On Privilege

The devil on my shoulder has been dangling a carrot-cake-on-a-stick of temptation, seducing me far too easily back toward some familiar, destructive thought patterns, each longing to be vocalized: "just go get a job," "make better life choices," "solve your own problems" and "it's not my problem, nor my fault, nor my responsibility." The result is I'm finding it far too easy also to slip back into blaming the victims. That is not to say that no beggars are swindlers, or that no one ever "works the system" - some certainly are and do - but to blame ALL on account of a few is not acceptable. Each person is unique, and faces unique struggles. And I suppose many find themselves where they are because no one taught them the life skills they needed to do anything differently.

I've also tired of trying to explain privilege to my privileged friends. I'm not well-spoken enough to persuasively present the issues at play, let alone to argue against comments like "you know those beggars are just taking advantage of you, right?" or the "but I'm not a racist, so..." (both of which have been said to me). I don't have the words to prove my point because I've come to believe it's a heart issue, or a spirit issue, more than a fact issue. When one's heart is open to seeing injustice, then they'll see it, but until that time, my limited knowledge of facts and figures can't prove anything. Or at least I can't; a greater orator than I may possess the skills requisite for the proving, but in myself I find I am lacking. If it is indeed a heart and/or a spirit issue, though, then the best I can hope for is to plant a seed, and pray for the Spirit to open eyes, in a sense reminiscent of the roads to Emmaus, or Damascus.

Selfishly I am grateful: at least I get to choose to walk away from thinking about racial and financial advantage. Not everyone has that choice. With all the brokenness we read/hear in the news, and see in our own cities, no wonder my friend Jordan talks about his inner angry black man. I can't blame him.

And yet Community, which is something that God cares about, that Jesus cared about, a word I know the importance of not only from Beggars in Spain, but from Rob Bell's Jesus Wants To Save Christians, Dietrich Bonhoeffer's Life Together, Donald Miller's Blue Like Jazz, Watchman Nee's The Normal Christian Life, from Acts and Paul's letters - I know that Community needs to be the assumption, the default, the normal, and that I am part of that solution. I do not have the choice, or at least I ought not morally have the choice, of disengaging from those obligations to Community.

This is my struggle. Ask me about it. Challenge me on it. Disagree with me on it. Just don't let me ignore it.

If the system works for you, it can be quite hard to understand the perspective of people who have the boot of the system on their neck. If you have the power, it can be hard to understand the voice of those who have no power. If you have choice, options, and luxuries, it can be hard to fathom the anger of those who don't. If you have always had enough food, it can be hard to understand the shouts of those who's stomachs are grumbling from hunger. - Rob Bell, Jesus Wants To Save Christians

Prayersgiving

From November 26, 2015

Today is Thanksgiving. May it also be a Prayersgiving. In no particular order...

We pray for Jamar Clark, and the too-many other victims of guns and fear-of-otherness, who will not get to celebrate another Thanksgiving or Christmas. We pray for their families whose tables will hold an empty place setting.

We pray for police officers, who face the risk of violence every day. Please God, bring Your wisdom and calming influence into every interaction.

We pray for families in Lebanon and Paris who long for one more evening meal with their loved ones.

We pray for the terrorists who we (Americans) have driven to extremism. Bring them heavenly peace in their hearts.

We pray for loved ones of terrorist attacks that go unnoticed by our news media.

We pray for the systemic violence of American culture and of our world.

We pray for our own insecurities when colliding with people who look or act differently than we do, and our ignorance of our own privileges and advantages.

We pray for those in our communities that we have labeled unforgivable. Sex offenders, murderers, drug dealers, prostitutes, the ones that we label as beyond God's Grace, ignoring Jesus' love for them.

We pray for young women and men trapped in the sex industry, whom we judge rather than help.

We pray for politicians, for conversations rather than yelling matches.

We pray for those who have nowhere to celebrate Thanksgiving, no one with whom to celebrate it, and nowhere to call home.

We pray we would answer Your call actively to be Your Kingdom here on earth, instead of waiting for someone else to do it.

Gary, part 5

From April 5.

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3 | Part 4

Today was Easter. I found you in one of your usual spots. But when I say "I found you," perhaps more accurately I should say I was led to you, because it was a God-thing, not a Jeremy-thing. You see, I left Easter services at Jacob's Well this morning with a sense of Call in the back of my mind, that I should find a homeless person (sorry, "person experiencing homelessness" - I'm still fighting to reign in my label-using instinct) and invite them to Easter lunch with my family. As I started driving, I realized that for each person I saw signing on a street corner today, they probably didn't have a family or a Community to spend this most Holy day with, and that weighed on my heart.

I handed out a couple ministry bags but I didn't "click" with either person enough to invite them to lunch. By that I mean I used "not clicking" as an excuse in the hopes I could get out of the lunch invitation deal (because I'm human). As I kept driving toward Mom and Dad's, though, I was frightened by a dawning realization: what if I'm supposed to bump into you? What if the Spirit planted this seed because I'm supposed to invite you to my family lunch? Remembering how awkward it was bringing you to church, I confess I committed sin against you as I started praying, "please God, don't ask me to do that. And yet, not my will but Yours be done. But please don't ask me to do that."

Nearing Hiawatha from Lake street, I had a choice - I could go straight, and get to my parents' on time. Or I could listen to the Spirit's nudge and turn south. I turned. There were remarkably few people out begging today, which, actually, I'm happy for, because again, how heart-breaking is it to not have anyone to spend Easter with :(. I reached 46th street, the median where you often stand, and there was another man there. I gave him a bag and breathed relief, thinking I was off the hook. Instead of a u-turn, though, the Spirit said turn left. And there I saw you, leaned against the stop sign in the back alley behind the Holiday station.

I'd seen you briefly last week so I knew you were back in town, but this was our first chance to talk, and for me to ask about your kidney transplant (Reader, see part 4). You told me the bad news: within a day of your surgery (though I was glad to hear you'd made it to Des Moines safely), your body rejected the donated kidney, and they had to remove it. Now you're back on frequent dialysis. I didn't know how to respond to you, so I sat in silence.

We talked a bit more, both of us waving on cars in the alley behind me who couldn't figure out that my hazards meant I was parked. I asked why you were out here, and you told me you'd lost your bank card (or something like that?) and couldn't withdraw money to pay the rest of your month's rent until you got a replacement, 10 days from now. (In retrospect I don't really understand your situation - can't you go into the bank and withdraw money without a card? But, I've never experienced what it's like to be homeless, so I guess the reason I don't understand, is because I can't share your mindset.) I asked if you were spending Easter with family, because I remembered you had a sister who lived in state. You said that's true, but she and her husband are vacationing in Australia right now, so you're on your own.

You said until you get your rent paid you're sleeping in the park, and asked if I had a blanket. Well, yes, actually. I made one specially for you. Of course I didn't know it would be you when I made it, but this past winter, on a suggestion from my friend Laura, I bought a bunch of fabric and made some tie-fleeces to keep in my car and hand out to people in need. Practical gift, no problem.

Then you did me in. I was fighting the Spirit fairly successfully, justifying how I could and should just drive away, until you elaborated on how hungry you were. There I was, on my way (late by this point) to a warm, home-cooked meal (and my Dad's a really good cook). And I knew I'd left church, Easter service of all services, with this Spirit-nudge that I'd be inviting a stranger to lunch. Like your and my other encounters, you said the specific key words that the Spirit had already been placing on my heart to be listening for.

Reader, I'd like to digress and tell a story from Upper Room. Months ago, our worship leader Stefan shared about a time he invited several panhandlers to lunch with his friends, at where he knew would be an upscale restaurant. He couldn't very well call his friends in front of his guests and say "I'm bringing homeless people to lunch," so instead (and the way he told this was much more hilarious than how I can recount it now) he dialed one of his friends, timing it carefully to give himself two seconds of talk time after he was through the revolving door but before his guests got inside after him, and in those seconds he blurted out to his friend: "I'm here and Jesus is with me." Click. The way Stefan recounted this at UR, it got a huge laugh. The really funny punch line came next, though, because Stefan's friend on the phone knew him well enough to translate that as "Stefan's bringing a homeless guy with him." </digression>

By this time, Mom was texting me asking how soon I expected to get there. So, while you were putting your stuff in the back seat of my car, I replied to her with this Stefan-inspired text:

10 minutes. Jesus is coming with me. Aka Gary, who I've blogged about. Can you set another spot at the table?

I know, because my parents told me, that this caught them rather off-guard, but they went with the flow and everyone (Mom, Dad, my aunt and uncle and cousin, and a friend from my parents' church) were all incredibly gracious when you and I arrived. And may I say, despite what you said about not feeling well today, I thought you were actually physically moving around better than I'd seen our last several encounters, and you were significantly more lucid. This is selfish, but I want to thank you for that, because it made Easter lunch much less awkward than I'd feared it would end up. Praise God for that.

Praise God also, my family made you feel welcome. My suspicion is you don't get to feel welcome very often. They showed you love. And you told me afterward you really liked the egg and ham bake Dad had made, so I know you had had a good meal. My suspicion is you don't get many of those, either.

