A Dark and Stormy Night

"It was a dark and stormy night..." I heard a rhaspy voice say into my ear from behind, as I quickly whipped around. I was taken by surprise when I discovered the narrator to be a street person I did not initially recognize. When he realized he succeeded in getting my attention, he repeated his refrain once again: "It was a dark and stormy night... on SHUTTER ISLAND" It seemed as if he were whispering and yelling at the same time. What did this man want from me? Was he a former author, now wandering the streets with no home and no money, desperate to tell his story?

He was a short, stout, hooded figure with small, piercing blue eyes and a mouth that moved crookedly off the side of his leathery face. I could smell alcohol on his breath as he spoke just inches from my face, intent on making his stare as frightening as the story he wished to relay. His tilted smirk told me that he was more entertained by his telling it than I might have been.

So I bought into it, laughing softly and trying to look curious to hear the rest of the story. But he seemed to be caught on that phrase, repeating it over and over again, each time dragging it out in a different way, or interjecting with "did ya hear?...It was a dark and stormy night!"

Finally he stopped, and moved immediately into a new story, this one based in reality. He told me how as a young man he used to spend the night sleeping under the pews of Trinity Episcopal Church in downtown Boston, and how each night he would hear the "crazy man with the keys running around locking all the doors." He told of being kicked out of that church years later when he marched into the sanctuary in mid day, defying the sign that posted the prices for entry: "self-guided tour: $5; guided tour: $7." Walking boldly down the aisle, he was stopped by the cashiers that ran after him.

This wasn't his only scarring experience. At another church accross from the common, there hung a banner over the front steps reading "All are welcome", and below there was a yellow cone in place with a sign that read "No Trespassing", an attempt by local law enforcement to keep the homeless from camping out on those steps at night.

Something should seem wrong about that...

And that's not even the worst. On one occasion he was at a Christmas service at another traditional church, listening to the sound of Christmas hymns rising from the great organ up front. He hollared from his seat, a few rows back "How about playing 'O Little Town of Bethlehem?'" When he didn't get a response, he walked up the aisle to find no one behind the organ. "it was a ghost organ" he claimed (I'm not sure if those actually exist but that's besides the point). And as he walked back to his seat, he was stopped by a woman who worked at the church. "We can't have you yelling in the sanctuary," she told him as she then moved to escort him out the door. "How dare you!" he exclaimed to her. "You wouldn't know Jesus if you tripped over him!" his voice echoed in the vast cathedral as he walked out.

"So why are the doors locked?" He asked me now, filled with a hint of rising anxt. And suddenly I recalled where I had seen him before. I knew why he looked familiar, and why I smelled alchohol on his breath. This was the same man who approached our group several months ago in a drunken rage about how the Church is full of a bunch of phoneys (see blog Jan 19). It was also the same man I met at the very beginning of the year, on a rainy day that forced us to gather on the shelter of the church steps mentioned above, where he once told me these same stories. His stories awakened my memory and reminded me of the gloomy predicament our church is still in the midst of. So why are the doors still locked? And how will we unlock them?

"They say He'll come like a thief in the night," he said, "knocking on all of the doors- knock...knock...knock. So that's what I'm gonna do, I'll go around like a thief in the night, just knocking. But no one will ever be there to open those doors, except of course the crazy man with the keys running around locking them all."

Slowly his story faded back into the haunting prose it began with. There he went again: "It was a dark and stormy night... on SHUTTER ISLAND." His eyebrows raised at the end of each reprise. "Have you ever been to Shutter Island?"

When I got back, I decided I should do some research on this "Shutter Island" he kept referring to. I found out it was a novel written by Dennis Lehane and published in 2003. The storyline focuses on a character named Teddy who is sent with a partner to Shutter Island to avenge the death of his wife and find to the murderess who supposedly escaped from a mental institution there. In the end however, he learns that he himself was the murderer and the island was a false reality under surveillance of a warden who was holding him there and planning to give him a lobotomy. (rough/incomplete summary).

I did some more research:
"The rocky isle from which Lehane takes his title is supposedly one of four located immediately outside the busy harbor of Boston, Massachusetts... In Shutter Island, what should be nourishing is not--and what appears to be reality is not, either. This is a book replete with deceptions... Like the mental patients being treated on Shutter Island, this story veers sharply from reality, offering truth without the opportunity for healing." [Anthony Rainone, Island of No Return]

Hmm...shutter island, eh? Well although it's a great deal spookier, and a bit far-fetched, I can see some sort of parallel with our Church- at least the bit about "offering truth without the opportunity for healing".

