This small, seemingly insignificant story affected me deeply.
It was my first year at college and I was commuting 1 hour each way to and from school. It kept me from getting too involved in any activities on campus. But on one particular day I was drawn to an evening lecture by an incredible theologian named Christopher J. H. Wright (I recommend The Mission of God). I'm sure the fact that there were refreshments afterwards stood out to me too. At that point, I was not doing so well financially and was mildly concerned about the price of food.
I was not disappointed. The lecture was excellent, and Chris Wright had an accent that was an exquisite blend of British and Irish accents; I could have listened to him for hours. I sat quietly, absorbing it all. By the time I left, it was dark and creepy outside and I had a whole hour before the bus dropped me off a good 15-20 minute walk from home.
I got on the bus, which was packed. At the next stop a lady entered the bus and tried to skip out on paying fare altogether. The bus driver yelled at her and, becoming exasperated eventually called out, "Can someone come up here and escort this lady off the bus?"
One man did go up to the front. Not to escort her off, but to pay her fare. He caught my attention.
On public transit I liked to play this game. Chicago is known for being one of the most segregated cities in the U.S. I liked to look at passengers and guess whether they'd be going as far south as I was. This was a middle-aged black man. He had a few plastic bags with him. I figured he'd be going pretty near my final destination. As time progressed, my assumption proved itself true.
The further south the bus went and the later it became, the emptier the bus was. It was finally quiet enough that I could distinguish individual conversations. I have no shame in eavesdropping on public conversations in public places. I have learned a *lot* that way. I am so glad I did this time too. The conversation I heard was between the same man who paid for the woman's fare early on, and the bus driver. They were in the very front of the bus, and I was a far ways back. By then, only the three of us were on the bus and I could hear every word of the conversation. The passenger began talking about dope fiends and quickly ushered the conversation towards a recent movie with Denzel Washington in it about drugs. They couldn't remember the name and it was driving them crazy.
Me, in a full display of creepiness, piped up and called out the title for them, "American Gangster?!" His face lit up and he goes, "Yes, that's the one!" Then I realized how weird it was that I was involving myself in their conversation without being a real part of it. Rather than going back to eavesdropping, or actually minding my own dang business, I thought to myself, "Shoot. If I'm going to be a part of this conversation, I'm going to be a part of it. Why not?"
I stood up, grabbed my stuff and moved to the front of the bus so that I was sitting in a row that allowed me to see and communicate with both men. They didn't seem bothered, so I joined in on their conversation. Again, mostly listening, but throwing in my two cents occasionally. The man actively included me in the conversation, shifting his eye contact between the bus driver and myself. He seemed to be quite eager to have two people listening to him.
As we continued our commute, the man pulled an unopened water bottle out of one of the plastic bags he had stowed on the seat next to him and handed it to the bus driver, who was both surprised and pleased. The man continued talking. I hung onto his words. He was a very charismatic person. He shifted among several topics rapidly. Some were deep, some were silly, but most were quite thought-provoking. More than anything it was the way he spoke that intrigued me, as though everything was of the utmost importance. History, drugs, female circumcision, tribalism, Tazmanian devils... I'm not making this up.
He stopped suddenly, looked over at me and said, "Young lady, I think I have..." He trialed off as he began digging through his plastic bags. I considered stopping him by saying, "Oh, no thanks. I'm good." But I didn't want to be rude. And to be honest, my curiosity got the better of me. Finally, he found what he was looking for, and out of the bag came scones! Three very large scones wrapped together in plastic wrap. He claimed they were from Starbucks, but I wondered. I'd never seen Starbucks 1) use plastic wrap or 2) wrap three things together.
Hesitantly I asked, "Are you sure you don't want them?" He motioned to the cup of coffee in my hand and said, "Naw, you do the coffee thing, you have them." I graciously said thank you as I silently wrestled in my head with what to do. I have a hard time accepting gifts from people. Also, it's kinda common knowledge not to accept food from a stranger. Especially not food that could easily have been handled/poisoned.
I thought for a second about throwing them away to be safe, then I became angry that I would ever consider such a thing. Not only would I not throw them away. Not only would I eat them. I would eat one right then, just to prove to him that I truly was grateful and that I trusted his gesture. And I did, though I wasn't particularly hungry, and though technically it violated the rules of bus-riding. The driver sure didn't mind.
The scone was incredible. It was maple flavored and it was everything an Americanized scone should be. The man who gave it to me looked pleased that I was eating it and he asked how it was.