I have another confession I need to make to you: while I was sitting next to you at the table (somewhat in awe and feeling relief of how un-extraordinary the conversation was), I prayed: "God, is this enough?" Because I know Jesus would have done more. I know Jesus would have invited you to stay the whole afternoon, instead of driving you back to the Holiday right after dessert. Yet I felt God's response to the effect of, "This is enough, this is all I'm going to ask you to do today," followed by the verse about "well done good and faithful servant" (citation: it's in the Bible somewhere).

Our table conversation was truly so uneventful, I don't actually remember much of it. I recall there was a long (and boring) conversation about sports, and it looked like you took a nap during that part (I can't blame you). We heard a little bit about your military service (Reader: Gary served 29 years active duty, which, if you're doing the math, is as long as I have been alive). And my family swapped stories about the various Triduum/Good Friday/Easter services we'd attended at our different churches. And that's about it.

After I brought you back to your corner, I came back home, and we talked about you. We talked about people experiencing homelessness in general. We talked about how to respond, how not to respond, and it was a good conversation. Thank you for that gift, thank you for opening the door to that conversation that would not have happened otherwise.

Years from now my family and I likely aren't going to remember anything else we talked about at Easter lunch, but we are going to remember this Easter that you came to eat with us. All we did was feed you a meal. I hope by doing so, though, that we also gave you a portion of your humanity back, a humanity I fear is too often robbed by the perceptions others feel toward your cardboard sign.

Gary, lest I allow any amount of pride to cloud humility, let me be quite honest about this Easter journey for me: Even though I knew inviting you to Easter lunch was something God was asking me to do (I don't want to say I was "supposed" to or "had" to, because I believe in free will), it was incredibly not-easy breaking down all the barriers of unwillingness and fear, fear of judgement, etc, that I'd set up. I feared bringing you home because I feared it would be awkward. I know I could have said no; I could have driven away and no one would have judged me for that. Heck I'm not even sure I believe God would have judged me for running (first boat to Tarshish, anyone? [Bible joke, Google it]). But after a weekend lamenting how far distant I feel from the Spirit and praying to grow closer, how could I then not follow through when I knew God was specifically inviting me into this opportunity? Am I to have just turned away? What kind of spiritual leader would that make me for my future family, or for my friends and family now? Like I told my parents afterward, I needed to do this for me, because I wanted to be able to look myself in the mirror tomorrow morning. And, I wanted my cousin Amy, 16, to see a tangible example of what living out one's faith might look like (don't get me wrong, she's got a faith of her own, and she has great faith role-models in her parents, but what 16-year-old thinks their parents know anything?). Nevertheless, like I said, it was hard.

God calls each of us to our own unique ways of renewing the world and bringing God's love into it. I, for example, am definitely not [currently in this stage in my life] called to overseas mission trips. Ministry to those experiencing homelessness and poverty, though, is one of my known-to-be-Called-here mission fields. Because of that I know I did the right thing, but it's left me with, temporarily at least, a humility that won't allow me to judge anyone else for driving away. Hopefully, over time, Jesus will continue softening my heart and growing me to be more like Him.

Lastly, I want to specifically thank someone who I've written about before, but who probably has no idea she has had this level of impact in my life. To quote a blog post I wrote last June:

... my friend Nathan and his then-girlfriend-now-wife Catherine were grabbing coffee, when a homeless man approached us. We declined to help him, but Catherine was ill-at-ease with our response, and so we went to a nearby grocery store and she bought him a sandwich and talked with him. Since that moment I've hoped my future wife will be someone like that, but why wait - I want to be that person already, before I meet her. I said to myself, "all right, let's go do this."

Catherine, by living out your faith and love for people, you've inspired me into becoming a better version of myself. Thank you. I'm very glad you and Nate and I got together for coffee that morning years ago, because your actions have changed my life.

Out In The Cold

I wrote some blurbs on Facebook about Out In The Cold, but it deserves a full-fledged blog post, too.

Out In The Cold is a documentary about homelessness in Minneapolis, and we just finished shooting Wednesday (two days ago). For the movie, my friends John and JD put themselves out on the street to live homeless for seven days. While John and JD are the main "characters" in the documentary, it's really about telling the stories of those who live experiencing homelessness day-in/day-out. John and JD got to hit the "off" switch after a week, and go back to their homes and jobs. People truly experiencing homelessness don't have that privilege. We want to bring light to their stories.

My involvement started in November at an Upper Room social gathering. Talking about filmmaking with my then-acquaintance-now-friend, JD (I'm pretty sure he has a real name, but no one knows what it is, so we call him "JD"), I asked if he had any fun projects coming up, and he told me he was in pre-production for Out In The Cold. At this point I believe I began gesticulating wildly (cue Lost In Space robot) and asked how I could get involved, because homelessness and beggars are issues I care about passionately. Long conversation short, I came on board as line producer, aka, a "details man", for the production.

We enlisted dozens of volunteers from Upper Room to serve 4-hour shifts as production assistants during the shoot, to help collect release forms, carry equipment, drive getaway cars, etc. I scheduled them as best I could to give us 24-hour coverage, especially on the riskier nights that John and JD would be sleeping outside. We also made an appeal at Jacob's Well, and several people offered donations on the spot, which was incredibly humbling and affirming.

Two Mondays ago, the crew met to iron out any last minute details; on Tuesday they shot some interviews and B-roll, then on Wednesday morning, John and JD began their adventure. I didn't have spare vacation time to take the whole week off work, so I worked my normal 9-5, and then joined the crew each evening to help "on set" (downtown Minneapolis), and then take care of dumping/backing up footage & sound, as well as daily paperwork, sending call sheets for the next day, and dealing with receipts and money. Despite missing the daylight hours of shooting, I actually did get to spend a considerable amount of time with the crew, and we got along exceptionally well (I'd never met the camera operator or sound mixer before our Monday pre-pro meeting). And by "exceptionally well" I mean we had a blast. There was a tremendous amount of mutual respect, and we shared a lot of laughs along the way, too.

Even though I couldn't take the entire week's shoot off from work, it was important to me to be there when John and JD first set out, so I arranged with my manager to take a few hours off Wednesday morning. After shooting a "last breakfast", while the crew packed their gear for the day, John and JD and I circled up and I prayed over them for the week ahead. It was important to me partially because I felt guilty not being able to be there during the days, but moreso because I saw this relating to my dream job (that doesn't exist yet) of being a movie set chaplain (even though this isn't overtly a "Christian film").

For several nights during the shoot, JD had pre-arranged for he and John to sleep in one of the downtown area shelters, but other nights they slept outside in their sleeping bags. Night 1 went without incident - the boys were plenty warm and found an overpass that sheltered them from the wind. Night 3 they did not fare as well; around 10/10:30 they were showing early signs of hypothermia (apparently John said something about his scarf tasting like peanut butter, or rubbing peanut butter all over his face - there is disagreement about what was actually said), and so JD called our overnight PAs, parked in a warm car just a block away, to evacuate them. This quote-unquote "failure" was emotionally difficult on John. On the one hand, our emergency planning worked correctly - we'd staffed PAs for the overnight with explicit directions to check in on the boys often, and they were there to evacuate them immediately. More importantly, pride didn't get in the way, and neither JD nor John "tried to be a hero." On the other hand, this epitomizes the difference between a film project simulating homelessness, and people who are experiencing homelessness for real. JD and John had the privilege of pulling the eject lever, and they were safe. I wrestle with knowing not everyone can do that.

On Saturday, JD left to attend a mandatory workshop for a grant he'd applied for to help fund the movie, and I got to spend the day (starting at the inhuman time of 6:30 a.m.) with John and our crew, Ben and Matt. Since I knew we'd be spending a lot of our day outside, I clad myself in long underwear (purchased during a late-night adventure to a sketchy Kmart the night before) and multiple layers of shirts and coats. For the majority of the day I actually found myself quite comfortable. The morning started slowly, but in the afternoon we interviewed a man signing at a freeway exit, John got some free coffee and a sandwich from the Basilica, and we hung out in the skyways for a bit to warm up. We captured some really cool footage of a phenomenally talented street musician (skyway musician?) named Quinn outside of Macy's. He wasn't homeless, but we interviewed him anyway. One of his insights particularly caught me: he said it's usually the poor people who will throw a few bucks into his guitar case, because they understand what it's like to be in need; rich people just want to hold onto whatever they've got. I don't think he's wrong.

After Quinn we talked in the skyway for probably an hour with a man who'd been in and out of homelessness for 41 years since the age of 9. He didn't agree to be on camera, but was willing to share his story with John offline. And I definitely think he had one or two screws loose (specific example: he said he could always read people, and followed this by saying John was an alcoholic... which isn't anywhere near truth, so...), nevertheless it was a fascinating conversation. He also gave John a pointer on a heated stairwell in the skyway system where John and JD might be able to sleep at night (which they did, two nights later).

At this point, a "man in black" appeared from nowhere and asked us to move along with our camera equipment; he touched a weird key-like thing to a panel in the skyway wall, and then when we looked back, he was gone, poof, disappeared. This became the source of many-a-joke for the afternoon.

Leaving the skyway, we made our way toward the Target Center, where John signed for half an hour at the 394 exit. (behind-the-scenes story: while we were shooting, the Target Center security/anti-terrorism folks came and talked with us about our camera; they were all very professional and courteous, and never actually asked us to leave, since they figured out pretty quickly our camera was aimed across the street, not at their building. Matt the sound mixer and I were amused how incredibly quickly the security manager's interest collapsed when I started talking about homelessness and the documentary. I guess, thanks for figuring out we're not terrorists!).

