The Bridge Project

Breaking My Silence

2011-08-31T07:54:00.002-04:00

If there is anyone out there who still follows this blog, I offer a sincere apology. As is obvious, I have posted nary a word since late May. To put it in perspective, I have grown four inches of facial hair since my last post. Please hear my litany of lame excuses. Summer is crazy. My family and I are just now coming down to earth from a pretty hectic summer. Also, a good friend of mine volunteered to hook me up with a new blog; one with more options and a fresh look. However, he has run into some unforeseen difficulties and the new blog lives only as a mirage in the proverbial desert of blogdum. I wrote this to assure the two of you that things are in the works. My goal is to post weekly. Please note that the essence of this goal is hitched to the business end of the new blogsite. Should the new blogsite remain in a state of perpetual limbo, then the aforementioned goal shall languish upon the ash heap of good intentions. Finally, you should know that I will henceforth be writing under the name Thelonious Clemmons. This is for two reasons. First, I've always liked the idea of writing under an alias. Secondly, I've always felt like a Thelonious, and considered myself a Thelonious, even though I was born a Josh.

hidden in plain sight

2011-05-26T23:10:00.005-04:00

What was Jesus thinking? I ask myself that question sometimes. In particular, I've been asking that question as it relates to the recepients of Jesus' ministry. He gave to people who either couldn't pay him back, or could but were unwilling to. He spent himself on outcasts and people of ill repute. He embraced children. He stuck up for professional fornicators. Then he commands all of us to do the same....to love people who won't love us back....to invite people over who are too broke to return the favor.....to pray for people who didn't ask to be added to our prayer list. And if that weren't enough, he then demands that we do it all in secret! I've had a revelation. I'm not willing to minister to people who can't pay me back unless I get to broadcast it to people who can pay me back. I demand compensation for my works of charity, and my right hand is fully informed as to the actions of my left hand. As far as I can understand it, Jesus was thinking that his heavenly father had his back. He didn't feel the need to gain worldly approval or compensation because he actually trusted his father. I would like to propose that we actually don't. I know I don't. I want too, but i don't. I care too much about what people think of me to give wthout interest, and I crave the strokes of admiration too much to invest in people who don't know or care how important I am. There are more of you out there. If you're a professional minister, then you know you're in this boat.Stand up and be counted. He told us not to lord it over people, but we insist on titles. We will only wash the feet of those who are willing to pat us on the back while we do it. The only way that we would ever hide our good deeds, is if we were certain that an important person would catch us doing it. Maybe the better question is...what are we thinking?

2011-05-16T06:58:00.002-04:00

Allow me to introduce you to Dae Dae. His government name is Datreal Neal, and over the past four years he’s become something like a son to me and Laura, and a big brother to Anna Grace and Ellis. Dae Dae and I were matched-up through a mentoring agency here in Asheboro before we had really begun any work on the East Side. Dae Dae has a mom, a brother, a sister, and a pit bull from whom I keep a safe distance. Dae Dae is a member of the track team, and the varsity basketball team. He comes equipped with an explosive first step, but an inconsistent jump shot. Your best bet is to make him go left.

Dae Dae is seventeen years old. For the past four years I have been his mentor, and he has been my teacher. He has articulated for me what life is like for those to whom God has called me. His insight and sincerity have been priceless. Now that you’ve met him, you may well be curious as to the occasion of this introduction. You’re meeting Dae Dae because he is the newest member of our team. Starting in June, Dae Dae will be our first ever summer intern. He will counsel at summer camp, help tend the garden, help with vacation Bible school, pitch in with mission teams, and who knows what else.

In case you’re wondering, here are my motives behind this decision.
1.) Our summers are busy, and I could use some help.
2.) I like Dae Dae, and it will be fun having him around more.
3.) Because we are paying him, he may feel morally compelled to answer my phone calls.
4.) For some time, he has been wrestling with a call to ministry, and this opportunity may help clarify things.
*I’m not sure about #2, and #3, but #1 and #4 are pretty solid.

A vote for ethics

2011-05-03T21:49:00.004-04:00

I raised a question a couple of weeks ago that I never really addressed. Which is more important, theology or ethics? In other words, which is more revealing of our spiritual state, what we believe or how we behave? My vote goes for ethics. Theology matters only to the extent that it informs the way we live. Or as Wendell Berry puts it , "you don't believe anything until you believe it with your whole body." I love that old man. True belief is a matter of what you do with your body, not what you think with your brain.

This conundrum wreaked all kind of havoc in the early church. It is especially evident in the relationship of two of the pillars. There is at best a creative tension between Paul and James. One is preaching that salvation comes by faith, while the other insists that faith without works is dead. Go read Acts 15 and 21. Then read Galatians 1 and 2. Though these elder statesmen of the Jesus movement clearly revered each other, the incongruities of their respective messages helped define the first 25 years of Christianity.

First there's James, otherwise known as the brother of Jesus. Although he was not among the original 12, it's apparent that he had ascended the ranks in the Jerusalem church within a few years of Pentecost. In fact, the aforementioned chapters in Acts and Galatians portray even Peter and Paul as deferring to his leadership. By all accounts of church history, James remained a devout Jew. It's even possible that he was a Nazarite ( no bath, no shave, no meat ). James was a Jew who led a Jewish church. He was considered righteous even by his adversaries. He was put to death by the same sad souls who did in his brother. How did James view the Jewish Law? As a joyful obligation for Jews, and a blessed option for God-fearing Gentiles. Note: the Law that James and other Jewish Christians ascribed to was not the Law of the scribes and Pharisees. His was a radical interpretation of the Law set forth by his Lord and brother. It was a Law based on purity of intent and compassion. It was not based on religious zeal and scrupulosity.

Then there's Paul. Paul viewed the Law as a blessed option for Jews, and as utterly pointless for Gentiles. As an ambassador for Christ to the non-Jewish world, Paul felt compelled to strip the Gospel of any undue cultural trappings. Kind of difficult seeing as how Jesus lived his whole life as an observant Jew. How does Paul write 13 letters to Christians and not make one mention of the earthly life of Jesus? That was not his concern. His concern was preaching salvation by faith alone based on the atoning death and Resurrection of Jesus. Let me say this...there's a long line of folks waiting to lambaste Paul for un-Jewishing the Gospel. I don't want to be in that line. At its best, Paul's message depicts an unbiased, all-powerful God with a diverse group of redeemed followers. Without Paul, we may have little clue of the eternal Christ. But taken on its own, his message can also give rise to a generic, three day Gospel that leaves us all worked-up over eternity but secretly wondering what to do in the meantime. Those who want to, can assume that Paul's command to believe in the empty grave relieves us of Jesus' command to take up our cross and deny ourselves.

Ironically, there may have been little difference in how these two actually lived. Acts 21 even has Paul undergoing a thoroughly Jewish purification rite at the behest of James. But can there be any doubt that there was some significant divergence in their preaching? I love James, but I'm not against Paul. My concern is that the church today is dominated by Paul's emphasis on right belief, while James is relegated to the shadowy regions of church history. I guess we're lucky we have him at all, seeing as how Martin Luther seemed hell-bent on striking him from the record.

My point? It matters how we live. My take is that an ounce of ethics is worth a pound of theology. Faith without works is a fat man eating a fifty-dollar steak while preaching on the wages of sin to a starving child.

the carrot and the french fry part 2

2011-04-20T09:07:00.004-04:00

Well we've got the easy question out of the way...sort of. The second question, "if hell exists, then who's going?" is a bit trickier. Let me begin with this disclaimer: I am in no position to speculate on the eternal whereabouts of any particular soul. And, by the way, neither is anyone else. None of us can say with any degree of certainty that any specific person is in hell. No not even that one. That said, I think Jesus does give us some indication of what kind of person, or lifestyle should be cause for concern.

For my money, nothing beats the parable of the prodigal son. It's found in Luke 15, so go read it if you haven't yet. The cliff notes of it is that there are two sons and one righteous father. The younger son takes his inheritance in advance and blows it on women and whiskey, wakes up in a pig-sty, and comes crawling home to the compassionate and unqualified embrace of his father. The elder son stayed by the father's side, carried out his duties, and didn't spend nary-a-night with a pig.
The father throws a party to celebrate the return of his youngest, which I presume to be symbolic of heaven. Read the whole chapter and you'll see why. The elder son is envious of this extravagance, and refuses to go in.

OK, here's my take on all of this....The younger sons fault is that he didn't yet understand the fathers love. He thought there was something better out there. Eventually, he realized that he was horribly wrong. The elder son was content to remain in the fathers loving presence. His fault was that he wanted to keep his fathers love to himself.

The most scandalous, and terrifying truth of this parable is that the person on the outside is there by his own choice! The father was begging him to come in and he refused to! It should scare the crap out of all of us who are Christian by birth that the purest, and best behaved of these two brothers couldn't stomach the goodness of the father. The point that Jesus is revealing is clear...all rebellion is destructive, but the number one risk factor for eternal damnation is too much religion. Think about it. Break it down all you want to. There's only one reason the elder son missed out. He simply didn't like who else was on the guest list. Decades of duty-bound service had hardened his heart, and convinced him of his own worthiness. It was no longer enough that he got in. He had to control who else got in too.

In the end, the father was better than either son realized. The rebellious son came to his senses ( v. 17 ). The elder son never did. The moral: self-indulgence and self-righteousness are both sinful, but self-righteousness sets the deeper stain. God help us.

the carrot and the french fry

2011-04-07T22:15:00.003-04:00

Rob Bell has me thinking lately. His book Love Wins has stirred a heated debate these past few weeks over the subtleties of eternal damnation. I admit I haven't read it. I've done what most others have done.....read a few excerpts, seen a few interviews and discussed it for hours with other Christians. So this is NOT a book review. These are my views on the topic of heaven and hell, which have been brought to the surface and refined by the recent discussion.

Two questions about hell keep coming up. The first is, "is hell real?" The second is, "if it is real, who's going?" We all have to wrestle with these questions. As far as I can tell, the answer to the first question is...no, hell is not real. It exists, but it's not real. What I mean to say is that hell is not natural. Hell is the eternal manifestation of falsehood. In this way, it's the opposite of real. God is real. In fact, he is reality itself. Heaven is to be in the perpetual presence of God. To be anywhere else is to exist in non-reality. Comparing heaven and hell is like comparing a carrot with a french fry. The carrot is real. It's intended. It's natural. It's here on purpose. The french fry, when held in the shadow of the carrot, can't be said to be real. It's fake. It's fabricated. It's here, but it's presence is not a result of divine volition. (An exception shall be made for Wendy's fries. Those things are dang good.)

