A Day in the Park

On Saturday the Mission Year teams in Philadelphia embarked on a retreat of solidarity with those experiencing homelessness. We went into Center City, Philadelphia’s downtown area, broke off into pairs, and visited several parks that several folks call their homes. Our goal was simply to talk to people. We took nothing with us: no clothes, blankets, hygiene products, or food to donate, realizing that such items create a position of power. With nothing to give but ourselves, we ventured into new relationships.

I was paired with Matt, one of the guys from another Philly team. At our first destination, we spent some time observing interactions within the park. This stillness in the midst of a busy city center felt uncomfortable at first. Most people had some objective, some place to go. Our discomfort quickly slipped away, and we began to appreciate being in the city with nothing to do. We soon realized that was an important step toward solidarity with those experiencing homelessness.

Our first two friends were a pair of old white men who came to the U.S. from the British Isles several decades ago. They have both been on the streets for a long time and when they me a few months ago they appreciated each other’s company enough to stick together. We enjoyed several hours talking to them, and learned about a simple life comprised of Sudoku, spending retirement checks on motel rooms, finding bars that allow you to watch soccer games, and behaving enough to be able to use the bathroom at Barnes and Noble.

We continued with a few more interactions like this, and gave away our simple bag lunches to a diabetic women who panhandled to buy her insulin needles. My most meaningful experiences came toward the end of our day. Matt spotted a large concentration of homeless folks off the beaten path from the more touristy parks where we had spent much of our day. Still very much exposed to the view of the public, we stumbled upon the hang-out spot (and, at night, bunking area) of about 60 people experiencing homelessness: men, women, black, white, young, old. Somewhat weary from the day, we entered the space not intending to interact any longer but to just be there and observe.

Matt and I picked different corners and sat down, positioned to see and experience as much as we could. Soon after I sat down (and curled up as much as I could to curb the cold), I was twice approached by a man asking if I was “looking to earn a couple of dollars.” He thought I was. Not long after I told him I wasn’t interested, another man asked me if I knew the schedule of a local homeless ministry. He, too, assumed I was homeless. Although many would be offended, and in other context I may have been, in this case I was pleased! As a college-educated white male, my interactions in Mission Year are often colored by the power my physical features and speech patterns communicate. But not this time. The only people who hung out where I was had no other place to go, or they came to give out food. Because I had nothing to give and I wasn’t going anywhere, I had to have belonged.

This location is known for its homeless crowd, so folks often pull off from the busy road and pass out donations—usually food. Having given away our lunches, Matt and I got in line when one group set up a table to distribute brown bag lunches and hot drinks.

In line in front of me was a younger white man, whom I assumed was weathered by many nights on the streets. He turned around and asked if we were also living in that area. When we said, “no,” he assumed we were volunteers. We left our status ambiguous, hesitant to reveal that we were accepting donated food to join in solidarity with those who live off donations, an admittedly controversial position to be in.

His spirits were low, so he didn’t say much, but I could sense a desire for interaction. Just a few minutes into our conversation, sparse with words, he had shared that this was in fact his first week on the streets of Philadelphia. Kevin was his name, and he had recently moved into his mom’s house, trying to get away from his heroin-addicted brother. When he relapsed into his own “habit,” his mom kicked him out. He went to the only place he knew he would be somewhat safe, fed by donations, and free to figure out if he wanted to check into rehab.

This story was hard for me to swallow. I had never met anyone who had used hard drugs, much less been addicted to them (at least not that I knew of—I’m sure there’s been someone…). But he was so simple, kind, and warm. It broke my heart to see Kevin in this place, and I knew so little of what I could do to help. So Matt and I did what we could. We shared a meal with him. Having received the same donated food as him, there was no power dynamic to our interaction with him. We just ate lunch together and raved about how much we appreciated a warm drink in our hands. We didn’t even say much. We didn’t offer the Good News of Jesus or even a word of encouragement. Although sometimes I wish I had verbally communicated some hope for his life, I sill appreciate the utter simplicity of our meal together.

As much as it pained me to hear Kevin’s story, it hurt so much more to walk away. I wanted so badly to stay and offer the only thing he needed: solidarity. Lonely, uncertain, and afraid, Kevin needed a friend at this confusing time in his life. Matt and I could provide that for the duration of one meal, but Kevin needs it for a lifetime. Alas, our retreat was ending, and we had to return to the group to process our experiences together.