I wrote about it in my journal. I was amazed by this gesture that, to me, was anything but little. This man chose loss over his gain. Either I accepted his gift, and he missed out on 3 scones, or I rejected it and he feels silly for offering. The gesture crossed boundaries of race, age, and gender. His offer extended a bridge that I could choose to walk across or to reject entirely. Either way, he takes a loss. It bothered me for days. Why would he do that? I was some random girl. Why? Why give water to the bus driver? Or pay fare for the lady who acted entitled to a free ride (or was too broke to afford it, but was too proud to ask for help - which is surprisingly common and supported by commuters in Chicago)?
I understood my motivation for accepting his gift. I wish I understood his motivation for offering it.
A movie I really like poses the question, "Does anyone do something for nothing?"
"Nothing" is not as clear of a term as you might think right away. But if by "nothing", that means "nothing that directly benefits the self", the answer is yes. I found this answer in maple scones from an eccentric stranger.
This man showed me what faith is in a new light. And in that sense, it wasn't for nothing.
Tuesday, January 29, 2013
Sunday, January 27, 2013
Story 2: When I Saw a Drawn Gun
In my last blog I explained why it's important to share true stories from life. In that last one I also refrained from making value judgements, for the most part. This is a little more biased. I took the liberty because in some ways this story is mine. And in some ways it never will be.
_____________________
It was a normal day. I was taking the city bus from my university on the Northside of Chicago to my home on the Westside. Being the compulsive little planner that I am, I decided to take the hour-long commute to plan out my classes for my entire "college career", as they call it. Seeing as I was a second-semester Freshman, I figured I could knock out the task in 45 minutes easy.
I probably could have, had it not been for the jolting interruption. Like any regular commuter, I was comfortable with the route. I was used to the bus pulling over to pick up or drop off my fellow travelers, so I zoned into my little world of college planning. At some point, as I was carefully writing my classes in bold ink under the appropriate, underlined headings, I heard an eery commotion.
I peered up from my pages and was shocked and confused to see a man in the middle aisle of the bus, with a gun pointed at the closest man next to me, who was on the seat parallel to mine across the aisle, no more than 4 feet away. I took a snapshot assessment. I noticed the gun first, then I realized it was a policeman holding the gun, which made me feel better until I realized he should only have his gun drawn for a serious matter. I glanced around. The bus was stopped between its scheduled stops, which means the police flagged it down, indicating further urgency. The front door was wide open as though it was standing open in fear, much like my mouth, which at this point must have been agape.
The cop yelled at the man, ordering him to get off the bus, then another man caught his eye and he ordered him off as well. They both looked confused, but did as they were asked. I heard the bus driver shouting something to the cop, but it didn't register because my eyes were fixed on the two men as they were whisked outside to be searched.
As I looked around again, I realized that the bus had actually been barricaded in. My thought was interrupted as another cop forcefully entered the bus (as though he had to - the door was still wide open). He walked hurriedly up the aisle, asking other patrons about the two men, searching frantically the whole way for weapons stowed underneath the seats. He said something about a man that may have gotten on at Diversey that had a gun.
I heard the bus driver vehemently insist, "Man, these guys have been on the bus," as in long before Diversey. The cop replied, "That's not what they just said to me."
Sure. I think.
I looked out to see the men being searched. One of them had his laptop with him in a nice case. He was the notably younger one. He was also the notably shorter and stouter man of the two. The other was middle-aged, tall, and lean. His bag contained an Xbox and accompanying controllers. The only thing that united them and distinguished them from all the other passengers aboard the bus was the label black male.
The cops let them back onto the bus as they themselves meandered back to their cars to un-barricade us. I was struck by the fact that they must have only operated from the description "black male". These two were the only able-bodied black men traveling with us. Not the only black people. Not the only men. But the only black males at that time. And they looked nothing alike.
I started fuming, wondering what the procedures were for cops pulling their guns. I had always assumed that they had to actually be threatened or in a situation where they know that a person is armed. I kept thinking that what had been done only served to intensify and escalate the potentially volatile situation.
As the men made their way back to their seats, the one across from me sat silently in his chair and with a dignity I was blown away by, he just shook his head and took it.
I was ashamed to be white. I hated that I was a young, white, single female. This man had just been removed from his seat and humiliated by the policemen in front of us all (trust me - we were all watching) with no real warrant, being that they ignored the bus driver who stood in their defense from the beginning, and being that they were clearly racial profiling (would they ever have removed and frisked all the white males on a bus?!). I hated the thought of this man associating me with them, with that mindset.