Now, on to some scripture. In Matthew 25, through the lens of a parable, we get a look at the judgement seat. Here, the Son of Man is separating the people as a Shepard would separate sheep from goats. The long and short of it is, the ones cast into hell are the ones who refused to lay down their lives for others. Interesting side note...the basis for judgement in this parable is behavior, not belief. heaven and hell have more to do with ethics than theology. More on that later. My main point here is that in this parable, hell is described as having been made "for the devil and his angels." Hell came about as a fabricated consequence for those who rejected divine reality. Unnatural actions breed unnatural consequences. Also, it was made for spiritual rebels, not people. people experiencing hell are experiencing something that was not intended for them. Actually, I think a pretty good definition of hell is to receive what you were not intended to receive. So hell is not real. the very essence of it is fakeness.

Heaven was made for us. Hell was made for the devil. If that's true, then why doesn't everyone go to heaven? Do people go to hell because going to heaven is so hard? No. People go to hell because going to heaven is so easy. Heaven is automatic. It's natural. It's already built into the plan. That's what throws us. We don't trust anything we can't make. Some of us would rather inherit a hell made by our hands than a heaven made by the hands of another. The ultimate irony of heaven is that the only way to miss it is to try to get there on your own terms. -we'll get to the second question next time

spring.

2011-03-22T21:42:00.002-04:00

Spring is all about newness. After months of dormancy, the ground, the trees, and the sky begin to show signs of life. In recognition of this pattern, we decided to try something new ourselves. Two things actually. The first is a multi-cultural Bible study, done as a partnership between Foster Street Wesleyan Church, and Greater St. John Baptist. These two churches have developed somewhat of a sister church relationship over the past few years, and we felt that it was time to go deeper. As Pastor Kearns put it, “we have gathered around the frozen pond, and now it’s time to break the ice.” The 10-15 of us who will participate in this Bible study will try to do just that. Studying scripture with people of other backgrounds will expand our vision of what God is up to. It will also force us to face truths that we have mostly avoided thus far. Pray that God would grant us courage in this venture, and that he would use it to heal the hidden wounds of our division.

The second new thing is a community garden. Some kind friends have seen fit to lend us some space to grow some food. The space is located in front of the East Side Homes senior center, which is a perfect location for this project. A handful of our regular volunteers whom God has endowed with green thumbs will lead this work. The local young people will do most of the work, and reap most of the benefits. I’m honestly not sure which I’m more excited about, the prospect of studying God’s Word with a diverse group of Christians, or the looming prospect of fried squash. Please….don‘t make me choose

the cross is all there is

2011-03-03T20:45:00.002-05:00

Sorry this is so long, but I couldn't figure out how to break it up. Read it if you want to, and let me know if I'm a heretic.......

The cross of Christ is the central event of history, the core of all creation, and the sole reality holding the universe together. I don't mean this in a narrow way, or in an exclusive way. I mean this in a broad way, and in a way that takes into consideration the whole of existence. The life, death, and Resurrection of Jesus Christ is not just an historic event that can be contained within a single measurement of time. It is at the center of all that what is, was, or will be.

Think of it this way....we say we can't believe in the Resurrection because we weren't there to see it. But we have seen it. We've seen a seed dropped into the ground, and vegetation spring up in the exact same spot. We've seen a tree shed its leaves and grow new ones. We've eaten the meat of an animal and gained strength and energy. We've seen one day fade, and a new one replace it. Death and rebirth is an eternal reality. Life born from the womb of death is an undeniable truth that all of us must face. Those events are all deeply and inextricably related to the event that we refer to as the Resurrection. They all teach us what we cannot escape, try as we may. They teach us that renewal only comes through sacrifice. The seed was buried so that a tree could be born. Christ laid himself down so that all creation-himself included- could be reborn. Those events are do not just constitute a loosely drawn analogy. They constitute two manifestations of a single truth.

Death and rebirth is all there is. All else is a denial of reality. It's always been there. It was there before sin was there. Brokenness preceded sin. We think of brokenness - a kind of death- as a tragic outgrowth of mans rebellion. Christ's brokenness is then seen as a sharing of our brokenness,done to undo our brokenness, and prevent any further brokenness. But in Genesis 1 and 2, brokenness is a constant reality. We see it before, during, and after Adam and Eve's initial rebellion. Creation itself is an act of self-giving. God had to lay down his life, not just to save his creation. He had to lay down his life just to make his creation. Maybe that's why the Old Testament speaks so clearly about the forthcoming Crucifixion of the Messiah. God saw it, not just because he's God, but because it had already happened. He died for us before we sinned against him.

If this is true, then the historical crucifixion of Jesus was actually a dramatic re-enactment of the creation event. It was the clearest display of an eternal reality. It was a more emphatic version of a flower growing in a garden:Different in scope, but not different in kind.

Christ doesn't give us the power to fix ourselves. He gives us the power to be broken without being sinful. Truly then, all sin is rooted in the avoidance of brokenness. Adam and Eve weren't broken by their sin. They sinned by trying to escape their brokenness. Brokenness means vulnerability and dependency. Pride is an attempt to transcend these natural borders, and all acts of self-righteousness are merely attempts to skirt the cross.

If you look at it this way, the cross is not just one aspect of true religion. It is the essence of all truth, and is readily apparent for anyone with eyes to see. I see the cross and the empty grave most clearly in The Sermon on the Mt. The heart of the message found in Matthew 5-7 is that we would be wise to lay down our lives for truth and leave the results in the hands of the Father. We must love our enemies. We must not seek revenge. We must be content with what we have. We must not pursue worldly pleasure. These things characterize a life of brokenness. It is a life where God fights our battles for us simply because we trust him to do it. The empty grave is proof that it actually works.

Public Penance

2011-02-21T17:15:00.003-05:00

Because we are funded by an assortment of churches and individuals, I myself am often asked to give voice to who we are. I usually say, “We’re an outreach ministry.” But that’s not entirely true. While it is true that we engage in acts of outreach in an underprivileged area, that title doesn’t get at the heart of our identity. Who are we then?

We are a public act of repentance for the public sin of racism. We are brokenhearted over the riff that exists within the body of Christ. We are grieved not just that we are divided, but that we are divided along the same lines by which worldly kingdoms are divided. We believe that a message of reconciliation proceeding from the mouth of a dismembered bride fuels a cynical attitude toward the church. We contend that racial division in the pews provides the illusion of divine consent to the subtle racism that remains in many secular institutions.

We are convinced that the epidemic in the black community is due in large part to a wound that they did not create. We have a growing sense that this epidemic and the division that inflicted it are deeply spiritual in nature. We affirm that prayer, confession and forgiveness are our God-given allies in the task at hand.

As the leader of this ministry, I know that this work starts with me. In recent weeks, we have begun to refocus on racial reconciliation as our primary task. To some degree, this means that we must scale back our more tangible acts of service in the community. Painful truth: Good works can at times be used to gloss over the deeper issues. They create a temporary sense of unity but, on their own, don’t address the diseased root of our separateness.

My single goal/prayer is that I and others would stop looking at racial division in the church as a mere inconvenience. I long for us to see it for what it truly is…proof that we are not as close to God as we think we are.

Yuletide Sweat-Socks

2011-01-26T17:43:00.004-05:00

From the January Newsletter:

To everyone who helped us this Christmas, we say thank you. We were honestly overwhelmed by the outpouring of donations. When we set out to provide Christmas stockings for the kids at the local Boys and Girls Club, our goal was to raise five-hundred dollars. That amount would provide a respectable stocking for fifty or so kids. When all was said and done, we raised over one-thousand dollars for this project. For us, that meant three things. First, it meant that we could upgrade the stockings themselves. Instead of the classic, sad stocking with a moldy orange and a fractured candy-cane stuffed way down in the toe, we were able to stuff these Yule-tide sweat-socks with items that children might actually enjoy. In short, we stuffed them full of candy and other goodies, and then threw in a toothbrush to ease our guilt.

Second, it meant that we could assist some families who had recently fallen on hard times. These families were in crisis, and were it not for an abundance of generosity, we may not have been able to help. We consider these folks our friends, and we sincerely thank you for helping to make their Christmas a whole lot merrier.

And thirdly, the huge response means for us that people have our back. It lets us know that we are not the only ones who care, and that our ministry is not dependent on our own resourcefulness. It means that there are people with whom we share the load. Honestly, when we initially asked for five-hundred big ones at Christmas time, I was a bit pessimistic. Please accept my apology for underestimating you, and feel free to keep surprising me.

a couple of things...

2011-01-06T13:32:00.003-05:00

Question: How do you get four-hundred people together on a Thursday night, many of whom represent diverse economic and social backgrounds? Answer: Smoke a turkey. On Thursday November 18th, that’s just what we did. Actually, we smoked five of them. This was our fourth year participating in the EastSide Community Thanksgiving Dinner. Thanks to the neighborhood churches, and a lot of help from Foster Street Wesleyan Church, we all had a memorable evening together. A special thank you goes out to Juan Stimpson who stayed up all night smoking turkeys and hams. Thanks to you Juan, I can never eat a baked turkey again.

On a somewhat/completely unrelated note, I need you to help me pray about something. Lately I’ve felt a little out of position. God has called me to pastor and preach, and those are two things I don’t always get to do a lot of. Don’t get me wrong, I feel deeply honored to be working with the people that God has called me to. I’m just not sure if I’m relating to them in the right capacity. As the leader of a community organization, I’m looked to mostly as a provider of resources. At times, I spend the bulk of my energy planning events and raising funds. Some of you who know me are probably frightened at the thought of me planning events. I share your trepidation. As a community organizer with a pastors heart, I feel like I’m offering every solution but the one I know will work. Ultimately, we pray for God’s will to be done, whatever that looks like. Will you help us pray?

The Cure of Souls

2010-12-02T21:21:00.010-05:00

What the heck does a pastor do anyway? What does your pastor do? What's his/her job description? The truth is, most of don't know what a pastor does, or is supposed to do. The tougher truth is that there are a few of us who don't think they do much of anything, at least until Sunday rolls around. I grew up as a pastors kid, and can vividly remember the night I told my dad to get a job. Dang. Sorry dad. Of course, I have since learned the hard way that a true pastor carries a tremendous spiritual burden, and there is no clocking out. Even so, the job of pastor remains one of the most ambiguous career paths available. I think us pastors are just as confused about it as the lay folk. I personally have been through seven years of schooling, and have served as a full time minister for more than six years and I'm still not totally clear about what exactly I'm supposed to be doing.

For some clarity on the issue, I recently looked back at the original job description of the parish Priest. The ancient term used to describe the role of the Priest is "the cure of souls." It included five things.....Preaching the Word, giving the sacraments, giving Godly counsel, visiting the sick, and embracing the poor. That's it! Now, if you look at most job descriptions put out by present day pastoral search committees, you're bound to see something totally different. Outside of preaching the Word, nary a one of those five will have made the list. Instead you'll see things like "dynamic leadership",and " ability to take our church to the next level". Hence our conundrum, and thus our current identity crisis. For better or worse, we pastors have become significantly divorced from our original model. Strategizing and motivating are not the same as curing souls. And for the record, dynamic communication is not the really the same as preaching the Word. It's probably obvious, but the calling to cure souls resonates deeply with me. Fasting and praying for the flock is certainly not a glamorous usage of time, but the old saints understood that someone had to do it. Visiting the sick/poor, and offering communion is not bound to produce visible results, but that's what makes them sacred. To put it in Eugene Petersons words, pastors have been "lashed to the mast of Word and sacrament", whether we like it or not. Your thoughts? More on this next week.

