The Table

Our close friends, the Barton family, brought us dinner tonight: sweet tea, pot roast, green beans, fresh rolls, and banana cream pudding. They also brought another good friend, Randy Harris, in town this week, teaching a short course at Rochester College. 

I told Randy three things: 1) I don't have a "go away" mat on my front porch 2) If I tell him to make himself at home he cannot reply, "Great. Go home." and 3) He can't leave until he gives Lucas a blessing. 

The blessing came unexpectedly. I explained to our friends that Kara and I are settling on Lucas playing baseball (since she loves football and I love basketball). Randy smiled his classic smile and looked at Lucas, "Lucas . . . mess your daddy up. Become a concert pianist." 

Of course, he's right. I don't care what Lucas does. I care about who he becomes. I'll teach him the sentiment that's framed my life for the last several years, "Don't ask what the world needs. Instead, ask what makes you come alive, because what the world needs is people who've come alive." 

Knocking on Doors: More on Spiritual Friendship

Assumption: Post-moderns would never go door knocking.

Not so fast.

For the last two years, I've heard a whisper as I drive down Avon Road coming/going to the synagogue (a.k.a. the Rochester Church building) . . . "What does it look like to live locally for Jesus? What does it look like to live locally here, in this particular context?" People get fired up to go to the City, Uganda, Rio, etc. But, what would it mean to see Rochester Hills as a unique space for God's rhythm to break into the daily grind?

Rowan Williams (I tell my students at RC, "Not Robin Williams . . . but Rowan Williams . . .") reminds us that "the hardest place to live is right where we are." I live in an affluent part of Metro Detroit--Oakland County. That's not bad or good, it simply is. But it is sometimes way too easy to live somewhere else. To dream that God wants to work in only the dramatic and spectacular settings.

The sexy places.

Directly across from our church facility is an apartment complex in which Indian, Hispanic (not "Spanish" as some like to say), Latino, White, Black, and Asian call this area "home." It is, pound for pound, probably one of the more diverse, in every sense of the word, spaces in Rochester Hills.

As far as I know, our church has done little to connect to the real needs of the people living here. Well, that's all about to change. I don't know what it's going to look like, but I'm going to spend the next few months provoking the leadership and body of Rochester Church to develop "Sunday eyes" for this neighborhood. "Friday eyes" look at the world as it is. "Sunday eyes" look at the world as it can be. This is not to say we will infiltrate the neighborhood as if we posses God (because we're the church folks) with a conquering spirit of imperialism. Rather, we are compelled to love our neighbors as Jesus loves them. Remember, for Jesus everybody is a somebody. Everyone is a someone. There are no strangers or enemies in The Jesus Way. Also remembering that God is already out "there" and that we are simply called to join God to see what God is up to.

This happens through conversation.

Listening.

Eye contact.

Personal touch.

Feeling uncomfortable.

This morning, ten of us from Rochester Church spent 30-40 minutes walking the premises of the apartments across from us. We asked the people we met if we could a) do anything to help their families in this tough economic time (Michigan's the eye of the storm right now)? and/or b) prayer for them in any specific way? We did not go with any ulterior motive other than to be a tangible blessing in their life.

I jokingly quipped to one person "We should have worn short, black dress pants with white dress shirts. I could have brought a few bikes from my house." My friend, Shaun Hover (one of the coolest people I now because he does not try to be cool), looked at me and uttered the infamous slogans of 20 somethings across our great nation, "Not so much. Not so much, Josh."

When Jesus ascends to heaven at the beginning of Acts, the angels say to his disciples, "Why are you staring up to the heavens?" Barbara Brown Taylor says it is because the disciples then (just as disciples do now) want to look up to the heavens for God. But God is not "up" . . . he's "out" . . . in the highways and bi-ways, in the nooks and crannies of our world. If only we take the time to see through different eyes.

Living someone else's life is easy. Living in a made-up scenario is fools gold. Living in hopes of God meeting your every need is shallow. Living right where you are, seeing yourself, and others around you as tiny evidence that God still does miracles each morning in the cry of the infant, the rising of the sun, the hug of a teacher, the tear of a grandmother--that's the the Christianity of Christ. It's the difference, as many have noted, of having faith in Jesus and having the faith of Jesus.

Spiritual Friendship

If you are interested in hearing a different way of understanding Israel's wandering in the desert, click here and listen to "Longing for Egypt" . . .

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I am really interested in discussions about spiritual friendship. I appreciate the way in which Jesus says, in the Gospel of John, "No longer am I your superior, boss, or power-holder. For now on, I want you to call me friend."

