Jesus, Take the Wheel

I missed this week's service, but I've been chewing on something for a few weeks now. One thing I've heard pretty consistently at NH is a message about our relative ability to care for ourselves, and an urgent entreaty to let God care for us. It is typified by a comment that goes something like, "when we do stuff for ourselves, we'll only screw it up!" The idea being that we need to allow God to run our lives, rather than trying to run them ourselves. To make the point, the comparison is frequently made that-- like children-- we tend to be stubborn about doing things ourselves, when our heavenly father can do them so much better.

Of course, this is in large part a useful bit of rhetoric, used quite effectively. If I'm given a choice between doing something entirely on my own versus having God handle it completely, there isn't much of a choice. Forced to choose within that false dichotomy, I'll pick God, every time. But as many times as I've heard this line of thinking (at NH and elsewhere), and as many times as I've said it myself, I don't know what it would look like for me to let God do stuff for me. Certainly, I've made a mess of my life, regularly and enthusiastically. And certainly, I could use more faith and followership of God in my daily dealings. But what would it look like for me to 'let go, and let God'? (I'm not being snarky or smartassed here-- I'd honestly like to know, and live like that.)

Perhaps I'm overly sensitive, too, since I'm currently living with a two-year-old. One who stomps and shouts daily, precisely because she wants to do "evawy-fing, my-SELF!" Yes, it is aggravating to see her 'clean up,' and make a bigger mess of things. To watch her make the same mistakes, over and again. To see her fall, and hurt herself. And I could brush her teeth in half the time, thankyouverymuch. But isn't that the whole point? Isn't her desire to do things for herself the seed of human agency, and the beginnings of self-esteem? Don't I want her to do things for herself, lest I need to do them for her, forevermore? Wouldn't a good father be pleased to see his child displaying some hard-won independence? I don't want her to be an impulsive and impetuous two-year old, but I don't want her to be a dependent kid with low self-esteem, either.

Maybe it is yet another example of the influence of Greek philosophy upon Enlightenment Christianity: the pure/holy/high set against the impure/profane/low. Of light vs. darkness, heaven vs. earth, and of the logically unavoidable conclusion that we humans must be corrupt (or even totally depraved), since God is not. If so, I'd like to find my place between these two poles: not trying to do everything myself, but not letting go of the wheel, either. Pursuing the light, but not being afraid of the dark. Of asking God to have agency in my life while at the same time accepting responsibility for the decisions that I make.

Outflow of Inward Vitality

This post was originally a comment to Mike's post below, but it got so long I decided to make a post out of it!

I have been thinking that real, genuine actions (orthopraxy) flow out of our health as individuals and our health as a community. That said, I think times of inward and self-reflective growth are very important, so long as we don't stay there. Common Table seems to have gone through some important growth as a community in the past year or two, and I think we are feeling a renewed hunger to engage outside of our group. The reason I point this out is that I felt a while back we where trying to engage outside our group, while we weren't engaged inside our group (I should qualify this as my perception, not a fact). Maybe I am making a false assumption about the order of events, but I really like the notion that engaging and helping others is the outflow of our inward vitality. As we have become church to each other, we begin to meet each other's needs in real and tangible ways, and ultimately we begin to join together and seek to do things for those in even greater need.

So instead of feeling guilt about what I (or we) are not doing, I think it is good to focus on what we are doing, and work to extend that in our lives. Otherwise I personally tend to feel overwhelmed and under-resourced to meet any of my lofty expectations for my life and my community.

The Orthodoxy of Orthopraxy

A while back I was reading a well-written and really long book, The Family. It's a work of political and religious intrigue, documenting the birth and growth of a uniquely American group known variously as 'The Fellowship', 'The Family', and 'The Fellowship Foundation'. This is a somewhat secretive cabal of Christians who are working hard to help the world as best they can. Indeed, the unstructured organization that they've formed in the margins and quiet back rooms of Washington DC is akin to the first-century church, unconcerned as it is with recognition and notoriety. Yet there is (at least) one aspect of the early church that seems to be missing: a deep concern for, and genuine connection with, the poor and powerless. Which makes the book all the more engaging, as the reader follows the narrative and notes this organizational blind spot that never seems to be addressed or repaired, becoming increasingly aggravated as the pages add up.