Son sit still ( a tribute to Big E )

2010-11-20T21:14:00.003-05:00

Our son Ellis turns one today. Here's a little homage to the youngin we affectionately refer to as Big E.

Here's to you Ellis, on your first birthday. Here's to twenty-five pounds of perpetual motion. Here's to being born a month early, but living as though you were born a month late and had time to make up for. Here's to turning every diaper change into a wrestling match with no clear winner. Here's to adopting the motto: why stop and smell the roses when it's much quicker to just eat them? Here's to looking like me but being more boy than I ever was.

We love you son. Your mommy and I are so glad you were born. I'm pretty sure your sister feels the same way, even though you have pulled more hair from her head than you have grown on your own. We love you even though you're one year old, and we have yet to rock you to sleep a single time. You like to move. You have places to go. We get it. Anyway, you're a precious little boy, and your smile is absolutely priceless. Happy birthday buddy!

How Do You Respond?

2010-11-15T13:54:00.001-05:00

Poverty surrounds us. I mean all of us. None of us are so insulated that we are spared at least occasional contact with the broken. We know, of course, that poverty is not merely a physical issue. I would suggest that it’s not even primarily a physical issue. Poverty is all too often a complex network of brokenness that starts at the center and works its’ way out to the surface. Since we all see it, we may find it helpful to ask….how should we respond to it? Well, there are tons of wrong ways to respond. Denying, avoiding, and blaming would be a few. I’m learning though that there may be as many right responses as there are wrong ones.

When Bill Gates saw it, his response was to start a foundation. Through his charitable efforts, an inconceivable amount of money has been pumped into the poorest of poor communities. And he has raised as much awareness as he has money. A long, long time before Bill Gates was conscience- stricken by the presence of poverty, St. Francis had his heart stirred by the sight of beggars. His response? He stripped stark naked and ran into the woods. He gave away his possessions, spent the bulk of his time in prayer, and preached the Good News to the poor.

Here we see one issue provoke two profoundly diverse responses. Who was right? I think they both were. The contrast between them can be at least partially explained by their gifts. Bill Gates was given a keen intellect and a resilient drive. His response was measured. It was practical. St. Francis was given a sanctified imagination and a high tolerance for embarrassment. His reaction was absurd. Then again, so was the inequality he was faced with.

When you see poverty, how do you answer? Do you run to the bank or to the woods? Do you come up with a plan, or do you get down on your face? I guess the important thing is that we all do something. The world could sure use more conscientious entrepreneurs. LORD knows we could use a lot more naked saints.

not alone

2010-11-02T22:11:00.007-04:00

When I was younger, I rarely had occasion to be home alone. If my folks were both out of pocket, they generally left Matt and I in the fairly capable hands of our older brother Kris. But I do vividly recall one exception. Mom and dad were going to pick up Matt from camp, and Kris was working. I was only ten or eleven, but I begged mom and dad to let me stay home so I could watch Jaws. That's correct. Eventually they relented. They pulled out of the driveway. I was by myself, and excited for it. I cut on the TV, adjusted the rabbit ears and watched with rapt attention as a mammoth man-eater stalked his prey. Here's the deal with Jaws....Jaws is scary if you're actually in the ocean. I was easily a hundred miles from the nearest respectable body of water. But I was scared out of my mind. I don't know if it was the ominous music or the phantom dorsal fin that kept poking through the fuzzy lines on my television screen. Anyway, the reality of my aloneness hit me hard. The house felt quiet and empty. My family would return in a matter of hours, but I seriously felt like I would be alone for the rest of eternity. In my panic I did what any self-respecting youngster would do. I intentionally locked myself out of my house and asked my neighbors if I could watch Star Trek with them until my people returned. They obliged and I didn't feel alone anymore.

That's one story about one time that I felt alone.It's not the only story. Honestly, feeling alone has been sort of a recurring theme in my life. I haven't always felt alone, but there have been times when I have felt utterly so. Many well-intentioned people have counseled me to remember that God is there in spite of my lonely feelings. That doesn't really help. What did help was the revelation that God isn't just there in spite of my loneliness. He is in my loneliness. Actually, without getting too mystical about it, I have learned that God is my loneliness. He has placed within his children a deep, deep longing for him. It's a longing that God made but refuses to fill, even with himself. It is this longing that draws us slowly but surely to the heart of our Creator. We were created in his image. I take that to mean that there is a little piece of God at the center of us all. So my hunger for intimacy, and my yearning for security is nothing more than the action of God searching for himself. The truth that I am not alone is displayed by my loneliness. If I were truly alone, I would never feel lonely.

"Where can I go from your spirit? Or where can I flee from your presence? If I ascend to heaven you are there; if I make my bed in Sheol, you are there."

The Nantahala

2010-10-18T13:11:00.005-04:00

Last weekend, we went rafting. Actually, we went camping and rafting. We thought it would be fun to take some of our middle school boys into the woods for a couple of days. There were eleven of us total. We left Friday, and headed up to the Nantahala, where we camped Friday night. We had in mind a sort-of return to nature. Or in some cases an initial introduction. Thus we confiscated all personal gaming devices and mp3 players. Fortunately, the inevitable protests that ensued were not the highlight of the weekend.

We spent the evening by the fire. We roasted hot dogs and marshmallows and told really bad ghost stories. Saturday, the much awaited rafting commenced. As with every trip down the river, ours was a mixture of the good and the bad. First, the bad….The water was COLD. Dae Dae fell in. Tre got thrown in. We nearly knocked an old man out of his kayak. Our guide was a young lady who had lived in a tent all summer and was covered with a lethal combination of tattoos and dreadlocks.

Now the good….The sky was beautiful. The sun was shining. Everybody laughed a lot. And finally, our guide was a young lady who had lived in a tent all summer and was covered with a lethal combination of tattoos and dreadlocks. Thank you LORD for your amazing creation and the unique way you meet us there. You didn’t have to but you did.

Called to feel

2010-10-04T20:08:00.003-04:00

As I have sort of alluded to recently, I went through a pretty difficult time a little over a year ago. A big part of my struggles revolved around ministry. Here's a little something I wrote a couple of months ago as I looked back on that time.....

My attempts to unbreak my people broke me. It was physically painful. A numbness; like someone you love just punched you in the gut and left you praying for air while they walked off without remorse. For weeks I prayed that God would heal whatever it was that broke. I wanted to be fixed so that I could be a healer. The harder I pleaded the more distant God felt. What did he want me to do? Where was he? Why would he call me to something that I not only couldn't handle, but that would render me unable to handle anything? And so, we wrestled. There were only two ways this wrestling match could end. It was either going to kill me, or I was going to have to cry uncle.

It took me losing all of my strength before I would finally quit fighting. In my surrender I saw what until then I could not see. God wasn't going to give me rest from my brokenness. He was calling me to rest in my brokenness. To sit down. To feel the pain that my people feel on a daily basis. To hurt for them, and to remain present in a place that most folks try to escape from. I asked God to make me strong. He was delighted that I had finally been made weak. The place that I wanted to hide was the place that God wanted to show the world for my own good, and for his own glory.

I now know that in order for ministry to mean something, it has to hurt sometimes. How often do we rush into ministry, but away from pain? We want to save others, but forget that we can't save anyone that we have no empathy for. I am called to carry the pain of a people. I long to carry it with dignity and sobriety. Sometimes I still try to fix others before they break me. More often though, I'm reminded that only if I allow them to break me do either of us stand a chance of being fixed.

The sacred shrug/ Everywhere part 2

2010-09-24T22:26:00.002-04:00

Sometimes "I don't know" is the best answer. Sometimes a shrug speaks more truth than an over-confident fist pump. Please don't get me wrong. I love the church, and she has been far better to me than I have to her. But at times I see a church dressed with certainty; a church with little to no tolerance for the transcendence of the Eternal. Maybe the best evidence is the lack of silence in our public and private lives. With silence comes mystery. With mystery comes uncertainty. With uncertainty comes a lack of control. And if we're not in control, then just who the heck is? We could give control to God, but he's so unpredictable, who knows what he might do. We are left then with two choices. We either strip God of his mystery, or we strip ourselves of our false certainty. We are reluctant to take the second option for one primary reason....nothing scares us more than nothing scares us. Stepping into the abyss of Gods' mystery scares the junk out of us because there is a perceived loss of identity. Being hidden in Christ precludes us from advancing our own cause.

And so we fake it. We cling to our idols of the intellect that bear a slight resemblance to the Deity they represent. We develop systems of belief that appease for the moment our existential angst. The end result is that God no longer moves in our churches. Every time he tries to, we freeze him in mid stride.

Senior Projects

2010-09-15T14:50:00.002-04:00

One of the privileges that we have in our ministry is the opportunity to build relationships with some pretty cool senior citizens. In addition to providing groceries to the residents of East Side Homes, we have been blessed with the volunteers and the resources to pitch in and repair some houses. This ministry is reserved solely for senior citizens.
Recently, we hosted our first work team consisting entirely of middle-schoolers. Not one of these youngsters had any experience painting, nor of having grown over five-and-a-half feet tall. Yet what they lacked in experience and stature, they more than made up for in heart. They painted, cleaned, and weeded for two days straight. Nary a complaint was heard. They even paid eager attention as Mr. Harvey told tales of his long passed childhood. Mr. Harvey is an eighty-five year old resident of the East Side, and a recipient of some of our groups’ kindheartedness. Remind me to tell you more about this remarkable man later.
After a couple of days of hard work, these young folks headed back to Kernersville with some good stories and a few new friends. We capped the weekend off by taking them to church with us. It’s a red-letter day on Martin Luther King Drive when two vanloads of white kids walk into the sanctuary of Greater St. John Baptist Church. Pastor Kearns gave them the full treatment as he plunged headlong into one of his famous singing sermons. Despite the anticipated culture shock, our team seemed to enjoy it. One of them even volunteered to be an usher.
All in all, it was a great weekend for everyone involved. Some young people got to expand their horizon. Some old houses got a free touch-up. I got to stand back and soak it all in. Thanks guys.

2010-09-07T07:30:00.002-04:00

Hey - I'm guest-posting over here today: http://marykathryntyson.wordpress.com/2010/09/07/hope-for-tre/
Join me on Mary Kathryn Tyson's page to hear about my buddy, Tre.

Everywhere part 1

2010-08-25T21:35:00.003-04:00

What do you think God is like? How does he feel? What does he think about? What does he like? What does he hate? Where is he? How did he get there? All of us have asked these questions at some point or another. Some of us have tried our darndest to come up with sensible answers. To the degree that we are locked into an answer to any or all of these questions is the degree to which we have developed a God-concept. A God-concept is a firm mental image of what you consider God to be like. God-concepts are not all bad. They almost always come with a measure of truth. Trouble gets to brewin' though when we lose sight of God for the sake of our ideas about him.

