This is reposted from Aron's blog which you can follow at http://amapofcalifornia.wordpress.com
I have been thinking about unemployment insurance a lot lately. With the questionable future of my current work location, some of my coworkers who have never had occasion to receive unemployment benefits are contemplating what would be a first for them.
In the short term, I think unemployment insurance constitutes sound economic logic. Capitalism assumes that most people will work for a living and use their income to support themselves. This cycle of earning and spending is what makes our economic system go ‘round. The social contract posits that when a break in this cycle occurs because an individual becomes unemployed due to no fault of her/his own, she or he is entitled to dip into common weal for a brief period of time during which efforts to become re-employed occur. In other words, the taxes of those who are working help to support those who, temporarily, are not.
The idea is that those who are laid off due to economic factors beyond their control (bankruptcy of the employer or a recession, for example) should not be punished. On the contrary, they should be rewarded for their past labors while they find their way toward resuming their roles as productive members of society and contributors to the economy.
Implicit in this provision of the social contract is that the unemployed person will return to the work force as soon as possible. This implied condition is made explicit by state unemployment laws that limit benefits to a prescribed number of months.
Remaining unemployed rather resuming work at the earliest opportunity is discouraged by a twofold maneuver. First, unemployment benefits are calculated on a schedule that assures that individuals receive a relatively small percentage of the income earned while working. Hopefully, the receipt of unemployment benefits will provide the out of work with a modicum of support for their families (on an austerity budget, to be sure) sufficient to prevent hunger and homelessness. Second, unemployment benefits end after a specified amount of time. This provision is designed to light a fire under the unemployed, creating a sense of urgency fueled by the prospect of destitution should benefits end before re-employment is secured.
Where this neat little system falls apart, of course, is when this threat morphs from theory into reality. Recent statistics suggest that the unemployment rate in the United States is falling, an indicator of increasing economic health. As with any financial measure, however, the accuracy of one’s numbers depends on how you count. The apparent decrease in the unemployment rate is, at least in part, a product of fewer individuals receiving unemployment benefits. It is well known that a reduction in the unemployment rolls does not necessarily mean that more people are gainfully employed. It may well reflect the thousands of people who have exhausted their unemployment benefits, thus falling off the charts even though they are still out of work. These are our neighbors who fly under the radar, neither employed nor on unemployment benefits, and thus nonexistent as far as our tunnel vision economic figures are concerned. The long-term unemployed become invisible.
Let’s spend a moment thinking about what happens to those who find themselves in this predicament — out of benefit weeks and still out of a job. Out of luck. As a society, we are simply abandoning these people, leaving them to their own devices. After all, they need to be punished because they failed to follow the rules by finding work within the prescribed period of time.
But what if their failure to find work is no fault of their own, just as the reason that they became unemployed in the first place was no fault of their own? What if a person has diligently sought employment to no avail? This can happen for any number of reasons. In this age of microchips, there is the ever-present threat of technological obsolescence (otherwise known as “I’ve been replaced by a robot.”) I can appreciate this one, having personally performed two different types of jobs that have virtually gone out of existence in this country.
Perhaps the plant has moved out of state or overseas, where operating costs are so much lower. Perhaps there is no similar work available in the unemployed person’s geographic area. Perhaps he or she is not at liberty to move due to family commitments or health challenges. As it is, we have become a very mobile society, rolling stones who miss out on yesteryear’s advantage of strong community roots. We acknowledge this as far as not denying unemployment benefits to those who decline to move hundreds of miles away to the nearest available job. But then we shrug it off when the benefit period runs out. If you really want to work, move far away from your support system and work! If not, starve. Let the support system to which you are so attached take care of you.
Whoa, stop right there. When a person loses her job, we don’t throw her on the mercy of her family. We recognize this person as a valued member of society who has fallen on hard times, and we provide her with some measure of support. After a time, however, we say “okay, we’ve done enough, now it’s your family’s turn.” What is wrong with this picture?
There are those who long for the good old days when members of extended families took care of each other. No unemployment benefits needed, or as Archie and Edith Bunker cheekily sang every week during the opening of TV’s All in the Family, “didn’t need no welfare state (everybody pulled his weight).” If one member of the family was unable to earn a paycheck, that individual could contribute in other ways, including child care, elder care and household maintenance. Then, of course, there was also a thriving underground economy (in our inner cities, there still is — and not all of it has to do with selling drugs, either). People grew gardens and raised chickens, both for their own consumption and to help feed their neighbors. Payment was not always in cash; barter thrived. Although Craig’s List and the TV show Barter Kings suggest that we may be returning to this model, it is still a drop in the economic bucket.
You see, a funny thing happened on the way to the forum: The extended family who we expect to support the long-term unemployed has ceased to exist, at least among the middle class (leaving people out on the street and scavenging in dumpsters). As if the post-World War II transition from the extended family model to the nuclear family were not bad enough, the cancer of family breakdown has now advanced to the point where even the nuclear family has crumbled into dust. Fathers have become marginalized as single mothers raise their children and young adults choose to remain single for longer and longer periods of time. There is no longer any shame or stigma attached to “personal choices” from abortion to childlessness to refusal to provide financial and emotional support to aging parents. Meanwhile, the middle class, who have failed miserably in their attempt to glorify the nuclear family, continue to look down their noses at the poor who are forced by economic circumstances to crowd many people into small dwellings, whether urban apartments or rural cottages.
But I am hopeful. Perhaps the vagaries of the economy and the evanescence of unemployment benefits will have the unintended effect of encouraging the resurgence of the extended family. Perhaps the day will come when it will again become common for grandparents, uncles, cousins and friends to share a residence, each one contributing his or her special talents to the communal well-being of the family unit. Perhaps contiguous family units (in old-fashioned lingo, these were called “neighbors”) will again check on each other’s welfare and engage in random acts of sharing. Perhaps we will shake off our jaded ways and decide that community is still important. Perhaps we will once again decide that we need each other, that we are indeed our brothers’ keepers.
As John Donne wrote more than four hundred years ago:
No man is an island,
Entire of itself,
Every man is a piece of the continent,
A part of the main.
Amen.