I hated the idea that he could imagine I supported what had been done to him or that I was now afraid of him. After a moment, I looked over at him and said, "Aren't they supposed to be threatened before they pull their guns?" I don't remember his response. It was dismissive, perhaps no more than a simple shrug. I asked a follow-up question, already knowing the answer, "Has this happened to you before?"
"I'm black... Happens all the time."
_____________________
It was a normal day. I was taking the city bus from my university on the Northside of Chicago to my home on the Westside. Being the compulsive little planner that I am, I decided to take the hour-long commute to plan out my classes for my entire "college career", as they call it. Seeing as I was a second-semester Freshman, I figured I could knock out the task in 45 minutes easy.
I probably could have, had it not been for the jolting interruption. Like any regular commuter, I was comfortable with the route. I was used to the bus pulling over to pick up or drop off my fellow travelers, so I zoned into my little world of college planning. At some point, as I was carefully writing my classes in bold ink under the appropriate, underlined headings, I heard an eery commotion.
I peered up from my pages and was shocked and confused to see a man in the middle aisle of the bus, with a gun pointed at the closest man next to me, who was on the seat parallel to mine across the aisle, no more than 4 feet away. I took a snapshot assessment. I noticed the gun first, then I realized it was a policeman holding the gun, which made me feel better until I realized he should only have his gun drawn for a serious matter. I glanced around. The bus was stopped between its scheduled stops, which means the police flagged it down, indicating further urgency. The front door was wide open as though it was standing open in fear, much like my mouth, which at this point must have been agape.
The cop yelled at the man, ordering him to get off the bus, then another man caught his eye and he ordered him off as well. They both looked confused, but did as they were asked. I heard the bus driver shouting something to the cop, but it didn't register because my eyes were fixed on the two men as they were whisked outside to be searched.
As I looked around again, I realized that the bus had actually been barricaded in. My thought was interrupted as another cop forcefully entered the bus (as though he had to - the door was still wide open). He walked hurriedly up the aisle, asking other patrons about the two men, searching frantically the whole way for weapons stowed underneath the seats. He said something about a man that may have gotten on at Diversey that had a gun.
I heard the bus driver vehemently insist, "Man, these guys have been on the bus," as in long before Diversey. The cop replied, "That's not what they just said to me."
Sure. I think.
I looked out to see the men being searched. One of them had his laptop with him in a nice case. He was the notably younger one. He was also the notably shorter and stouter man of the two. The other was middle-aged, tall, and lean. His bag contained an Xbox and accompanying controllers. The only thing that united them and distinguished them from all the other passengers aboard the bus was the label black male.
The cops let them back onto the bus as they themselves meandered back to their cars to un-barricade us. I was struck by the fact that they must have only operated from the description "black male". These two were the only able-bodied black men traveling with us. Not the only black people. Not the only men. But the only black males at that time. And they looked nothing alike.
I started fuming, wondering what the procedures were for cops pulling their guns. I had always assumed that they had to actually be threatened or in a situation where they know that a person is armed. I kept thinking that what had been done only served to intensify and escalate the potentially volatile situation.
As the men made their way back to their seats, the one across from me sat silently in his chair and with a dignity I was blown away by, he just shook his head and took it.
I was ashamed to be white. I hated that I was a young, white, single female. This man had just been removed from his seat and humiliated by the policemen in front of us all (trust me - we were all watching) with no real warrant, being that they ignored the bus driver who stood in their defense from the beginning, and being that they were clearly racial profiling (would they ever have removed and frisked all the white males on a bus?!). I hated the thought of this man associating me with them, with that mindset.
I hated the idea that he could imagine I supported what had been done to him or that I was now afraid of him. After a moment, I looked over at him and said, "Aren't they supposed to be threatened before they pull their guns?" I don't remember his response. It was dismissive, perhaps no more than a simple shrug. I asked a follow-up question, already knowing the answer, "Has this happened to you before?"
"I'm black... Happens all the time."
Saturday, January 19, 2013
Story 1: An Odd Encounter at the Beach
I really believe in the power of Story. I think that we stand witness to our lives and the lives of others through story. We connect with each other and build something new through story. I have decided to intersperse my blog with occasional stories (true stories) that have deeply impacted me. Stories that would be a shame to keep to myself.
That said, these stories are deeply personal to those who they involved. If I use names, I will not use real ones. I will do my best to honor those who are involved and to protect dignity. My biggest fear in sharing stories that involve others (all my best stories do), is the ease at which I could exploit them and their vulnerability. Hold me accountable if anything I write seems exploitative in any way.