But in a stroke of genius, the sheer length of the book provides its real power for change. As I was reading it, my smugness was swelling, and I was muttering to myself as I forged on. "It's about orthopraxy (right actions), not orthodoxy (right belief)!," I said, again and again. "These rich white guys are so sure of themselves, thinking that as long as they have all of their beliefs in order, it doesn't matter one bit how terribly they treat their neighbors, employees, or constituents." Yet after 300 pages, fatigued by my own indignance, I couldn't help but turn inward and wonder about my own actions. What good was my clear understanding of the importance of actions, when I myself am very white and quite far from the poverty line and doing very little to serve others (apart from reading books)? In my reaction against orthodoxy as a panacea for the ills of humanity, have I perhaps made too much of orthopraxy?

My fear is that-- for me and my friends-- orthopraxy has become the new orthodoxy. That in our strong (and correct!) affirmation of the importance of doing stuff, we have become like the anti-fundamentalist fundamentalists that we smirk at so frequently. The dangerous thing about my elevation of orthopraxy is that the very act of doing so exempts me from needing to do anything about my orthopraxy. It is enough to affirm the theoretical value of orthopraxy, and to then find a comfortable spot in my cozy home where I can be right. Orthopraxy, then, is the new orthodoxy, which requires little from me other than my stalwart intellectual ascent toward the tennets of orthopraxy. Handy, huh?

Meanwhile, my friends at New Hope Fellowship keep welcoming me to their small and mighty project of redemption for those who live in the cars and woods and homeless shelters of Northern Virginia, giving me eyes to see the people who have been there all along. Folks in this church could care less about The Family, or about my existential gnashings, or about my reading list (and God bless them for that!). They talk about orthodoxy, but they give orthopraxy.

Poems for New Hope

The first one might not be a poem, but it is a piece I wrote in January after my first visit. The second is one I penned when I should have been listening to the sermon last week.

church

A hoarse preacher paces in front of a room full of people who live outside. Armed with a briefcase containing only a Bible and a stack of sweat towels, he is a force to be reckoned with: pacing back and forth, calling down some Holy Ghost power and cracking jokes and raging against sin as he tries to pull people from the pit.

There are a lot of scents swirling through here. Odors of those who live outdoors, stale clothes, cigarettes, and the occasional whiff of whiskey. But he most overpowering scent is of the fire at the end of the hall. It blazes away, chapping skin and stinging eyes with smoke. The man tending it is in constant motion, carrying wood in through the door, stacking it on the hearth, and piling it onto the flames. The dry heat is stifling, but still the pile grows. It is so good to be warm, all the way down to your bones.

restless

in every church I've seen
there are people
in the wrong places:
the kitchen, the parking lot,
the lobby, the coffee pot

cooking, cleaning, talking, smoking
they are pacers, millers-around,
baby-whisperers and malcontents

sometimes, they look like
they're avoiding 'church'
but when I squint
and look again
I see that they're
doing the thing itself

A place of wild quiet

I was not in the mood for New Hope this Sunday. I'd had an exhausting week, a difficult week, and I was depressed and lethargic. I'd slept most of the preceding 24 hours before I stiffly got up and reluctantly got ready for church. All I was expecting of myself was to show up, participate as much as I could, and go home as soon as I could manage.

The worship service was mostly uneventful. There was one moment where Jen had us fill in the blank with "______ cannot separate me from the love of God". It took a little while, but gradually the momentum built around the room. I was struck by how eloquent these folks were, and how honest we ALL were about our struggles. I was also struck by how similar our struggles were, at least as we were describing them in this context. We were all troubled by fears and disappointments, and we all boldly proclaimed that none of these would separate us from the love of God. I named my two biggies: anger and loneliness, and I felt a little weight come off my shoulders. This is the kind of thing we go to church for... to be able to name our weaknesses in the presence of our brothers and sisters, who also feel free to name theirs... and we offer it up to God for His redeeming.

The weariness returned shortly after our time of offering up our fears to God. After the service, I tried to start a conversation with Christiana, the mother of 5 of the kids who come to the church, but she pretty much ignored me. Her kids stared at me, and I smiled and tried to talk to them, but that didn't go so well, either. I didn't have the energy to push forward much, so I finished my lunch quickly, talking a little with Crog. Then Jen came up and said "Erik's built an outdoor chapel in the woods. Wanna come see it?"