When John talked about his experience signing, what was fascinating to me is he said people deliberately avoided eye contact with him. There were a couple people who gave him money, and they would say something like, "I'm sorry I can't give more", but then even they would break eye contact and stare straight ahead. I'm guilty of doing that, too, if I'm honest. The most extreme example John told us about was one woman, when she saw John in the left lane, stopped, backed up, and shifted lanes right, to avoid the situation.

Soap box moment: money is really tight for me right now, so I get it about not wanting or not being able to hand out cash to beggars. I'm not advocating one way or the other. But dear Reader, something FREE you can give, is dignity. You can look someone in the eye and acknowledge they are human. That doesn't cost anything. If you feel safe doing so, roll down your window and ask what their name is. Or heck, if you've got extra time on your hands, park your car, walk up to them and ask for their story.

After leaving the Target Center, we stopped at a Starbucks to warm up and de-caffeinate in their restroom. John found another friend to talk to, a crotchety janitorial guy who John said was nice, but like I said, my impression of him was very "get off my lawn." While John talked to him, we observed a young woman sitting behind them dressed ... scantily. In the safety of retrospect, now I actually wish I'd tried to engage her in conversation, because some day I'd like to get involved in the ministry of the XXX Church. I digress.

On our way to meet back up with JD, we interviewed a couple folks on the street, the most memorable for all of us, was Monty. I sure hope a lot of his interview makes it into the final cut of the film, because he was so eloquent in his story. Monty had experienced homelessness twice in his lifetime, but now he has a home, a career, and a family, and he was much better dressed than any of us. My take-away from our conversation with him was, "if I've been homeless for years and you yell at me 'get a job', how am I supposed to do that when I don't have the right clothes, or the interview skills to go in and make a good impression to actually get a job?"

That night we met a couple in their very early twenties who've been homeless for one month, trying to make their way to her dad's home west of Minnesota. We talked with them for a long time, and our whole crew really felt connected to their story. It was one more reminder to me that you never know someone's background until you ask - people enter homelessness from so many different avenues. After their interview, I told them what an inspiration they were to me - they weren't married, they'd not made the "for better and worse" vows, and yet they were truly living out those words; it was deeply heartening to be witness to their story.

On Sunday, I joined the crew in the afternoon between my church services, and to my delight they'd successfully made contact with David, a panhandler I met last month, and he was showing them around. After we wrapped with David, the crew grabbed thai food for lunch, while John ate his peanut butter and jelly sandwich, made using the food he'd bought his first day being homeless. I'm in awe of John, because he had the option of us feeding him "real" food, but he insisted on going method. In his words, the rest of us can do a lot of different jobs on the movie (camera, editing, producing, etc) but he felt he brought only one thing (being the subject of the documentary), and so he was going to do that one thing as best and all-out as he could. We (the crew) all admired and tremendously respected his grit, and we repeatedly said this even behind John's back.

By Monday night, we were all really worried about the shelter where John and JD would be staying that night, because apparently everyone they'd talked to on the street had told them "don't stay there, it's dangerous." On our way there we were heckled by an intoxicated fellow who'd only recently left homelessness, and was clearly very bitter about his poverty as compared to our relative wealth. As we walked away, I told him, "I know you're in no place to receive this right now, but I will be praying for you." Maybe that sounds judgmental and holier-than-thou; for me it came from a heart of sadness seeing his situation, and knowing that he was right to say I couldn't understand what he'd been through. I meant what I said sincerely. He of course, did not receive it well.

For all the warnings and the jokes-not-really-jokes we made about getting shanked at the Monday night shelter, it turned out rather anti-climactic. I'm pretty sure we saw at least one drug deal go down on our way in, but aside from that when we were inside we felt relatively safe. Just in case, though, we did have two PAs circling the block in their car as a quick getaway vehicle. We "tucked-in" John and JD and then the crew and I left. The boys were still alive next morning so... that was a good thing :)

Having spent the weekend helping on set, coming back to work Monday morning was hard. I wrote something on my Facebook wall, and it still holds true:

After spending the weekend on the streets with Out In the Cold, it's challenging coming back to my comfortable 9-5 cubicle job. I'd say "first world problem" except, the problem with that is, poverty and homelessness *IS* a first world problem. I met it face to face, through the stories of Robert, Tim, Monty, Mikal & Judith, David, and so many more.

After production wrapped Wednesday afternoon, the crew went out for drinks, and I joined JD later in the day after I got off work. In addition to discussing with JD the deeply philosophical question, "how is it a lot of these guys experiencing homelessness have girlfriends, and we don't?", it was a good time to come down off the high of the film, and share thoughts. For me, some of the most rewarding moments were hearing how the interviews affected our two crew guys, who are awesome people but still hired for the job, not necessarily emotionally invested like JD, John, and myself were. Yet I think they became emotionally invested, and were touched by the stories they heard.

Practically everyone's asked, "when will the movie be done?" JD's goal is to be accepted into an Oscars-eligible festival, which would include Sundance, South by Southwest, the Twin Cities Film Fest, and a few others. Sundance's deadline will be in August/September timeframe, so that's what we'll be targeting, at least for now.

If you're interested in following the film, check it out on Facebook at https://www.facebook.com/outinthecoldfilm.

And now, if you'll excuse me, I've been around people non-stop for the past week and a half, and I desperately need some introvert time to recharge. If you need me, I'll be at home, staring at a wall.

Gary, part 4

Part 1 | Part 2 | Part 3

I saw you across the Hiawatha and 46th intersection, pan-handling from the median, as I turned toward home. Toward my fully furnished, food-laden home. I decided to be interruptible, to let this be a God-moment. I didn't know it was you yet - in fact my *expectations* were that you'd be a nameless stranger begging on the corner, that I could hand you a "homeless bag" (I really need to come up with a new name for those), and that when the arrow turned green, I could drive away, feeling good about myself because I'd stopped and acknowledge your humanity, but then not have to follow through in any depth. Those were my expectations, and if I'm bold enough to admit it, those were my hopes.

And so, uncannily reminiscent (in retrospect) of the night we met, I turned at that same corner, went down Minnehaha, came back on Hiawatha, and got into the turn lane.

I'm at a loss to fully describe what emotions took place when I started to recognize your unkempt, graying beard, and the eyes hiding above it. Excitement at the opportunity for redemption from my previous failures. (see "Gary, part 3") Dread at the reality that encountering you again might mean bringing you to church again. (see "Gary, part 2") Joy akin to finding a long lost friend. Relief that you were still alive and relatively "okay." Hope that our story, yours and mine somehow Divinely intertwined, was not yet over. Peace and a sense of resolution because I could finally hear what happened in the chapter after our last meeting.

I rolled down my window, and fumbled out what I think were truly genuine words about being glad to see you again. I'm pretty sure they were genuine, anyway. I'd reached acceptance from my failed attempts to contact you, but I still felt somehow incomplete. Enough "I"s.

You shook violently, muscles spasming, probably because the temperature was at the freezing point. The arrow light had just turned red, so we had some time to talk. You told me you'd been hit by a drunk driver 7 days ago. He drove for an entire city block with you still on his hood/windshield, before he was stopped by police. He's in jail now, while you spent a week in the hospital, recovering.

The light turned green. I turned and parked at Walgreens, and came back to stand with you. Why are you out here? I thought you moved into your apartment? You did. But you have no food. Your check from the VA won't come until the 15th - because of the snow out east, 1,500 veterans' snail-mail checks got delayed getting mailed, and you were one of them. You've set up direct deposit for next month, but that's no help right now.

Oh.

And here my greatest worry this morning was running late to my car's oil change appointment. Thank you for the reality check.

I thought about offering to go grocery shopping for you, but before I could offer you said there's a woman in Des Moines who wants to give you a new kidney, and your sister is going to come down from International Falls to drive you there, tonight. Maybe. If she gets off work in time. Otherwise you don't know how you're going to get there. You've been waiting for a kidney a long time, and if this doesn't work out, you told your sister you might put a gun to your head to end it, because you don't have much (any?) hope left to keep you going. You weren't melodramatic about it, you weren't asking for a pity-party, for you this was just a matter of cold facts.

The doctors want you in Des Moines by 9 p.m. so they can get you checked into the hospital and prepped for a 3 a.m. start to surgery. I briefly considered what it would look like for me to drive you myself, but asked instead if there was a bus or train or something that ran down there. Apparently there is! It costs $45. Which is another reason you're out here begging today. No food, and no bus fare.

$45 is a lot more do-able than a 4.5 hour (x2) drive. I offer, "If you want to take the bus, I will buy your ticket." Unspoken were the words, "even though I mostly trust you, by buying the ticket myself I know exactly where the money is going." A gift with strings attached. You say they only take cash, something about no credit card readers on most of the busses, and the ones that do have them, the credit name needs to match the ticket holder's name. That's fine, we can stop at an ATM on the way; I re-iterate that "if you want to take the bus, I will do that for you." You agreed.