A sign a created in response to my day, expressing how I felt about it.

I still don’t know what to think of my experiences that day. I don’t have much time to return and offer much more to Kevin than my prayers, and I do that often. He mentioned that he was considering checking into rehab, so I pray that he can overcome addiction. I pray that he will encounter the Living God, the only entity larger than his addiction.

He also mentioned that he wants something better for his kids, although he doesn’t have any kids. He spoke of his future kids—kids he would have after he got his life together. I pray for his hope of a better life to intensify and be fueled by faith in Jesus Christ.

I ask you to join me in prayer for Kevin, and all the others in his position, in Philadelphia and in cities around the world. 

Team Covenant

The following is the covenant that I and my teammates strive to uphold in our lives:

We the Southwest Philly Team—Priscillia, Sophilia, Denise, Walter-Levi, Preston, and Nichole, in accordance with our commitment to Jesus, hereby commit to uphold the following:

·         Edifying each other through speech (Ephesians 4:29, James 1:19)

o   Not partaking in:

§  Gossip

§  Sarcasm

§  Racial Jokes

o   Encouraging and affirming each other

o   Being quick to listen and slow to speak

·         Sustaining our community through committing to intentional relationships. (Galatians 5:22-23)

o   Out-serving one another

o   Extending grace and mercy

o   Self-care

o   Ensuring that our home is a safe space for daily interaction

o   Celebrating victories and mourning losses

o   Biblical conflict resolution

§  Being present

§  Staying in the midst of conflict

§  Addressing all conflict

o   Having fun

·         Maintaining the values of the technology fast.

o   Sustaining a lifestyle of simplicity

o   Being present in conversation and group activities

o   Embracing solidarity with our neighbors

o   Learning to rely on each other as our main support system

·         Transformation of our neighborhood through:

o   Upholding and adding to the dignity of our neighbors

o   Building relationships

o   Pursuing sustainable community and justice

o   Utilizing a multiplex model to build community connections

o   Empowering our neighbors and encouraging their dreams

We commit to uphold the key pillars of the Mission Year program: community service, church partnership, relational impact, justice, Christian community, spiritual discipline, simplicity, and diversity. In doing so, we embrace one another as a family and, to us, family means loving each other in a way that nobody gets left behind or forgotten. We will spur one another on towards God, in faith (Hebrews 10:24-25), to fulfill this covenant. Furthermore, we commit to reviewing this covenant with each other regularly.

A Halloween Tale

On Halloween we opened our house up to our neighbors for a party. We planned to have cookies and different colored icing and other edible festivities with which to decorate them. We also grabbed some hot chocolate and snacks so that our neighbors would linger and hang out with us if they wanted to, rather than collecting candy and moving on.

I was one of the first ones home on Halloween, and I started the process of baking the cookies, with just a couple of hours before we expected guests. I cranked up the oven and pulled out the cookie mixes to have them ready for my teammates who would be coming home soon.

As they filtered in, the kitchen was abuzz with activity, with some whipping icing, some mixing up cupcakes, and others scooping out cookies onto trays. In the midst of this, the oven was slowly heating up, readying itself for our goodies. As it became sufficiently heated, we began to hear some sounds emerging from the oven—scratching sounds. I’ll be honest: we have a mouse that likes to nibble on items left out in the open. So our first thought was—there’s a mouse in our oven! As the oven continued to heat, we heard more scratching that confirmed our suspicions—something was inside our oven and trying to get out!

I alerted our team to the predicament so that we could figure out what to do with the situation. Soon it began to smell very foul—the stench of burning mouse flesh in our oven! We debated letting it out, but decided that we really wanted the mouse terminated, even if it meant having to clean out our oven later.

So we cranked up the heat. And the scratching stopped. And the smell got worse.

With no time to fully process our destructive actions, we finally turned off the oven, farmed out our baking projects to our neighbors, and lit candles to hide the smell. All the while, trick-or-treaters streamed by our house, and one commented, “Mmmm! It smells like bacon!”