Did I wanna come see it? YES.

A few of us, plus Erik --a landscaper who felt called by God to start a ministry for the homeless several years back-- parked in a mega-church parking lot and sprinted across a four lane divided highway into a fairly non-descript patch of woods. It was muddy going, but the day was perfect... in the low 70s, with a deep blue sky, white puffy clouds, and gentle breezes at proper dramatic intervals. We followed Erik through the woods, holding back branches for each other and stooping beneath fallen tree trunks. After a few minutes, we saw a clearing in the forest. Erik had set up a camp for homeless folks who might need shelter... a tent, a cook stove he'd made from one of those big steel drum things, a few tools, some coffee cups...

and a wooden cross that he'd made from two fallen trees, complete with a crown of thorns made from vines he'd found in the woods. He'd erected the cross and cleared out a space around it, with a flower bed in the center where the cross was and four benches made from logs around the cross. He'd posted Bible verses and quotes from religious poetry on four trees behind each of the benches and also at the foot of the cross. In the flowerbed beneath the cross, tiny royal purple flowers poked up, the color of royalty, and the exact color of the Easter season vestments and altar draperies in the Catholic church. We walked around in silence, reading the verses, praising Erik for the beauty of his work.

and then, one by one, we sat down. Jen had brought her guitar --Erik had said, "you never know what the Spirit will do" and had gently urged her to bring it-- and she got it out and started strumming. It could have been really hokey, but it was the opposite. It was natural, and organic, and the purest praise I'd experienced in a good long while. I sing loud, and as hard as I try, I'm self-conscious in most settings. Out here, it was just a few humble believers, along with the birds and the trees and the sky, all of which sing His praises at all times and aren't the slightest bit impressed by me. It was the best church I could have hoped for.

I don't know how long we sat out there. Jen and I sang, alternating melody and harmony however it struck us, joined by the guys from time to time. After we were done we just sat. I didn't want to move or say anything, because I DIDN'T want to go... and I knew if we spoke that'd be the end of it. I wanted to sit there and sit there and sit there in communion with these folks and with the wild creation, in the mud, with the little bugs and the birds and the leaves and the trees raising their branches in praise.

Erik had tears in his eyes when he finally spoke. He said that we were an answer to prayer and that he'd really hoped this place could be a place of worship like that. We left shortly after we finished singing, and I went home refreshed and renewed, without a trace of the weariness and depression that had been stalking me the last two days. I got a lot done that night, and at the end of the day I really couldn't remember the last time I'd felt so relaxed.

As we talked after we finished our time of worship, I told Erik how much I loved this place and he said that even when he can't get back there he can go back in his mind. I've been doing that in the two days since. I've had a really good couple of days... gotten a lot done at work, and felt hopeful and... well, I've felt MYSELF. I've felt blessed. I wasn't expecting this at all, but it was such a wonderful gift to be given.

and New Hope surprises me, once again.

Giving up Church to Find it

One of the paradoxical ideas in Jesus' kingdom thinking, is the idea of giving up something to find it.  This Lenten season, our congregation is giving up church as we know it.  Today, one of the gentlemen from New Hope Fellowship, showed us a church he made in the woods.

This sanctuary made me wonder if Eric had actually been present at our four part Sacred Space series - where we invoked lessons from music, physics, counseling and art.  The layout betrays an obvious awareness of the large mass of certain tree's punctuated with scripture or other thoughts. Taken together, a space is created between them that has become a sacred space. I don't imagine this is easy to do this in the middle of the woods - but Eric had a vision for it - and its beautiful one at that.

One of the most striking oddities about it - is that it is literally across the street from a big church that I play (keyboards) out at from time to time.  I think back to all the times I've been there - completely unaware of the church in the woods.

It's a dance

So I walked into church at New Hope Fellowship yesterday morning, a bit surprised to be in a good mood. A freak 24-hour bug (which most of y'all readers heard me whine and moan about plenty much already, I'm sure) kept me from flying to Albuquerque for the Catholic-Emergent conference, but then I got well and spent a really enjoyable weekend at home with Tina, and friends, and we hung up hammocks in our backyard, and there was sunshine. Yay!

