I just locked Jesus out of the church again. This time it was raining as I ushered him out the door. I did give him an umbrella that had been created to promote beer. Somebody left it because they didn't want it anymore. Good enough for Jesus, though. He stood under it on the top step; the rain poured down from the awning as if it were a falls onto Samuel Adams face. As the door closed, I saw the force of the water tip the umbrella in his hand. He looked like a frightened child. And I'm pretty sure he heard the door klunk when I locked it. He was standing inches from it. I had given him everything I had on me: seven dollars. He always seems to show up when I have a little bit of cash but never enough to really do much. He makes me feel like shit. Because, (surprise!) I pretty much am.
Thank you for the reality check, Jesus. In scripture your messengers tell us to “have no fear.” I wish I could. Obviously they never met you. I wish I could let you sleep in our spare bed, but I am afraid you will hurt my child and wife. I wish I could let you sleep in the church, but I am afraid you will burn the place down. I wish I could walk you to my ATM, but I am afraid you will hold me up. Why do you do that to me? Why can’t you come, just once, as someone I could trust? I don’t think I will ever figure you out. You don't want what I can give. You don't want the shelters I can call (and I don't blame you). You don't want the food I packed (and I don't blame you). But that is all that fear has left me. I don't think I will ever figure you out.
I'll try again tomorrow. And I pray you'll survive the night.
“You are laughing at me, aren’t you,” my friend quipped.
I wasn’t actually. I was just smiling. But I could understand how he would view it as inappropriate. He had just shared his distress, concluded that nobody cared, and that nobody was listening.
“I’m not laughing,” I said. “I care, I am listening, and I don’t think any of this is particularly funny. I just find it interesting that you think of me as ‘nobody.’”
I had a body. I was present. I was there. I put my hands on his as we prayed. He could smell aroma of the onions that still lingered on my clothes from dinner. I watched his lips quiver with sadness and fear. I captured the sound of his voice with my ears. My brain processed the sounds, matched them to the language and context I knew, and the life I had experienced. It fired information back to my mouth and tongue to form a verbal response. It sent other information to small muscle groups in my face and hands to form a non-verbal response. I had a body. I was present. But I don’t think it was me that he considered “nobody.” He wanted God in-the-flesh.
I think this is why so many of the faiths that are practiced in the world have icons and/or idols. We need a deity who shares our space. We need a sensory experience of the divine; or at least an approximation of it. We need a God who is embodied.
When incarnation happens, God is no longer “nobody.” God becomes present.
Real.
Here.
This is the God we pray for. This is the God who arrives. This is the God who is coming again.
When I worked in the not-for-profit industry at the beginning of the 2000s, people were extremely hopeful about the upcoming generational shift and what it would mean for those of us who relied on donations and membership dues to exist. In fundraising circles, people spoke of how we were about to see "the greatest transfer of wealth in the history of our nation" as the late Builders and early Boomers began to decide how to handle their estates and what the legacy of their years of working would be. Incredibly generous endowments began to flood in to universities. Museums opened new wings. Medical researchers had the funding to do ground-breaking studies. Charities were given gifts that would guarantee their existence for at least a decade. Even churches were reaping the benefits of it, and they began adding enormous additions and building mega-worship arenas on outskirts of town. And they weren't coming from the uber-rich. They were coming from people like your grandparents and parents. It was pitched as the beginning of a new era; a new age of enlightenment and humanity.
Then everything tanked. The people with the money got frightened. And that was the end of that.
I was remembering this yesterday as I had a conversation yesterday with Moravian pastor Rebecca Craver about leadership development in young, urban churches. The church now sits on the cusp of a the same kind of transfer as that of the 2000s. But instead of money, the wealth being transferred today is the traditions of faith. The 2010s will be a critical time for the mainline church as it passes on the mantle of faith and witness to the generations who are presently not allowed to take a leading role in the universal church's mission and vision.
Unfortunately, the attitudes of scarcity (fueled by greed) which ended the great wealth transfer are now what plague the church. Look at an average mainline congregation and you will see this by who is conspicuously absent. Look at those who, by in large, stand in the front in worship. Look at those who lead head our episcopacies, judicatories, presbyteries, boards and agencies. Look at those making the decisions. Intentionally and/or unintentionally, preservation of the status quo has sucked the life-giving blood of Jesus out of us and made us afraid. Which shouldn't be a surprise, because no matter what words you used to describe it, power is power.
What will it take for the Builders and Boomers to let go? I am beginning to wonder if the generation of the pastorate I belong to is intended to be a mediator for the hand off ... to earn the trust of those like my grandparents and parents and assure them that what they built and sustained may end up looking different, but will be alive. I wonder if we are to be a bridge; wilderness priests of the tabernacle without the permanence of the temple; wilderness leaders who will gaze upon the promise of renewal but never actually step foot into it.