Finally we corralled the courage to open the oven and examine the remains of the mouse. We found not blood or guts or singed hair, but two piles of goo, one lime green, and one royal blue! What kind of mouse leaves such remains? At closer examination, we realized that we had not torched a mouse, but melted two bowls of pumpkin seeds we had baked the night before! They had been placed in the oven to protect them from the furry friend in question. Needless to say, we were confused, disappointed, relieved, and annoyed. If only we had peeked in to see that the scratching sounds were not the paws of a mouse but the pop of pumpkin seeds and plastic! We should have listed to our neighbors when they told us a mouse would stick around once the oven was turned on…

We had little time to deal with melted plastic, which had ruined our oven for the night. We pressed on with party preparation, welcoming guests and resolving to deal with the oven later. It was a great party, with several new neighbors coming to decorate cookies! We especially had a lot of new teenagers come over, a group that isn’t usually out on the block like many of our other neighbors. We also had to kick several kids out at the end of the party because they wanted to stay later, coloring and munching on snacks.

Despite melted plastic and the kitchen confusion that followed, we had a blast on Halloween, hanging out with our neighbors of all ages!

Reflections on Solitude

Last weekend my team gathered with the two other teams in Philly to take a retreat of silence. We drove about 2 hours out of the city, past the suburbs, to the hilly countryside of rural York County, PA (on the other side of Lancaster County). Recently we’ve been reading Henri Nouwen’s book The Way of the Heart, in which he discusses the practices and stories of the Desert Fathers (and Mothers) who retreated from society in the 200s to seek the Lord with the whole of their lives, uninfluenced by the tainting effects of the world. We have discussed what we can learn from such communities and have adapted practices like a daily quiet hour every morning to allow space for solitude in our otherwise busy schedules.

These are elements of Mission Year that have been a pleasant surprise. There are many reasons I applied to MY: relocation to an under-resourced neighborhood, living in Christian community, cross-cultural church experience, work experience in a non-profit…but spiritual disciplines has surfaced as a bonus to my MY venture!

This retreat served as a culmination of all that we’ve learned so far about ancient practices in solitude. As an introvert who uses solitude and isolation often to rest and recharge, I entered the retreat excited to engage in some of the new practices I’ve learned about.

Early on in the twenty-four hour retreat I realized that I have mastered the physical aspect of solitude. I fully participate in the busy-ness of our society, and as an introvert I cope with it by retreating to my empty room. I often choose the comfort of a quiet room to the stimulation of a crowd. I’ve grown very comfortable with hanging out with just myself. While others on the retreat expressed discomfort with silence or isolation, it was normal for me.

I may have mastered the physical aspect of solitude, but the busy-ness I faced at the retreat was busy-ness of my mind. Usually in my introverted isolation, my main task is thinking. I’m constantly figuring things out, and I find peace in the solutions I come up with. Often in prayer I struggle to steady my mind and thoughts. I am so used to racing through ideas that I often find myself trying to remember how I digressed so far from the starting point. I realized that I use practices such as journaling, scripture study, and praying from lists to help focus my thoughts. I avoid open, unstructured practices because I know my mind will leave them.

Considering these things, I prayed “I need a solitude that is not so selfishly about me figuring things out. Lord, open me up, out of my head, to encounter you—not me—in solitude.”

The hours that followed were filled with practices such as breath prayer, prayers from the saints, and assuming physical positions to express the attitudes of my heart. I spent time (lots of time) clearing my mind and when I finally did, I asked, “What next?” My runaway thinking patterns finally subdued, I wanted to do something with the silence of my mind! In the face of my persistent busy-ness, I sought more patience and contentment with simplicity of prayer. I had to accept the idea of having no agenda to my time except to empty my mind.

I am excited for this process. The retreat gave me time to explore things I’ve wanted to do for a while. And ultimately my question, “What next?” is not entirely foolhardy. Nouwen writes that the objective of solitude is what he calls “prayer of the heart,” which forms and re-forms the one praying. I concluded the retreat excited to keep pushing toward transformation through prayer practices. I have committed time each week on my Friday Sabbaths to these practices, seeking the ‘way of the heart.’ As you pray for me and my team, pray not just for relationships or safety or opportunities to love others. Pray also for the formation of our hearts through encounter with God in prayer.

Grace to Grace, Part II

Last time I reflected on ways that the Lord has changed me to be more open to new ways of worshipping and new ways of conducting worship services. (Read it here!) When I first sat down to write, I didn’t intend to elaborate so much on that journey. My first thought was to rave about how awesome my new church is. That spurred me to consider how crazy it is that I think so highly of my church, considering my background. It represents in many ways how my values and comfort zones have shifted. But I return now to my original thought: how much I love Grace Christian Fellowship in Southwest Philly!