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Showing posts with label community. Show all posts
Monday, July 8, 2013
Tuesday, April 17, 2012
Find Me - James Harrison
These have been the hardest 9 days in recent memory. The past has caught up with me and, forsaking details, been blown out of proportion (according to my perspective). My name feels sullied among the circle of knowledgeable peers. I’ve gone through many emotions, both foreign and familiar. I’ve been confused and experienced sharp sadness and bubbling guilt, felt misunderstood and repentant... all at the same time. I’m sure many of you can relate to tough times of confusion, when everything becomes affected. Community living has shown one of its cons.
Today was a bad work day – I’m in a new department where nearly everything is unfamiliar and I did a lot of observing, making me feel useless. I let this cloud hover all day until after dinner. I opened an e-mail from a good friend with only a couple words. One of them was “Joy.” After sorrowfully laughing at the word, I asked myself, “Why was joy so unattainable today? Why couldn’t I find comfort in God while I worked?” I have conviction that joy is possible at all times, so the situation begged the question, “Why not now, even now?" Then the words, “Nothing is impossible with God,” came to mind again.
I jumped up, grabbed my journal, and wrote this, “You say, ‘It’s you and me till the wheels fall off.’ It really is, God. So, how do we do this? The new Fire Bowl topic is ‘Joy.’ Of course it is. I really believe joy is attainable. But right now I have one resounding question, ‘How, in this impossible time, do I have joy?’
‘Find me.’
Those quiet words echo through my mind, trailing off to my fingers and toes. The doorway eats up the light around it, but I find the courage to step towards you, cross the threshold, and listen.”
This evening I listened and heard only quietness. But after a long time, that quietness quieted me and gave me peace. Then it slowly dawned on me: If God can bring peace in our time together, then he really can do anything. Truly, all things are possible with God. With this peace, I can smile while I work, realizing that it’s all going to be okay; I’ll learn in time. With this joy I can realize that my name will be restored if God wants to restore it. In fact, it may not actually be sullied the way I think it is (But we have an enemy who would convince me otherwise). For now, I will be honest and do whatever it takes to find reconciliation. Joy is always available, and if you’re inviting Joy, you may as well give a call to Peace as well and have yourself a party.
Today was a bad work day – I’m in a new department where nearly everything is unfamiliar and I did a lot of observing, making me feel useless. I let this cloud hover all day until after dinner. I opened an e-mail from a good friend with only a couple words. One of them was “Joy.” After sorrowfully laughing at the word, I asked myself, “Why was joy so unattainable today? Why couldn’t I find comfort in God while I worked?” I have conviction that joy is possible at all times, so the situation begged the question, “Why not now, even now?" Then the words, “Nothing is impossible with God,” came to mind again.
I jumped up, grabbed my journal, and wrote this, “You say, ‘It’s you and me till the wheels fall off.’ It really is, God. So, how do we do this? The new Fire Bowl topic is ‘Joy.’ Of course it is. I really believe joy is attainable. But right now I have one resounding question, ‘How, in this impossible time, do I have joy?’
‘Find me.’
Those quiet words echo through my mind, trailing off to my fingers and toes. The doorway eats up the light around it, but I find the courage to step towards you, cross the threshold, and listen.”
This evening I listened and heard only quietness. But after a long time, that quietness quieted me and gave me peace. Then it slowly dawned on me: If God can bring peace in our time together, then he really can do anything. Truly, all things are possible with God. With this peace, I can smile while I work, realizing that it’s all going to be okay; I’ll learn in time. With this joy I can realize that my name will be restored if God wants to restore it. In fact, it may not actually be sullied the way I think it is (But we have an enemy who would convince me otherwise). For now, I will be honest and do whatever it takes to find reconciliation. Joy is always available, and if you’re inviting Joy, you may as well give a call to Peace as well and have yourself a party.
Friday, October 7, 2011
Welcome Changes - Stephanie Mullen
My culture-crossing experience when I moved to Thailand wasn’t nearly as dramatic as I thought it would be. I imagined that I’d feel so out of place, see one too many cockroaches, and have some kind of public meltdown. While I definitely had my moments of frustration and utter confusion in that year and a half, many of the differences were welcome changes for me.
People see you. They say hello and offer you something, even if they have very little. The generosity is so humbling. They invite you into their home, they feed you, and they don’t waste any energy trying to portray some kind of A+ lifestyle. They put themselves out there, for better or worse; and they let you do the same. And thankfully there were no fashion police around. My hair drier caught on fire the one time I tried using it, so I was fine with settling into low-maintenance mode.
Life is simple. Homes are small, motorbikes or bicycles are sufficient, and the local shops or markets have everything you need (although maybe not everything you want, like Blizzards from DQ or granola bars). There were no malls or movie theaters, so you had to be creative and learn to enjoy the simple stuff. My friend and I used to buy ice cream and go sit in front of our favorite field when we wanted to do something special.
And people there share. They aren’t possessive of their things, but are happy to give whatever they have if it’ll help someone. Neighbors look out for each other. Actually, they need each other. They rely on one another for the daily stuff just to get by. In extreme cases, someone in the community will even take in a child as their own if the parents are removed from the picture for whatever reason.
It’s beautiful. There are so many things I saw and experienced that I want to keep with me back in here the US, but the longer I’m stateside, the less I’m shocked by a commercial for a pill that relieves dehydration, or by our sexualization of women, or our infatuation with celebrities. We’re encouraged to have more and better, and the clutter can be numbing.
But no culture is perfect, and there were things that I was sad to see in Thailand, too.
Many men cheat on their wives, and it seems to be expected. Customer service is non-existent at best, infuriating at worst. Conflict is handled by avoiding it, and it’s not okay to just bring up issues. I learned this the hard way when my friend was asked to find another place to live after we showed our frustration with her landlord. Also, it’s okay to tell a woman she’s fat... something I never happily embraced.
I’ve been able to feel at home in two different cultures, and at times feel like I was dropped from outer space into both. I hope to experience more, though, because seeing different ways to live allows you to decide if you want it or not. I think God had an idea of what everything would look like, how we’d all treat each other, and that we can see pieces of it in play in different places... like we’ve all taken a shot at trying to live with one another, and we’ve all gotten some things right while falling painfully short at others.
It’s contrary to the way I grew up, but I’m interested now in having less and depending on other people more. And I hope I don’t ever settle for thinking that I have it all figured out, but will be willing to feel like an alien if it leads to experiencing life more like it was designed to be.