While we were standing on the median, a driver-by rolled down his window and handed you his pocket change. You told me later you knew him, that he'd only come off the streets recently himself. I don't know the right vocabulary right now for the emotions that evoked.

I'm also left to my own imagination wondering who may have been influenced, or who I may have indirectly ministered to, by the act of standing out on a median of a very busy intersection, talking to you for over a quarter of an hour. Who may have seen that and been moved, or a seed planted? I will never have that answer, and I'm okay with that, because I can choose to imagine at least one person was affected by what they saw. I hope, anyway, because if we're not spreading good, and if there are no hearts open to being changed, then that is a sad world indeed.

You jaywalk and I follow (is it mean of me to think briefly "no wonder you get hit by cars"?), you struggle up the grass to the parking lot where my car waits, blame me that you stumbled backward and fell to your knees (sorry, guess I'll stop trying to help), and finally we make it to my car. You warn me that your walker's wheels are muddy, so I lay down a blanket on my back seat before you fold it up and stick it inside the car. You're remarkably ... "proud"? might be the word? You don't want help, you want to do as much on your own as you're capable of. I guess I can identify. I'm impressed. You might be a beggar today, but with an "I can do this" personality trait, I don't believe you are by choice.

Standing outside my car, you light up a cigarette, and explain it's going to be your last one. Like, ever. Because you'll be spending the next 30 days in the hospital, and they won't let you out for a smoke break. Your New Year's resolution was to quit smoking, and today's the day.

All-told you were remarkably more coherent today than the last time we talked. Maybe it's the hope of a new kidney tonight? Or maybe it's that you're more comfortable around me after a few encounters?

We stopped at the bank for me to get cash, then onward to the UofM medical buildings. You tell me how you've been on anti-rejection meds for the past three months. You're generally excellent at giving directions, though we did have that one disagreement when you claim you said "turn left here" and I definitely heard you say "turn left up there at <street name>" but whatever. I learn your other sister is moving back from Germany soon to live with you in Minnesota and help take care of you. All in all it kind of sounds like your life is coming back together.

I dropped you off and got your walker out for you. You got out of the car all on your own, despite your weak legs. Definitely an encouraging sign. You've got fight left in you. I asked if you could ask the hospital in Des Moines to call me after your surgery, so I know how it went. Unspoken: "so I know if you survived." You said you would. Time will tell on that; who knows what rules they have, so even if you ask maybe they won't be able to. But I hope to hear. I ask you how much money you want, and hand you enough for the bus fare, and a little extra for food.

And somewhere in our parting comments, you mentioned how you liked my morning church, Jacob's Well, and wanted to come back. I told you to call me when you're back in town, and I guess I'll wrestle through the implications of that in a month.

I feel at peace with our story. Not just acceptance at my own inability to change the situation (as before), but true peace, a sense of completion, resolution. Maybe our story will continue, maybe not. But I do thank you Gary, because you have expanded my comfort zone. I mean, you still make me feel uncomfortable, but... less so than I did before. And I believe that's what they call "growth."

May God travel with you and bring you healing. Amen.

Gary, part 3

From January 18.

Part 1 | Part 2

You called and left me a voicemail at 6:30 this morning. (my world rarely exists that early). I'd wondered if you would call. I woke up and saw the voicemail from an unknown 612 number, and I figured it was probably you. The first of many confessions: I confess I dilly-dallied listening to my voicemails, because not knowing was infinitely safer than knowing that you had actually called to ask if you could come to church with me.

Eventually I listened to to your message; you said you'd be out at the usual place. And I struggled. Actually I struggled all morning not even knowing for sure what the voicemail was. Because I realized I want a safe life. I want a comfortable life. I don't want to be pushed outside my comfort zone, and you push me outside my comfort zone. When I'm at church I want to do the things that I want to do and see the people that I want to see. I resolved that if I did bring you today, I would be selfish and tell you "I'm going to help tear down today, and I'm going to visit with my friends" and the killer is, I know you would have been okay with that.

I left home later than I'd planned, and plugged in my iPhone and listened to two songs, Brand New Day and Lord of Lords, and I was crushed by their lyrics:

This is our time, this is our time
To make a new tomorrow
This is our call, this is our call
Can you hear the sound of change
Kick down doors, tear down walls, bring light to the shadows
...
Will you join me in the streets, living out what you believe,
Cause it's who you're meant to be
Will you love a broken world, til the people are restored
And His truth is reigning

followed by:

I am Your servant
Come to bring You glory
As is fit for the work of Your hands

and I knew the answer to "what would Jesus do?" He'd be out there on the corner with you, He'd be talking to you there, He wouldn't be questioning it at all, it would have been an automatic response, but for me it is so hard. Crying from and cursing my naïve prayers in which I'd begged for a Spirit-led life, I realized my "default" action (the action I'd end up taking if I failed to make a conscious decision) was: I had to pick you up. I drove down to 46th, drove past the gas station, and you weren't there. I was later than you'd expected me, so I drove toward your new apartment, supposing maybe I'd find you walking that direction. No joy. I came back, parked, poked my nose in the Burger King, in case you'd gone inside to warm up. I couldn't find you.

I must make another confession: I felt relief. In fact I was hugely relieved. And I am so, so sorry that my response to not finding you resembled joyful peace instead of lament. You are a human being, and you deserved better. Once again I found myself praying: "Jesus, I'm sorry I'm not You." The more I read the Gospels the more it has become abundantly clear that Jesus loves and cares for the poor and the outcast. How then can I call myself a follower of Jesus if I do not follow His model?

So here we are. I can't call you back, because you don't have a phone, and you've called me from a different number each time. (actually, I did try: one number was answered by a squealing modem; another turned out to be the corner gas station, and so I asked the attendant that, if he saw you, to ask you to call me; and the third was some random dude's cell phone who'd let you borrow his phone only once, and was quite flummoxed why I was calling [understandable, sir - I readily admit it's a weird introduction to say "Hi, my name's Jeremy, and I gave a pan-handler my number and he used your phone to call me, are you still in contact with him?"]).

I've struck out. I don't have much left in the way of options for finding you. Worse, I feel like I bait-and-switch'd you; while bringing you to church with me once may have been being the "hands and feet" of Jesus for that one day, I know my behavior after that fell far short of ideal, and I'm sorry.

Despite my failure, I will allow myself at least a little bit of Grace, because of this: Monday, the day after I didn't bring you to church, I had a phone call with one of the pastors about his upcoming sermon, and he asked about you. He'd seen us together last Sunday, and he said he was moved, and challenged, and inspired. It left him asking a lot of questions about his own walk of faith. And from the comments on my Facebook wall from my previous blog posts, I know he wasn't alone. I've long believed (and experienced) that God brings people into our lives who will inspire us at exactly the right moment, often in a permanently life-altering way. Gary, whether we meet again in this life or not, you were a rock tossed into my life's stream, causing a splash, causing ripples, and permanently altering the face of the riverbed.

Gary, part 2

From January 11.

Gary came to church today.

You called me last night around 9, asked if that offer to bring you to church was still good; I said yes, and you said you'd be in the usual place.

When I picked you up, I became grateful for my dull sense of smell. You had trouble moving, struggled again to put on your seatbelt. You hadn't had breakfast yet, so I gave you one of my "homeless bags" to munch on a cereal bar. You got to see me hand out a couple more during our drive. I got a quick update from you, too: you'll be moving into your apartment Monday morning - literally 24 hours from now your life will be different.

We got to church awkwardly early. No one at Jacob's Well shows up on time (granted: hyperbole), but we were like, 15 minutes early. I clearly miscalculated this. If I'm honest, I was hoping we could sneak in unseen. You wrestled your way out of my car. When we got in the door, I introduced you to ... was it Melissa? Someone. "This is my friend Gary". You mumbled something incomprehensible, because the band was still rehearsing and the music drowned your words. You meandered painfully slowly to the coffee table and poured yourself some of that black bitter water.

We found a seat in the corner where you could stretch out your legs. Is it wrong I'm grateful you didn't want to sit in the front row? I told you you were more than welcome to refill your coffee during the service; what I didn't anticipate was your difficulty navigating stairs - you less-so walked down and more-so fell-down them, but maintained vertical-ness with assistance from your bent and dented cane (apparently another taxi hit you in the last few days, adding another reminder of life's unfairness to your already-battle-scarred cane).

You talked to me a little too loud during the songs - or maybe, just maybe, I was being extra sensitive and fearful of people judging me. (why? because I'm overly concerned with other peoples' perceptions of my delicately crafted external persona; because I live in America and that's what we do).

I was eternally grateful when my friend Chris came and sat with us, so I wasn't alone.

In his sermon, Greg told us a story about his family driving back from Wisconsin 15 years ago. They were already running late, traffic was backed up, but they still stopped to help an old man change his tire on the side of the road. 15 years later none of them remember where they were coming from or going to or what happened because they were late, but they ALL remember stopping to help that man. This was, as Greg called it, one of those "damn you Jacob's Well!" moments :) Seemed timely. I think I just took a crash course on learning that lesson for myself.