__________________________________________
It was a late night. I had just finished watching the final Harry Potter movie at the midnight showing. I was home from college for the summer and was having a blast spending time with some friends of mine from church. A few of us talked in the parking lot for a bit as the group we came with whittled down. Before long, just three of us were left. We had decided that we were going to go to the beach, to talk all night long so that we could watch the sunrise together.
We stopped at a gas station and got snacks: Energy drinks to keep us going and donuts, because apparently our stomachs really wanted a toxic combination of snacks. We found our spot along the shore, down a-ways from a hopping nightclub. A few random couples and individuals showed up along the shore for brief moments, but we didn't think much of it until a man in his late 30's, who was quite drunk, plopped himself onto the sand right next to us. He talked to my friend for a few minutes, then went back to splashing and swimming in the waves.
I thought she knew him, but she didn't. We went back to our conversation, speaking a little more distractedly as we kept an eye on him from a distance. We were a little worried because each time the waves knocked him down, we weren't sure if he was sober enough to get back up. After a few minutes, he returned, asking us why we weren't in the water. My friend told him we weren't dressed for it. He said, "Live life. Just gotta live it."
My friend said, "I feel the most alive, in every molecule of my being, when I'm with Christ." He stopped for a second. I don't remember if he asked her another question or not, but they spoke a bit. Then he addresses all three of us saying, "I am a Christian, believe me. I am just so fucking mad at God." It was out of the blue. It seemed to come from nowhere, but it likely came from alcohol-induced vulnerability and honesty. Just as unexpectedly, tears began to fill his eyes until he could not hold them in.
Then he began to share his story. He told us that one of his friends had been murdered. A young woman, just 25 years old. He told us how beautiful of a person she was. She was a "good Catholic girl", he said, who'd been going to law school and had been studying to pass the bar. She was murdered in a most gruesome way. Her limbs had all been cut off and she had been decapitated.
He talked in circles, telling parts of the story between parts of his own life story, including his faith, and his anger with God resulting from this murder.
We found out that he was in his late 30's, that he literally was a rocket scientist and that earlier in his life had had planned to become a Lutheran pastor. He knew a good deal of Koine Greek and was familiar with a little Hebrew.
He told us those details of his life, told us about his friend's murder, and kept returning to the biblical story of Job, paraphrasing it, making it reflect his own experience more acutely. He talked about how Job went on and on, asking all these questions of God. He told us that when God showed up He told Job, "You're a fucking idiot. You don't know anything!" He continued, "Okay, I get that God has infinite wisdom and shit, and I'm just a fucking idiot, but I just don't get how God could let her get her fucking head chopped off. He could've stopped it. God already had me. He didn't have to do this to get me. He already had me. "
He paused and we waited silently, letting the gravity of that be felt fully. With desperation he finally said, "I don't even need to know the answers. I just need God to fucking show up. He may've called Job a fucking idiot, but at least he showed up to say it. ...I know he's here with us now. I know that. But..."
After a while, he turned back to the broader topic of faith. "You'd have to be a fucking idiot not to believe God exists. And once you believe he exists, you have to be stupid not to believe in Jesus."
He vacillated between clarity of faith and doubt of the very nature of God, between rage and tears, and between topics, all without warning.
He said to us, "This is the first time I've cried about any of this, and it's with strangers. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He continued, saying that he had had to be the rock for all of her friends. "I tell them 'God has a plan' and all that shit. And I know he does, but..."
He turned to look at the moonlight dancing on the surface of the ocean waters. Then he looked up at the sky with fierceness and tears and yelled, "You know what? Fuck you, Motherfucker! Fuck you for taking her!"
A few silent moments passed. "And I know I shouldn't be angry, 'cause I don't know what God knows. He took the heat 2,000 years ago on the cross. He's still sitting here taking it and I'm cussing him out. And in front of his sheep, apparently."
He returned to the story of Job and to his own longing for God to show up. Then he chuckled a sad, heavy chuckle and said, "I get it. I mean, you guys are here. I came out here on a business trip, it's my last night here, I had 7 shots of rum, and here you are. I tell you... That Asshole really knows what He's doing. Doesn't mean I'm happy about it - I'm still fuckin' pissed, but... He's here."