Friday, September 9, 2011
Community - Tina Barrentine
Tina is the granddaughter of two awesome cooks, the daughter of a talented seamstress, the wife of a thoughtful teacher and the mother of creative kids. All this makes her a kind of nexus of whimsy, hospitality, celebration and stories. And she can beat Super Mario Bros. in one sitting.
So I'm thinking of creating an awesome new super smash-hit TV show about 6 good looking New York friends who crash land Oceanic flight 815 into the backyard of a man named Brady and his very lovely wife. I'll call it "Community Island".
Auditions will be fiercely competitive. If I could cast this show, the way I've cast the people dearest to me in my own community, it would be full of funny people like my friend Amie, who is an undiscovered Carol Burnett. It would have lots of lovable nerds who quote Princess Bride and Star Trek like my mom and sisters. It would have a wise cracking card shark like my grandma, an indulgent chef like my grandpa, and a low-talking, Bible thumper named Ken. It would feature my husband in his best blue and red caped suit and an "S" emblazoned on his chest. And there would be kids. Lots of kids. Sassy, smart, funny, too-cute-for-their-own-good kids who try to beat me at video games.
I would, of course, keep tiresome characters to a minimum. On TV they just drag down the ratings and irritate loyal watchers (need I mention Cousin Pam?). In life, they distract me from my "real" community. They are the ones who make me look for a quick exit when they approach me at church, wanting to talk about the same old troubles they have been having with the same old people. They aren't fun. They aren't funny. They do NOT play video games.
There, I admit it. I am an elder's wife and I would rather not be in community with people who frustrate, annoy, or bore me. People who make me feel like that scene from Joe vs the Volcano where Tom Hanks says the florescent lights are sucking the juice out of his eyeballs... "Suck, suck, suck!"
My problem isn't loving the incurably unpleasant. I believe loving someone is doing the best thing you can for them. To that end I offer my friendship in whatever form I can to meet a need. My problem is accepting friendship from them. God is always challenging me to make my relationships a partnership where He can edify someone with the simple knowledge that their friendship is valuable. I don't like it. It's hard work trying to hang with the cousin Pams of this world as if they were the Cliff Huxtables.
But what helps is being made to feel like Arthur Fonzarelli by my friends and family. It changes me. It makes me want to be better and do better. It makes me feel like I could jump a shark.
So I'm thinking of creating an awesome new super smash-hit TV show about 6 good looking New York friends who crash land Oceanic flight 815 into the backyard of a man named Brady and his very lovely wife. I'll call it "Community Island".
Auditions will be fiercely competitive. If I could cast this show, the way I've cast the people dearest to me in my own community, it would be full of funny people like my friend Amie, who is an undiscovered Carol Burnett. It would have lots of lovable nerds who quote Princess Bride and Star Trek like my mom and sisters. It would have a wise cracking card shark like my grandma, an indulgent chef like my grandpa, and a low-talking, Bible thumper named Ken. It would feature my husband in his best blue and red caped suit and an "S" emblazoned on his chest. And there would be kids. Lots of kids. Sassy, smart, funny, too-cute-for-their-own-good kids who try to beat me at video games.
I would, of course, keep tiresome characters to a minimum. On TV they just drag down the ratings and irritate loyal watchers (need I mention Cousin Pam?). In life, they distract me from my "real" community. They are the ones who make me look for a quick exit when they approach me at church, wanting to talk about the same old troubles they have been having with the same old people. They aren't fun. They aren't funny. They do NOT play video games.
There, I admit it. I am an elder's wife and I would rather not be in community with people who frustrate, annoy, or bore me. People who make me feel like that scene from Joe vs the Volcano where Tom Hanks says the florescent lights are sucking the juice out of his eyeballs... "Suck, suck, suck!"
My problem isn't loving the incurably unpleasant. I believe loving someone is doing the best thing you can for them. To that end I offer my friendship in whatever form I can to meet a need. My problem is accepting friendship from them. God is always challenging me to make my relationships a partnership where He can edify someone with the simple knowledge that their friendship is valuable. I don't like it. It's hard work trying to hang with the cousin Pams of this world as if they were the Cliff Huxtables.
But what helps is being made to feel like Arthur Fonzarelli by my friends and family. It changes me. It makes me want to be better and do better. It makes me feel like I could jump a shark.
Tuesday, September 6, 2011
How Good, How Pleasant - Aaron Alford
Aaron is a writer, world traveler and mission worker with Youth With A Mission. He has an uncanny habit of turning up just when you need him. He's been spotted (so far) this year in Thailand, Canada, Israel and Holland. You can read more stories like the one you're about to enjoy at his blog, aaronalford.net
He stroked his beard absently, and looked around the room. It was small, and dimly lit, but full with people and warm with light. Several sat at the table with him, several more were seated about the floor, others gathered against the walls. Conversations were quiet, with some muted bursts of amiable laughter. There was some sniffling, too. A crooked smile, a hand on a shoulder, an embrace. He felt the ease of camaraderie and companionship playing in tension with a feeling of expectation. This was not just a casual gathering of friends. The future was waiting outside their door, and no one was sure how to greet him. Great pain had come, had taught them to expect more of it, but great hope had been born, too, and the future was a captivating and shivering thought. He thought of Moses, and of Joshua. Like the second great leader of the People of God, these people were waiting for his first charge of leadership. He sighed at the thought.
He knew almost everyone there by name, and as he scanned the room a hundred stories came to mind. Simon, the leper, or rather, the former leper, stood locked in an embrace with a former blind man; laughing or crying, he couldn’t tell. Either way, it was a good hug. He could see in his memory Jesus kissing the blind man’s eyes, holding the leper’s hands. He recalled the way they looked at him, the way they held on to him. He prayed for so pure a devotion as theirs.
In the corner stood one of several Marys. She smiled casually, incidentally, with the person with whom she was conversing, and he felt a sweet stab of joy in his throat. Her eyes were so clear, so full to the brim with life. He remembered those eyes when he had first seen them, shadowed with demons and shame. That the woman he first met, such a short time ago, was the same woman he saw now was an overwhelming and joyous incongruity. She still bore her scars, still walked with a metaphorical limp — but she walked, and sometimes danced.