Church ended, I wanted to catch up with a couple people, you said take my time, while you downed some more of that gross black caffeinated liquid. You handed me your cup to throw away, and said you'd meet me at the door. I came back to see you eyeing up the steps, bracing yourself, and performing your [scarily dramatic, Gene Wilder/Willy Wonka-esque] fall-rather-than-step act. Well, except I'm sure it wasn't an act. You stuck your landing, vertical still, a good 6 feet from the base of the steps. So awkward. I look around. Yep, people saw. Awkward awkward awkward.

Melissa came up and asked if you were new, and gave you a small bag of chocolates as a "welcome to Jacob's Well" gift. At which point you decided you couldn't wait 1 minute 'til we got to my car, but instead needed to stop walking, open the bag [agonizingly slowly] and eat them right there, in the middle of the exit pathway. I admit: I just wanted to go, I just wanted to get myself out of that situation. Because I much prefer ministering to people of my own financial class. It's easier, it's less scary, and it's less uncomfortable. You pushed my comfort zone.

I had to buckle you in and get out to close your car door for you. On our ride back you asked about my evening church; I tried nonchalantly to say "I'm meeting a friend beforehand for a movie," aka, 'please don't ask me if you can come with, please please please...' Because I was embarrassed. That whole comfort zone thing, remember? And you telling me about your medical issues, how much your stomach hurt, how you'd started bleeding again last night (don't know where, don't really want to know, just please don't bleed on my 1-year-old car! #firstworldproblem), and how you expected to end up in the ER [again] today, and maybe it's all hyperbole but it makes me uncomfortable and I'm not used to dealing with this!

Yet at the same time... I know that the Jeremy today has seen tremendous growth from the Jeremy of ten years ago. I remember in 2004 when I met my friend Matthew, he would stop and help people on the road, all the time. He told me he actually expected he'd die in the midst of trying to help people, like breaking up a bar fight and getting shot, or getting hit on the side of the road trying to help a stalled vehicle; for all his human faults, I have always admired about him his willingness and constant availability to offer help. I also always thought, "I can never be that, that would scare me too much." And now, slowly, I am becoming that person.

Last week, I was driving home, it was close to or past midnight, and I stopped to fill up with gas. A couple mid-late-twenties men approached me asking if I had jumper cables. Based on how they were dressed frankly I thought they were hoodlums looking to jump me instead of their car, but turns out they were actually nice people truly just trying to get their car started. I didn't have cables, but I did happen to have a portable battery jump-starter thing my Dad got me for Christmas, that I thought I'd never use. Well, two and a half weeks post-Christmas, on a bitterly cold night, it enabled me to help some strangers in need. Thank you, Dad.

So here I am, becoming who I want to be, inspired by people like Matthew, and Darrell. To some degree, living out Matthew 25:34-40 (the whole "whatever you did for one of the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me" thing). I still find myself praying, "Jesus, please forgive me, because I'm not You. I know You would have put your hands Gary and healed him, and invited him to Your home, You would have said 'let Me take care of you,'" and I couldn't bring myself to do that, because there's still a lot of selfishness in me. So, Jesus, I know I didn't ace this one. Probably only got a C-. But that's a few steps above an F, so let's call that progress, okay?

Gary

Driving home from my lawyer, wrapped up in my own world's concerns, I drove past you. In fact I planned to blow right on through the next green light, desperately wanting to ignore what I knew already was the Spirit's nudge. Surrendering with an exasperated [and audible, to an empty car] "fine," I signaled right, pulled around the block, and found you where I'd seen you, leaned up against a sign pole.

I opened my passenger window and leaned over to hand you a bag of snacks; you leaned against my car to take it, shaking from the bitter cold. It's 2 degrees right now. Colder with windchill.

"It's too cold out here, man; you gotta get inside. Where are you gonna spend the night?"
"Don't know," you said, ignoring a snotsicle clinging on your mustache.
"I can give you a ride to a shelter," said I, foolishly and naively trusting. (thank you for not murdering me, by the way) You described your choices - one shelter was $15 for the month, another was free, over in St Paul. I said I'd pay the $15 if you wanted. You liked the one in St Paul better. Dorothy Day, you said it was called.

I unlock my car to you, a stranger, a stranger I picked up off the street. You stumble inside, battling unwilling legs, a dented cane, and layer upon layer of coats; I help you fasten your seat belt, because your hands are frozen, while my nose notices you've fill my car with the smell of smoke. But I guess that's your only relief from life, isn't it? I turn the fans on high, for the luke-warm air to thaw you; at least it's warmer than outside.

"You'll need to give me directions to the shelter, okay?" Huh. What you're describing sounds like the building I drive by every day on my way home from work. (and, turns out, it was)

What's your name?

Well, Gary, it's nice to meet you. You're a human being.

You said "thank God," and told me this was a God thing. You have no idea... or maybe you do... how right you are. I mean, I was ready to leave you behind, let you fend for yourself. Now I'm fighting back tears, my heart breaking as I listen to your story. You served in the marines, then the navy, for 19 years. Now for want of $25, your savings wasn't quite enough to pay your first month's rent at the new apartment building, and payday's 10 days away. You left your old one because you could smell the crystal meth they were making, and you've been clean so many years you couldn't let yourself go back to that lifestyle. So tonight you're homeless. But you're not bitter; and that amazes me.

Do you have a church you go to? No, but you're looking. What kind? A Baptist one. Hmm. I don't know many. You've been a Christian most of your life. Well... come check out mine?

Your stomach's starting to hurt. Maybe it's the cancer. I didn't quite follow all the details, just saw that you were in pain.

Nearing the shelter, I check my wallet. I don't usually carry cash, but I have exactly $25. Exactly the amount you need. It's yours. Yeah, I agree, it is a God thing.

You want my number? Here's my card. You say you'll call me tomorrow from the doctor's office, I think you want to prove to me that your story is real. I didn't say it to your face, but - I choose to believe you. I did say, though, that you're welcome at my church, and I can pick you up. Sounds like you might take me up on it.

As you leave, once again willing your legs over the rim of my car's doorway, you make it into a fully upright, and look back. I look into your eyes, again acknowledging your humanity. I sincerely meant it when I said it was a pleasure to meet you. Because you are an eye-opener for me.

I wait, watch to make sure you get inside without falling, then pull away.

Now I'm driving home. Run my hand through my hair. I don't know what to do with this experience. It affected me deep down, and I don't know how to handle it. I want to break down in sobbing. I want to fix it. I want to escape it because sitting with you in my [let's face it, rather luxurious] car was not just "kind of" awkward, it was full-on "my life's so easy compared to yours" awkward. My problems? I forgot all of them.

Years later, a reminder that miracles still happen

In recent months I've shared my story of miraculous healing with a number of friends; time to re-post it for a wider audience. If you're like I used to be, and believe miracles are a thing of the ancient past, or if you don't believe in God at all, I hope you'll read my story anyway; maybe it'll provoke some questions in your journey, maybe it won't, but if nothing else you'll have something to ask me about next time we talk! And if you already think I'm crazy to believe in God, you're going to think I'm even crazier after you finish reading (just warning you).

Growing up in a traditional Lutheran church, I didn't know much about the Holy Spirit, I boxed miracles neatly away into Biblical times, and the last person I expected to show up in church was God, or Jesus. I suspect many Christians are in that same boat. My reality changed dramatically in 2008/9.

For the first part of my story, I defer to my own journals from 2009, when this all went down: My Miracle and Physical and Spiritual Health Update. I know those posts are long, but take a few minutes to read them, please; they capture me in the middle of my turmoil, which is infinitely more powerful than anything I could write now.

Since 2009, I've continued visiting my amazing doctor, Chris Romine, every 6 months or so. I always book the last appointment of the day, allowing for our conversations to last well over an hour; we talk a little bit about my health, and then the rest of the time about God and stuff. Chris is more than just my doctor, he's my friend, a mentor, a role-model. Every encounter, we encourage each other, pray together, and if I may be so presumptuous, help make each other better human beings.

When I retell my story, I now insist that, "I was given a miracle of healing, but my real miracle came after that" - the "real" miracle I think, was God's providence post-symptoms-returning, working my situation so I would be with my AWAKEN family when my symptoms hit, so that we'd be performing at a school doing a "Coins for Crohn's" fundraiser, so that I'd meet Chris, and in the years that followed, allowing me the privilege of sharing my story with friends who, like me before, are spiritual skeptics. I still struggle asking why I was gifted with a temporary healing, when there are so many other people who need miracles, much more desperately than I did, for whom the answer was "no." But even so, never ever again can I pretend that the spiritual reality of the Tanakh, Gospels, and Acts belongs locked away in antiquity.

Beggars in Spain

In first-world America, most people^{[citation needed]} have contemplated at least once what their ideal superpower would be, if superpowers existed. I myself always answered this question with: "[selective] mind-reading." As a single data-point, my coworkers and I frequently (and exhaustedly) have exclaimed "I can't read minds!" Consider how much easier / productive (or even manipulative) conversations with your coworkers, manager, HR, spouse, random dude on the street, everyone, would be if you could tell what they were really thinking.

This year I demoted mind-reading to my superpower slot number 2, superseding it with a new answer: Sleeplessness.

What I'm dreaming about is different than insomnia. What I'm dreaming of is not requiring sleep at all. Such a superpower would give you back 8 hours every single night (one third of your life!!), and also all the time wasted getting ready for bed, waking up in the morning (hitting snooze 3 or 5 times like I do), and suffering from general tiredness throughout the day.