We talked longer and we each prayed for him with him. He kept saying how amazing it was that people prayed for him and that he had brothers and sisters there, in that random part of Florida. We chatted longer and shared our donuts with him. It was a communion more real than I had ever been served before. He invited us to the condo he rented so that we could get drunk with him and we declined. We didn't stay much longer on the beach, and we didn't see the sunrise, though we were up until the wee hours of the morning. No regrets.
__________________________________________
I'm not going to wrap this up with a pretty bow. I couldn't if I tried. I'm not going to try to explain why this held so much meaning. Not in this venue. If you want to ask me about it, I'd be glad to share, but I think there's no less value in just letting this story be what it is. It is true, it is life, it is struggle. It involves a lot of questions and few, incomplete answers.
I will say though, after the whole thing happened, it almost seemed like a dream. I wondered if he was for real or if he was a bored tourist who really just wanted to screw around with a couple of young adults who were way too gullible and impressionable. Immediately after this encounter, I went home and googled the story. Everything he said checked out. The name, age, and occupation of the girl, the city and state it occurred in (which is where he lived), the gruesome details of the murder... All confirmed.
I was shocked though to see that the news report I had found came out just a mere two weeks before this encounter. I assumed it was years prior. And here he was and there we were, right in the thick of a recent tragedy.
I even tried to look the man up on facebook, but his name was so generic that I was unable to find him. I guess sometimes brief encounters have incredible impact on their own.
That said, these stories are deeply personal to those who they involved. If I use names, I will not use real ones. I will do my best to honor those who are involved and to protect dignity. My biggest fear in sharing stories that involve others (all my best stories do), is the ease at which I could exploit them and their vulnerability. Hold me accountable if anything I write seems exploitative in any way.
__________________________________________
It was a late night. I had just finished watching the final Harry Potter movie at the midnight showing. I was home from college for the summer and was having a blast spending time with some friends of mine from church. A few of us talked in the parking lot for a bit as the group we came with whittled down. Before long, just three of us were left. We had decided that we were going to go to the beach, to talk all night long so that we could watch the sunrise together.
We stopped at a gas station and got snacks: Energy drinks to keep us going and donuts, because apparently our stomachs really wanted a toxic combination of snacks. We found our spot along the shore, down a-ways from a hopping nightclub. A few random couples and individuals showed up along the shore for brief moments, but we didn't think much of it until a man in his late 30's, who was quite drunk, plopped himself onto the sand right next to us. He talked to my friend for a few minutes, then went back to splashing and swimming in the waves.
I thought she knew him, but she didn't. We went back to our conversation, speaking a little more distractedly as we kept an eye on him from a distance. We were a little worried because each time the waves knocked him down, we weren't sure if he was sober enough to get back up. After a few minutes, he returned, asking us why we weren't in the water. My friend told him we weren't dressed for it. He said, "Live life. Just gotta live it."
My friend said, "I feel the most alive, in every molecule of my being, when I'm with Christ." He stopped for a second. I don't remember if he asked her another question or not, but they spoke a bit. Then he addresses all three of us saying, "I am a Christian, believe me. I am just so fucking mad at God." It was out of the blue. It seemed to come from nowhere, but it likely came from alcohol-induced vulnerability and honesty. Just as unexpectedly, tears began to fill his eyes until he could not hold them in.
Then he began to share his story. He told us that one of his friends had been murdered. A young woman, just 25 years old. He told us how beautiful of a person she was. She was a "good Catholic girl", he said, who'd been going to law school and had been studying to pass the bar. She was murdered in a most gruesome way. Her limbs had all been cut off and she had been decapitated.
He talked in circles, telling parts of the story between parts of his own life story, including his faith, and his anger with God resulting from this murder.
We found out that he was in his late 30's, that he literally was a rocket scientist and that earlier in his life had had planned to become a Lutheran pastor. He knew a good deal of Koine Greek and was familiar with a little Hebrew.
He told us those details of his life, told us about his friend's murder, and kept returning to the biblical story of Job, paraphrasing it, making it reflect his own experience more acutely. He talked about how Job went on and on, asking all these questions of God. He told us that when God showed up He told Job, "You're a fucking idiot. You don't know anything!" He continued, "Okay, I get that God has infinite wisdom and shit, and I'm just a fucking idiot, but I just don't get how God could let her get her fucking head chopped off. He could've stopped it. God already had me. He didn't have to do this to get me. He already had me. "
He paused and we waited silently, letting the gravity of that be felt fully. With desperation he finally said, "I don't even need to know the answers. I just need God to fucking show up. He may've called Job a fucking idiot, but at least he showed up to say it. ...I know he's here with us now. I know that. But..."