She was speaking with a round, stout man who looked thoughtfully at the lady standing above him. Peter tended to forget just how short Zacchaeus really was. The little man they had found tree climbing had become a close friend of the band of disciples, offering food, lodging, and an exuberant hospitality. Of course, there were times when that zeal was quite tiring to the people around him. Earlier that very evening, Peter had sent him on an errand for bread just to have a moment of peace. But it was good and right that the tax collector stood with them now. He seemed taller than the man they’d seen in the tree.
Another tax collector sat two places down from him, on his left. When Matthew asked him to pass the salt, Peter felt a tide rise in his eyes. He laughed inside at the memory of the drunk he’d first met. He remembered the tax collector, desperately lonely and physically sick, leaving his booth, dribbling vomit down his beard, crying in the arms of Jesus. This, of course, brought to mind his own tearful, blubbering, first encounter with his friend and saviour, and as tears fell, he passed the salt. Matthew smiled. He knew what those eyes said.
He felt a familiar hand on his shoulder. Andrew sat by his left side. Andrew, the brother who had cared for him and stood by him more closely than anyone. He had felt that same hand on his shoulder on many a drunken night. He’d felt it at the death of his wife. He’d felt it the day he met Jesus. He’d felt it in four hundred and ninety different moments of unexpected grace. He placed his own hand on Andrew’s shoulder, and squeezed it tight, for it contained every ‘Thank-you’ he had never spoken. Andrew returned the squeeze.
Two places to his right sat the poet. John, so young and tender, had been the bravest of them all. He, of all the men, had stood with their friend in his darkest hour. At first, this had served only to remind Peter of his own failure: abandoning his closest friend in his time of greatest need. But healing, again, had come to him in the embrace of the rabbi, and Peter would forever feel only the deepest admiration for the youngest apostle. By that same strong grace, John had become the child of a strange adoption to the woman who sat between them.
He watched her eyes. They, like his own, seemed to be drinking in the sweetness of the room and the memory of grace, and the soft lines of age on the crests of her cheeks were like beams of moonlight. If anyone there could claim to have deserved Jesus’s grace, it was she, but she never behaved that way. She never asserted herself on him. She simply knew him best, as only a mom could, and in that had a curious authority. Those graceful eyes met Peter’s, and they so looked like her son’s that he felt a strange kind of electricity. He had never noticed till now how alike their eyes were, and he felt as if his friend’s strength and vigorous grace were flowing to him now. And grace, for years now, made the fisherman weep.
Our deepest joys are strange things, and they behave much the same as our deepest griefs. They come upon us unexpectedly, washing over us in unstoppable waves, turning and tossing us until their work is complete, and we are left panting on the sand, the taste of salt on our lips, wondering what just happened. Peter felt this joy overtake him in this way, and he had much experience in the matters of waves. He sat now as a man turned up on the shore, and as he looked down he saw with new eyes. He looked at what lay on the table before him, and smiled at Zacchaeus’s bread. He remembered when his brother brought a small boy’s lunch to Jesus, and how it fed thousands. He remembered something his friend had told the crowds about bread after that miracle. He cleared his throat, and spoke to the room full of friends.
“That last night,” he said, “we shared a meal together, just like we’ve done here.” The room was quiet, and listening. “That was the night Judas betrayed him, the night I abandoned him, the night he washed our feet. It was the night we sang and prayed together, too. And it was the night he gave himself to us.”
Peter’s fingers hovered over the round, flat loaf that lay before him. He uttered a silent prayer. O God, make me clean. Make me worthy. He took it up in his calloused hands, and continued. “I remember him taking bread, breaking it, and giving it to his friends.”
The bread was soft, and it broke apart easily while he spoke. He began to hand the pieces to his right and to his left. Each hand took a piece of the bread, and held it in its palm, waiting. “He took that bread, and lifted it up to heaven, like this.” His voice became low, and holy. “He said, ‘Take this, each one of you, and eat it. This is my body, which will be given up for you.’ “
Peter stared at the piece in his hands, and whispered. “He is with us. He’s here.” He paused in the silence, and a sea of eyes stared at the Bread which they held in their hands. He smiled. “Eat.”
He placed it on his tongue and closed his eyes. He swallowed hard as tears fell freely. He opened his eyes and stared for a moment at the cup of wine that sat before him. He remembered the wedding. He remembered the water. He remembered a lamb. He raised the cup and spoke. “He gave us wine, too. ‘This is the cup of my blood,’ he said, ‘the blood of the new and eternal covenant. It will be shed for you, for all, so that sins may be forgiven. Do this to remember me.’ “
He put the cup to his lips, and drank. The flavour swirled upon his tongue, and he tasted its full range, its sweetness and bitterness. He drank deeply, and it warmed his throat as he drank. He realized a small trail was running from the corner of his mouth into his beard. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and kissed it away. He turned to the woman on his right, and held the cup before her. “This is the blood of Christ,” he said.
“May it be as you say,” she replied, and drank. She passed the cup to her right.
He looked once more around the room, from Simon to Matthew, from Zacchaeus to John, from Mary to Mary, as each one drank. He saw stories of sacrifice, of bodies broken, of blood poured out; each story foretelling and remembering and singing of this One Story. They were the soil, broken and tilled for a harvest of an everlasting friendship. They were the fruit of this humble and holy vine, crushed and consumed for the warming of the heart and the gladdening of the mind. They were the offering, poured out on the altar of God. He prayed in silence the greatest of all prayers: Thank-you.
He stroked his beard absently, and looked around the room. It was small, and dimly lit, but full with people and warm with light. Several sat at the table with him, several more were seated about the floor, others gathered against the walls. Conversations were quiet, with some muted bursts of amiable laughter. There was some sniffling, too. A crooked smile, a hand on a shoulder, an embrace. He felt the ease of camaraderie and companionship playing in tension with a feeling of expectation. This was not just a casual gathering of friends. The future was waiting outside their door, and no one was sure how to greet him. Great pain had come, had taught them to expect more of it, but great hope had been born, too, and the future was a captivating and shivering thought. He thought of Moses, and of Joshua. Like the second great leader of the People of God, these people were waiting for his first charge of leadership. He sighed at the thought.