My change-of-heart followed on the tails of reading Beggars in Spain, a 1993 Sci-Fi masterpiece (in my humble opinion) set in near-future America, in which in-vitro gene-modifications make it possible to create children who require no sleep. When I mentioned that to my friend John his first reaction was "no parent would EVER want a baby who doesn't sleep!" and that dynamic does come into play in the book, however it's [mostly] offset because the people who can afford gene-mod therapy, also can afford private overnight tutors for their Sleepless children.

The book is "SciFi," but it's less about the fictional science and more about the fascinating socio-political ramifications: because Sleepless children don't waste half their lives sleeping, they attain early academic success, advancing many classroom grade-levels beyond their physical years, and thus eventually become the top-rated lawyers, doctors, athletes, investors, etc. Unfortunately the human nature for the sleeper-counterparts remains similar to how we are today (fearing what is "different"); the Sleepless are ostracized, banned from competing in the Olympics, targeted by mob violence, over-taxed, and so on. I thought the book painted a fairly realistic picture of how this might go down. It also raises a fascinating dialogue about the famous words, "all men are created equal." All people may be created equal in human rights, but even today it is self-evident that not all people are created equal in abilities. Therefore, what obligations, if any, do those who have more talent and giftings owe toward those who don't? And by natural extension: what obligation, if any, do the rich have to the poor?

The book's title derives from an academic argument about handing out money to a group of beggars in Spain; if you give money to one beggar, but 100 more come to you, where do you draw the line? Is it the beggars' right to demand money from you, because you are able-bodied and able-financially, and they are not? Do productive members of society owe anything to those who are not productive (either from lack of ability, or by choice)? The wikipedia article articulates these questions better than I have.

Halfway through its story the book proposes a most elegant answer, that I absolutely have fallen in love with:

What the strong owe beggars is to ask each one why he is a beggar and act accordingly. Because community is the assumption, not the result. And only by giving non-productiveness the same individuality as excellence, and acting accordingly, does one fulfill the obligation to the beggars in Spain.

And as one last food-for-thought, toward the very end of the novel, was this:

There are no permanent beggars in Spain. Or anywhere else. The beggar you give a dollar to today, might change the world tomorrow. Or become father to the man who will. Or grandfather, or great-grandfather. There is no stable ecology of trade, as I thought once, when I was very young. There is no stable anything, much less stagnant anything given enough time. And no non-productive anything either. Beggars are only gene lines temporarily between communities.

As a man of faith who struggles with "what can I do? What should I do?", these are powerful excerpts.

Perspective

There's a crazy retired guy from my church named Darrell. But when I say "crazy," I mean that truly in a loving, awe-filled, I-respect-this-man-beyond-words-for-his-radical-ideas kind of way. I'm not saying he's Jesus, but, I think he and Jesus have a lot in common. They both like serving people. They both like challenging the status quo. They both like skipping the small talk, and diving right into the deep stuff. And they both balk at religion.

These are my kind of people.

I don't remember how I met Darrell or how I got onto his "Salt Shakers" email list, but a year or two ago I started getting these mass emails from him, asking for volunteers to serve food to the homeless. Beneath each plea was also a [long] paragraph or two of Darrell's recent thoughts about church/religion/living out faith. At first I thought, "what a weirdo!" Then, as I read more and more of his "crazy thoughts" (his own description), they grew on me. In fact, I started really looking forward to Darrell's writing, to the point that I'd drop everything I was doing to read his emails when they popped into my inbox. I knew his words would inspire me. I knew this one email, out of the hundreds of emails I would read in the day, carried with it the potential to change the way I encounter my world.

Monday morning this past week Darrell and I met for coffee and conversation, and I finally made a commitment to help at one of his monthly food-serving things. It's long been a[n overly romanticized] dream of mine to serve at a soup kitchen on Thanksgiving; an otherwise boring and routine Thursday night in February isn't exactly Thanksgiving, but close enough. I've put this off long enough.

My week leading up to Thursday had been very stressful. The contractor at the desk next to mine was let go on Tuesday, and this sent me into an unwarranted minor panic attack about my own job security. (I say unwarranted, because I asked my boss if I needed to be worried, and he said "no") My "todo" list at work keeps growing - no chance of being bored anytime soon - and that got me stressing out with worry (though again, unwarranted - my coworker Wendy reassured me I had my priorities set correctly and was exceeding their expectations). And the casting company was hired to book some extras for a commercial next week, as well as host auditions, and then the online software had a major bug and things weren't working and the friend I was going to hire to help with booking people got sick so I had to do ALL THE THINGS myself and did I mention I'm terrified of failure and disappointing people?

Breathing.

By Thursday evening I was frazzled, albeit on the mend, but still, frazzled.

Time for a perspective check.

Darrell had gathered a dozen or so people to help, and for most of us this was our first time serving. We gloved up, put on some adorable hairnets and plastic aprons (hint: "adorable" in this context means "not actually all that attractive"), and then the doors opened and I found myself scooping hot dish onto trays and giving them to the homeless people walking by on the other side of the serving table.

To be cliché, I feel like I got more out of the experience than I gave. Let's see: my biggest problems are that I'm over-employed, have an active social life, and ... why exactly was I complaining again? It's hard to pay attention to my own first-world, upper-class problems, while looking into the eyes of a man, woman, or child, who will be sleeping in a shelter tonight.

My calming change in perspective may have been short lived (blog post coming soon about the emotional turmoil of Friday), but for that short period of time, I felt much more at ease with my "issues." I told Darrell to count me in for next time.

Valuing each word

A few months ago Molly, one of my AWAKEN friends, pastored to me and described how she ponders at length each word when reading a scripture verse. Still wary of the Bible, I chose to explore this with a song lyric instead: "You make all things work together for my good"

You. The God of the universe, the one who knew me before I was born, the one who knows my past, present, and future better than I do myself. You.

Make. You not only create from nothingness, but you make from what is already here, from my current circumstances, and you form it into something, you bring about something new, you make it happen. Make.

All things. Not just some things. Not just the "good" things. You take all the things, all the broken pieces, all the joyous moments as well, and you piece them together. All things.

Work together. It's not all disparate. Everything is interwoven, all the mistakes, all the excellent choices, all the events that happen because of my choices, and all the events beyond my control, you bring them to work together as one, unified, God-driven motion. Work together.

For. There is a purpose. This isn't aimless. You have a direction, you're heading somewhere specific, and I want to come along for the ride. For.

My. Me. Little humble me. You are a personal God, you listen when I talk, and you speak to me when I ask. You're focused not only on the cosmic big picture, but on the tiny small Jeremy-picture as well. My.

Good. What you're doing is good. You have a goal, something great that will be, but is not yet. And I can trust that you know better than I how we'll get there. I need not worry, I need not despair, because ultimately, you've got this. Good.

Only the Beginning of the Adventure

Blast from the past: this post should have been written and published in May 2012

"Welcome to the Adventure" is just something I have to say anytime I talk about AWAKEN. Also, listening to the AWAKEN soundtrack seems almost mandatory while writing about the drama. So that's what I'm doing right now.

AWAKEN's final performance was Sunday, April 29, at Riverside chapel in Story City, Iowa, the very same venue where the ministry was born seven years ago. By the end of the show there was not a dry eye amongst the cast or crew, because this was the end of the adventure. AWAKEN isn't happening next year. It may never happen. Jon and Tiffany feel God's calling to devote themselves wholly to serving their church, where Jon is a lead pastor. The other three AWAKEN leadership folks are 1) moving across the state next year, 2) having a baby, and 3) getting married. All good reasons to need to step away. Thus, AWAKEN is entering a "season of discernment" while the board discerns God's call for the future of the ministry.

We arrived, set up, and performed Saturday the 28th, then spent the night in the Riverside cabins. Sunday after church, the team ate lunch, and gathered for the end-of-year party. Normally this event happens several weeks after the last tour stop, but since there are always a few people who's schedules conflict, having the party during our last tour weekend allowed everyone to be there. Unlike most tour stops, we had lots of extra time - because we were performing in the same venue two nights in a row, we hadn't needed to tear down Saturday night, drive to a new tour location, and load-in and setup on Sunday.

I don't remember the exact sequence of events. But in roughly this order, the end-of-year-party started with Jon and Tiffany reading to us from "Oh, the Places You'll Go!," by Dr. Seuss, followed by a mini-sermon. We had time for team members to share memories from the season, funny stories, what AWAKEN has meant in our lives, how we've been changed. Then came the AWAKEN awards - ridiculous "awards" presented to each team member. Mine, for example, was the "I spend more time listening to audio books than being at AWAKEN," award (I listened to a lot of audio books during my drives). Afterward, per AWAKEN tradition, we went outside to play whiffleball. Everyone was "required" to enjoy it and have fun for "at least 15 seconds", even Beth, who hates whiffleball. It was cold and a little rainy, so we only played one inning. I had fun (even past the requisite 15 seconds).

Inside we had a large group prayer, and an hour of free time before dinner. "Team Bad Guys" (the demons) met backstage for a small group prayer. And that's when I first started crying. I'd been doing okay denying "the end" up until that point, but large group, and especially our small group time after, my tears started coming. Reality sunk it and it sucked.