Up until last summer, I had a deeply rooted God-concept of my own. Over the years, and mostly unknowingly, I had built a statue of the Almighty within the recesses of my mind. I must say, he looked pretty doggone good. I kept him well-maintained, and chased the pigeons away when they got too close. By way of my God-concept, I found spiritual assurance. I pretty well understood God, and was rarely surprised. If ever a doubt crossed my mind, all I had to do was behold my omnipotent statue in all of its' concrete glory. Then the bottom fell out.

Disappointment with ministry. A realization of my own inadequacy. Those and a hand full of other things sent me headlong into a crisis of faith. What had always worked would work no longer. I could no longer answer the questions with confidence. I could no longer convince myself that I understood. The statue was wobbling, and soon it would come crashing down and shatter into a million pieces. I frantically tried to piece God back together, but the glue wouldn't hold. God, as I knew him, was dead. The silence was deafening.

Out of the ashes of my existential despair came a revelation. Now that I lacked a concept of how God was, I was free to experience him as he actually is. I found God by losing him. Through the painful, and sometimes unwilling relinquishment of my God-concept, I had a skin-on-skin encounter with the transcendent. Unbeknownst to me, God had been holding me the entire time.

Redemption

2010-08-03T22:15:00.009-04:00

I recently returned from a week at children's camp. Allow me to sum up my experience via a little arithmetic. 6 black kids + 9 white kids + a duffel bag full of pharmaceuticals + 2 bed wetters + 2 fans + a quiver full of poorly aimed arrows + a snake that may have been an extension chord = Deer cabin 2010. With the race issue alone, there was drama from the get-go. There were times when I honestly wondered if I was at kids camp or playing a bit part in the prequel to the Longest Yard. Rocks were thrown. Words were exchanged. Tears were shed. And that was just among the counselors. Despite the apparent anarchy, we tried everything we could to salvage the week. Laying on of hands. Sad music and altar calls. Eloquent expositions on the harmony of the created order. Yet each new attempt to right the ship was ultimately dashed upon the same rocks that had heretofore been used as weapons.

When the sun rose on Friday morning, we had but one chance. One measly opportunity to rescue this week in the woods from the proverbial bowels of pointlessness. That one chance was the infamous Camp Relay. For those of you unacquainted with this ancient right of passage, the Camp Relay is a five-minute free-for-all across the campground that pits cabin against a cabin in a series of athletic feats. It demands an unbroken string of perfection, and a diverse array of skill-sets. As the race began that day, most leaders cheered their campers on with the predictable chants of " do your best", and " we're all in this together." We were slightly more ambitious. I personally ran the full gauntlet, screaming " for this you were created" into the pre-adolescent ears of my campers. It just so happened that it was our day. For one moment, we somehow managed to take all of the competitiveness, animosity, and malice and direct it squarely where it belonged....in the direction of 100 and some unsuspecting church kids. Wesley Kelly's dizziness- defying performance on the bat-spin was unprecedented. The three-legged race was as graceful as a fresh foal galloping over the green hills of eastern Kentucky. Don't even get me started on the leap-frog.

Well before the last leg was completed, the celebration had already begun. As we hoisted our fifty-pound bifocled bed wetter into the air, the entire week was brought into perspective. Five days of treachery were made right as we received first prize. What was the prize? All the corn dogs we could eat and a fresh mattress for bunk #5. Sweet justice.

Cheeseburgers and Ministry

2010-07-20T22:41:00.000-04:00

I would be remiss if I did not bear witness to what is perhaps the best burger in existence (with all due respect to Mrs. Penny).
Last week on our way to the beach, the family and I stopped in at Johnson’s Hamburgers in Siler City. I had long heard rumors of Old Man Johnson’s unyielding dedication to his craft. I felt compelled to taste for myself. Two words.....as advertised. As moved as I was by the dining experience at Johnson’s, it is the not-so-secret secret to his success that I find most worth sharing. Turns out, Old Man Johnson takes in the same amount of fresh, grain-fed beef every day. It’s the very same amount he has been unloading for the past forty-plus years. In spite of growing demand, this blue-collar businessman refuses to up his order. He cooks what meat he has. Then he shuts it down. Some days the burgers are gone in three hours. They never last more than four. He likewise refuses to increase the size of his restaurant. Twelve stools and a hand full of booths are his max. Patrons who want a burger and a seat will have to get there early and wait. Ornery? Perhaps. Meticulous? Without doubt. But here we find more of an artist than an entrepreneur. A man I picture weeping over his burgers as he patties them to perfection. In the end though, it’s not so much that he despises growth, or refuses to evolve. Mr. Johnson is simply unwilling to compromise the product for the sake of increasing production. He understands that in his efforts to get more people to come, he may make his eatery no longer worth coming to.
I’m asked pretty often where I see the Bridge Project going. How will we expand? How will we facilitate growth? In answer to these questions, I will stand beside the old man and say....we may not go anywhere, we have no plans of expanding, and we refuse to grow if it means watering down the recipe. In burgers and in ministry, it is never wise to sacrifice quality on the altar of success.

Defining Racism

2010-07-10T20:38:00.000-04:00

From day one, a defining characteristic of The Bridge Project has been our calling to stand as a witness against racism. That calling continues as a driving force behind what we do. That part has not changed. What has changed, or I should say is changing, is how exactly we define racism. For the longest time, I viewed and spoke of racism in terms of individual bias. Racism happened when one person judged another strictly on the basis of his race. I’ve noticed that my non-white friends have a distinctly different take on the constitution of racism.
Whereas I often speak of an individual harboring a racist grudge against another, my non-white cohorts seem to speak more of institutions which chronically favor one race over another. Their view of racism is more in line with the classic definition of the word. According to this definition, racism is not just prejudice. It is prejudice plus power. I think of it this way......if someone calls me a name it hurts my feelings. It hurts my feelings a lot worse though if the government agrees with him.
Opening myself to this definition of racism forces me to face-up to an ugly truth. That truth is that I have benefited greatly from the color of my skin, and that my privilege has been to the detriment of others. America was made for white people. For the first four-hundred years of existence, America legally documented black people as “sub-human.” Although we may have publicly repented of our sin, the deep root of white-supremacy remains intact. We don’t notice, but minorities do. They notice because they remain on the business end of the lie that one man can stand over another.
Our work has been aimed at stopping the bleeding in the black community. It’s good to stop the bleeding, but it’s ultimately futile if the wound is not healed. The Black Panthers had a saying for white folks who were sympathetic to their cause. They would say, “Go home and save your own people.” Maybe they were right.

A Revolution of Fidelity

2010-02-10T09:22:00.002-05:00

In our ministry, we are currently embarking upon one of our most seemingly futile attempts to date. About two weeks ago, I began an abstinence initiative with two separate groups of young men. One group is comprised of fifteen to eighteen year olds. The other consists of nineteen to twenty-two year olds. I assure you that the absurdity and even the humor of this initiative are not lost on me. Even so, with each group, I find myself gravitating back to this one subject. Most of my guys are already sexually experienced. Some of them have already born the consequences of sexually transmitted diseases. Two of them are already raising sons of their own. Why then do we spend so much time and energy on what is, by all appearances, a lost cause?
I have three reasons. First, I believe they can change. Each time these young men engage in illicit sex, they are making a conscious choice. As long as they have breath, they have Gods’ grace working in their favor. As long as they have Gods’ grace, they can choose correctly. Secondly, I believe they must change. Restoring sex to its proper place in the black community is not an option. For too long, these young men have used a certain part of their anatomy as a wrecking ball to destroy the surrounding community. Poverty and brokenness will continue to be the birthright of this community if healing does not take place. And third, it is my responsibility to tell them the truth whether they listen to me or not. I am humbled that God has given me access to this pivotal group of young men. I love them, and I am a firm believer in their potential for leadership. As long as I have their ear, I will do my best to point them in the direction of life.
It won’t be easy. There is a momentum of infidelity working against these gentlemen. It is a momentum that has been gaining strength over the course of successive generations. Yet new possibilities are seldom realized before they are first imagined. Can you muster the faith to imagine with me a movement of young black men committed to sexual wholeness? Can you imagine a revolution of fidelity where you least suspect it?

Remembering Martin

2010-01-16T21:25:00.002-05:00

As I write this, we are one week from the annual Martin Luther King Jr. Celebration. Come next week, I and many others will gather together to hear words of remembrance, and to march in unison to the mournful tune of the old spirituals. We will watch clips of the man speaking his most enduring words in the shadow of Lincoln. We may reflect on how far we’ve come, or how far we’ve yet to go in the realization of his ideal. But to comment on how close we are to realizing his vision is to imply that we understand it. Worse yet, it may imply that we understand the man himself. I’m not sure we do.

It is our involuntary instinct to reduce individuals, especially famous ones, to a sound bite. To us, Dr. King was the immortal crusader who sacrificed it all so that black folks and white folks could live with equal dignity. He was the supremely confident-and sometimes downright defiant- champion of integration. He was the guy who wore his heart on his sleeve and asked for no more than a decent seat on the next Greyhound back to Birmingham. For all of the bombastic eloquence of his “I have a dream” speech, there is something harmless and nonthreatening in his appearance. He almost looks cute up there! I don’t know what, but something of the past four decades has softened his legacy. The repetition of the tight, articulate, seventeen minute oration has sanitized him. But rest assured, he was not who you think he was.

Yes his heart beat for equality, but it was not the essence of his message. His vision had to do with something far more dangerous than equality. He was after unity. He didn’t want to be treated as an equal. He wanted to be treated as a brother. He didn’t want to take your seat on the bus. He wanted to sit with you. He saw in the liberation of the black minority the betterment of all creation.