He knew almost everyone there by name, and as he scanned the room a hundred stories came to mind. Simon, the leper, or rather, the former leper, stood locked in an embrace with a former blind man; laughing or crying, he couldn’t tell. Either way, it was a good hug. He could see in his memory Jesus kissing the blind man’s eyes, holding the leper’s hands. He recalled the way they looked at him, the way they held on to him. He prayed for so pure a devotion as theirs.
In the corner stood one of several Marys. She smiled casually, incidentally, with the person with whom she was conversing, and he felt a sweet stab of joy in his throat. Her eyes were so clear, so full to the brim with life. He remembered those eyes when he had first seen them, shadowed with demons and shame. That the woman he first met, such a short time ago, was the same woman he saw now was an overwhelming and joyous incongruity. She still bore her scars, still walked with a metaphorical limp — but she walked, and sometimes danced.
She was speaking with a round, stout man who looked thoughtfully at the lady standing above him. Peter tended to forget just how short Zacchaeus really was. The little man they had found tree climbing had become a close friend of the band of disciples, offering food, lodging, and an exuberant hospitality. Of course, there were times when that zeal was quite tiring to the people around him. Earlier that very evening, Peter had sent him on an errand for bread just to have a moment of peace. But it was good and right that the tax collector stood with them now. He seemed taller than the man they’d seen in the tree.
Another tax collector sat two places down from him, on his left. When Matthew asked him to pass the salt, Peter felt a tide rise in his eyes. He laughed inside at the memory of the drunk he’d first met. He remembered the tax collector, desperately lonely and physically sick, leaving his booth, dribbling vomit down his beard, crying in the arms of Jesus. This, of course, brought to mind his own tearful, blubbering, first encounter with his friend and saviour, and as tears fell, he passed the salt. Matthew smiled. He knew what those eyes said.
He felt a familiar hand on his shoulder. Andrew sat by his left side. Andrew, the brother who had cared for him and stood by him more closely than anyone. He had felt that same hand on his shoulder on many a drunken night. He’d felt it at the death of his wife. He’d felt it the day he met Jesus. He’d felt it in four hundred and ninety different moments of unexpected grace. He placed his own hand on Andrew’s shoulder, and squeezed it tight, for it contained every ‘Thank-you’ he had never spoken. Andrew returned the squeeze.
Two places to his right sat the poet. John, so young and tender, had been the bravest of them all. He, of all the men, had stood with their friend in his darkest hour. At first, this had served only to remind Peter of his own failure: abandoning his closest friend in his time of greatest need. But healing, again, had come to him in the embrace of the rabbi, and Peter would forever feel only the deepest admiration for the youngest apostle. By that same strong grace, John had become the child of a strange adoption to the woman who sat between them.
He watched her eyes. They, like his own, seemed to be drinking in the sweetness of the room and the memory of grace, and the soft lines of age on the crests of her cheeks were like beams of moonlight. If anyone there could claim to have deserved Jesus’s grace, it was she, but she never behaved that way. She never asserted herself on him. She simply knew him best, as only a mom could, and in that had a curious authority. Those graceful eyes met Peter’s, and they so looked like her son’s that he felt a strange kind of electricity. He had never noticed till now how alike their eyes were, and he felt as if his friend’s strength and vigorous grace were flowing to him now. And grace, for years now, made the fisherman weep.
Our deepest joys are strange things, and they behave much the same as our deepest griefs. They come upon us unexpectedly, washing over us in unstoppable waves, turning and tossing us until their work is complete, and we are left panting on the sand, the taste of salt on our lips, wondering what just happened. Peter felt this joy overtake him in this way, and he had much experience in the matters of waves. He sat now as a man turned up on the shore, and as he looked down he saw with new eyes. He looked at what lay on the table before him, and smiled at Zacchaeus’s bread. He remembered when his brother brought a small boy’s lunch to Jesus, and how it fed thousands. He remembered something his friend had told the crowds about bread after that miracle. He cleared his throat, and spoke to the room full of friends.
“That last night,” he said, “we shared a meal together, just like we’ve done here.” The room was quiet, and listening. “That was the night Judas betrayed him, the night I abandoned him, the night he washed our feet. It was the night we sang and prayed together, too. And it was the night he gave himself to us.”
Peter’s fingers hovered over the round, flat loaf that lay before him. He uttered a silent prayer. O God, make me clean. Make me worthy. He took it up in his calloused hands, and continued. “I remember him taking bread, breaking it, and giving it to his friends.”
The bread was soft, and it broke apart easily while he spoke. He began to hand the pieces to his right and to his left. Each hand took a piece of the bread, and held it in its palm, waiting. “He took that bread, and lifted it up to heaven, like this.” His voice became low, and holy. “He said, ‘Take this, each one of you, and eat it. This is my body, which will be given up for you.’ “
Peter stared at the piece in his hands, and whispered. “He is with us. He’s here.” He paused in the silence, and a sea of eyes stared at the Bread which they held in their hands. He smiled. “Eat.”
He placed it on his tongue and closed his eyes. He swallowed hard as tears fell freely. He opened his eyes and stared for a moment at the cup of wine that sat before him. He remembered the wedding. He remembered the water. He remembered a lamb. He raised the cup and spoke. “He gave us wine, too. ‘This is the cup of my blood,’ he said, ‘the blood of the new and eternal covenant. It will be shed for you, for all, so that sins may be forgiven. Do this to remember me.’ “
He put the cup to his lips, and drank. The flavour swirled upon his tongue, and he tasted its full range, its sweetness and bitterness. He drank deeply, and it warmed his throat as he drank. He realized a small trail was running from the corner of his mouth into his beard. He wiped it with the back of his hand, and kissed it away. He turned to the woman on his right, and held the cup before her. “This is the blood of Christ,” he said.
“May it be as you say,” she replied, and drank. She passed the cup to her right.
He looked once more around the room, from Simon to Matthew, from Zacchaeus to John, from Mary to Mary, as each one drank. He saw stories of sacrifice, of bodies broken, of blood poured out; each story foretelling and remembering and singing of this One Story. They were the soil, broken and tilled for a harvest of an everlasting friendship. They were the fruit of this humble and holy vine, crushed and consumed for the warming of the heart and the gladdening of the mind. They were the offering, poured out on the altar of God. He prayed in silence the greatest of all prayers: Thank-you.
—
How good it is, how pleasant, where the people dwell as one!
