the tasks at helping bring transformation to the place where I occupy. It's good for me to remember, though, that sometimes all it takes is someone to simply get happily excited about finding a box of crayons for a dime. It starts a chain reaction bringing enough joy and hope for one more day, or week, or marking period, or semester, or school year which, in time, transforms the world for generations to come.

Lord, let Your joy be my strength.

SCarey

Six shots rang out as I was shutting down the computer for the night. I pulled on my shoes and followed the flow of people to the corner of S. Carey and James Streets, arriving before the police. There his lifeless, bloodied body lay crumpled in the street.

S. Carey and James.

It's the same corner where the police shot an unarmed man a couple years back. That happened right after the girl got hit and killed by a car at that same corner.

It's where several prostitutes would gather with their toddlers in the evening, rotating who was with the johns and who was on the street watching the kids as they wait for Mom's return.

Sometimes on those same steps during daylight hours I see junkies nodding off after their heroin fix.

From S. Carey and James I can see two different houses in which people died and no one knew it for over a week until the smell alerted the neighbors.

It's also where Michael's leg got crushed by a car.

The house three in from the corner has been fixed up since it was fire bombed shortly after I moved to this neighborhood.

That building across the street from that house is where the boys used to wait for the pedophiles to come by and offer them money for favors.

Of course, at the next intersection north I can point out the house where the father threw his infant down the stairs in order to kill her (which he did successfully) and at the next intersection south I can point our open air drug deals and blatant prostitution both day and night.

Meanwhile, we'll be gathering in churches around the globe to debate the color of carpeting in the foyer, who is qualified to receive communion, and what songs are appropriate to sing in a particular service. Denominations are spending countless dollars and hours gathering people to decide appropriate sexual ethics and will spend even more money and time when churches split over these and other issues. People will be in an uproar about the location of a mosque and riot over football games.

Yet corners like S. Carey and James keep happening in places all over the globe. Unnoticed. Undebated. Unfunded.

The people trapped around the S. Carey and James Streets of the world wonder who will lead the riot, the uproar, the debate on their behalf. Who will bring healing and wholeness and restoration to their land? Who will bring hope and peace and sweat and tears and presence to not let another shot ring out, not let another john pick up, or bomb crash through the glass?

Yes, it's easier to talk about carpet because there's hope we might just be able to solve the problem. But if the church doesn't look at S. Carey and James with hope, who will? Who even could?

Do we have a Creator who is unsatisfied with the conditions at S. Carey and James? Do we have a Savior who wants both spiritual and temporal salvation at S. Carey and James? Do we have a Sustainer who will give strength and wisdom and courage to those who will follow His lead to S. Carey and James?

S. Carey and James. The locals say SCarey Street, and scary it can be.

Good thing God's Spirit doesn't make cowards of us (2 Timothy 1:7).

Lord, let my life shine Your light in the darkness.

'votions

Swimming!

That's the nearly unanimous answer I get when I ask kids the question, "What was your favorite part of youth camp?" After 51 weeks full of prayer, fundraising and organizing, coordinating with camp directors, hunting down parents for signatures on forms, renting vans or a bus, driving back and forth through Washington DC traffic, and the myriad of other things we do all year to get kids out of the neighborhood and into a potentially life-changing week out of the city with unique activities and powerful encounters with God, their favorite part of the week was the swimming.

So, when stopped on the freeway for hour number three on the 78 mile drive home, I start to think that next year my life would be happier and theirs would be just as good if, instead of camp, I rented the YMCA for a couple of hours and let them all just swim.

But then there was that one kid one year who didn't say "swimming." He said, "'votions."

At first I didn't know what he was talking about. "You know, them 'votions we do in the cabin each night. Them was my favorite thing at camp," he clarified.

"What made them your favorite?"

"Well, we's all still and quiet and stuff and we gets to talk a little and think a lot about God and life and, you know, stuff like that. It's like God is so real there and we know we're all gonna be OK."

The other boys in the van piped in, "Yeah, I liked that, too. We don't get to do stuff like that when we're at home."

When I've been blessed with the opportunity to get far away from my world for a few days, I must confess that my first response when asked about the trip usually has something to do with a bargain price or free upgrade (or both!) on a rental car. No matter how many amazing places He lets me go or activities He lets me experience, my first words of praise are usually about a rental car.

Does He sometimes think, "Next year I'll just help him find a bargain on a convertible at BWI and he can drive to Scranton and back"?

I'm pretty sure He doesn't think that way. But early in my conversations it wouldn't hurt to acknowledge the blessing of time to think about God and life and, you know, stuff like that which help me know that God is so real and that I'm gonna be OK.

Of course, if I do, then I'll be in some deeper conversation than I might want to have at that moment. Plus, after some true encounters with the Holy I need time to process my experiences before I can put words to them. And besides, the whole thing wouldn't have been near as fun without the great deal on the rental car.

Just like camp wouldn't be near as fun without time at the pool. Plus it takes time for kids to put words to their camp experiences. And they're tired and dirty and hungry and sad to be leaving which isn't exactly a time when any of us want to delve into deeper conversation.

Swimming.

It's a good answer. Plus I know that once laundry is done and there's been a couple of good night's rest and we're sitting around the table with a bowls of ice cream or slices of pizza (or both!), the conversations might just give some hints that the 51 weeks full of prayer, fundraising and organizing, coordinating with camp directors, hunting down parents for signatures on forms, renting vans or a bus, driving back and forth through Washington DC traffic, and the myriad of other things we did actually provided some life-changing opportunities to swim out into the deep with God.

Besides, we got kicked out of the YMCA last time we rented it.

Lord, let praise of You that is in my heart be on my lips and in my deeds that all might see and know Your goodness.