So I showed up at church a few minutes early. The congregation was smaller than last week because the winter-long, county-wide Hypothermia Shelter Program had ended, and so it was no longer the case that a large percentage of area homeless folks were all in the same place first thing Sunday morning, with relative ease of transportation to church. Pastor Pat and the New Hope regulars were a little sad about that, but Pat greeted me warmly and we chatted a bit before the service, as sundry Common Table folk (and a few straggling New Hope regulars) came in from the chilly sunshine.

Pat began the service with announcements, and with prayer for Brother Kenny, who is going through some major struggles right now. I've only met Kenny a couple of times, but I like him, and I can see that he's a man who has given himself to God. I was sad and moved to hear of his struggles.

Then we moved to a time of worship through music, with CT's Jen and Jackie, along with Pastor Pat's granddaughter, leading the worship music. I was really enjoying singing and worshiping with this blended, motley group of Jesus-followers, but then something happened that moved me to astonished tears.

A little girl (maybe 7 or 8?), there with her Mom, started dancing up front. I have to believe that she had at least some training in ballet or the like, because she was very graceful most of the time, but she occasionally slipped and stumbled due to the low friction of her socks on the tile floor. Whenever she fell, her Mom would quietly urge her to sit down before she hurt herself, but the little girl would protest, and Mom would relent, and the girl would keep dancing. She was beautiful.

The topic of the service was Jesus' saying, "I am the Light of the world", and the worship songs had lyrics like, "we want to see God". And all I could think was, "and there is God, right there: in the joy and grace of that little girl, in our songs of praise, in this time of worship where she, and the musicians, and we incompetent yet enthusiastic singers, and the Father, and the Son, and the Holy Spirit are all sharing together in the joy of each other's presence."

It brought to mind one of those Greek vocabulary words that too often turn up in otherwise agreeable blog posts about church: perichoresis. Like most $20 words in other languages that have been invested with Theological Significance, it's tough to translate, but it was one of the early-ish concepts that were employed to help understand the Trinity. The idea, as I may or may not grok it, is that it describes the Trinity in terms of images like intimacy, sharing, loving relationship, and even dance: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit are eternally engaged with each other in an ever-moving yet ever-loving set of relationships - like dancing. And, in Jesus, God invites us to participate in that dance - in that moving, loving web of relationships - too.

Then we read the day's scripture together, and Pat began to preach. She was passionate, and funny, and challenging, and throughout her sermon, as she contrasted the secretive darkness we tend to prefer with the light that comes through relationship with Jesus, she kept on using images that evoked, for me, this concept of perichoresis. Images of God, Father, Son, and Holy Spirit inviting us out of our dark corners into the light, into relationship with Jesus, and God, and each other, to be participants in God's dance of light and love. By the end of the service, I felt like I'd gained a new perspective on this Trinitarian dance that I'd never seen before.

Of course, not everything Pat said sat well with me. She made a couple of claims that I found myself mentally railing against. But as The Sage mentioned as we chatted in the parking lot after the service, nobody gets everything right. Certainly not us. And I feel like there are HUGE gifts to be received (or rejected) depending on whether we can extend grace to our sisters and brothers to be wrong about things - even if those things happen to be peeves of ours. Because, quite frankly, the fact that we're peeved is no guarantee that we're not the ones who are wrong.

And in the words of a Tweet I saw from the conference I missed this weekend, where Catholics and Protestants were coming together in a new context, "we [the Church] are bound together by THE CROSS OF JESUS CHRIST". That galvanized me. Damn right, we are. And I hope to God that we can summon up the grace to overlook the differences that, compared to that cross, are nothing.

And if we can, we just might get to see some dancing that will take our breath away. Heck, we might even get to join the dance ourselves.

Chronological Snobbery, My Old Friend

(I worry about CT's) tendency towards a lack of compassion for the people from whence we came. We're good at extending grace everywhere else - just not behind us.

-- The Sage (aka, Deanna Doan)

This quote from my friend has stuck with me since she wrote it. Partly because I see it as such an accurate description of one of our growth edges as a community, and partly because it seems to be an almost impossible conundrum. If we want to be innovative and experimental and engaging (which I think we are), then we'll have to accept that one of the shortcomings of being forward-thinking is a tendency to be dismissive of what is behind us.