More than a crusader, Martin was a prophet. As such, he deeply identified with how division afflicted the Father heart of God. This awareness broke him. But like his favorite prophet Jeremiah, it broke him and compelled him all at once. He wasn’t just out to heal a rend in the fabric of his country. I think in a way that he nor we could ever fully understand, he was out to heal a rend in the heart of his Maker. There’s nothing cute about that.

when helping hurts

2009-09-11T14:59:00.000-04:00

I’ve been reading a good book lately. It’s called When Helping Hurts, and it’s written by two Christian economists from Covenant College. The premise of the book is that there are essentially right ways and wrong ways of alleviating poverty. Some methods are deemed to do more harm than good. According to the authors, many well-intentioned initiatives actually serve to perpetuate the very poverty they were created to alleviate. If you’re thinking their argument is a denouncement of liberal politics or government welfare programs, you’re mistaken. The intended audience is the church, not the lawmakers.
Here’s my attempt to sum-up their case...when the church eyes the poverty stricken around her, she is too quick to diagnose a lack of material resources as the problem to be solved. Instead, she should possess the patience and spiritual insight to see the inner brokenness that birthed the outer deficit. Poverty is not birthed by a lack of resources. Poverty is birthed by depravity. The collective depravity of mankind, not just that of the financially destitute, keeps the cycle of poverty in perpetual motion. The poor man suffers from feelings of low self-worth and hopelessness that is spread like wildfire in low-income communities. The rich man suffers from the misguided belief that he is responsible for his own good fortune; and therefore assumes to have the tools to pull the poor man out of his wretched state. Apathy meets arrogance. Brokenness meets brokenness. The result? The rich get richer, and the poor get poorer.
Our ministry serves an area that is impoverished by American standards. How we approach the needs that confront us has a lot to say about what we truly believe. This much we must keep in mind; the poor need God, and we’re not Him. By confessing that we don’t have all the answers, we make room for the only answers that matter.

spaghetti

2009-08-03T13:16:00.005-04:00

I am a planner. I like to know of things, events, schedules, etc. way in advance. I love to write things down in my little red calendar. So when Josh tells me, Saturday afternoon, we're having some East Side kids over for Sunday lunch, my reaction was less than enthusiastic. I quickly go into 'how am I going to cook for a bunch of kids when I'm not that great in the kitchen?' mode. And then the 'how are we going to pay for this?' mode. And then sadly, 'wouldn't it just be easier to take them back home after church?' mode. However, as we headed into the busy Wal-Mart that evening, we came up with a meal that would be easy and cost efficient: spaghetti. Noodles, sauce, texas toast, a box of chocolate chip cookies and some Capri-Sun to finish it off. That wasn't so bad.
As the nine of us gathered around our table to share a meal together, I realized it wasn't so bad. In fact, it was good. Something happens when you open your home, your table, your family to others. The meal didn't last very long, Anna Grace didn't eat very much, and the spaghetti itself could have been much better but it was the start of something new. May God bless our table and those who come and eat.

dear mama

2009-05-10T22:17:00.003-04:00

Today is Mother's Day. I thought I would take the opportunity to salute two of my favorite ladies, and the two best mom's I know. The first is my very own mother....AKA Mrs. Cynthia... AKA Mama LeRoy ...AKA the architect of the finest in southern cuisine. If you don't know my mom, it's your loss. Her selflessness, sincerity, and generosity are well-founded, and her chicken spaghetti is the stuff of legend. She consistently and without exception puts others before herself, and never gives up on anyone. If she thinks she has unduly offended you, she will not only apologize for the trespass, but will also abstain from sleep for the next week just to make sure. We pick on my mom a lot because she tries so hard to please everyone, all while taking as many pictures of them as is humanly possible. But we would never change her. Like any mom, she is not without her flaws. Yet flaws are far easier to excuse when they spring from a heart of genuine compassion.

Then there's Laura. Of course I was in love with Laura long before she became a mom. I first knew her as a friend , then as a girlfriend, and then as a wife. I've only known her as a mother for a couple of years, but knowing her as a mother is to know her on a level much deeper than before. I'm not sure if motherhood unearthed something that has always been there, or if it created something entirely new. Whatever it is, and whenever it came into being, I now see something in Laura that humbles me as I endeavor to raise a child with her. As I type this, Anna Grace is running a fever. When Anna Grace is well, it may appear to the untrained eye that Laura and I love her equally. But the higher the temperature, the wider the gap between her love and mine. There is a fierceness in a mother's love that even the most affectionate of fathers fall short of. It's not always pretty. In fact, I find it to be every bit as frightening as it is beautiful. A mother casts aside common sense, moderation, and many other virtues in her primal pursuit to lavish love on her children. Thanks ladies.

Portrait of a prophet

2009-04-12T16:50:00.004-04:00

Unless you're really into seventies music, or grew up in a Christian home, chances are you don't know much about Keith Green. For many-a-Christian, Keith Green is the guy with a white man fro, who screams whilst beating the breaks off of an upright piano. But for anyone willing to peel back the time-sensitive trappings of his music, there appears a tragically uncommon zeal for holiness, and a prophetic anointing that is rarely stumbled upon in today's pulpits. There are a lot of different definitions of the word prophet. Abraham Heschel defined a prophet as "someone upon whom God has thrust a burden." Certainly, a prophet is someone uniquely gifted to communicate a timely and truthful message, with a sense of divine urgency. Keith Green never called himself a prophet. In fact, he practically rebuked anyone who attempted to place the prophetic mantle upon his shoulders. But a prophet he was. He spoke the truth with remarkable clarity. His message and his music were devoid of pretension. He had empathy for sinners, yet simultaneously managed to uphold an unflinching message of Biblical holiness that demanded radical sacrifice. His words cut to the quick of what separated man from his maker.

When Keith was only twenty-eight years old, he died in a plane crash along with two of his young children. When he died, he was still far from perfect. He was prone to ruthless introspection, and was at times unduly harsh of the established church. Even so, there is an undeniable spark still emanating from his live recordings.

heaven in a mason jar

2009-03-31T12:13:00.004-04:00

It's warm outside today. In fact, it's one of the first warm days we've had recently. I've also been really busy over the past few days, so I made the executive decision to give myself the day off. Being self-employed does have its perks. With the extra time on my hands, I was liberated to cook a leisurely meal that can only be prepared when one is unfettered by the usual time constraints of daily life. It wasn't a t-bone steak that I endeavored to serve, nor did I apply my culinary expertise to attain the unapproachable heights of steamed asparagus or grilled tuna. No, mine is a meal devoid of pretension, and its perfection lies within the reach of any who are willing to learn. It is known in the common vernacular as fried bologna and sweet tea. For all of its familiarity, it is a meal that deserves our utmost respect. One must never think he has mastered it, for it is as we approach it with humility that it will yield its inherent beauty.

We begin with the bologna. I prefer Oscar Meyer, but other brands may produce similar results. The key is to stay away from anything that boasts of being organic or all-natural. Such arrogance can never survive the heat of a well greased frying pan. Second, the bologna must be cut on both sides to avoid the infamous "bubble-effect." The slits should be equadistant from the center of the cold-cut, and must be procured by means of a butter knife, or a sanitized pair of scissors. When the bologna commences its distinctive popping sound, it's time to flip. Remember, the second side will blacken sooner than the first, so remain vigilant. Add two slabs of bread and a slice of cheese. Again, no organic or fancy cheeses. The package should read..."pasteurized cheese product."

Now to the sweet tea. The preparation of genuine southern sweet tea is a sacred act that requires a spirit of reverence. Their should be no background noise, unless you have a small TV in your kitchen and are watching reruns of In the Heat Of The Night. The TV cannot exceed twelve inches, and the reception must be via rabbit ears. During a commercial break, bring water to a boil. Once the water has reached a rolling boil, proceed to add four family sized tea bags. I swear by Lipton, but other brands could conceivably be tolerated. Once the water has reached a boil, and has had time to darken, add your sugar. Key: sugar should always compliment the tea, but never overwhelm it. Tea is the star, sugar plays a supporting role. If you cannot taste the tea, you have added too much sugar. You have hence wasted your afternoon, and should begin penance immediately. A note for all of you yankees.....sugar must be added when the water is boiling hot. Adding the sugar after the tea has cooled will prohibit the sugar crystals from being properly diluted, thus compromising the taste. The tea bags should remain in the water for a minimum of one hour. Take heart. Your patience will be rewarded.

0-for-February

2009-03-02T20:13:00.007-05:00

As part of my work with the Bridge Project, I have the distinct honor, and enormous challenge of coaching a group of 16-18 year old boys as part of a program called Hoops and Hope. These are young black men with whom I share little in common beyond a love of basketball, and a compulsive need for a weekly haircut. As the title suggests, we have won nary a game over the past month. After blowing out our first opponent, we've embarked upon a losing streak that currently stands at three games. It's not that we lack talent or athletic ability. We have yet to gel as a team, and we don't play defense. What's worse, even if we had all fifteen players on the court, I'm still convinced we couldn't break a full court press. One act I'm encouraging among the guys is the act of introspection. It's easy to point fingers when you're in the middle of a losing streak, but until each individual has the guts to take personal responsibility, we will continue to have our collective rear flogged in the public square.

The responsibility of course, begins with me. I wasn't supposed to be the coach. My job last year was to essentially serve as team chaplain. Unfortunately, no one stepped up to take the clipboard this season, and I got an unsolicited promotion. Now I'm chaplain and coach. Honestly, it's a very delicate balancing act that I'm still struggling to perfect. Last year as chaplain, I was detached from the concern over wins and losses. I was there to be a spiritual leader. I had the luxury of relating to the young men as people rather than players. How well they performed on the court was of little or no consequence to me. I liked it better that way, especially now that we're losing. As a coach, I have had to surrender my capacity for objectivity. The kid with the better character gets benched for the kid with the better jump shot. That bothers me. On top of all this, I've been pondering Paul's instruction to Timothy to maintain a singleness of purpose. "A good soldier does not get entangled in the affairs of the world," is how he puts it. Have I surrendered my singleness of purpose, or am I just tired of losing?

life in the bubble

2009-01-29T20:22:00.002-05:00

Lament of a young black male............

I live in a bubble. Nobody sees me . You don't see me. You drive past me. You drive around me. You look at me. You look through me. You don't see me. You think you see me. You think you know me. What you see and what you know is a walking, talking, smoking, cussing projection of your own prejudice. I'm not yet a man. I'm not an animal either. Abandonment has hardened my humanity. My spirit-my truth- lie dormant beneath layers of anger and apathy. I don't want you to help me. I don't expect you to help me. I hate you. You know that I hate you. You can feel it. There are few things in existence that you feel more certain of. Yet secretly, deep in the recesses of your soul, in the place that transcends verbal articulation, you are aware of your complicity in my hatred. Your fear of me and my hatred of you are not unrelated. They have grown up together; emerging simultaneously from the soil of distrust. I have my faults. I have deep wounds that need healing. You can help me. You can't help me if you fear me. You have to trust me. But how do you trust someone who doesn't trust you? Making eye contact would be a good start.

confessions of a stay-at-home dad

2008-12-29T11:30:00.005-05:00

Since I was a little boy, I've wanted to be a lot of things. I wanted to be a fireman until I realized that it required inserting oneself into life-threatening situations. I also wanted to be a basketball player, but discipline and athletic ability were never strong suits of mine. I'm sure there were other vocational ambitions that I harbored along with these two, but one thing I never imagined myself being was a stay-at-home dad. I never stayed awake at night dreaming of changing diapers, or spoon-feeding applesauce. But every weekday, from 8:00 til 12:00, that's my job. I pick up Cheerios, wipe noses, read books with cardboard pages, tie shoes, watch Sesame Street, and position hair bows. I buckle car seats, plan field trips, and and beg for kisses. On a good day she takes a nap and I take a shower. On a bad day she dumps her milk on the floor, refuses to put clothes on, and we both cry for mommy to come home. There are some days when I never get a moment to pause and think. There are some days she and I are both painfully aware that I have virtually no idea what in the world I'm doing. There are some days when I think about all the things I need to do but can't do because Anna Grace demands all of my attention. There are even days when I wish I were a fireman or a basketball player. More often though, there are days when she learns something new that I helped to teach her; days when I don't have to beg for kisses or count down the minutes until 12:00. And so I realize that I am richly blessed. My work is its own reward, and my boss is a beautiful little girl whose only flaw is her flair for getting jelly in her hair.