I asked Kennie (the man I've been talking about) if he still had faith in spite of the problems he's seen in the Church. His answer shocked me when he said "No, I'm done with all that. I tried it. The way I see it, I don't owe anybody anything- not the big guy above or the man below. Nope, I'm done."

Despite my feeble attempt to convince him that God is much different than how we portray Him, I don't know if Kennie left the common that day with a changed heart. All I could do was pray that the Christ he may have seen in me would look different than the one he'd seen in the stained-glass windows. The Church to him had been a place of propogated, stubborn, lifeless "truth", that slammed the doors at the sight of his homelessness and alcoholism. It had never been a place that welcomed him in to be healed.

At one point in the story of Shutter Island, Teddy reflects on the love he had for his late wife, before any of the mess ever happened:

Teddy had leaned into the cab and spoken to her in whispers and what they talked about, even now, he couldn't bear to recount even to himself. Because it was pure. It was the purest he'd ever felt.

He thought: so this is what it feels like to love. No logic to it--he barely knew her. But there it was just the same. He'd just met the woman he'd known, somehow since before he was born. The measure of every dream he'd never dared indulge.

When will we wake up from this false reality, and return from our own "Shutter Island"? When will let the truth of Christ break open our doors, and His love bring us back to life? We go to church claiming we want to meet with Him, but I wonder if we would we say the same if we found he was a smelly homeless man (which he was, actually). Would we even know Him if we tripped over Him, perhaps as we're walking up the steps of our own church?

...I know your deeds; you have a reputation of being alive, but you are dead. 2Wake up! Strengthen what remains and is about to die, for I have not found your deeds complete in the sight of my God. 3Remember, therefore, what you have received and heard; obey it, and repent. But if you do not wake up, I will come like a thief, and you will not know at what time I will come to you. 4Yet you have a few people in Sardis who have not soiled their clothes. They will walk with me, dressed in white, for they are worthy. 5He who overcomes will, like them, be dressed in white. I will never blot out his name from the book of life, but will acknowledge his name before my Father and his angels. 6He who has an ear, let him hear what the Spirit says to the churches...

7These are the words of him who is holy and true, who holds the key of David. What he opens no one can shut, and what he shuts no one can open. 8I know your deeds. See, I have placed before you an open door that no one can shut...

20Here I am! I stand at the door and knock. If anyone hears my voice and opens the door, I will come in and eat with him, and he with me. [Revelation 3]

*Fun fact: Part of this passage was highlighted in a Bible that was placed by someone in the door handle of one of the doors to our chapel recently. At the time, the door was lying on the chapel steps, after being blown off by a violent wind storm that hit our campus several nights ago.

the God who cries

When's the last time you cried? I mean really just drenched someone's sleeve? Lost all sense of emotional restraint and let the brokenness of your life leak out of your eyes and nose as if there wasn't room for it in your body anymore? A time you unashamedly showed someone your snot-faced, puffy-eyed humanity?

For some of you the answer might be recently. For others is might be ages and ages ago. Or if you're like me, you would doubtfully own up to ever having a time like that. But we've all had moments- whether we're prideful non-cryers, closet blubberers or over-emotional geysers- when we've come face to face with the pain we carry.

Now imagine bearing the brokenness of every creature on this earth, all at once. Imagine experiencing, in the same capacity and intimacy, the fullness of all emotional turmoil.

Is that not the task the God of Compassion faces each day? Does not He, who sees all, knows all, and feels all, undertake to lament human suffering in it's entirety?

But how does He let it out? Why do we not see tears pouring out of heaven, like a flood from the skies?

Because so great is His compassion that tears cannot contain its full expression. So great is His heartbreak that His broken heart became flesh- the very flesh pinned to wood, with tears and blood trickling down.

..."Break my heart for what breaks yours...everything I am for your Kingdom's cause."

Do we mean these words when we sing them in church? Are we really prepared to lament with Him for a world that's been groaning in agony ever since the birth of sin? Are we willing to make those groanings our own, even if that may mean suffering, and perhaps crying?

