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.

On Cynicism

So I did a quick google search of cynicism to make sure I have a clear understand of what I am attempting to give up this Lenten season. Various sources define cynicism as: skepticism, distrust, suspicion of others true motives, a pessimistic or scornful attitude. Okay, so they got me pegged there… My first response is that I have damn good reason to be skeptical, to distrust others, and to be suspicious of others true motives. This is an issue that I have examined recently in my personal life, and I find it permeates all of my relationships, it truly is built into my psyche. So for me, to try and become less cynical first involves a trip inside to understand the roots of my cynicism.

For me, my cynicism is deeply psychological. By that I mean that my strong tendency toward cynicism is ultimately not based on intellectual skepticism, deconstruction activity, or even disappointment in past relationships/ideas/structures, but rather deeper at an emotional level. What is true is that my cynicism is most often expressed in these categories, but the roots go deeper.

I think I can say that my cynicism is based on a painful awareness that all is not right in the world, and all is not right in me. This awareness has been there since I was first conscious of self and the external world (around 5 years old). Through various means I have tried to elude this apparent reality, and at times succeeded for a while. Accepting and validating my awareness (most often subconscious) of how incomprehensibly sad and chaotic the world really is has never been an option, instead I have (subconsciously) created and tried to protect an idealistic view of the world and my self.

More recently I have started to really examine my idealistic view of myself and the world that I try so hard to protect. More specifically, I have tried to face head-on the reality that life is often filled with meaningless anguish, loneliness, and fear. Additionally I have tried to face the person I actually am, not the person I believe I should be.

That said, I believe that for me leaving behind cynicism very much involves death, a death of some of my disappointed idealism and a death of my self-illusions about my self. Only by embracing a reality that I find quite painful can I actually begin to accept that reality, and perhaps ultimately find some meaning in the ocean of meaninglessness.

Ken

Unashamed

I'll be honest and say that I had no idea what to expect this morning, but I was pretty sure that we'd be greeted with cynicism from the folks at New Hope. I mean, all good intentions aside, we would clearly be a group of young, white, upper middle class folks with a proclivity towards reproduction, and it would be very easy to dismiss us as do-gooders, appeasing our consciences during Lent by hangin' with the homeless... and honestly, I wasn't really sure I considered us to be doing anything more than that. I wasn't at CT last Sunday to hear The Spiel about why we were doing this, and I didn't really buy that this was an exercise in self-questioning. I am, it appears, even cynical about the cynics.

As Jon and I pulled up to the place, I was just done kvetching about locating a church for the homeless in Chantilly, minutes from the Fair Lakes mega-shopping-plex and far away from any perceivable form of mass transportation. I had my liberal university administrator hat on, shielding myself from the judgment I expected from the homeless by judging first, ready to point out all the evidences of White Privilege and class discrimination in the way the place was set up and run so that I couldn't be accused of taking advantage of these things myself.

Walking up to the building, I made eye contact with as many people as I could, nodding and saying hello, internally feeling "please don't judge me, please let me be here and worship with you, I'm sorry things are the way they are", but comforted by the ease with which I was greeted. It was just like any other church, folks saying "how are you doing this morning?" and making eye contact with me steadily, unashamed, mildly curious but not judgmental.

Talking in the back before church started, an African-American guy who had been sitting beside Stav got up, grabbed three breakfast burritos that McDonalds had evidently donated, and came over and offered them to us without a word. We all turned him down, but I was angry at myself for doing so... it was like going into the household of someone from another culture and refusing the offer of food. He was offering us hospitality... we had entered a place he considered his own, and he was welcoming us by offering us food. Perhaps he assumed we, too, were homeless, but I think it's more likely that this was beside the point. In an attempt to ease my sense of shame at turning down his offer of hospitality, I introduced myself and thanked him again for his kind offer. His name was Ed, and he spoke to me and met my eye with that same level gaze I'd been met with on the way in. I was in his church. He had nothing to be ashamed of, and no reason to judge me.

The service was simple: a few prerecorded songs that we muttered along to with the assistance of words projected onto a screen with background of soothing nature scenes; responsive scripture readings from Psalms and the Gospels; long, meandering testimonials from folks about how Jesus had saved them from this, that and the other; an offering at the end, slipped in almost without notice as we sang the final song. Most of the testimonials followed a pattern I recognized as being typical of the kind of AA Born Again Believer: I was into the drugs and the porn and down and out but hallelujah Jesus saved me. I don't mind that kind of testimony if it is sincere, and coming from a couple of the folks I did buy it.

One man in particular stood up and was visibly uncomfortable. He wasn't specific about the things he'd messed up in his life, although he did mention not being good in school... even to the point of being told to give up by one of his teachers. He was very eloquent at times, in small bursts, as though he'd managed to finally compose what it was he wanted to say. He started out, in fact, by saying that the parable of the vine and the branches had particular meaning to him because he was a landscaper. I waited for him to develop that thought, but he stopped himself, clearly struggling with his thoughts, with being up front, with some sort of non-specific shame. I believed him, though, in a way I didn't believe the others, and I wanted to clap loudly when he was done... because he was telling the story of the believer living in a brokenness that was still very present to him, and that's the kind of believer I generally am. That's the kind of believer who needs a Savior, you know? and that was his point, too, that he knew he needed the LORD to lean on... that he felt it every day.