Regardless of what happens, I am assured the gospel will survive and thrive. That all belongs to God. But if the institutions that house it are to have any hope of a lasting legacy, they need to give it up now in the same way those who came before them gave it up. That is the way of grace, and the way of God. I'm waiting for the day when the young can claim faith as their own, and the old smile lovingly as they do it.
Yesterday was filled with Christ-haunted blessing. In the span of four hours, I was an observer and participant in the distance that lies between the poles of life in our city and our culture in general.
On my way to Indianapolis, I was admiring the way the winter sun seems to be welcomed into the souls of those back lit by it on the L. In the summer, people shield themselves from it and grimace at the glare. In the winter, they close their eyes, smile and soak it in. "That's enough for an Advent reflection by itself," I thought.
While I waited for the Megabus, I had a pleasant conversation with a man who outed me as a pastor because of the business card I had attached to my bag for ID. We talked about the North side and the North shore; how he had lived there and worked as a chemist after graduating from Indiana University. As the child of a Boilermaker, I forgave him and we had a laugh. I thought about a time when I wouldn't cringe at utterance of that school from Bloomington. I'm still waiting for that, "That's enough for another Advent reflection," I thought.
Then, while in line to board, a young man in a Sox cap walked up to me and asked how you get the $1 tickets advertised on the side of the bus. A few of us told him he'd have to buy it early enough online; that they only had a couple of seats at that price point. All he carried was a blue, spiral-bound notebook, and in it he wrote with a pen he borrowed from the chemist. When we were boarded, I got my phone out anticipating a call from a lay leader who'd been trying to connect with me for a day. The young man, who was also a passenger, saw my phone and asked if he could use it to call the shelter he was going to stay at that night. I wanted to let my suspicions and prejudice fill me with excuses so I cold brush him off like anybody else on that bus would have, but I had already been outed. Jesus stood before me reminding me of that.
I said "yes." He sat down next to me and opened his notebook. Inside was a list of phone numbers to Indianapolis fast-food restaurants, strip-mall retail outlets, an apartment complex and indeed, a homeless shelter. Clearly, he needed to make more than one call. The first call was to the shelter. He told them he was on his way and asked if they would hold him a bed. He then called a burger joint to confirm an interview for the morning. He did the same with an auto parts store. He texted his wife, from whom he was separated and asked her if he could have a clean shirt for an interview. He called the apartment manager to see where his application was in the process.
Between the calls, he shared his life with me. He talked about growing up at 61st and King Dr. He talked about his mistakes, his past-gang affiliation, his jail time, his gunshot and stab wounds. He talked his broken marriage and the children from whom he was now estranged. He talked about what it meant to be a father. He talked about the absence of his own. He talked about the difficulties in finding a job after you've got a felony conviction. He talked about how it feels like you don't exist. He told me he was 29.
For three hours and some change, I listened. I did my best to encourage him.
Never before have I felt so distant yet so united with one person. We were both life-long learners. Mine has mostly been paid for by government loans; his by blood and tears. Mine makes me a contributor to society. His makes him a pariah.
When the bus pulled up at our stop, I gave him a couple of business cards in case he got in trouble (pastor cards are apparently golden in some worlds). He gave me a man hug. I departed to continue living my life, and he hoped that tomorrow would be a new beginning for his. I walked to a wine tasting for a charity. He walked to a building full of strangers who people like me think of as charity cases.
I stood in my world, surrounded by decadence and wealth, and remembered the times when I thought I could change the world by myself. I remember my bold naiveté that assumed the "American dream" was plausible; that hard work could fix things for the masses. I no longer believe that.
There is little I can do to change so much of what is wrong in the world. I, alone, cannot change the systems that imprison a 61st St. worker for profiting illegally while a Wall St. worker is given a bonus and bailout when he does the same. I, alone, cannot change a system that allows me to buy my way out of a conviction while others without the cash fill our prisons. I, alone, cannot change the system that discriminates based on color and divides Chicago at Hyde Park. God has to act to make any of this happen. "There is no way I can express this in an Advent reflection," I thought.
As I went to bed last night, I thought about Denethor, the Steward of Gondor, from The Lord of the Rings. I had always thought of him as a villain before; an evil ruler, or at least a mad lunatic. But after my day, the extremes of it, and the realization (again) that I don't have the power to upturn the culture and set things right, I think I get Denethor a bit more. He was helpless. He needed the real king to show up. So do I.
I also remembered my seatmate, sitting there as a silhouette, obscured by the midday winter sun. And he was beautiful. I'm waiting for the day when we are all seen only for that: being people bathed in the light of the one who loves us all the same. I hope I don't have to wait long. Come, Lord Jesus. Come.
Sunday, April 15, 2012 at 9:44PM
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