After a while, he turned back to the broader topic of faith. "You'd have to be a fucking idiot not to believe God exists. And once you believe he exists, you have to be stupid not to believe in Jesus."
He vacillated between clarity of faith and doubt of the very nature of God, between rage and tears, and between topics, all without warning.
He said to us, "This is the first time I've cried about any of this, and it's with strangers. I'm sorry. I'm so sorry." He continued, saying that he had had to be the rock for all of her friends. "I tell them 'God has a plan' and all that shit. And I know he does, but..."
He turned to look at the moonlight dancing on the surface of the ocean waters. Then he looked up at the sky with fierceness and tears and yelled, "You know what? Fuck you, Motherfucker! Fuck you for taking her!"
A few silent moments passed. "And I know I shouldn't be angry, 'cause I don't know what God knows. He took the heat 2,000 years ago on the cross. He's still sitting here taking it and I'm cussing him out. And in front of his sheep, apparently."
He returned to the story of Job and to his own longing for God to show up. Then he chuckled a sad, heavy chuckle and said, "I get it. I mean, you guys are here. I came out here on a business trip, it's my last night here, I had 7 shots of rum, and here you are. I tell you... That Asshole really knows what He's doing. Doesn't mean I'm happy about it - I'm still fuckin' pissed, but... He's here."
We talked longer and we each prayed for him with him. He kept saying how amazing it was that people prayed for him and that he had brothers and sisters there, in that random part of Florida. We chatted longer and shared our donuts with him. It was a communion more real than I had ever been served before. He invited us to the condo he rented so that we could get drunk with him and we declined. We didn't stay much longer on the beach, and we didn't see the sunrise, though we were up until the wee hours of the morning. No regrets.
__________________________________________
I'm not going to wrap this up with a pretty bow. I couldn't if I tried. I'm not going to try to explain why this held so much meaning. Not in this venue. If you want to ask me about it, I'd be glad to share, but I think there's no less value in just letting this story be what it is. It is true, it is life, it is struggle. It involves a lot of questions and few, incomplete answers.
I will say though, after the whole thing happened, it almost seemed like a dream. I wondered if he was for real or if he was a bored tourist who really just wanted to screw around with a couple of young adults who were way too gullible and impressionable. Immediately after this encounter, I went home and googled the story. Everything he said checked out. The name, age, and occupation of the girl, the city and state it occurred in (which is where he lived), the gruesome details of the murder... All confirmed.
I was shocked though to see that the news report I had found came out just a mere two weeks before this encounter. I assumed it was years prior. And here he was and there we were, right in the thick of a recent tragedy.
I even tried to look the man up on facebook, but his name was so generic that I was unable to find him. I guess sometimes brief encounters have incredible impact on their own.
Saturday, January 12, 2013
The Low Rung of the Ladder, Camels, Needles, and Other Eschatological Meanderings.
I'm a little worked up right now. I haven't allowed myself to be worked up enough to write a new blog post until now. So I'll seize it while I can! I suspect it will come out more frankly than it might normally because I've allowed it to build up for a while now.
Here's my most recent though. I've been thinking about what I desire in my life, specifically what I think holds meaning for the ultimate ethic (an idea I nabbed from an author named Webb). In my dream life as it relates to the ultimate ethic, or the Kingdom ethic (which is probably more of a loaded statement, but really means the same thing), here's what I envision.
1) To live life alongside the poor, the disinherited, and the rejected. There are ways to stratify this to each rung of the ladder of success. But I'm talking about the low-rung. The rung that people climbing the ladder skip because they don't even need it to step up. The rung that is slippery and grimey. The rung that they are afraid to step on because they are afraid the "scum" on it will make them slip off and break a foot on the fall.
Jesus said, “Therefore I tell you that the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people who will produce its fruit. He who falls on this stone will be broken to pieces, but he on whom it falls will be crushed.”
I hope to find myself on the lowest rung because that's where I find Jesus.
In a practical sense, this means living at a lower standard of living. This means living in neighborhoods that most people think of as "dirty" and "dangerous". The kind that they "wouldn't want to raise a family in". The kind that they do service to once in a while before eventually returning to their homes away from it all.
My biggest issue with that is the feeling of isolation that almost necessarily accompanies it. Which leads to the second point of what I envision in the ultimate ethic, the Kingdom ethic.