After all, "Jesus wept."And it wasn't out of self pity either. It was for the death of the one he loved. And does not He- He who calls us each beloved- mourn over our own decaying world, that He longs to restore to life, if only we will beleive? (read John 11)

I think compassion cannot be truly expressed without some tears once in a while. But let me qualify this:

1. Compassion is not merely spiritual. Sympathy and pity are the progressive response.

2. Nor is compassion tear-deep. Tears may be the flowering of if, but not it's roots. Rather than beginning as an emotional response to the hurt of another, compassion begins with a deep spiritual concern for their predicament- rooted, of course in Love. (This is something we must ask God for, as only He enables us to love).

3. The emotions arising from true compassion are not be paralyzing, but mobilizing. Our lament is rooted in Hope. It prompts us to actively bring about the healing and restoration we trust will one day be complete. Therefore, cry if you must, but don't let a pouty face keep you from celebrating the good news!

We are the clumsy jugglers of deep pain, and even deeper Joy.

...

When we realize the Compassion of God, we can stop wondering why He lets "bad things happen" in our world. We can begin to see the God that's not standing passively off in the distance, but the God that entered into human suffering, and never left. The God who's suffering and grieving and lamenting with us as He waits for us to join in his Relief effort. For poverty and misery are our own inventions, and yet God subjected himself to them, in order that we might submit to His inventions: love, joy, and peace to name a few.

When will we admit "it's not God who doesn't care; it's us"?

May we grow to care the way He does, by offering not just our souls to Him, but our hearts as well.

Because if we refuse to let our hearts be broken, they'll never be redeemed.


Come trickle down and save the world
two hands that I can't see
come breathe, come breathe,
come breathe on me.
Split-rib water, blood and bone
come now, come Calvary
come breathe, come breathe on me.

Come freedom come.
Come freedom come.
Come Freedom, come. [Jennifer Knapp]

"The words of the Prophets are written on the subway walls..."

Today during my time in Boston one of my favorite homeless friends held me captive to his conversation for a long while once again. This man is a breed of his own.

Let me just describe him to you, so that in case you are to pass him on the street one day you'll know to watch out (and believe me you'll want to watch out, I'll tell you why in a minute)...

Derek is a large, tall man of Jamaican heritage. He has lightly pigmented skin, a plump belly, and a balding head with two tufts of wiry greyish curls on either side of it. If you're brave enough to make eye contact with him, you'll meet two big friendly brown eyes peering out from heavy eyelids. If you catch him with his mouth open you'll spot about three teeth, one of which protrudes from the very front of his upper gum, causing him to stumble over it as he speaks, thus spraying you with a few gratuitous specks of saliva while the rest dribbles down to his whiskered chin. You'll find him wearing a green coat (well, originally green), complete with greasy splotches of who-knows-what and giant stuffed pockets for who knows what else, and always unzipped to reveal several layers of old sweaters- some of them inside out and backwards- beneath. On his feet you'll notice oversized rubber boots- unlaced of course, only to make them appear bigger. If his hands are exposed you'll have a hard time ignoring the long, brittle finger and thumbnails that most likely haven't been purposefully clipped within the past decade. You'll see him dragging along an old backpack (although he never wears it as such), that remains open, with crinkled papers and used coffee cups and bagels-wrapped-in-napkins spilling out from inside of it. His most distinguishable accessory, however, is a pair of outdated headphones, plugged into some kind of bulky walkman device and perpetually adhered to his ancient ears (he'll usually remove one ear to talk to you, or occasionally let them hang around his neck, still emitting a quiet buzz).

Yet contrary to what you might think based on his quasi-grotesque appearance, he does not possess a grotesque attitude. Nor does he have a potential for violence or crime or intoxicated frenzy like some of his street mates. Believe it or not, this man is a preacher. He speaks the Word of God day in and day out to anyone who engages him in conversation. The headphones that are always on his ears are playing sermons and bible readings, and the notebook in his backpack is a journal of his thoughts on life in Christ.

If it turns out there are in fact modern day prophets, I would bet my comfy life that Derek is one of them. Every Saturday I get my dose of uninterrupted words of encouragement, scripture, prayer, challenge, exhortation, and reassurance.