Even so, we need to fight this tendency, lest we be guilty of the worst kind of conceit: "I used think/practice X, but now I know/do better." This kind of chronological construct is offensive and foolish, as it puts whole groups of people 'behind' us, or 'below' us. And what's worse, it tends to inflame our collective ego and endorse a kind of corporate dismissal of what we've done and/or experienced in the past.

But the problem--and the greater conundrum-- is that we are chronological people. We live in the middle of our own story-- one that has a beginning and an end. And we ought be trying to live our lives more thoughtfully, and with more intention, and with better practices. The challenge, I think, is to not pity or demean those people who populate our past (whether literally or as representatives), or overly honor that which is new to us. The challenge is to be people who are truly after the best beliefs and practices, even (and especially) those which we may have pursued in the past.

For the past few months, I've been taken with this phrase 'in medias res', which is Latin for 'in the midst of events.' It has lots of resonance for me, and especially in this context, where I'd like to be open to everything that is in my past, and eagerly pursing my future, all while unapologetically inhabiting my present. Even more to the point, I'd like to embrace an awareness that everyone else is in medias res, too-- that their stories are unfolding, and growing, and ready to inform mine. Lord, have mercy.

Pt's I & II: Ziggy & Riches

Pt. I , Ziggy

I was talking to brother Laurence on Sunday. His nickname is "Ziggy." I like it. Brother Ziggy, bless his soul, seems a bit disengaged from reality. I don't label him a liar, because, perhaps in is own mind, what he speaks is the reality he perceives, or has chosen to believe… Ziggy was Rosalyn Carter and Nancy Reagan's bodyguard - Nancy liked him so well that she gave him a fifth of whiskey; Ziggy played for the Oakland Raiders and recently had his hair cut by the CIA. Geez man, he's had a more interesting life than me! Ziggy told me about his pad in the woods. He has a really hip tent - complete with bitchen stereo system, cooking gear, cot, space heater, etc. Sounds like a real camping-out gig. I don't know where Ziggy's head is at, but he seems to have found his reality. I confess I'm curious to peek inside his world - kind of like one of those, mmm, 'shroom trips I took in my much younger days: To learn something from it, but not to linger too long.

* * * * * * * * * * * *

Pt. II, Riches

What constitutes wealth anyway? Compared to my daughter's future in-laws, I'm poor. Compared to the typical New Hope congregant, I'm rich. It appears to be relative. The average black household today is more affluent than the average white family of the 1960's (when I grew up), yet there are still cries of racism and inequality. Why? Because of the affluence gap between whites and blacks. Never mind that the average black family in the 1960's would be doing summersaults of joy to have what the average black family of the 2000's has – the problem is relative: When you see what they / the others have, and yours is less than that, well then, you start to feeling as if you're "poor." That's why I try not to look at what other people have or what other people are doing. God has given me what I have: My job is to do the best I can with what He's given me - not to compare myself to others.

Long story short, I'm convinced that leading a rich life has only a little to do with material wealth. Sure, money helps, but there's more to it than that. In fact, I have a tendency to believe that too much affluence can, in fact, get in the way of leading a rich life. This idea I have about leading a rich life is one of the reasons I ended up at The Common Table - because it's something different, unusual, creative, and quirky (church = people), and it adds another interesting dimension to this life I've been given. Which brings us to the present scene…

It's an intriguing mix – the relatively affluent, educated, white folks, with their eclectic brand of emerging Christianity mixing with the poor, mental health challenged, mixed race folks, in their fundamental Bible setting. In spite of the oddness of all this, I think that Jen and Amy did a great job of leading worship, in a way that produced on outcome whereby there really was no "us" and "them."

An Honest Reaction

So I am a bit unsure what to share about the first two weeks with New Hope.  In many ways it has been a great experience thus far.  For example, I have gotten to know Bruce in great depth, swapping stories about living back west, bee keeping, self sufficient living, you name it.  The guy is a treasure trove of random insight about almost everything pertaining to the rural life!  He even gave me some good tips on how to run my own moonshine still!  Piecing the fragmented stories together is a challenge, as he shifts gears quicker than an 18 wheeler heading up a steep grade, but based on what I did know about the various topics, he seemed to be dead on.