Like precious ointment on the head, running down the beard,
Upon the beard of Aaron, upon the collar of his robe.
Like the dew of Hermon coming down upon the mountains of Zion.
There the Lord has lavished blessings,
Life forevermore.
Tuesday, August 30, 2011
Break of Day - Jimmy Sustar
Jimmy is husband and dad who is also a songwriter and a missionary. He also is the kind of guy you want around if you break your leg in the wilderness. Recently, his family has returned from Thailand to have a baby and dream with God and their community about today and the future. You can read more of their journey HERE.
You can download this and other songs at our podcast site HERE.
You can download this and other songs at our podcast site HERE.
Saturday, August 27, 2011
The Village - James Harrison
James is a missionary with Youth With A Mission (YWAM) in Canada. He is currently headed west through the Rockies on a Greyhound bus to help lead a YWAM program in Vancouver. He shares stories, insights and songs on his blog HERE. Oh, and he's a twin. And he likes Llamas.
They say it takes a village to raise a child.
Despite my size I was once a child, and I was raised. Everyone is raised, really, whether it's for good or for bad. I was fortunate enough to be raised in a good way, by good people, by a good village.
This village always made me feel like I was a friend, like I was special, and most importantly, that I was part of the village myself.
The village gathered together once a week, and some of us even gathered again on another day of the week. Both events would be down to earth, like a big family. There'd usually be some food to enjoy together, some sing-a-long time, and the village leader would give us some advice and read from The Village History and Guidelines. Our meetings would start late and end late, and since it would take a driving hunger to pull people away from each other we would just go eat lunch together.
Many villagers were smokers, but since my parents were smokers that never bothered me. It just reminded me they were all normal people.
The real test of their genuineness was when I was going through hard times. Especially as a teenager I needed people to tell me I was not abnormal. They told me the real thing I wanted to hear--I was special, precious, and fun to be around. People were happy when I was there. Especially as a teenager I needed people to lead me through the paths of growing up. I needed men to lead me through the paths of growing into a man.
I didn't need someone to take my hand and lead me through every decision (though I wouldn't have minded that at the time); I simply needed to see men acting like men, in normal situations. What is it like to be a man in this village? What do you do? What do you say? When do you argue? When do you leave things be? Is it okay to yell at my mom? Is it okay to laugh at people when they're not there? Is it cool to cheat, to steal, to lie as long as no one finds out? What am I supposed to do with myself, with my emotions, with the frustration I was depositing in the bank everyday, not knowing that one day it will inevitably bust itself out? Can I hit people, or do I just keep the hate inside? WHAT DO I DO WITH THIS FLESH AND TISSUE THAT MAKES ME FEEL LIKE I'M FROM OUTER-SPACE??
Extreme, perhaps, but these are things you learn; either the right answer or the wrong one, by habit it will become the norm.
In my village men were active, not lazy. They were gentle and kind, not lordly and fake macho-men. They listened, offered input, and most importantly they acted as men in front of me; and I noticed everything.
Just so we're clear the village is the church I grew up in... my church: New Hope Christian Fellowship. The men were mostly Chris, Aaron, Jimmy, James, Mark, and Ken.
The village raised me with the love and kindness that I didn't always find at home. But then, that's kind of the point of the village, right? They acted as a community in godly ways and set examples for me. They shared what they had with me--their lives and their true selves. I'm eternally grateful.
Wednesday, August 24, 2011
Everything - Mark Barrentine
Mark is an elder and a Bible teacher at New Hope Christian Fellowship in Modesto, California. He's been known to host karaoke parties and is pretty good at teaching kids how to make bubbles.
All the believers were together and had everything in common. Selling their possessions and goods, they gave to anyone as he had need. (Acts 2:44&45)
Immediately, I am on the defensive.
Concerning, “everything” I am pensive.
I give from abundance; out of what is there.
And cling to the “savings”, the “extra”, the “spare.”
I justify my holdings as family care.
But this is more than, “My fair share.”
When I have two and my neighbor has none.
I am stealing if I don’t give to the needy one.
Jesus leads me past cultural style.
Go beyond what’s required, walk the extra mile.
Giving at least, all left in the sack.
Be like the poor widow, and give from the lack.
It’s hard to imagine a life like this.
Counter to all the “-isms” and “-ists”
It’s not “in common” if I consider it mine.
We are not “together” when we draw lines.
The Gospel is not shared just through telling.
But is known in caring and sharing and selling.
In surrendering barriers and boundary lines.
Being Good Samaritans at all times.
Consider the lilies and birds - how they live.
So to any and all who ask - just give.
Monday, August 22, 2011
Just what is church? - Beth Morgan
Beth is a student of the French language, a world traveller, a worship leader, musician and could harmonize with a dying cat and make it sound good. You can hear her music and read more of her thoughts at her blog...http://boredatthebeach.blogspot.com/
One Sunday this summer, I found myself considering this second chapter of Acts in an interesting way. It was one of those days where things "came together" in my head and I was "stirred". For my fantastic summer job, I was taking a group of exchange students to the Stratford Festival's production of Jesus Christ Superstar. As wacky as this portrayal of Christ is, this production (particularly the music) really impressed me. The rage of Jesus upon seeing the temple exploited especially struck me. Also, the weakness and the humanity of the disciples was made pretty obvious in this story and I couldn't help but think on how amazing it was that these same men and women spread the story of Jesus, performed miracles, started the church and wrote letters that have been forever documented and revered.
Evangelical Christians so often talk about "the early church" and reflect on how simple it was and how it inspires us to "go back" to that model, to forsake religion, etc. It is this second chapter of Acts that we hold as some kind of motto, but still seem to fall short of living. Or at least, fall short of discovering a way to do this kind of church, this kind of Christian community in our culture today.
The morning before seeing Jesus Christ Superstar, I was coincidentally a part of a discussion group after Sunday's sermon, reflecting on on the question, "What is church?" and James 5:13-20:
“Is anyone among you in trouble? Let them pray. Is anyone happy? Let them sing songs of praise. Is anyone among you sick? Let them call the elders of the church to pray over them and anoint them with oil in the name of the Lord. And the prayer offered in faith will make the sick person well; the Lord will raise them up. If they have sinned, they will be forgiven. Therefore confess your sins to each other and pray for each other so that you may be healed. The prayer of a righteous person is powerful and effective....if one of you should wander from the truth and someone should bring that person back, remember this: Whoever turns a sinner from the error of their way will save them from death and cover over a multitude of sins."