My new church, GCF, follows the same spirit of freedom and fluidity at Grace Midtown, so much so that a few Sundays ago Pastor James scrapped his sermon in the middle of service! The normal flow of service includes musical worship, scripture readings, greetings and announcements, selections from the choir, and the sermon. Although in that description it may seem formal, the atmosphere is not. It often feels more like a group of friends gathered for a weekly sports event than a service. They all know what’s going on, but they are all free to engage with it however and whenever they please. For instance, there are many services where we are never instructed to sit or stand. Folks just do what’s comfortable for them: sit, stand, clap, shout, dance, raise arms, shake fists, etc.

On this particular Sunday, we had spent ample time in musical worship, had heard from the choir the usual two times, and before Pastor James got up to speak, he invited one of the members to share her testimony. She shared that she was several years clean and sober, finished with her schooling (with straight As!), and completing her final training for a job in the medical field. She praised God for redeeming her, and the church celebrated her victories in song. As the music continued, she began to dance and march in place, overcome with triumphal joy at the victory.

Following the lead of the Spirit, the church continued to clap, dance, sing, and shout in celebration. If they were like me, they began to reflect on their own stories of redemption while celebrating with hers. As the praise rolled from song to impromptu song, I began to add up the time left in the remaining elements of the service—having not yet started the sermon, we probably had another hour left. And at that point we were an hour and a half into the service! Whereas a former Preston would have been annoyed at such a realization, the new Preston didn’t care and kept on clapping.

Pastor James, seeming to know my thoughts, soon reassured us that he wouldn’t be delivering his sermon. On that day, following the Lord’s leading meant celebrating a testimony. He later shared with our team that he started the church with a hope that people would be able to share deeply and honestly, and share difficult stories from their lives that that they had carried with shame and embarrassment. He said something like, “Most churches—my old church—would have shaken their heads at such a ‘shameful’ story, as if they didn’t have similar skeletons. But at Grace, we can celebrate prostitutes, addicts, and dealers being transformed.” Some—my former self included—may shake their heads at how our time was spent that Sunday. We didn’t even hear the sermon! Why would we go to church, except to learn from the Bible? Sure, it’s great to celebrate transformation…but for an hour?? Maybe these are valid concerns…maybe. But I think heaven is a little bit less like a Bible study and a little bit more like a rave, where for all of eternity we will celebrate transformation in Jesus’ name.

Praise God for helping me to appreciate a place with values different from those I grew up with! Praise God for transformation, both of the black, female drug addict from Southwest Philly and the white, male PK from North Charleston. 

Grace to Grace, Part I

This week I want to write a little bit about my church in Southwest Philly, Grace Christian Fellowship, mostly because last Sunday was such an exciting week! I didn’t know it, but the Lord has been preparing me for a long time to be so comfortable and energetic about our church.

Growing up, I went to a small, white church where we sang hymns in a reverent service full of instructions like “please rise” and “you may be seated.” In high school I upgraded from a service with an organ to one with an electric guitar, where some people raised their hands or bounced in place. I felt the Spirit while the music played, but for the most part if I wasn’t singing or praying I wasn’t really engaged with God. This was my comfort zone: a structured, ordered service and a reverent, calm environment with white people who spoke English, most of them with a slight (or thick…) Southern accent.

As with so many aspects of my life, four years in college challenged my church comfort zone. My involvement in InterVarsity Christian Fellowship and my commitment to Grace Midtown Church gave me opportunities to explore new ways of interacting with God.

InterVarsity opened my perspective to the multi-ethnic beauty of Christ’s Bride, the Church. Before, I would have labeled a spiritual, a chant, a liturgy, a call-and-response sermon, or song in another language as something strange, weird, or perhaps inappropriate, but at least “not for me.” Studying passages of scripture like Revelation 7, Acts 10, and Ephesians 2 helped me to understand God’s design of a reconciled, multi-ethnic church. Engaging with God through other languages, cultures, and styles of teaching became a hobby of mine.

InterVarsity helped me theologically to appreciate and even celebrate difference, but I still wasn’t fully comfortable engaging with God outside of the way I first learned how. That process happened some in InterVarsity as well, but mostly at church.