But don't let me go without saying, these are not always easy to listen to. When I say uninterrupted, I should say ceaseless. I don't think Derek has the same perception of time that I do. When he engages one or a group of us at our normal gathering spot by the commons, rarely does one escape in under 20 minutes.

In order to pull a getaway, you literally have to interject during one of the brief pauses between discourses to tell him frankly that you have somewhere to go. I've tried pulling this move on more than one occasion, and it usually just leads to me pretending I'm attending to something else, such as the hot water dispenser- hoping that he'll move on to the next victim, but only to be approached again once he realizes I'm not really occupied.

And it's not that he doesn't leave room for you to talk. He'll frequently hand the mic to you after posing questions that are seemingly impossible to answer such as, "wud you tink it means to walk by faith?", or "you know what issays in da bible about heaven?", or more personal questions like "You been wakin' up in da mornin' excited about Jesus?" It's quite a challenge to take over the conversation with these. Inevitably your only option is to nod often and avoid looking disinterested in the anecdotes and biblical words of wisdom flowing continuously from his intensely expressive face, which alternates between grave concern and beaming joy.

So why is it that I try to avoid Derek?

...because he tells me things I don't think I need to hear. He tells me things we Christians claim we already know:

we must walk by faith, we must not worry, we must not conform to this world, we must read the bible, we must pray for our brothers and sisters, we must persist under suffering, we must not care how much or how little we have, and we must rejoice.

But for some reason, the more I allow myself to actually listen to him- the more I let go of the fact that he's not so easy to look at and that my feet are cold from standing in the same spot and that I want to go see what other people are doing- the more I realize how much I do need to hear it.

The more I look at Derek's face, ridden with age and dirt and wrinkles and spots, the more I begin to see the face of Christ, staring intently right at me from behind those friendly brown eyes. I see the Christ that pursues us even while we walk off and busy ourselves with other things that we pretend are important (like the water dispenser). The Christ that is calling his Church into account. Reminding us that we're not walking the talk.

Calling us to wake up. to abide, and to rejoice in the Kingdom that's already come.

Holy Anger?

This past weekend I took a spontaneous trip home. And when I say spontaneous, I mean it. My dad and I purchased the tickets the afternoon before my flight in the morning. (The trip was worth it- it was to surprise my little brother, who was in a musical, and who made me very proud to be his sister!)

And while I was home, I went to church.
The topic of the sermon: Anger
The main point: we are to control it. We are not to "let it out" or "keep it in" but to simply surrender it to God. No looking back. just give it up. Let it go, so to speak.



And although I'm sure this is the ideal option when dealing with things such as a stolen parking spot, or irreverent sarcasm, I can't help but wonder if there are some kinds of anger we shouldn't dismiss so easily... Can we really label anger as altogether bad? Isn't it those things that anger us which aslo prompt us to act in such a way that effects change?

After all, even Jesus, the only sinless human to walk this earth, showed a little righteous indignation:

13When it was almost time for the Jewish Passover, Jesus went up to Jerusalem. 14In the temple courts he found men selling cattle, sheep and doves, and others sitting at tables exchanging money. 15So he made a whip out of cords, and drove all from the temple area, both sheep and cattle; he scattered the coins of the money changers and overturned their tables. 16To those who sold doves he said, "Get these out of here! How dare you turn my Father's house into a market!" -John 2


Yet in this case, the same people who's tables he overturned, he also went to the cross and died for...

Well that's something to chew on. What are we to make of this kind of anger shrouded in such sacrificial forgiveness? Can the two actually go hand in hand? Is it possible to position our anger within the bounds of compassion, and Love?

Perhaps our anger is intended to prompt us to love all the more.

Wait a minute- so you're telling me the proper response to righteous frustration is acts of love?

That's right. When we are provoked, we are to lash out, but it's not with bitterness, intolerance, arrogance, or sword.

It's with love.

How's that for a challenge?

We have to realize that the laws of Christ's Kingdom are in opposition to the laws of this world, the laws of our very human nature, and that includes the laws of vengeance. We have to realize that victory comes not when we extinguish, execute, or smother evil (for by cutting a worm in half we only cause it to multiply). Rather, it comes when we transform evil, through love, into Good. We have underestimated our power. We've spent so much time in defense against those things which oppose the Kingdom, that we've forgetten to make use of our offense. It's about time we started to love offensively.