2) To live in community - real, authentic community. Fair or not, I feel that living on the lowest rung would exclude me from the majority of community life in many (though not all) of the churches I grew up in and have gone to. I have seen intentional Christian communities that get the idea of living community right. Reba Place Fellowship in Evanston, IL is an incredible example. They live life in a way that is beautiful and stunning and life-altering.
I would love to see a marriage of these two principles. I think the lowest rung is where we find Jesus. He is in community with members of various social stratospheres, but he dines with those on the lowest rung. Sometimes providing physical needs, but just as often being their guest. And not because he imagines he is doing them a favor by doing so. Just because he wants to be with them. And apparently they wanted to invite him.
In the end, I don't think that the rich are excluded from the Kingdom because they can't fit through the narrow opening to it. I think it's because those who are rich don't truly want to be a part of that Kingdom. They don't know how to view themselves or their world without their privilege and inheritance defining it for them. Their riches tell them who to be and they use their riches to become it.
I don't exclude myself from the "rich". Despite being unemployed, unattached, and all of that jazz, I am privileged.
I was convicted the other day, thinking about the videogames I have enjoyed playing (which are a luxury that may be okay to have, but a luxury nonetheless). Among the top of the list are Animal Crossing (for the Nintendo Game Cube) and The Sims (for the CPU). I thought about why those games are fun. They are fun because of the idea of self-improvement. You can earn the money you want (which takes a lot of work and effort) in order to revamp, renovate, and redesign your entire lifestyle. You can build fancier things, which in The Sims actually increases your happiness meters, which makes it easier to earn money and to fund an even higher standard of living.
With Animal Crossing, it's all about decorating and redecorating. At some point you have so many items that you can't keep them all within your household. But you want to be able to change things out at will. The only way you can manage that is to drop your items outside your house. You can drop them along the lawn or in some far away field or along the shore. It really doesn't matter. But at some point you begin to realize that the land has become cluttered and gross because of your accumulation. But you can't just sell or get rid of things because they are limited commodities.
I thought to myself how adept these games are at describing the consumeristic life I, and most of you reading this blog, have been able to live. Our "privilege" that allows us to climb up these rungs of the ladder has enslaved us. We don't know what's at the top of the ladder, nor do we care as long as there's a rung above us.
What if these games had no money? What if Animal Crossing and The Sims didn't have any means of trading or any means of accumulation? There would be no ladder to climb. I would send my Sims to the shower for no reason in particular. They shower so they can feel better so they can work so that they can get paid so that they can get more stuff so that they can be happier so that they can get a promotion at work so that they can be paid more so that... You get the idea. Animal Crossing is the same. At some point, the neighbors you have in the game, this cat, that cow, so-and-so boar... They all become means to an end. You stop conversing with them to converse. Who has the time for that? You communicate with them so that you can do them a favor in the hopes of making some cash or in order to make a good trade that benefits you.
Those games are nothing without money or the possibility for "advancement" (which is defined almost exclusively monetarily). I was convicted because I thought, "Real life is so much like those games. What would life be without money? What would even be my purpose for living?" I never knew how closely I identified with my privilege, my richness, my consumerism, until this question caused me to hesitate.
Could life have meaning on the "bottom rung"? People in the lowest rung know the value of money. They know they need it to survive, but they also know that it doesn't make life worth living. I have a lot to learn from them. I don't consider it a charity to want to live among the vulnerable. I consider it a need that many of us ought to examine carefully. Who is really needy in this scenario?
I'm painting quite a black and white picture. I live by extremes and values determine how I view myself and the world around me. Sometimes that paints a picture that's not entirely accurate. But it is honest and it is hopeful. I don't think it's as clear as I've laid it out.
I hope though, that this entry has provided you with questions that you have hesitated at. May we band together in honest humility, recognizing our brokenness and our desire of how and who we want to be. Would we find our identity in Jesus and would our identity reflect him and our Father in every way.
Amen.
Here's my most recent though. I've been thinking about what I desire in my life, specifically what I think holds meaning for the ultimate ethic (an idea I nabbed from an author named Webb). In my dream life as it relates to the ultimate ethic, or the Kingdom ethic (which is probably more of a loaded statement, but really means the same thing), here's what I envision.
1) To live life alongside the poor, the disinherited, and the rejected. There are ways to stratify this to each rung of the ladder of success. But I'm talking about the low-rung. The rung that people climbing the ladder skip because they don't even need it to step up. The rung that is slippery and grimey. The rung that they are afraid to step on because they are afraid the "scum" on it will make them slip off and break a foot on the fall.