Other folks I have chatted with, learned their names and a few basic details.  Like Yoken (sp?), a young man from the Virgin Islands who came here seeking the American dream and in his words, "things didn't turn out the way I was hoping."  His plan now is to head back when he can afford the ticket, as he would rather be poor with family (and in the Virgin Islands no less!) than in the DC suburbs.

On the service side, things have been less positive.  I have tried really hard to "translate" the words I hear into their intent, to not let the theology mask the heart of the presenter.  To a degree I have probably achieved this, but I can't help but find myself really questioning the exhortations coming from the pulpit.  I mean, I am all for the ways in which this body is helping to address the physical needs of the people, and I do believe that spiritual needs must be addressed as well, but I have a hard time seeing how the message accomplished that, maybe I missed it though, as the layers of resistance in my own thinking are many... 

My one counterpoint to my own critique (ooops) is an amazing one to me.  Kieran was squatting behind or under various chairs for most of the sermon, and I assumed he was indifferent to the words of Pastor Pat.  However, at one point he took a break from making Ella laugh and whispered in my ear:  "Can you tell that woman about a time on Blue's Clues when Steve and Blue had no lights because there was a storm."  I was very impressed that he picked up the main theme of the story she told.  He also told me that he only knows about "God and Amen, and that's all..."

So clearly my toddler was catching a least a tiny bit of the message about light and Jesus.  Perhaps that is a far better litmus test than my own cycnism addled brain...

The thin line between us...

I'm writing this with my blood still a-boil from reading the comments to a post on Scot McKnight's site regarding "the younger generation" and their finances. I threw my hat in the ring, of course, me and my huge amount of debt, including The Student Debt That Will Never Go Away. Most of the responses to the post --which consisted of a video of a young man kvetching about how the economic stimulus has not helped him while his flat panel television plays in the background-- were ugly, and condescending, and blind to their own privilege. One person even had the audacity to brag about how he was out of debt a mere 5 years or so out of college, mentioning as an aside that his and his wife's parents "had helped them out a lot".

I guess this hit me with more force than usual because I was percolating on our morning at New Hope. After church last week, I subjected poor Jon White to a monologue on how close to homelessness my family had come... how we WOULD have been homeless if my Mom's parents (to whom she was not particularly close) hadn't let us live in one of their houses rent-free for most of my childhood and adolescence. My parents, too, were homeless for a period a couple of years ago after they lost their truck, and only had a place to stay because a friend of my Dad's let them stay in a trailer he hadn't managed to rent, again for free. I have relatives on my Dad's side who are and were homeless most of their adult lives due to mental illness and addiction. In all honesty, I have had periods (especially when I first moved to DC) where I, too, wouldn't have been able to pay rent if I hadn't lived off my credit cards.

Life is strange, and the lines that divide us are more flimsy than we allow ourselves to contemplate most days. My access to huge amounts of debt comes because I am part of a system. As long as I progress in the system, I will continue to be allowed to have ever increasing amounts of debt... but if I had dropped the ball early? If I had had less good fortune? If I'd had parents who loved me less or who didn't care for me as well as they did? If I struggled with addiction or debilitating mental illness? I have no assurance that things would be any different than they are for the folks at New Hope. I thank God for my circumstances, but I can't in good conscience entirely assign blame to the homeless folks or merit to myself for how things have worked themselves out.

There were twice the number of people there this morning than there were last week... a handful more of us, maybe, but having Pastor Pat back plus the rainy, cold morning meant that quite a few more homeless folk were motivated to come. I missed some of the characters from last week. Kumar, I hope, wasn't there because he got his job back. Some of the folks from last week were there, too... Ricky buzzed around, making himself useful, joking a little too much and wiping the sweat from his forehead. Renee, with her lone tooth, engaged me in conversation again, and talked about her kids, one of whom she gave up for adoption many years ago. I felt again the strong sense of shamelessness, openness. I talked at length with a fellow named Joe, who told me about how his week went, how he got a little work sweeping up for a guy at a church in town, how the hypothermia program is organized, where he tends to be when the weather's nice, how sometimes he doesn't show up for his sweeping job because he's "been out too late in town". I finally introduced myself to the guy they call Elvis, whom I've seen at the metro and on the CUE bus for years now, but never spoken to. He seems articulate and sane, if a little weird. I wonder what it is that keeps him on the streets.