Dinner happened. I snuck over to leave thank you cards backstage and on the control center, all signed by the team the previous night. Make-up happened. Family photo (all the cast together with our makeup) happened. Prayed out our voices. Then walked over to the chapel and took our places for Creation, one final time. Surreal.

My memory is a blur. Months have gone by now, which, added to the emotional finality of that night, means my specific memories are scant.

I remember in the 'calling of the disciples' scene, normally Howie, who played my fisherman son, gives me a bear hug when he is called to follow Jesus and leave me - this night, he literally picked me up off the ground when we hugged. He's done that during rehearsals as a joke, but never in a live performance. I had to resist the urge to laugh out loud.

I remember hearing someone from cast saying, after the show, how easy it was to bring out tears during the mourning scene while Jesus hung on the cross, because the tears [of mourning AWAKEN] were real, not much "acting" required. I remember a lot of people crying in the back of the venue during the mourning, and into the resurrection, scenes. I was near Kindra and Jess, and I gave them both a big hug right before their cue to go back into the scene. And when Haley, as Satan, was cast out after the resurrection, I made sure I was waiting to catch her as she ran out - I knew how very, very emotionally difficult that role had been all season for her to play.

And my favorite memory from the show itself: during the resurrection song ("Take Heart" by Hillsong), Jon walked up to the sound board, and he and Blair turned up the music as the tomb light faded and Jesus prepared to come back on stage, resurrected. Jon and I both, independently, gave a little punch into the air as the music climaxed and Jesus appeared. Maybe you had to be there.

As the show ended, we angels left the stage, but instead of heading to the makeup room like we normally would, everyone stayed in the sanctuary to listen to Jon's final closing talk. He was choked up, but somehow held it together; the entire cast/crew though were sobbing. It is finished.

Pause for a moment of silence, please

As Jon spoke, many hugs were going around amongst the cast and crew. Somehow, I wasn't crying, not at that moment. My "pre-mourning" earlier helped me keep it together at this moment, so I could try to support my friends. An understatement would be saying we were heart-broken. AWAKEN is more than a performance, more than a show; it is a community. It is Church.

Walking back to the makeup room, it had rained, and the ground was wet. My slippers were soaked and muddy after only a few steps. My brain works in funny ways: the metaphor I drew was that my slippers, much like me, had given their all, and might now be ruined. Weeks later I could look back and say that my slippers, much like me, had given their all, and then after a good washing, were ready to tackle life again.

As usual I was the last one to finish taking off my face paint. Beth waited for me. We shared a moment, not ready to go back into the chapel to start tearing down for the last time.

We were the last two back; I was about to put my gloves on and start wrapping cables, but... I couldn't. I walked over to Beth and Amanda, gave them a big hug, and Kindra, seeing me tearing up, came over and gave me a huge hug.

Blair commented to me that, "let's be honest, tear-down's gonna take a lot longer tonight than normal." I concurred. Marginally because the venue was not well suited for moving road cases around; but mostly because no one wanted to make it real.

While putting away the feeder (a ridiculously heavy cable that feeds electricity to all the equipment), I found a penny. ... Apparently I never blogged about this in the past: the backstory is when my Grandma Sue was dying, she promised to throw pennies down from heaven as a reminder that she's thinking about us. It makes finding a penny a bit more meaningful.

Loading the truck took longer than normal as well, because carpools were leaving, and that meant lots of goodbyes. With many of these friends it is not goodbye forever; I know I'll see them individually, maybe in twos or threes, but not again in this entire large group. So taking time for goodbyes was important.

There was a funny sight of Jon, Tiffany, and Chad driving around with a ridiculously large ladder on the back of a truck - I can't do it justice, other than to say they were having way too much fun.

Truck loaded, the few of us remaining took a short breather. On our way back out to the cars, Jon and Tiffany had just finished locking the chapel - we said our goodbyes, though I knew I'd see them again in a few weeks.

Blair, Alica, Levi, Jacob, Lyndsay and I caravanned from Riverside to the locker in Ames, where we unloaded everything back into storage for the last time. What I feared would be a somber task turned into quite the laughter-filled time with friends; sad, yet joyful, simultaneously. I think, too, we are all people of the mindset "get things done, then process emotions later." We really did have a blast, lots of jokes, lots of laughter.

That night I stayed with Blair and Levi in Ames, planning to drive home in the morning. Morning came, and I couldn't bring my car to get on the freeway toward home. Instead, I ended up back in Des Moines, to visit Beth at work. A 40 minute drive for a 10 minute conversation, but it's exactly what I needed: to see her in "normal" life, carrying on. After Beth, I went back to Blair and Levi's apartment, where they, and also Jacob and Alica, were hanging out, watching a sports game. You know how much I love me a good sports game. Spending time with people who were wrestling the same emotions as I, who knew exactly how I was feeling - invaluable. Even though we didn't talk much about AWAKEN, just being there, not being along, was what I needed.

I finally left Ames at 4 p.m. Along the way I needed to stop at a gas station and take a nap, because I was just so emotionally exhausted from crying - I had cried most of the way to DSM, remained on the brink of tears while talking with Beth, and then cried most of the way back to Ames. It reminded me of the 2010-2011 mime, after Jesus died, when I was playing a disciple and all the disciples hugged each other goodbye, and tearfully went back to our normal, every day status quo lives. In a very real sense that's what we all did at the end of AWAKEN, too.

What's amazing about that parallel, what gives me hope, is that our mourning wasn't the end of the story: in the mime, a few minutes later, Jesus resurrects, and called us back to living a meaningful life. I would like my life to parallel that. Like the disciples who walked and talked with the living Jesus, in what is perhaps an indescribable way, our lives from being in AWAKEN are changed and marked forever.

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In the months since AWAKEN, Beth and I wrote a proposal for continuing the ministry, essentially volunteering to take over Jon and Tiffany's roles. We met with Jon and Tiff, during which they were exceptionally open and honest. A month later Beth and I met with Jon plus two members of the board to talk about our vision, and get to know each other. Beth and I felt the meeting went incredibly poorly (though later we were told the board members had not felt that way at all).

Two months after that, we met with the entire board. In the end, they said "no," they do not feel God's calling for Beth and I to become the core leadership. That is not to say the board doesn't see AWAKEN continuing, only that we are not the ones they see in those roles. Which is okay, for three reasons: They said "no" for [what I consider to be] the right reasons; neither Beth nor I really wanted to be the "buck stops here" people in AWAKEN leadership (our desire to see the ministry continue overruled that non-desire); and there are at least one or two other proposals on the table from others interested in seeing AWAKEN continue, and even though Beth and I will not be the "it" people of leadership, that does not preclude us from being on a larger leadership team, were it to happen.

The board's answer, while it could be seen as disheartening and disappointing, was neither to me. People who know me know how much I need "one more thing" on my plate, and, though AWAKEN would have become my priority over all else, it is admittedly a relief not needing to make those time-management choices that would have been required in my life.

My prayer after AWAKEN ended, and again after meeting with the board: "God, I don't know what my future is in AWAKEN, what you have in store, but, here I am. That's it. Here I am."

That applies to life, as well, not just AWAKEN. Major life changes from 2012 have included: a new job, starting a new company, the end of AWAKEN, acceptance into candidacy for seminary, a new roommate, a relationship starting, and ending, and, most recently, a major house plumbing kerfuffle (blog post coming soon). When I look at how much change could happen in a matter of two or three weeks, I realize I have no idea what to expect from the next two or three months, years, etc. God only knows. It's not something I need to solve, I just need to keep myself open to possibilities, and understand that reality will look vastly different than anything I dream up; my imagination is limited, His is not.

On April 29, before shutting down the sound system the final time, Blair and I played the song "Only the Beginning of the Adventure", from the Chronicles of Narnia soundtrack. It seemed fitting.

Welcome to the Adventure.

One reason why I'm voting no

One of my best friends got married last weekend to the love of her life. Their ceremony was beautiful, a mixture of traditional liturgy with modern influences (one example coming to mind: communion open to all, and served by the couple).

What got me, though, was a sentence from their vows: "...Every day when you wake up, until the day you can't, I will be there...." I teared up. So. Beautiful.

I am a Christian, and that's one reason why I am voting "NO" in November.

The sign of trust

My past month has been emotionally tumultuous. Yet flying through the turbulence I'm finding zen. The Spirit constantly is reminding me: "worship". Part of my worship experience has included learning ASL to sign along with the song lyrics. I don't know much. In fact every song I hear reminds me just how little I know. But I know enough to sign a few lines, and to make my own prayers. They're not anything complex, just the bare essentials. And I'm probably not signing all the signs perfectly. It's all right. God knows what I mean.

One sign I really love is "trust" - it's beautiful: two hands, grasping in the air, grasping at something I cannot see, but then grabbing on, clinging to what I know is there.

Help me to trust, Lord. Help me to hold on to You.

"I trust in you, Lord, because I know that you love me, and your love never fails"

Why I make movies

There are a lot of reasons I love making movies, but sometimes the most rewarding feelings I don't encounter until we're done shooting. This is from a high school hockey coach whose team helped us out as background actors for our hockey scenes. Unbeknownst to me, one of the girls' friend's dad died the day before we shot our scene, and the entire team was having a rough time coping.