Failure

I wanted him to die.

That was a new feeling for me. It wasn't because he had done anything particularly bad to me. It wasn't that I even disliked him. As he lay in his bed gasping for air I wanted him to stop fighting and just let it all end.

I could hardly stand to be in the room much less look at him. The reason was that in that bed I saw our world's failures.

The failure of the medical system was in that bed. The multiple diseases that ravaged his body had been left to progress or had received minimal care as he had no insurance and no way to pay.

The failure of social services was in that bed. He easily qualified for a variety of community services but was unable to negotiate the system. By the time I had met him several years earlier, he had given up trying for some services and had become paranoid of the rest.

The failure of the free market was in that bed. He'd never been quite good enough for the jobs that were out there. His limited intellectual capacity and an occasional fight at work were more than supervisors were willing to put up with. He was too smart to get into service programs but not smart enough to make it through job training.

The failure of mental health care was in that bed. Living the repeatedly traumatic life he did any of us would need counseling and meds. He received neither. His DNA didn't help the situation, either. He was smart enough to know that the system could inflict more anguish than what he was experiencing outside it.

The failure of our schools was in that bed. He had been shuffled through and passed along and given a custodial education until he was old enough to drop out. He never had any reason to look back after his 16th birthday.

The failure of his family was in that bed. They were especially gifted in reinforcing bad behaviors and inflicting guilt to manipulate others. They were all able to survive but none were able to thrive.

The failure of the church was in that bed. He had come to us many times for help. We had tried to welcome him into the fellowship. We were never able to help enough to make much of a difference other than an occasional meal and his temper challenged the group's need for safety.

As he looked up at me, gasping for one of his last breaths, I -- we -- society, were all failing him once again. And in the darkness of my mind I somehow convinced myself that once he died that all the problems would die with him and we could all continue on with our little comfortable lives. If the problems were to go away, then he needed to go away.

But the volunteer hospice nurse kept coming through the room. She didn't know all the problems that lead up to this point or, if she did, she didn't seem to be too worried about them. She simply provided dignity and honor and care and actually stayed on after her shift ended for the day. For once in his life someone was making sure that he would not be failed again.

And she didn't seem too worried about the time of death. That would be handled by the One who had the next shift. For on her shift, like mine, she needed to be present and create a place of dignity for a stranger in need.

When I was hungry, you gave me something to eat, and when I was thirsty, you gave me something to drink. When I was a stranger, you welcomed me, and when I was naked, you gave me clothes to wear. When I was sick, you took care of me, and when I was in jail, you visited me. Whenever you did it for any of my people, no matter how unimportant they seemed, you did it for me. (Matthew 25:35-36, 40 CEV)

For a few hours at the end of his life he began to experience the healing and restoring welcome of the Christ that he would soon receive in its fullness.

And he didn't take the failings with him. Instead he left them here so that I -- we -- society might be blessed with repentance and grace and dependence on an undying Love that never fails.

Lord, let me recognize Your grace and mercy upon me as I go through this day. Help me live it out by fully welcoming others as I would You.

Chirp

12 inches. That's how far we live from our neighbors. The common walls that separate our houses are 12 inches thick in our 'hood.

Most of the time it's not so bad. 12 inches of brick muffles a decent percent of the noise and I only know what the neighbors are having for dinner if it's especially spicy.

Of course, things are different in the summertime. Many of us don't have air conditioning so our windows are wide open all the time. The noise of the streets and nearby houses echo through each others homes.

So it was a pleasant surprise when everything was quiet as I got in bed that night. The fresh air of the open windows brought delight to my soul. The thought of a few moments of peace and calm before drifting off to sleep was quite a treat.

Just as I got comfortable in bed I heard it. You know the sound. It's that little electronic chirp that smoke detectors put out when they're low on battery power.

chirp.

40 seconds of silence.

chirp.

Trying to wish it away.

chirp.

Get up and check all the smoke alarms in the house.

silence.

Go back to bed.

chirp.

Yes, one of my neighbors' smoke detectors needed a new battery. I don't know if they weren't home or if they were really sound sleepers or if they just didn't care. But the one night that the street wasn't filled with noise from cars and radios and people . . .

chirp.

Jesus didn't answer my prayers the way I had hoped that night. By 3:00 a.m. I was requesting the hammer of God to come smash that thing and send it to its glory.

chirp.

Yes, sometimes 12 inches is a little too close, especially when the windows are open. In the darkness with both my and my neighbors' windows open it was clear that something needed to be done.

Sometimes there are annoying little chirps in my soul at night, too. Maybe I'm not paying attention or am sound asleep or am so disconnected with my own inner self that I don't notice or don't care about the chirping. Maybe I do notice but feel helpless in trying to make it stop.

Thankfully, God calls us to both times of gathering in close proximity and times of rest. When I get together with people of faith for a time of rest from regular responsibilities, like at a retreat or camp, I have the chance to be physically closer than normal. If things go well, I'm likely to open up the windows of my soul to let a fresh Wind in.

And it's then that I find it easier to hear the low battery chirp in me. It's in the quiet time together that I can most know where I need to let go of old problems and let new Power come in. But if I'm still unable to hear it, hopefully a nearby friend with his soul's window open will hear the chirp from my low batteries and will administer a recharge.

Of course, sometimes in those settings I learn that my batteries are holding sufficient voltage. That's when I can sometimes hear the low-battery chirp in a neighbor's inner life. Then it's time for me to help them to gain a new charge.

For as we care for ourselves and for one another this way, we quiet the chirps and let a Peace that passes understanding come in. Then we can truly rest in Him and disperse to our daily lives renewed.

Revive me, O Lord, and use me to bring restoration to others.