I've spent a few hours in my life pondering what it means to be deeply spiritual friends with Jesus and those whom Jesus befriended in his ministry.

I am convinced that one of the greatest measuring devices for one's spiritual health is to honestly analyze the friendships that fill our lives. Are our friendships based on economic gain (that is, what can this person offer me)? Are our friendships based merely on security (that is, what person is just like me that I can safely walk with)?

For that reason, I was blown away the first time I read Same Kind of Different as Me. Specifically, this book is about the relationship between a sharecropper turned homeless man and a wealthy Dallas Metro-plex art dealer. Early on in their friendship, Denver says to Ron . . . “If you is fishin for a friend you just gon’ catch and release, then I ain’t got no desire to be your friend…But, if you is lookin for a real friend, then I’ll be one. Forever."

Walking In Memphis

We had a great time in Memphis this weekend. Our time with Josh, Kayci, and Truitt was special. The main focus of the trip (other than great food and conversation) was for a leaders retreat for the Sycamore View Church (where Josh preaches).

I walked through some of the material from Jesus Feast. Overall, it was a lively time of discussion, discernment, and dialog. I preached with Josh on Sunday "tag-team" (or, as some call it, "dueling banjos") . . . we did something I've never done before. We took two stories from Luke (Rich Young Ruler and Zaccheus) and told them side by side with a modern twist. I am always encouraged and challenged by being around Josh Ross. He has a heart for people that is unmatched.

Yesterday morning, Kara, Josh and I went to the National Civil Rights Museum downtown. I've been to Detroit's version a few times, as well as the King Center for Non-Violence in Atlanta a few times. If you have not been to the Memphis museum, you must go. It tells the stories of whites, blacks, educated, and uneducated who fought against Jim Crow racism. From soldiers, to Catholic priests . . . work-at-homes to retired school teachers . . . is there any better way to spend one's life than by giving it away?

One of my favorite MLK quotes (sparked by being in Memphis): "The arch of history is long but it is always bent toward justice."

Friendship

I'm sitting in a booth with Kara at Azteca's Mexican Restaurant. It's snowing. Hard. It's been snowing all day. Non-stop since ten o'clock this morning. It hasn't stopped. I think it's about minus four degrees outside.

Inside, we're eating good food. Sweet-tea to wash it down.

Kara and I are talking about life, dreams, plans, hopes, lessons learned in our marriage thus far. I notice that the cooks in the kitchen are staring at Kara. This happens all the time. Seriously. Not trying to be funny but it's true. Since I've known Kara, she, without any effort on her part (aside from being alive and breathing) attracts Hispanic men.

When we lived in Nashville, Hispanic men would virtually pull of the highway as we drove around Nashville. I-65 has not been the same since we left. The restaurant that paid the bills (Kara was a waitress while I finishing my M.Div.) was full of eager Hispanic workers. In fact, they became some of her closest friends. Kara would leave the apartment for the 4pm to 12am shift with a quick and sharp, "I'm going to see Jesus."

I laughed every time. I still do.

Anyways, Kara and I start talking about the great friends God has placed in our lives. We've just come from the hospital where two of our close friends--Aaron and Julie Mize--have just welcomed their first child, Calli, into this world. She's beautiful. 7 pounds. 3 ounces of perfection.

The discussion turns to the big sister Kara never had, Mary Morris. Mary was Kara's mentor, sister, friend, confidant, and overall champion. Mary taught at Lipscomb. Mary grew up in the same town as Kara, Morgantown, W.V. Kara still says the reason she likes Whitney Houston and Maroon Five is simply because, "That's who Mary listened to." She also likes the occasional Michael Jackson song for the same reason.

Mary died over four years ago. She battled cancer valiantly. Her body failed her. I've never seen Kara so burdened with a blanket of sadness as the night we got the phone call from Kara's dad (Mary's parents and Kara's parents have been friends for several years), "Kara, Mary is no longer with us."

Kara sank to the floor. Crocodile tears flowed down. We laughed. We cried. We remembered how Mary loved when I would tell inappropriate jokes right from the stories of scripture. Or, the time when Mary looked at me and said, "Josh, tell me about heaven again." I was a third year seminarian and grateful to share what I knew. Especially when what I knew might actually make a difference in the real world, and not a crusty, stale library.

Over sweet tea, taco salad, and good Mexican food we remembered our friend. She is still with us. We breath her laughter, singing voice, wisdom, courage, and character each and every time we tell the stories that made Mary the extraordinary human she was.

It's cold as can be outside. But inside, it's warm enough.

And it is enough. Our questions are never answered. Our frustrations never silenced. But it is enough to remember . . . grateful that we have any memories at all.