Fun Pics

2008-12-15T13:54:00.000-05:00

For some reason unknown to us, AG wanted to climb into the dryer and didn't want to come out.

Say, "Cheese!"

Diverse and Divided

2008-11-24T22:02:00.008-05:00

Yesterday I had the privilege of preaching at a Wesleyan church on the eastern end of our wonderful state. I lived a good bit of my life in eastern North Carolina, so it always feels good to go back. For me, something happens at the spiritual level any time Raleigh's in my rear-view mirror. From there to the coast, it's nothing but Piggly Wiggly's and peanut fields. I'll admit, my affinity for eastern NC transcends my infamous weakness for Bojangles famous chicken n' biscuits. As is probably obvious by my chosen career path, I like black people. I'm drawn to them, and at the risk of glorifying my own preferences, I would like to believe that I am called to them.

Like any territory blessed with fertile farm land, eastern NC has a rich, and inevitably tainted history of sharecropping, an enterprise that earned the reputation of being a new and improved slavery for the twentieth century. Because of its important role in the era of sharecropping, the eastern half of my beloved homeland has made certain that it will, save for an act of God, always be two things: diverse and divided. Despite its inherent indignities, sharecropping was for many black folks the only viable option in a land still searching for its post-slavery identity. The small community that I preached in yesterday is 85% black. Respectable white folk want to know; where in the @#$% did all these black people come from?! They came from wherever their assistance was not required, or at least not desired. And they came here because working Mr. Johnson's back forty for minimal pay was their only means of feeding their family. Of course, diversity is not bad. What is bad, I believe, is the division amid the diversity. The lack of interaction is unfortunate, but the lack of friendships is tragic. Division of races is a catalyst to injustice and oppression. Here are some questions I'm still struggling with........ -If every street were integrated, wouldn't much of our diversity be lost? -How do you reach across racial lines without violating the culture that makes each race special? - Why does every race, and not just the white majority seem to favor division over unity?

the great unifier pictures

2008-10-28T16:43:00.004-04:00

bridges being formed... in our front yard

the great unifier

2008-10-16T20:56:00.009-04:00

Ladies and gentlemen, I had myself an epiphany last weekend. Over the past year, I have tossed and turned many a night trying to figure out how to unite two races divided by a chasm centuries in the making. What's the answer? Can our children bring us together? You would think religion could do it, but alas it has served only to broaden the breach. In the end, the answer I sought was as close as my coveted collection of childhood memories. What is the answer you ask? Barbecued chicken.

I stumbled upon this revelation quite by accident. We thought that it would be a good idea to invite our neighbors over for a cookout. Understand that Laura and I literally live on the line that separates white from black in our town. It wasn't a big fiasco. There were no clowns, dunking booths, or door prizes. There was essentially nothing more than an over sized pig cooker, a cooler full of Grapette, and a milk-jug full of homemade barbecue sauce. The good Lord saw fit to bless us with one of those idyllic fall days that are only possible in North Carolina. To round out the day, we had as our cook a reformed racist who comes complete with a sleeve of tattoos and a skoal can. In no time, we had Hands Across America taking place right there in our front yard. Young black girls played with my little white daughter, while an elderly black lady made a blatant pass on my young white brother-in-law. It was magical. In light of these events, I am left with no other recourse than to conclude that the smokey sweetness of marinated poultry is greater than the fear that separates us. Indeed, barbecue sauce, with the precise balance of vinegar and spices, does cover a multitude of transgressions.

missionaries and social workers

2008-09-25T21:24:00.006-04:00

If you're anything like me, you have a conflicted opinion when the subject of missions and missionaries arise. On the one hand, you may be challenged by the commitment and passion of those who have chosen to pour their lives out for total strangers in a foreign land. Yet on the other hand, you may be repulsed by past exploits built on Western arrogance. You may see missions as an extension of colonialism, and therefore a veiled attempt to transform the Third World savages into our civilized image. For you, missions may conjure up images of lilly white Americans forcing pamphlets down people's throats, only to end up with a poisonous quill lodged in the side of their collective neck.

Because Laura and I are often classified as missionaries, these are things I think about. As much as I hate it, and as much of a throwback as I like to consider myself, I am a part this current generation. And ours is a generation obsessed with accommodating those God calls us to. We like incarnational ministry. We like relational evangelism. We like to focus on the questions, and pretend as if there are no definite answers. We like our preaching to be conversational, and we'd rather not speculate on who may or may not be going to hell. This, combined with our insatiable appetite for social justice makes us more comfortable with the mantle of a social worker over that of a missionary.

With all of that in mind, ladies and gentleman, here's my advice to myself and anyone who shares my struggle.......Stop whatever you're doing, and remember your calling. Put aside whatever author you happen to be reading. Do not be swayed by the intoxicating glare emanating from his retro lenses. Pick up the Bible and read the book of Acts. See that along with sharing all things together, and caring for the poor, the early church was emphatic that submission to Christ was the only option for salvation. Then, go read the history of the social gospel. See how its proponents sought to replace the supernatural grace of God with the vanity of human effort. After you're done, go pray for somebody's soul. Don't change any of the other things you're doing. Keep feeding people. Keep speaking out against sweat shop labor. All of these thing are vital, seeing as how we are called to reach the whole person, and to promote life wherever we can. But never forget that a persons greatest need is that they submit to the Lordship of Jesus Christ. Missionaries may have been wrong on some issues, but they were right in their insistence that it's ultimately all about a relationship with Christ. In our postmodern world of communal living, human rights, and environmentalism, that's still what it's all about.

Movin' on up

2008-08-25T21:27:00.005-04:00

About two weeks ago, Laura and I made the somewhat difficult decision to move closer to the people that God has called us to. Whether or not to move to the east side has been an issue of much contention since we began our ministry. Among all of the questions that we have mulled over, one has resounded above the rest; is it necessary? Is it necessary to uproot our family and move across town? Is it necessary to move out of a comfortable house in a comfortable neighborhood, and into a somewhat less comfortable neighborhood? Is it necessary to move into such close proximity to a people so different than us? The answer to that question, I have found, depends on just what it is we're trying to accomplish. If our mission is to serve the east side, to provide resources, and to give to the needy, then no it is not in any way necessary for us to relocate. But, if our mission is to establish solidarity with a community, then yes we have to move. And that is what God has called us to. Above and beyond my call to minister, God has called me to be a student. He has called me to that because there is much I need to learn. I need to learn humility. I need to learn submission. I need to learn to share. Much of what I have to learn can only be gleaned by sitting at the feet of a people who have lived a radically different existence than mine. Humility, patience, endurance, and forgiveness can best be taught by those who have been forced to the edges of society. In short, we have things to learn that only the east side can teach us. So, we're not just moving there so we can better meet their needs. We're moving there because we know that we need them as much as they need us. Now, all of this doesn't mean that we're going to pull the plug on all of our ministries. There's just a big difference between ministering to a community, and ministering in a community.

highlights

2008-08-14T21:05:00.002-04:00

I just realized that I haven't posted in nearly a month. Please forgive my sluggardliness. I thought I would take this opportunity to cover some of my favorite moments from what has been a very busy summer for us. Following is a list of the greatest things I witnessed in the preceding weeks........a group of kids from the east side making commitments at children's camp........a group of kids from more affluent backgrounds willing to endure repeated beatings so that my kids could enjoy a week of camp.......a grown black male, wearing a wife-beater, a pair of inordinately over sized pants, and the enduring scent of a Swisher Sweet playing kick-ball in the park.......people, young and old, black and white, coming together to paint the home of a saint named Vastine Franks.......a collection of old men waiting to have their prostates examined the old fashioned way

Those are just a few of the highlights from our summer. Oh yeah, and Anna Grace learned how to walk.

She's 1!

2008-07-23T10:40:00.000-04:00

Our fathers who art in prison

2008-07-14T22:31:00.000-04:00

The fathers are gone. Some are in prison. Some are on the corner. Even those who have never gone to prison have been profoundly effected by the many who have. Most are non-violent offenders. It's quick money, and quick is all they care about. They see no reason to hope for better. They see no reason to save for the future, or to begin the slow, grueling process of change. They wish it wasn't this way, and they want better for their children. But their children will never do better without their help. They can't help because they're not there. So many have gone to prison, so many hustle, so many have been lured away from their families that separation and distance have become second nature. The reality of absentee fatherhood has seeped into the subconscious of the community. They have accepted it. They have integrated it into their worldview. But the children will never accept it. They will never get used to not having a daddy. They will always find it deeply odd that they have a different last name than the woman who raises them. They will never stop wishing that daddy was home, and they will never forget the shame of seeing him on the corner. They will pretend to accept him the way he is, and they will tirelessly defend his honor . Yet the rage with which they defend him will be rooted in the harsh reality that their daddy was never who they needed him to be.

The Bridge Project on video

2008-07-08T21:55:00.000-04:00

A time to slap

2008-06-26T21:57:00.000-04:00

Violence is bad. Fighting is bad. Inflicting pain on others is bad. And war, whether it's necessary or not, is never good. Yet I could never be a pacifist. That's because I'm a daddy. Being a daddy has taught me that there is in fact an appropriate place for defense. This lesson was reinforced yesterday while I was hanging out at the Boys and Girls Club. Some of our young men at the club have a disturbing flare for fondling the most intimate parts of the female anatomy. They have not grasped the consequences of their actions, and therefore continue to grasp anything that jiggles and gyrates in their general vicinity. Like most incidents, yesterdays altercation began with a boys hand on a girls body. Yet unlike most incidents, it ended with a girls hand on a boys face. The young man has a history of trouble, and will likely find himself in the middle of future battles. But I can almost guarantee that he will never again lay his pre-adolescent hand on the person of this particular female. I later pulled the female in question aside and sternly instructed her that if he, or any other boy ever touched her in that manner again......hit him harder. If all of our girls in the east side community would follow her example, there would eventually be a lot less pain. When one sex is forced into subordination, both sexes bear the scars.

Sadly, there is another side of the argument. This side is best told by the expression on the freshly slapped face of our young fondler, whom we'll call Johnny. It wasn't so much an expression of shock on Johnny's face as it was an expression of betrayal. Everyday, girls his age and older crank up 102 Jams and proceed to give their innocence to whatever inanimate object they deem fit. So you can understand why Johnny looks like he just got bit by the friendliest looking dog in the neighborhood. What's the solution? I have no idea. But as long as the boys keep grabbing, I'm gonna tell the girls to keep slapping. That's what I would tell my daughter. But I would also tell her that when the hand that slaps is attached to the arm of a chaste young women who is above reproach, it produces a much louder echo.

