Past 50th

Last night I was out late for our weekly gathering of all the Philly Mission Year teams. As usual, I was taking the trolley home, this time from Center City. At one of the stops a group of about 7 young people, who I profiled as college students, boarded the trolley and moved to the back. They were pretty much the only ones talking and were loud enough for everyone to hear.

For most of the time I didn’t pay them much mind. Actually I don’t really remember anything else they talked about except which stop would land them at their college. The University of Sciences is the last in a string of several major schools in West Philadelphia, on the border between the large neighborhoods of University City and Southwest Philly. Their stop was 42^nd street.

Part of their conversation was concern that they would miss the stop and go too far down Woodland Avenue, the road the trolley saunters down. Some of them had wandered down to 50^th Street one time on accident, in search of a party, and they didn’t want to do that again. They loudly proclaimed, “Anything past 50^th is bad. Like really bad.”

Those words hurt.

I live past 50^th. Not only that, I live past 60^th—on 62^nd! As I heard them talk about how incredibly bad my neighborhood was, I wondered what the other trolley passengers thought as they heard these college students talk about where they live, work, have fun, and raise their kids. Those considerations hurt even more.

I get where the students were coming from. I’ve said those things before about other communities. Southwest Philly is a place where “bad” things are readily apparent, especially to eyes that come in looking for them. But after living here for a while, I know about plenty of really good things all around places well past 50^th Street.

I know kids that love to play dictionary games they’ve created so they can learn new words.

I know neighbors that shovel each others’ snow.

I know women who are respected for the ways they look out for everyone on the block.

I know old white couples that love their almost all-black neighborhood, even though all of the other white people left at least a decade ago.

But the college students don’t know those things. They only see bad things that they probably just don’t understand. They certainly didn’t understand how hurtful their words were to me and the other residents of Southwest who were headed home like me.

This doesn’t happen in only my neighborhood. Places (and their inhabitants) all over the world are labeled as “bad.” But those negative labels don’t help to end whatever negative attributes we seem to identify. They only reinforce them. I challenge you to consider your words and your thoughts about such places. And I challenge you to challenge others, too, and maybe as we all recognize the good in the places “past 50^th,” the good will be more readily apparent the next time you visit. 

Diversity in the Church

As you may know, Mission Year gives us a couple of weeks off during the holidays. I'm now in my second week back in Philly since then. With the busy-ness of the season, I didn’t have much time to write, but I’ve found a moment at last to share some of my thoughts about my break.

One element of my break that ties into what I’m learning in Mission Year was the diversity of the Church I was able to enjoy over the past month. I attended four different churches in December, all of different flavors and varieties. I have written before that encountering God through different cultures is a hobby of mine. And by different, I don’t just mean different from my own. I suppose a better way to phrase it would be, “Encountering God through a variety of cultures is a hobby of mine.” Here is some the variety I enjoyed in December:

My church in Philadelphia, which I have written about before, is Grace Christian Fellowship. Of course, I attended there for the first couple of weeks in December before my break began. It is a vibrant, young, growing, black church that honors both traditions of the Church and African American heritage. It is loosely liturgical, but congregants are always responsive and interactive to whoever is leading the service, vocalizing their affirmation of the prayer, exhortation, or testimony. Songs are repetitive and passionate, allowing worshippers to dig deeply into the lyrics they profess with each successive proclamation of them. Congregants consider each other family and refer to each other as such. Hugs and kisses abound.

For the first weekend of my break, I visited a dear friend in New Jersey and attended church with him one Sunday while I was there. He is Japanese, and he attends a Japanese church. The band of the small congregation fills the front of a fairly ornate Lutheran sanctuary that hosts them. They use the space in a way that is less formal than the building itself. The service is reverent and reflective, congregants respectfully quiet and thoughtful unless instructed to participate, for instance through song. The service is conducted fully in Japanese, save the lyrics of a couple of hymns sung in both Japanese and English. After it’s over, there is a snack-lunch where the close-knit community catches up with one another, lingering as long as conversation flows.

By Christmas Eve I was home, and I joined my brother, sister, and brother-in-law at their church in Charleston, a young satellite campus of a mega-church committed to reaching the state of South Carolina. The stage is raised high above the large audience, highlighting the feeling that the congregants gathered for an experience, a divine encounter. Every element of the service is technically excellent and perfectly timed, including vocals, music, multi-media, and concert-style lighting. The sermon is displayed on a large screen, a broadcast of the live speaker in another city. Short videos are sprinkled throughout the service. Those gathered follow directions closely as to how and when they should engage as they are guided through a journey. At the conclusion, they are starkly challenged to consider Jesus as savior. Many do, and leave the auditorium for follow-up conversations.

I was home for one Sunday, and I spent it at my parents’ church, a small country church just outside of Charleston. The casual service matches the simple sanctuary of white cinder blocks where it takes place. Members pop up from seated positions in the audience to fulfill various roles as musicians, vocalists, ushers, and preacher. It’s a team effort to bring worship to God. The music is sometimes played live and sometimes played over speakers, but usually has a country twang, and participants often close their eyes while singing and bouncing back and forth to the song. After the sermon, a few congregants use the open space at the front of the church for prayer alone or in pairs while everyone else sings a hymn.

I take the time to detail my experiences (can you tell I was a religion major?) to demonstrate the diversity of my church involvement in December. I take such joy in observing how different communities interact with God and joining in with them in their own style. My appreciation for difference has grown so deep that I don’t know any more what is a normal way for me to interact with God. And I like it that way.  

I’m grateful for this season of my life, being fully immersed in another culture’s way of encountering God. African American church traditions are rich and hearty, and I have much to learn about God through the way my brothers and sisters encounter Him. I’m grateful, too, for connections to brothers and sisters from many different cultural, denominational, linguistic, regional, etc. backgrounds who are willing to share with me their encounters with God.

I’m grateful for the diversity I was able to enjoy over break. I want my life’s pursuit of God to be defined by such diversity and more.