Jesus said, “Therefore I tell you that the kingdom of God will be taken away from you and given to a people who will produce its fruit. He who falls on this stone will be broken to pieces, but he on whom it falls will be crushed.”
I hope to find myself on the lowest rung because that's where I find Jesus.
In a practical sense, this means living at a lower standard of living. This means living in neighborhoods that most people think of as "dirty" and "dangerous". The kind that they "wouldn't want to raise a family in". The kind that they do service to once in a while before eventually returning to their homes away from it all.
My biggest issue with that is the feeling of isolation that almost necessarily accompanies it. Which leads to the second point of what I envision in the ultimate ethic, the Kingdom ethic.
2) To live in community - real, authentic community. Fair or not, I feel that living on the lowest rung would exclude me from the majority of community life in many (though not all) of the churches I grew up in and have gone to. I have seen intentional Christian communities that get the idea of living community right. Reba Place Fellowship in Evanston, IL is an incredible example. They live life in a way that is beautiful and stunning and life-altering.
I would love to see a marriage of these two principles. I think the lowest rung is where we find Jesus. He is in community with members of various social stratospheres, but he dines with those on the lowest rung. Sometimes providing physical needs, but just as often being their guest. And not because he imagines he is doing them a favor by doing so. Just because he wants to be with them. And apparently they wanted to invite him.
In the end, I don't think that the rich are excluded from the Kingdom because they can't fit through the narrow opening to it. I think it's because those who are rich don't truly want to be a part of that Kingdom. They don't know how to view themselves or their world without their privilege and inheritance defining it for them. Their riches tell them who to be and they use their riches to become it.
I don't exclude myself from the "rich". Despite being unemployed, unattached, and all of that jazz, I am privileged.
I was convicted the other day, thinking about the videogames I have enjoyed playing (which are a luxury that may be okay to have, but a luxury nonetheless). Among the top of the list are Animal Crossing (for the Nintendo Game Cube) and The Sims (for the CPU). I thought about why those games are fun. They are fun because of the idea of self-improvement. You can earn the money you want (which takes a lot of work and effort) in order to revamp, renovate, and redesign your entire lifestyle. You can build fancier things, which in The Sims actually increases your happiness meters, which makes it easier to earn money and to fund an even higher standard of living.
With Animal Crossing, it's all about decorating and redecorating. At some point you have so many items that you can't keep them all within your household. But you want to be able to change things out at will. The only way you can manage that is to drop your items outside your house. You can drop them along the lawn or in some far away field or along the shore. It really doesn't matter. But at some point you begin to realize that the land has become cluttered and gross because of your accumulation. But you can't just sell or get rid of things because they are limited commodities.
I thought to myself how adept these games are at describing the consumeristic life I, and most of you reading this blog, have been able to live. Our "privilege" that allows us to climb up these rungs of the ladder has enslaved us. We don't know what's at the top of the ladder, nor do we care as long as there's a rung above us.
What if these games had no money? What if Animal Crossing and The Sims didn't have any means of trading or any means of accumulation? There would be no ladder to climb. I would send my Sims to the shower for no reason in particular. They shower so they can feel better so they can work so that they can get paid so that they can get more stuff so that they can be happier so that they can get a promotion at work so that they can be paid more so that... You get the idea. Animal Crossing is the same. At some point, the neighbors you have in the game, this cat, that cow, so-and-so boar... They all become means to an end. You stop conversing with them to converse. Who has the time for that? You communicate with them so that you can do them a favor in the hopes of making some cash or in order to make a good trade that benefits you.
Those games are nothing without money or the possibility for "advancement" (which is defined almost exclusively monetarily). I was convicted because I thought, "Real life is so much like those games. What would life be without money? What would even be my purpose for living?" I never knew how closely I identified with my privilege, my richness, my consumerism, until this question caused me to hesitate.
Could life have meaning on the "bottom rung"? People in the lowest rung know the value of money. They know they need it to survive, but they also know that it doesn't make life worth living. I have a lot to learn from them. I don't consider it a charity to want to live among the vulnerable. I consider it a need that many of us ought to examine carefully. Who is really needy in this scenario?
I'm painting quite a black and white picture. I live by extremes and values determine how I view myself and the world around me. Sometimes that paints a picture that's not entirely accurate. But it is honest and it is hopeful. I don't think it's as clear as I've laid it out.
I hope though, that this entry has provided you with questions that you have hesitated at. May we band together in honest humility, recognizing our brokenness and our desire of how and who we want to be. Would we find our identity in Jesus and would our identity reflect him and our Father in every way.
Amen.
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