So go ahead, get angry about something. And bring out the most dangerous and effective weapon we possess.

Sadness

My own idea, for what it is worth, is that all sadness which is not now either arising from the repentance of a concrete sin and hastening towards concrete amendment or restitution, or else arising from pity and hastening towards active assistance, is simply bad. I think we all sin by needlessly disobeying the apostolic injunction to 'rejoice' as much as by anything else.
--C.S. Lewis, The Problem of Pain

I was reminded of this quote as I tried to sort through the negative emotions I've been feeling this week. I've felt as if I am (somewhat unsuccessfully) fighting off a depression that's seeking to envelop me. And I've begun to ask myself: if this is sadness I'm feeling, what is the cause? What could possibly be the justification?

I think we all sin by needlessly disobeying the apostolic injunction to 'rejoice' as much as by anything else.

Have I then fallen into even more sin? Have I allowed myself to commit the treacherous act of Self Pity? Is that why I feel this way? Am I thus in need of repentence?

As I ask myself these questions, I am inclined to answer No to all of the above. I just don't feel like that's the cause. Granted, self pity climbs it's way in much easier when depression of other sorts has already paved the way; but I honestly feel, and hope, that this feeling of mine is stemming from something else.

So what is it that's hindering me from "rejoicing" lately? Surely I have nothing to complain about. My life is ordered, organized, amply cushioned and relatively stress free. I'm surrounded by a community of people who love me even when I'm not so nice to be around, and I'm blessed with the opportunities to pursue almost anything I feel called to do.

To find the root of this, I began recapping the events leading up to this "state" of mine...

Last Tuesday: the Haiti earthquake

Last Friday: watched/read the news for the first time in way too long. More on the Haiti Earthquake aftermath

Saturday: Homeless ministry... here's where it really hit:
1.) One man whom none of us had really seen before, approached a few people to talk. He was clearly intoxicated, which became much more evident when he burst into a fit of rage a few minutes into the conversation. Topic: the church. He was quizzing someone about theology when suddenly he went off about how the doors of the church are always closed. Cursing and yelling, he wouldn't let the students get a word of rebuttle in edgewise. He had was acquanted with the establishment. He knew what they were there for. To comfort people of privelege with words of inspirtation and sunday brunch, and to lock out the homeless and the sinners...My aggrevation with the church

2.) A woman went on a rant to a friend of mine about her economic strife. How the government "stole her money" and then treated her as the criminal. How they pretend to be the hero but offer her no help...My aggrevation with the empire

3.)A man who I had not met before approached me while I was standing by the clothes to ask if I could help him find a sweater. Looking very distressed, he asked "Ablas Espanol?" and I had to dissappointedly motion to him and say, "only 'un pequito'." After I let him know that could not find any men's sweaters he reached out his hand to shake mine and murmured, "Antonio." I shook his hand and responded with "Nina." And just seconds after we had formally met he had leaned his head into my shoulder and begun to quietly sob. Unsure exactly how to react, I just asked, "ooh what's wrong?" He looked up with despairing eyes, and pointing one finger to his temple, said in broken English, "Me want to kill me." Wow... what do you say to that? I felt helpless. The language barrier taunted me like a rock wall I new I couldn't scale. There was so much I would have wanted to tell him but I couldn't. The only think I could think to do was ask if I could pray for him. And so I pulled him aside and prayed as he continued to bury his head in my shoulder and cry. When I finished he simply looked up, sniffled, said a shy thank-you, and walked away still looking as distressed as when he had arrived. Had he even understood what I said? And did I even say enough? ...My aggrevation with myself.


compassion: a feeling of deep sympathy and sorrow for another who is stricken by misfortune, accompanied by a strong desire to alleviate the suffering.

So is this what compassion is supposed to feel like? A deep sadness that weighs down on you until you do something about it? A state of mind in which jokes uttered within the walls of comfort cease to be funny? How could I laugh while people suffer and die at the hands of the Oppressor? It seems so unjust.

Yet if this is just a smidgeon of compassion resulting from only a few encounters with those who suffer, how much more then must be the agony of the Compassion of our God, who sees it all? And who wishes to alleviate it, but can't stop the free will which brings about our fallen state...