Next best thing

2008-06-10T22:22:00.001-04:00

Has anybody here seen my ol' friend Bobby? Can you tell me where he's gone? Not me, but I did just see a well dressed, light skinned brother who bears a striking political resemblance. Ever since he was shot down on the way to the White House, the collective mind of America has wondered, "What if?" What if this deeply empathetic, righteously indignant son of royalty had made it all the way to Pennsylvania Avenue? Any history book can tell you about the man Bobby Kennedy was becoming. How the cries of injustice from Vietnam to Brooklyn had somehow penetrated the insulation of his first class upbringing and awakened his political conscience. How he had transformed from a ruthless witch hunter into the relentless champion of the downtrodden, joining himself with the likes of impoverished drug addicts and oppressed migrant workers. Yet no history book can predict a future that never came to pass. History, however, may be getting a second chance.

As you can tell, I'm an RFK fan. I plead guilty to idealizing his legacy, and to looking at his career and character through rose colored glasses. Sue me. But whatever your opinion may be of the Kennedy's, or of the current candidates, you can't deny the obvious. Barack Obama is Bobby Kennedy after he fell asleep in the tanning bed while listening to "I have a dream" on his ipod. Not only do these two share a common rock star status, and an enduring message of optimism and hope, but they are even running on identical platforms. The goad that pushed Bobby into the race some forty years ago was his outrage over Vietnam. He couldn't understand why America was wasting so many lives and so much money perpetuating an unjust war, while millions at home were financially destitute. Are we not hearing the same rhetoric from Obama?

I understand why Obama scares some conservatives. He carries the mystique of a revolutionary, and promotes ideals that are almost socialistic. But in reality, Bobby was far more radical. His clean-cut image, and impeccable pedigree served as the perfect disguise. He had uprising in his veins, and possessed an inner compulsion to challenge the establishment. So, in honer of Bobby, but mostly in honor of my own curiosity, I plan on voting for Barack Obama. To those who would remind me of his liberal stance on issues such as abortion and the sanctity of marriage, I say two things. First, I would never let him be my pastor, but I will let him be my president. Second, it's impossible in a two party system for any candidate to meet the Christian standard. The key for us is to keep the ship as balanced as possible until Jesus comes back and makes it right.

Anna Grace- The Spring Shoot

2008-05-31T22:14:00.000-04:00

rockin' the chucks

chillin' with uncle chad

whatchu talkin' bout Anna Grace?

unbelief part 3

2008-05-25T18:31:00.000-04:00

Could it be that the heart of a man is in his mind? Often,we hear people say things like, " I've known God in my head all my life, but now I finally know him in my heart as well." Could it be that what they are really saying is, " My cerebral cortex has long believed in God, but now my limbic system has finally gotten the message"? Every culture chooses a body part to anoint as the symbol of a persons essence. For the Hebrews it was the kidneys. For us it's the heart. But ultimately, we're all saying the same thing. Please understand that I am in no way attempting to rob the work of God, or the phenomenon of belief of its mystery. The ways of God will never be fully unraveled. He is God, and can therefore never be fully comprehended by mere mortals like us. At the same time, a basic understanding of how the brain works can help us in our quest for Christ likeness.

So, we've established that to influence a persons core beliefs, we must plunge to the depths of their identity. But don't forget, we're paralyzed, and therefore rendered incapable of saving ourselves or each other. We must pray. Only God can penetrate the many lies that have taken root in the soil of our self-understanding. We must pray fervently and with determination. Our prayer should be like that of the father in Mark 9; " I do believe, help my unbelief!" Could any prayer be more appropriate for our current predicament?

Second, we must reverently, and fearfully drive scripture into the heart of our existence. Be careful, the Word of God is alive and active. It is not applied science. Once it is implanted into your mind, it takes on a life of its own. There is no way to determine what kind of radical rearrangements it may make once it moves in. Again, it's not enough to know God's Word. What matters is whether or not we believe it. Think of God's command to Joshua. He did not tell Israel's new leader to read the Word. He told him to meditate on it. As unromantic as it may seem, there simply is no replacement for memorizing scripture and silently repeating it through the monotony of daily life. Earnest prayer and a humble, yet radical commitment to God's Word are the only means by which our crippled limbs can be rejuvenated.

So rise up Church! You have a message that brings injustice crashing to its knees. A message that breaks the chains of sin, and demolishes the walls that hold souls in isolation. The world is desperate for us to take a dose of our own medicine.

unbelief part 2

2008-05-09T22:46:00.000-04:00

Well, it's been two weeks, and I've yet to hear an audible message from the Lord, so I thought I'd just shoot and hope for the best. Just to recap, we've established that the church has been immobilized by unbelief. Two questions remain. First, why do we believe other things more deeply than we believe the promises of God? And second, how can our paralytic predicament be rectified?

To answer our first question, we need look no further than our own childhood. Some of us in the Bible-belt may have heard the Good News at an early age. Yet we had, at that point, already come to believe other things. The world is full of direct and indirect messages about our worth, or lack there of. Since day one, we've been absorbing false messages that have convinced us to trust no one, and to be discontent with our true identities.

There is actually a science behind all of this. At the very base of the human brain, there's a tiny region known as the limbic system. This area has nothing to do with rational thought, but instead deals with emotion, motivation, and instinct. It only makes sense that those things that we've believed the longest are the things that would be buried the deepest in our brain. Essentially, our intellect can believe in God, while the deeper areas of our brain are sold on an entirely different set of ideas. Ultimately, it's those things that we believe down deep that steer us.

Those of us who were raised in Sunday School are well versed on the Word of God. We know the basic plot, and can fill-in much of the details. Unfortunately, what makes a good Bible Trivia player doesn't always make a good disciple. Again, our problem is not what we know. Our problem is what we believe. Put simply, we have ourselves a problem that bypasses our intellect, transcends our analytical capacities, and strikes at the very root of who we are . As common sense would tell us, a deep problem calls for an even deeper solution. We'll get to that next time.

unbelief part 1

2008-04-25T21:43:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite preachers is a lady by the name of Beth Moore. You've probably heard of her. She is, in my estimation, an anointed messenger of God, and hard proof that God calls women to proclaim his Truth. I was listening to her recently when she said something peculiar. She stated that she had received an almost audible message from the Lord. I turned up the volume and inched closer to the speakers. I'm no seasoned veteran, but I've been around the block long enough to know that, as a preacher, you only get to play the "message from God" card once. I inexplicably used mine up to secure the last piece of chicken at a church potluck. But the message that Beth received was different. It went something like this......"My bride is paralyzed by unbelief."

I was stunned. The more I think about it, the more stunned I become. I had heard that the church was lazy, self-centered, irrelevant, and even ineffective. This message however, painted a much more perilous picture. You see, you can choose to be lazy, and you can choose to be self-centered, but you can't choose to be paralyzed. Lazy people don't move because they don't want to. Paralyzed people don't move because they can't. That means, that unless Mrs. Moore got her lines crossed, the church is in a predicament that she cannot remedy. Her disease runs too deep to answer to will-power.

And what is it that has robbed us of our freedom to act? Unbelief. The very thing that kept the Israelites out of the promised land, has us flat on our back on a gurney of works-righteousness. In the span of history, humans have had no greater problem than unbelief. In many ways, we have had no other problem. Every temptation that we have yielded to has been nothing more than the fruit of an unbelieving heart. Of course we believe in God on some level. We've read much of the Bible, and we can comprehend most of what we hear in sermons. The problem, is that we believe other things more deeply.

-Well that's enough ranting for now. I plan to have more on this subject next week. Hopefully I'll get a word from the Lord between now and then.

Inside-out

2008-04-10T22:27:00.000-04:00

Poverty affords depravity no hiding place. No two-car garage to mask the depths of your discontent. No picket fence to fancy up your hatred. No garden to soften the edge of your existential anger. Poverty is stingy with her standards, and unflinching in her demands. She forces you to come clean about your dirt. She stirs you up to speak the truth without the trappings of political correctness. And so, poverty's people walk around inside-out, their broken souls on public display. Fallenness and corruption would never play hide-and-seek in the projects.

new pics of AG

2008-04-02T13:46:00.000-04:00

Valentine's Day

She's a climber!

Easter Sunday on the island.

three rules

2008-03-11T23:23:00.000-04:00

Have you ever heard the saying, "you gotta start somewhere"? Although I have heard this maxim many a time, I must confess that I am just now beginning to appreciate the inerrancy of such a sentiment. I recently agreed to work with a group of teens in east Asheboro, which is the location of our outreach ministry. So far we have been on two field trips with this group, each one preceded by a recitation of my three rules. The rules are as follows; no cussing, no fighting, and no making babies. Now to you, these rules may indicate my lack of faith in these young people, or an utter disregard for what most would consider good Christian behavior. But unfortunately, many of these kids have long been immersed in a violent society and have come to place a high value on the elocution of the less accepted members of the English vocabulary. Put simply, they drop the f-bomb like it was Pee Wees secret word. As far as the third rule is concerned, it's no secret that the black female has been reduced to nothing more than a sex object by our sin-sick society. What the white man started by raping his slave girls, the black man has perpetuated by forcing her to surrender her innocence to a video camera. The end result are young women with no sense of self-worth, and little willingness to say no. I say all that to say this.........I'm realizing that it's not my job as a minister to get everyone converted on day one. It's my job to nudge them closer to the Cross than they were when I found them. And for some of these bright, talented young people, keeping the three rules is a giant step toward the Cross. Some days, I'd say two outta three ain't bad.

Whitey McWhiterson

2008-02-12T10:53:00.000-05:00

Last month, I had the unique opportunity of participating in a panel discussion as part of the Martin Luther King day festivities. I was the only white person sitting on the panel. I have never felt so white in all of my life. I wouldn't have felt any more white if I had been eating a mayonnaise sandwhich, while singing a duet with Barry Manilow.

All of that aside, it was a great opportunity to interact with the community. One of the questions that was posed to the panel was whether or not we as a society were any closer to the realization of Dr. King's dream. It wasn't until later that I thought of a really good answer to that question. Don't you hate when that happens? At first glance, the obvious answer to that question is yes. We've got more blacks in positions of power, and we've even got a brother in serious contention for the presidency. It's easier now for a black youth to get a college degree, and the days of seperate water fountains seem like ancient history. We seem to be closer to equality now than in days gone by. Yet in truth, King's dream wasn't about equality. It was about unity. When the people join together, equal rights is no longer an issue. Meanwhile history has consistently proven that seperate but equal is a myth. Unless both the population and the power is split 50/50, there will never be equality. And even if their was somehow equal power, the equality would be empty, because we would still be a people divided. King's dream wasn't about two parellel nations experiencing the same quality of life, it was about one nation sharing the same struggles and triumphs as a single, unbreakable entity. So, as long as there is a black side of town and a white side of town we are still an eternity away from realizing the beloved community that Dr. King envisioned. To say that we have arrived when we are clearly still separate is to make a mockery of his martyrdom.

whose fault is it anyway?