In my shophomore year of college, I began attending Grace Midtown Church. I was drawn to it for several reasons, including the newness and freshness of the ministry model, its solid Bible teaching, its heart for the city of Atlanta, and—what I will discuss in detail here—the worship. If you’ve ever been there, then it’s obvious why, but for those who haven’t, it’s not so much the music style or selection that makes it so powerful. It isn’t the skill of the vocalists or musicians. While those elements are strong, it’s the heart of the worship that makes it so transformative. Worshippers are free to engage with the Lord however they see fit: standing, sitting, kneeling, prostrating, dancing, journaling, shouting, praying in the corner—and people do each of those things each week. There were many times when all plans and agendas were abandoned to follow the Spirit into 20 minutes of silence or spontaneous refrains or dance breaks. And if the worship leader reaches the end of the set list of songs and feels there’s still more praise to be given, then he or she will continue with a couple more songs.

This environment helped me a lot to be comfortable with others interacting with God in ways unfamiliar to me. Grace Midtown goes beyond the emotions of a song to a yearning to be with God through the Holy Spirit. And it’s not done just through music. I learned to worship through in posture, prayer, silence, writing, shouting, sharing with a friend, testifying, crying, laughing, chanting, liturgy, scripture, and even speaking in tongues, although I have yet to experience the latter myself. I was so grateful to have Grace Midtown as a playground for my worship so I could become comfortable in any context of worship, whether it be a solemn, structured, liturgical service or a comfortable, casual Jesus jam session on the floor of a living room. This adaptability has released me from judgement and condemnation of things unfamiliar to me. If the name of Jesus is being lifted up, then I can usually join in and engage with God.

With these transformations fresh in my past, I greatly anticipated the element of Mission Year that partnered me with a local church. I was eager to commit to a cross-cultural church experience that would be well outside of what used to be my comfort zone. As you can imagine, the adaptability I learned at Grace Midtown prepared me well for the transition!

My church in SW Philly is Grace Christian Fellowship. I thought it funny that I was going from one grace to another. Read again next week to learn more about how the Lord used my years in college to prepare me for my time at GCF!

Gunshots

This post is about gunshots I heard in my neighborhood one night this week. I hesitate to write about this experience, because I don’t want to reinforce assumptions about my neighborhood: that it’s violent and dangerous and unfriendly. But part of my intention is to analyze those assumptions and what implications they have for our spiritual lives. So for the sake of exploring my transformation through Jesus, I will risk reinforcing your assumptions about my neighborhood.

Here are some reflections paraphrased from my journal the morning after I heard the gunshots:

“Last night as I lay down to sleep, I heard about 15 gunshots. There was a series of several shots, a pause of a few seconds, and then another series of shots. My first reaction was heartbreak and tears. I sat up in bed and was immediately moved to pray for the situation that was probably just 2-3 blocks from my house. I prayed for the victim(s) and the one(s) firing the gun. With no details beyond the sound of shots themselves, I prayed for whatever I could think of.

“This, I thought later in the night, is not the reaction I would have had in the past. To be honest, I have heard gunshots from my home in North Charleston. When I heard gunshots there, my concern was at first for my safety; I was afraid at what could happen to me. I called the police to make sure whatever was happening ‘over there’ wouldn’t spill over to where I was. And, I thought, there was some criminal now on the loose that needed punishing!

“But last night in Southwest Philly, I mourned the situation. It hurt me to know that there was potentially loss of life, that someone had gotten to a point where s/he felt like violence was the only answer, that children lived on that street and were afraid, that my neighborhood would be looked down upon for the sins of a few. Later, when I once more tried to sleep, I was afraid. What if shots came through my window or wall? What if a police chase led the perpetrator to my back yard?

“After sensing my own fear, I was ashamed and returned to mourning: the situation of those directly affected deserved my prayer more than I did.”

Events like these are a part of the Mission Year experience. Something about living amongst the gunshots makes you care more about them. And not just for the victims. We often shun from our prayers those firing the guns, deeming them worthy of judgment and damnation (if not to hell, then at least the death penalty or maybe prison). But I was moved to pray even for the one(s) firing the gun(s).

Being among my neighbors and caring about them has opened my heart from selfish fear to grieving prayer. This is just one (rather extreme) example of how the Lord is using this relocation to transform me. I thank God for the opportunity to experience such transformation.