However I deal with my own, I cannot let it filter into my day to day mood and trigger a lethargical depression and desire for isolation. If I'm not doing anything about it, then what's the use of being a vessel of such negative energy? Sadness is still sadness no matter where or what it arises from, right? And sadness can't possibly be good, can it?

Well I think it can be, but only as long as it affects a hastening to active assistance. Our solemn awareness is not enough. God doesn't want us to simply walk around with our heads hung low. Compassion is not about sulking. We may feel powerless to help, but we are not! We can do something about suffering: even if I can't offer Antonio a place to sleep and a way out of poverty, I can still give him a cup of coffee and a prayer for now, and commit myself to being an advocate for the poor in the future. We can't let the presence of pain an suffering freeze us to the point where we do nothing at all.

I think that's what my problem was this week. I was beginning to lose hope, and that's one of the most dangerous things we can do. We can't allow ourselves to despair, no matter how big and strong and vast our adversary seems. We can't forget that we are on the winning side. And that the Kingdom is on it's way with every act of heartfelt compassion.

And that, in itself is reason enough to rejoice.

I will betroth you to me forever;
I will betroth you in righteousness and justice,
in love and compassion.
I will betroth you in faithfulness,
and you will acknowledge the LORD. -Hosea 2:19-20

Crisis

Disaster has struck

buildings in ruins

people dying

by the thousands they go

families, without homes, struggle to stay alive under the heat of the sun

without water, without food

without medicine

not enough doctors, not enough resources

so much rubble to remove

so much that needs to be rebuilt

so many that need to be healed

so little that's being done.


Yet this not breaking news;

this is everyday,

all around us.

The world is in Crisis,

but only when we hear a BOOM do we turn our heads.

disillusioned

What is it about romantic movies that always leaves a woman disillusioned?

...

The second the credits roll she's left with a lagging sense of melancholy. Her friend taps her on the shoulder saying "We should probably stop and get gas on the way home and I need to pick up some milk too." She clumsily stands up to her feet and makes her way down the row as her shoes stick to the medley of spilt popcorn and coca cola beneath each step. And suddenly she's hit with the unwelcomed realization that her life is not the one she's been watching for the past 90 minutes.

...

This isn't the first time she's been presented with a picture of a man who will mystically fulfill all of her emotional longing.

So what characterizes this imaginary guy?

Just at the point of her deepest loneliness and misery, he shows up. Maybe he flies there from out of the country when he could have just sent an email. Maybe he abandons all work and obligations just to see her in person to tell her how he feels. Maybe he finds her in that secret place where no one knows she goes. Maybe he knocks on her door as she gasps "it couldn't be", or "how did he know?"

...

Yet in her seeminly tragic reality, there's no suprise knock at the door. He doesn't meet her in her loneliness. He doesn't rescue her from her point of despair. And when, after she carelessly breaks his heart and turns him down for some rich snob, she comes running back, he doesn't forgive unconditionally and shower her with more love than she ever expected or deserved.

...

I think the problem is that we've deified this Mr. Right. We've invested too much hope in one day meeting the man that will be the answer to all of our problems. A man that will fix us, kiss away all our scars, and make us feel beautiful again- a man that will complete us. And the disillusionment comes when we fail to discover him, or perhaps he fails to discover us.

Our biggest mistake is that we are expecting a man to satisfy the longings within us that he is not able to fulfil. Although romantic love is a wonderful thing, and in many cases can mirror Christ's love for us, we've wrongly made it out to be the pinnacle of the human experience. We've mistaken our deepest spiritual longings for emotional longings that can be met by our "perfect match". As a result, we are unable to see that this picture of the perfect man reaches it's culmination in God.

...

When she starts to see Him as her one true Love, she finds out that there has been someone knocking at the door. There has been someone pursuing her wherever she runs to. Someone who's already found her in her hiding places, and who knows all of her pain because He's taken it upon Himself. Someone who really can renew and make her beautiful again.

Someone who loves her so much, that no matter how many times she turns Him down, He will still be there, waiting to forgive and embrace her with more love than any human could offer.

Someone who completes her.

...

In Him we have found our Match, so we can stop looking. We can now stand in wonder at the One who's made the most irresistable proposal. And who seeks to be united with us for eternity.

All we have to do is say yes.

For your Maker is your husband—

the LORD Almighty is his name—

the Holy One of Israel is your Redeemer;

he is called the God of all the earth.

Isaiah 54:5