There was one very memorable incident that I found myself struggling with like I was trying to solve a Rubik's cube. A little boy hugged his even littler sister, and when he let go, she lost her balance and fell, hitting her head on the tiled floor. I heard a gasp from a few folks and thought maybe he'd pushed her. Her Mom picked her up to comfort her and I turned around. But then she started yelling "911!! 911!!" and ran outside, clutching the kid. In one movement, 2/3 of the room emptied, as people ran outside, some also yelling "911!! 911!!" It was surreal. I heard someone saying "She's not breathing!!" and someone else saying "She's cracked her head open!!" and someone else saying "She's dead!!" I sat and waited. There was no way in hell the kid was dead, and I had my guard up enough this week to not trust the panic that had moved so many people so quickly.

I wasn't worried about the kid, really (and as it turned out, she had just gotten the wind knocked out of her and was totally fine... this didn't stop a ton of people calling 911 on the kid's behalf), but I was worried about the source of that panic. I was worried about Renee, who ran from the back up to the front with a terrified look on her face moaning, "Oh my God! Oh my God! She's not breathing! Oh my God!!" I was worried about all the commotion and the wild-eyed looks and the drama. It really took me a while to shake it all off... because up until then, I was just feeling like part of the congregation, separated by circumstances that were mostly invisible in the context of worship. But in that instant, I became painfully aware of how different I am, of the fragility that is perhaps the most substantive difference.

In the context of New Hope, where people are saying "praise Jesus" and talking about The Life Beyond This Life, it just feels like a Pentecostal church. For me, it feels like being around my Grandfather (who, incidentally, also would be homeless if it weren't for my Dad)... it feels very weirdly like home. But that fragility ripped it open for me. I wear my emotions on my sleeve, but I don't struggle with severe mental illess. I have community. I have a job with a state university. I have a masters degree. I'm in the system, and accepted by it. These guys have none of that certainty, and none of the resultant controlled detachment from some circumstances. It was completely in the realm of possibility for them that the little girl had died, because Those Things Happen in their world... I guess they happen in mine, too, but not like that... not so suddenly, so randomly. I have at least the illusion that things are fairly under control.

Illusion or not, and selfish or not, I pray it stays that way.

Turning Off My Inner Critic

I've always been a critical person, but it took college to make me a full-time, professional critic.

I'll always remember one of my first college classes, where the professor made the offhand comment that he didn't like a lot of hymns, and in fact refused to sing certain lyrics. Before that, it had never occurred to me that the hymns of our faith could be wrong or inaccurate in any way-- I simply trusted them like I trusted my parents (who I also learned to critique from the comfortable remove of my ivory tower). In the years that followed, I learned to question everything: to apply logic, analysis, and careful research to every assumption that I could find. Not to mention the input of the -ologies: philosophy, psychology, sociology, theology, and on and on. The key to the good life, it seemed, was in my engagement of every idea and suspicious assessment of it. The things that weren't wrong were at the very least oversimplified, and I was learning how to engage the world with my intellect.

Now of course one doesn't need to go to college to learn to think, and being a critic is something that comes quite naturally to most of us. But it seems to me that education in particular raises the value of criticism to unnaturally high levels. And if one gets a religious education of some kind, then criticism gets a kind of baptism, too. Which makes criticism a burden: it is good and holy to decide what is good and holy in the world. Amen.

The challenge that I find is turning this inner critic off. I want to accept people at face value, but it's hard when these voices inside my head are chirping away as I talk to someone. I'm so steeped in cynicism and criticism that I'm starting to wonder if I'm addicted to it. Conversion stories come closest to disarming my inner critic, but even there I'm insufferable: I'll actually, unbelievably wish that a person would, for example, stick with a single metaphor for their life's transformation, or perhaps streamline their storytelling in some other way.

And it's then that I notice a whole panel of critics inside my head. There's the literary critic who clucks at someone's earnest presentation of their conversion, and then there's the counseling critic who wags his head at the insensitivity of the literary critic. The philosopher wonders what all of this is based on, and the sociologist makes some notes about milieu and sitz im leben. And don't even get me started about the gaggle of pipe-smoking theologians who grumble about almost everything, all day long.

I just want them all to shut up, at least until Easter. Because they're squeezing the life out of the gospel story that is unfolding in front of me every day.