I still felt a little awkward about our presence there, though. What were the regular attenders thinking about this little knot of folk with all their children who took up half the church? After church there was a lunch, which Tammy, a wiry, nervous-looking woman of some indefinable age (in her 40s or 50s? it was hard to tell... her life had clearly been tough and her face wore this) welcomed us to eat. Tammy was very familiar to me... she reminded me of relatives of some of my best friends in high school, of women at the truck stop where we'd go to meet and sometimes to eat with my Dad, of women from the Rescue Mission, women who approached the various churches we attended for some sort of assistance. That same nervous energy from smoking and coffee and not enough food and probably the after-effects of drug use and possibly alcoholism... women who struggle tremendously with their inner demons, their need for drama, excitement, love, the toxic draw they feel towards the things that pull them down, the men who beat and use them, the friends that betray them, and whom they betray. But here she was, preparing and offering a meal to strangers... because this was her church, and she had nothing to be ashamed of.

I started talking to folks and was quickly totally enchanted. Every single one of them greeted me with enthusiasm, mild curiosity, welcoming me to their church, needing nothing from me, unthreatened by my presence, and over and over again, unashamed. Ricky, a Filipino man who testified to having issues with anger, and I chatted for a while about how long he'd been in the U.S., his family back in Quezon City, his family here. A woman with one lone tooth greeted me with warmth and we chatted about how long she'd been going to the church, and how she'd found out about it. I sat down next to an exhausted looking woman who said she'd suffered from insomnia for the last 11 years. Her husband described them as "just a coupla hippies" who wander from place to place. I met a man from Punjab named Kumar who lost his job when someone stole his car, and who is hopeful that he will get his job back soon and find another place to live. Kumar's story really broke my heart... I honestly cannot conceive of an Indian being so cut off from his family or from other Indians... it is such a violation of all of my experience of Indian culture... but he saw the expression on my face and said "I'll be ok. I'll get my job back." and smiled and patted my arm.

It was actually kind of hard to leave. The stories were so compelling, and the people were so warm. It was like being at any other church, except that folks really were there just as they were, with almost no pretense of anything else. Over and over I was struck by it, how everyone met my eye, returned my smile, told their story, trusting, welcoming... like they were saying "welcome to Our Church. You, too, are welcome here. We, the poor, loved especially by God, welcome even the rich, with all of their shame at how much they have. We, for our part, are unashamed, and we welcome you to this same freedom."

Not that any of them would have said that. :^)

I'm really looking forward to going back next week, and to meeting Pastor Pat, who had taken the women on retreat this weekend. I'm wondering if the source of this calm centeredness in the community comes from her, from her connection to God, from her strong stability in this ministry. I'm also looking forward to what this unearths in me... there's something here that is important to learn. Just gotta figure out what it is.

Foxes, Hens, and Lent @ CT

Last week we announced our Lenten partnership with New Hope, and did so with real hope and excitement. At the same time, we warned that submitting ourselves to our 'theological other' could be a strain for us, people who have some pretty firmly held ideas of theology and church practice. So the challenge went out: let's give up cynicism and judgment for Lent. Let's engage with New Hope, and embrace it on its own terms. Let's enter in wholeheartedly-- and not just for a couple of hours on Sunday, but every day until Easter. Let's suspend our idealism and submit to a system that is bearing some significant fruit. Let's give up our idea of church for Lent.

In that spirit of reversal, we wanted to announce that the foxes are running the henhouse. Two of the most idealistic and cynical among us-- Ken and Mike Stavlund-- have volunteered to offer their thoughts during this Lenten season. We're committing to wave the banner of hope (and Hope) high, and to work hard against our tendencies toward skepticism and cynicism. Like the Psalmist who 'preaches to his soul', we'll be putting ourselves out there to fight our own tendencies toward theological and church isolationism during this Lent. You're welcome to join us, too (just leave your cynicism at the door ;-)

Here's how you can get on board:

You can track with the updates on the blog at http://commontable.org/lent/. On the right hand side you can subscribe to email updates or an RSS feed, or you can just hit the website whenever the urge hits you. Feel free to comment and interact there, too.

And each and every one of you are welcome to post your own thoughts and experiences, too.

To send a post to the lenten journal, follow these simple steps:

(1) Create an email with your thoughts/reflections on your lenten journey and our time with New Hope. (The email subject will be the blog post title)
(2) Sign your name at the bottom of the email so we know who's thoughts these were.
(3) Send your email to: CommonTableOrg1.lent@blogger.com These emails will be posted directly to the blog.


We hope you'll join us, and look forward to an intentional and mindful Lenten season together. Peace.

Mike Stav