I believe everything happens for a reason, and I couldn't think of a better situation for them than the situation you provided on Thursday. You helped them feel important, take their minds of sadness and focus on fun, and really just gave them a life experience that some of them will never have again.

Making movies has a lot of meaning in my life. It means even more when, somehow, God can use it to minister to others.

Artwork and Scientology

I’m in Burbank, and yesterday morning I went on a doggie walk with my friend (poor phrasing, I mean we walked her dog). On my way back home I walked by an art store, one that’s intrigued me since my very first visit to LA 15 months ago. I’ve never been sure what to think about it, because on the one hand it looks kinda shady, hole-in-the-wall-esque; on the other hand, [potentially] like a great place to find deals. Because I like art. Or at least, paintings of landscapes and nature. And over the last few months I’ve been longing to buy another piece or two to hang in my living room.

So with nothing else to do this morning (Baby Jesus cried, I skipped church, not having a car to get to the one in Pasadena that I love), I decided to stop in the art store and just check it out, see what there was to see. I didn’t really expect to buy anything, but if I saw the right piece, then sure, why not?

I entered timidly, and cheerfully greeted the guy at the front desk. Michael. He welcomed me with a warm, soothing voice, asked if this was my first time to the store, to which I answered affirmatively. He offered me a drink: tea, cocoa, water; asked if I needed a restroom; then we talked for a short while, him telling me about the store, me describing my love for scenic landscapes, and eventually we made our way into a room with hundreds of canvas original paintings lying in piles around the room. One by one he went through a pile, me admiring each piece, and every now and then I’d ask, “set that one aside” for us to review later.

Before we had started looking, Michael said something that really captivated me: (voice note, so exact quote)

When you look at something, it happens immediately for you…. there’s no thinking involved. If you have to think about whether you like something or not when you’re looking at it, then you’ve spent too long looking. In other words, I’m saying if you trust your judgement, if you trust your own immediate perceptions of who you are as a being, and what works for you, that’s as good as it ever gets.

And as I asked about prices, mentioning maybe I’d need to save my pennies and come back next time I’m in town, he noted that while the store would be here, specific art pieces might not be - if I like it, I should really get it now, even if I have to put it on layaway. “Anything you like, and you leave, there’s a good chance you’re gonna lose it…. Do something about it today, whatever it is.”

Because it’s been on my mind, I found myself drawing parallels between what Michael said about art as being directly applicable to Love. I was moved.

After seeing a hundred paintings, (maybe two hundred? maybe more?), I’d selected a dozen to review: several mountain landscapes, some palm trees on a beach, a cityscape, some leopards, and a still-life of a violin. Then we stepped into their viewing gallery, complete with elegant red recliner couches and chairs for sitting back and admiring the artwork, which Michael carefully taped on a white wall illumined by gallery track lighting. I looked at six paintings at a time, eliminating them from my selection one by one. And during this, Michael brought me a cup of tea and some bread and cheese to munch on while I pondered. I’m not used to this kind of treatment! He explained this is how his parents raised him: when someone comes to your home, you offer them food, drink, bathroom, anything to attend to their needs. It’s how he was raised, and how he lives his life now. I really appreciated that.

Narrowing from 12 excellent paintings down to 1 was not easy. Of the first six (all taped on the viewing gallery wall), I eliminated two right away, not because they were bad, not by any means! But because I didn’t love them as much as the other four I was looking at. But then there were two palm tree paintings, both spoke to me differently. I’ve never been good at art critiquing, but I saw in myself how these two paintings evoked very different emotions. Both had three palm trees on the left side, and both skies were sunset, but the ocean water and land composition was different. One had rough water cresting on the beach, and the water was surrounded by land on both left and right. It made me feel comfortable, cozy, cocooned, wrapped, enveloped. Safe. The other had no land on the right side, just wide open (mostly calm) ocean waves. It made me feel uncertain, almost scared, at the same time exhilarated at the possibility. It was symbolic of my future. It also made me feel brave, like I could dive into the deep and there was nothing wrong with that. It was the same beach, the same palm trees, from two different views. Perspective made all the difference. After a lot of thinking, and mostly feeling, I eliminated the enclosed, safe-feeling one. Time to take a risk.

Michael was clever in how he helped me eliminate paintings. While I agonized over the palm trees, he asked, “well how about this [completely other] one, do you like it better or less than the palm trees.” “Well played,” I told him. Because when asked that way the answer was obvious: I loved the palm trees more, so the other painting could be dismissed. I commented that he’s clearly done this before, and he explained his role isn’t to decide for me, but to help me come to the right decision for me.

Eventually, after some easy decisions, and a lot of hard ones, I narrowed it down to three: two with mountains and the one with palm trees by the wide-open ocean. The two mountains were very similar - same artist and I suspect the same mountain, but one was light, happy (“safe”) blue, daytime colored, and the other red and orange and yellow, sunset colored, more fire-y, more exhilarating. Both were beautiful, both were very “me” and my decor.

At this point, I munched on my bread and cheese while Michael moved these final contenders to the lower half of the wall, and found wooden frames to set in front of each, so I could see how they looked.

They looked beautiful, and I wanted all three.

And while I was VERY tempted to take all three home with me, I forced myself to make a sacrifice, and I turned down the palm trees, leaving the two mountains on the wall. And then I couldn’t prune any more. I decided, if I could afford it, these two would come home with me.

Even before we’d started looking at paintings, Michael had reassured me not to worry about the cost - he described a layaway program they have, and also mentioned there might be room for negotiation on the final price. I knew with the current “liquidation sale” discounts these paintings would all be in the $150-$400 range, plus the cost of framing, so that gave me a ballpark. But in any case, I understood that it wasn’t about the money. This felt very comfortable to me, because it’s how I operate, too.

With the final two paintings selected, my guide through the art world priced them out with the same wooden frame he’d used for the demo. Once I saw the numbers, I asked if there were other framing options - he immediately jumped in, saying if I was worried about the price– I cut him off: “No, it’s not that, I actually want to get something nicer, this frame looks cheaper than what I have on my art at home.” I went into their custom framing room and found a frame that looked similar enough - deep, rich, elegant wooden - to what I had at home, and as it turns out, that choice wasn’t significantly more expensive.

With a final quote prepared, it was a little higher than I’d hoped to spend. On the plus side, because they were billing and shipping to me in Minnesota, there was no sales tax. On the down side, there was a significant shipping charge. I hemmed and hawed a little bit, then, as humbly as I could, because I knew everything was already on sale and discounted (even the framing), I asked if there was any chance they could slash the price slightly more.

Michael said “let me check”, then brought in his manager and described my situation. The manager offered me a $30 discount, which I might have taken, but I asked if he could drop it even more - I named a price, and said if he could meet it, I’d pay the whole amount right there, right then, no lay-aways required. He shook my hand and said “enjoy your art.”

Win. Two beautiful paintings, framed, delivered to my door in Minnesota. Did I mention, original paintings, not prints. Michael wrote my order number and the date on the bleed over edge of the canvas, then handed me the pen to sign my name - point being: when they arrive, I can verify these are the originals I picked out, not duplicates.

He also let me pay with two credit cards, which means I’ve now spent enough on my new American Express card to get a free flight’s worth of Delta SkyMiles bonus points, and racked up a few extra Southwest miles on my Chase Visa, to boot. If I can keep working within the system, I may never need to pay full price for a flight again.

Receipts in hand, I started toward the door. On my way past the front desk area, Michael brings me to a stand with some DVDs and pamphlets, and I see right away the DVD on the top of the pile says “Scientology”. Oh great. Such a great morning, why ruin it with this?

The situation turned out not as badly as I feared, He told me a bit about his background, growing up Jewish, and his conversion to Scientology, and along the way we shared some ill-will toward organized “religion” at large. He seemed more interested in what Scientology teaches about interacting with people, vs promoting the religion itself and trying to “convert” me. My first thought was “this makes me feel uncomfortable”, but then I asked, “Okay God, I’m in this situation, anything you’d like me to say?”

As he talked Michael cited Jesus’ saying, “I am the way, the truth, and the life, no one comes to the Father except through me.” There came a point in the conversation where Michael said, “okay, now your turn to talk and me to listen”. This caught me off-guard, but I latched onto that verse that he’d quoted and said, “you know, Michael, you’ve talked about wanting to make up for past deeds, to earn God’s love, and brother I just want to tell you that price has already been paid; the verse you cited before, Jesus being the way and getting to the Father through Him, stop putting so much pressure on yourself, you don’t need to earn anything. God’s so proud of you, of the man you are, the kind of man who offers his guests food and drink…blah blah blah” I said more, but that’s the gist of what I remember.

I don’t know if it meant anything to him, I don’t know if he truly “listened” or was just humoring me, but he got a little teary-eyed so I’d like to believe it meant something. The words weren’t mine, and they kept coming.

At the end of the conversation I asked if I could pray for him; he consented, I did, and then left. So weird, going from learning about art (and even learning how to appreciate impressionist work), to talking about Jesus in a public storefront, and feeling comfortable doing it. I figured if he was going to “Scientologist” me, I would “Jesus” him in return. Not about conversion. That’s not up to me. It is about reminding God’s children how much they are loved. Being counter-cultural.

Drive-by ministry. This is my Calling.