In the discussion group, we all seemed to agree that, for the most part, we're pretty good at the first few items, but not so good at confessing our sins to each other and definitely not at "bringing people back", since that requires a level of community and accountability that we shy away from in our culture. We discussed how, in our perception of other, less individualistic cultures, the Christian community is much better at this. In my experiences in Brazil, it has always seemed to me that church is a safe place to be vulnerable, to confess (with much latin emotion of course) and to even call someone out who has "lost their way". Has anyone noticed how we tend to cringe at the word "backslider" these days? Certainly there is a difficult line between judging and "bringing someone back". I think it is a particular challenge for the North American church (or maybe I should just speak for the Canadian church) to build church community that is good at all of these things: praying, praising, anointing, and bringing people back.
All that being said, it was not this discussion that challenged our little group the most; it was the revelation that someone in our group was feeling alone and unsupported by our church (of which I am, in this instance, embarrassingly a part). This person, who was receiving support from others outside of the church, admitted having serious questions about just what is church.
Isn't it interesting that many of us do not find support in our place of worship, yet we are able to find it in other places? According to the descriptions from Acts 2 and James 5, our faith communities should be places of devotion to teaching, praising, performing miracles, and expanding the kingdom, while being places that give and receive support, prayer, and accountability.
It seems to me that this "early church model" is not so simple as we think! Yes, we need to support one another and carry each others burdens, but we all have a lot of burdens! There is a lot of suffering and it extends way beyond our church communities--how do we walk with everyone?! I don't really have a relationship with that person who shared her pain in that Sunday discussion group… so what then? And when do we have time to perform signs and wonders? It's wonder enough to be able to maintain any type of community in our here and now! I guess if those regular ol' disciples were able to pull it off, we can continue to be inspired and to pursue this kind of church.
Tuesday, August 16, 2011
Crystal Meth and Communion - John Rosenbaum*
*John is a student of philosophy and theology in Washington State. He loves books and has also been caught enjoying really bad puns.
Community is at the heart of Christianity. God is Himself a community, three distinct
persons, each person fully God, while, as we know, there is one God. And the
manifestation of the greatest commandment (to love God with all of our finite selves) is
to love other finite beings. Or, in a word, community. And if God is loving us into who we
truly are, and we are who we truly are when we are in community, then we assume that
there is some desire instilled in us for love and community.
If you know me, you probably know that I had a rather long run with some of the hardest
drugs scientific advancement has ever spilled onto this massive, spinning ball. I want
to share some of that experience in light of that innate desire for community, why that
lifestyle had so much pull for me, and what my ultimate source of freedom from it was.
Thereʼs this idea that marijuana is the gateway drug. I would posit that alcohol is the
threshold to that gateway. Case in point, the second night I ever got drunk (thank you,
college) was the first night I ever smoked a doob. I quickly became a pothead (a term, I
have noticed, that is most often used by non- and ex-marijuana smokers, but rarely by
those who actively smoke). I found a group of friends who understood me, my likes, and
my habit. We really connected, man. And thatʼs not even mentioning the profound
spiritual “insights” I would have on a daily basis (a little dope and Scripture, anyone?).
After falling into a super-deep depression (a cocktail of an existential funk, inactivity
and, if you can believe it, weed), I found my saving grace– ecstasy. When I was rolling I
felt good– like, really good. I was joyful, and I could connect with my community in ways
that were impossible before. (Of course, you know how impossible it is to be open and
honest about your thoughts, feelings, hurts and dreams with anyone without the
assistance of narcotics.)
After eight straight months of multiple pills a night, multiple nights a week, I eventually
weened myself off the heinous, roller-coaster of a drug with something much more
healthful.
Crystal meth is more healthful, right?
Anyway, with meth I found the freedom to do the things I was always too depressed to
do otherwise. Like practice my guitar, skateboard, and clean out the garage. In a way, I
“mounted up with wings as eagles,” for I was running without growing weary! I was
deteriorating, but at least I was doing it with spunk.
In retrospect, through the means of physical ingestion of some substance in the
company of the wrong group of friends, I obtained a mockery of all of the things I truly
desired: knowledge, community, and the drive to make my dreams become a reality.
But the road to freedom from liquid death and chemical dependence was paved by
those in a different sort of community. A group of people, of Christians, came alongside
me. They cared enough to try to understand what I was going through and why, before
telling me what I had wrong in my perspective. They opened their homes and their
family lives to me as I struggled to my feet. I found true freedom to start living out my
deepest desires, from living a life of love to fulfilling my passion for learning and
thinking (both on-going processes, of course).
If Satan and his power are only mockeries of God and His gifts to us, and (I assert) the
fullness of the deceptive powers of Satan is realized through the physical ingestion of a
substance, there must be some physically ingested thing from which flows the power of
God (that which is being mocked). What is this source of community, the one of real life
and freedom? It’s the ʻbreaking of breadʼ– the body and blood of God Himself made
man, living out what it fully means to be human by dying for each individual in all of
history and for creation itself. Whether you believe it is the Real Presence or simply a
picture of the Great Act, the fact remains life itself flows from this great model of
community.
While Truth is a person, certainty is something that is hard to come by in this life,
leading to many factions in the “one body.” Even still, we can walk this life together,
sharing everything in common, being glad and sincere, growing in virtue and
prayer, and celebrating our differences, as long as we continue to walk in his power by
breaking bread together. To ʻdo this in memory of [Him].ʼ
Community is at the heart of Christianity. God is Himself a community, three distinct
persons, each person fully God, while, as we know, there is one God. And the
manifestation of the greatest commandment (to love God with all of our finite selves) is
to love other finite beings. Or, in a word, community. And if God is loving us into who we
truly are, and we are who we truly are when we are in community, then we assume that
there is some desire instilled in us for love and community.
If you know me, you probably know that I had a rather long run with some of the hardest
drugs scientific advancement has ever spilled onto this massive, spinning ball. I want
to share some of that experience in light of that innate desire for community, why that
lifestyle had so much pull for me, and what my ultimate source of freedom from it was.
Thereʼs this idea that marijuana is the gateway drug. I would posit that alcohol is the
threshold to that gateway. Case in point, the second night I ever got drunk (thank you,
college) was the first night I ever smoked a doob. I quickly became a pothead (a term, I
have noticed, that is most often used by non- and ex-marijuana smokers, but rarely by
those who actively smoke). I found a group of friends who understood me, my likes, and
my habit. We really connected, man. And thatʼs not even mentioning the profound
spiritual “insights” I would have on a daily basis (a little dope and Scripture, anyone?).
After falling into a super-deep depression (a cocktail of an existential funk, inactivity
and, if you can believe it, weed), I found my saving grace– ecstasy. When I was rolling I
felt good– like, really good. I was joyful, and I could connect with my community in ways
that were impossible before. (Of course, you know how impossible it is to be open and
honest about your thoughts, feelings, hurts and dreams with anyone without the
assistance of narcotics.)
After eight straight months of multiple pills a night, multiple nights a week, I eventually
weened myself off the heinous, roller-coaster of a drug with something much more
healthful.
Crystal meth is more healthful, right?
Anyway, with meth I found the freedom to do the things I was always too depressed to
do otherwise. Like practice my guitar, skateboard, and clean out the garage. In a way, I
“mounted up with wings as eagles,” for I was running without growing weary! I was
deteriorating, but at least I was doing it with spunk.
In retrospect, through the means of physical ingestion of some substance in the
company of the wrong group of friends, I obtained a mockery of all of the things I truly
desired: knowledge, community, and the drive to make my dreams become a reality.
But the road to freedom from liquid death and chemical dependence was paved by
those in a different sort of community. A group of people, of Christians, came alongside
me. They cared enough to try to understand what I was going through and why, before
telling me what I had wrong in my perspective. They opened their homes and their
family lives to me as I struggled to my feet. I found true freedom to start living out my
deepest desires, from living a life of love to fulfilling my passion for learning and
thinking (both on-going processes, of course).
If Satan and his power are only mockeries of God and His gifts to us, and (I assert) the
fullness of the deceptive powers of Satan is realized through the physical ingestion of a
substance, there must be some physically ingested thing from which flows the power of
God (that which is being mocked). What is this source of community, the one of real life
and freedom? It’s the ʻbreaking of breadʼ– the body and blood of God Himself made
man, living out what it fully means to be human by dying for each individual in all of
history and for creation itself. Whether you believe it is the Real Presence or simply a
picture of the Great Act, the fact remains life itself flows from this great model of
community.
While Truth is a person, certainty is something that is hard to come by in this life,
leading to many factions in the “one body.” Even still, we can walk this life together,
sharing everything in common, being glad and sincere, growing in virtue and
prayer, and celebrating our differences, as long as we continue to walk in his power by
breaking bread together. To ʻdo this in memory of [Him].ʼ
Friday, August 12, 2011
Welcome around the fire bowl - Chris Whitler
As city mission workers, my wife and I were approached around 2003 by interested
supporters that wanted to help us buy a house. So we did what any one would do. We
put our stuff in storage, borrowed a fifth wheel trailer, parked it at our church, and lived in it for 6 months. Me, my wife and two sons lived in a fifth wheel on a church parking lot for 6 months.
Outside our fifth wheel sat the fire bowl, along with a ragtag collection of camping chairs and old metal folding chairs stenciled with the name of a long gone outreach group called "Heart of Fire Ministries." And a few nights a week, our community (young people, homeless people, a few crazy people, church people, family and friends) gathered around it. We lit a fire, talked, laughed, shared songs, stories, ideas and pipe tobacco. (Don't worry, we didn't give any tobacco to the young people.)
We never got a house. We moved out of the fifth wheel and rented a home. The fire
bowl lived on there for a while. Sometimes we lost our way around it. Another family
adopted it for a while. It's been in the rain for a few winters and has gotten quite rusty, but it’s still here.
I'd been kicking around the idea of starting a communal site for stories, songs and
discussion, but struggled with what to call it. I originally thought of "Some Points West", which I really liked. I got the idea listening to an audio book where the author was describing a train station announcement for "all points west." I thought that would be clever. Then I watched the movie "The Soloist" again and realized it's almost exactly the name of Steve Lopez's column in the LA times.
Then I remembered our fire bowl. So, welcome. Pull up a "Heart of Fire" chair, or if
you're lucky, a comfy camping chair, and let's listen and share together.
Our first few posts will explore themes around a scripture describing the early church in the book of Acts.
"They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe at the many wonders and signs performed by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. They sold property and possessions to give to anyone who had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved."
Was there a time in your life like this? Tell us about it.
supporters that wanted to help us buy a house. So we did what any one would do. We
put our stuff in storage, borrowed a fifth wheel trailer, parked it at our church, and lived in it for 6 months. Me, my wife and two sons lived in a fifth wheel on a church parking lot for 6 months.
Outside our fifth wheel sat the fire bowl, along with a ragtag collection of camping chairs and old metal folding chairs stenciled with the name of a long gone outreach group called "Heart of Fire Ministries." And a few nights a week, our community (young people, homeless people, a few crazy people, church people, family and friends) gathered around it. We lit a fire, talked, laughed, shared songs, stories, ideas and pipe tobacco. (Don't worry, we didn't give any tobacco to the young people.)
We never got a house. We moved out of the fifth wheel and rented a home. The fire
bowl lived on there for a while. Sometimes we lost our way around it. Another family
adopted it for a while. It's been in the rain for a few winters and has gotten quite rusty, but it’s still here.
I'd been kicking around the idea of starting a communal site for stories, songs and
discussion, but struggled with what to call it. I originally thought of "Some Points West", which I really liked. I got the idea listening to an audio book where the author was describing a train station announcement for "all points west." I thought that would be clever. Then I watched the movie "The Soloist" again and realized it's almost exactly the name of Steve Lopez's column in the LA times.
Then I remembered our fire bowl. So, welcome. Pull up a "Heart of Fire" chair, or if
you're lucky, a comfy camping chair, and let's listen and share together.
Our first few posts will explore themes around a scripture describing the early church in the book of Acts.
"They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. Everyone was filled with awe at the many wonders and signs performed by the apostles. All the believers were together and had everything in common. They sold property and possessions to give to anyone who had need. Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved."
Was there a time in your life like this? Tell us about it.
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