2008-01-10T22:09:00.000-05:00

Allow me to paint the scene for you......I'm driving through the east side this afternoon, the community where our outreach ministry is focused, and I come upon a nasty two car collision. There's glass and smoke everywhere, most of which is coming from the front end of a Honda which is now smashed beyond repair. As I pull over to check things out, I notice that the second car has already fled the scene, and that two young black males, passengers in the Honda, are doing likewise. By the time the cops arrived, all that was left was the driver of the Honda; an intelligent young woman, dazed, bleeding , and abandoned. Call me jaded, but that scene would not have taken place in the suburbs. But in the mostly black east side neighborhood, not being around when the cops show up is nonnegotiable.

In my efforts to lay the groundwork for future ministry within this community, I've had to come to grips with an uncomfortable truth: There is an epidemic in black America. I realize that this may seem like a politically incorrect assessment coming from a non black, but this is no time to start being polite. I see the proof of the epidemic most every afternoon at the Boys and Girls Club, where the kids can't understand how my wife and I have the same last name. And where anger and hostility are always percolating just beneath the surface. The question is not whether there's a problem, because there clearly is. The question is, " who's to blame?"

Who's to blame for the rampant poverty, drug use, violence, and broken homes? Who's to blame for the pervasive sense of frustration, disillusionment, and lack of ambition? The answer, as far as I can tell is this: People. Black people, white people, all people. As resentful, fearful, and angry as the situation may make us, we must resist the temptation to label this a totally black problem. The projects didn't make themselves. It may infuriate you to drive through the projects and see a twenty year-old mom with more kids than she can handle, and nary-a-one of them fully clothed. But save a little anger for the white collar suburbanites who decided that it would be a good idea to provide monetary rewards for moms who stay single and procreate at break-neck speed. The ideals of welfare, affirmative action, and racial profiling were not birthed in the ghetto. They were birthed out of a corrupt, corporate system that would rather pacify than mobilize. Centuries of irresponsibility on the part of white America has left deep scars on the psyche of black and white alike. When one human views another as inferior, they are both gravely wounded.

I realize that whites are not alone in this. The black population has its share of the blame as well, and they gain nothing from our guilt-ridden pity. But the next time you're driving through the side of town your mama told you to stay away from, remember, you're not looking at the disease, you're looking at the symptom. Instead of cursing the symptom, why not focus more on curing the disease?

The Amazing Globetrotting Infant

2008-01-02T21:04:00.000-05:00

From the car seat...

to Florida...

to dad's shoulders...

to Asbury...

and now we are back!

Enjoy!

An insufficient Gospel

2007-12-05T21:09:00.000-05:00

The greatest plague on the earth today is a church that no longer believes in its message, and a mass of Christians who are unwilling to throw themselves fully into the hands of their so-called savior. And if the lights were to be thrown on, all would see an army of ministers leaning on everything but God. Do you ever wonder why psychologists are being added to pastoral teams at an ever-increasing rate? Do you ever wonder why your pastors bookshelves are full of self-help books, sold under the guise of Christian living? The answer, I fear, is that we have lost our faith in the Gospel's ability to address our deepest, most urgent needs.

Pastoral care classes have taught us to always have a specialist on speed-dial. We have specialists in every field, from eating disorders to alcoholism. Meanwhile, the only thing we pastors specialize in are referrals. We have become the quacks of the healing profession. Why? Because our medicine, the Gospel, has rarely been proven. It's rarely been proven because it's rarely been tried. Ministers now-a-days are trained as administrators and delagators, and we have largely forsaken our primary tasks of prayer and the proclamation of truth. As a result, we have come to believe more in the power of psychiatry than in the power of prayer. We seem unaware that most systems of psychology have little in common with the Gospel. Self-actualization and self-sufficiency have no resonance with the message of sanctification.

Our faith in Christ continues to weaken because we have given it little to stand on. We have become peddlers of secular humanism, urging our people to manage their sin rather than repent of it. When we do use scripture, we often treat it as a sort of inanimate object that we can grasp and manipulate to meet our own perceived needs. In this way and others, we have placed our religion at the mercy of science. As it stands, we have essentially said to our most hurting people, " Oh I'm sorry, you need real help, and all I have to offer is the Gospel."

Barnyard animals and at-risk youth

2007-11-09T21:13:00.000-05:00

I've seen many a fine combination in my day, from Snoop and Dre, to Parton and Rogers. I've stood witness to the powerful one-two punch of Corchianni and Monroe, and can personally testify that the sum of cornbread and pintos is greater than its parts. But I must go on record as saying that nary a twosome has captured my fancy as that which is stated in the title of this post.

In our effort to lay the groundwork for the Bridge Project, it's our joy to work closely with the kids at the local Boys and Girls Club. A few weeks ago, I went along with them on their trip to Happy Hills farm. On that long dirt driveway, two totally opposite entities came in contact with one another; a fugitive bull, and a van full of kids with names like Elrahim, Tazmine, Drakeela, Precious, and Yadira. Up until this encounter, I "thought" I knew what funny was. I was wrong; horribly, horribly wrong. I have now learned that one has not truly known comedy until one has heard the musings of at-risk children on the vagaries of the bovine anatomy. Trust me.

A few days later, while in the gym at the Club, I was witness to another unusual encounter. While the kids were lined up on the wall, waiting for instructions, there appeared in the open doorway, the head of a full-grown horse. He sniffed a couple of the kids, and then hurried off. He was being ridden by a high school student that I recognized from the Club. Oddly, the group seemed utterly unmoved by this event. Apparently the kids had some prior experience with the horse. Enough so that they found his sudden appearance acceptable. One of them even informed me that it was "normal." Here I had to take exception. It may have been a common occurrence. It may have even been a daily happening. But there is simply nothing normal about a young black male, sporting a pair of Air Force 1's, riding a stallion bareback through the projects.

By the way, if you read my last post, you know of my obsession with spell check. You'll be amused to know that every name listed in the second paragraph got flagged. It's yet another indication that the little man who lives inside of my computer is a flaming racist.

Perfectly imperfect

2007-10-29T15:05:00.000-04:00

I am a perfectionist. Certain things have to be a certain way. Now, you would never think that I was a perfectionist by looking at me or my place of residence. The pants that I am currently wearing have not been washed in over a week, and my shoes are not all lined up at the foot of my bed. Yet, despite the overwhelming evidence of untidiness, I am a perfectionist none the less. One need look no further than this blog for ample proof. Not only do I use spell check on every post, but I've even been known to consult a dictionary before I click publish. That's right ladies and gentlemen, I actually spell check my spell check. But if you think my blogging habits are bad, you should see me prepare a sermon. Every sentence must be measured for articulation and insight. What causes me to exhibit such anal retentive tendencies? Why do I lose sleep and peace over words? Why do I preach as if one stutter, one stumble, or one drawn blank will bring an onslaught of rotten tomatoes from an unimpressed congregation?

I could come up with a lot of noble reasons for my plight. I could tell you that I want to be a good steward, and present a clear, meaningful message. I've believed each of those reasons at one time or another. But ultimately it comes down to this; I'm afraid to be vulnerable, or to be real, for fear of rejection. My words need to be perfect, because I need to be accepted. I'm realizing that this is not how God intended me to live. God wants me to be at peace, and to have a sense of contentment and rest, no matter what value others may give me.

On a related note, I've been thinking a lot about entire sanctification lately. I've been trying to imagine what it might look like. I think it will look different for different people, seeing as how we have all taken different detours from the path of righteousness. I believe that for me, it will look a lot like contentment. There will be a ceasing of all striving and straining. Peace and rest will finally come to replace my compulsive self-reliance. To me, perfection is finally being able to embrace my imperfections. I will be perfect when I stop trying to be perfect. God is worthy of my trust. He is far more reliable than my intellect. He's even got a step on spell check.

Confessions of a glutton

2007-10-15T20:42:00.000-04:00

I like food. I like it a lot. I like it hand-dipped, chicken-fried, and smothered in gravy. I like it with a side of mashed potato's. I like to chase it with an ice-cold glass of sweet tea (AKA-the nostalgic nectar of yesteryear). In all probability, you like food too. In fact, the very reading of these first few sentences is likely to have stoked your salivary glands, and left you with a notion to hit the pantry for that half-a-Swiss roll your wife left. The question is obviously not if we love food. The perpetual affection for calories is an enduring distinctive of the human condition. The question is why. Why do we love food? Why are we compelled to consume more than is good for us?

Well, I don't want to speak for you, or to rob you of the joy of discovery, but I can tell you why I love food. For me, it's not the taste of food that keeps me coming back for more. No, my love lies in the feeling of fullness. I love to feel stuffed. I like to gorge myself to the point of dry-heaval. I like for my meals to force me into a pair of unflattering sweat-pants. The reason for this, I believe, is that the feeling of fullness is the feeling of self-sufficiency. Each time I fill my stomach to capacity, I secretly tell myself; " I can do this!" Silencing my hunger pains helps me temporarily forget my mortality. When I'm filled to the brim, I'm no longer faced with the inconvenience of trusting God for my next meal.

So what do I do? Well, I can start by rediscovering the fast as a means of grace. The occasional denial of my most primitive drive is the least I can do to reclaim my dependence. But in my battle against gluttony, I need more than just a weekly fast. I need for the spirit of the fast to penetrate my every meal. Come to think of it, feasting once-a-week would likely do my soul more good than fasting once-a-week.

It was pointed out to me this past week that the first temptation of man, and the first temptation of Christ both dealt with food. The enemy must know something. He must know that if he can get us to indulge our innate drive for food, he can practically annihilate our drive for God.

Could it be that our quest for calories is about more than just our love for Grandma's homemade biscuits and apple-butter? In truth, is it not more about our pursuit of self-sovereignty?

AG update

2007-10-06T17:34:00.000-04:00

Anna Grace is about 2 1/2 months old now. She has come a long way since her short stay in the hospital due to a viral infection. Her mommy is now germaphobic but she's doing great.

mohawk baby

hanging out with uncle chad.

singing with grandpa.

To the left, to the left

2007-10-01T15:07:00.000-04:00

Those of us raised in the relative conservatism of the Wesleyan Church, know all about the rules and regulations of organized religion. We have grandmothers who won't wear make-up, and grandfathers who won't wear wedding-bands. We couldn't play organized sports on Sundays. We couldn't play cards ever. And we pledged a weekly allegiance to the Bible and the flag. My, how things have changed. It doesn't take a sociologist to observe that today's crop of Christian leaders walking out of Wesleyan colleges and seminaries, are stepping a little more to the left than did their predecessors. It seems that we've traded our CYC sashes for " Coexist" t-shirts, while tee totalling has given way to tolerance.

Of course, there's a lot of good in this. Our freedom and openness brings an attraction that legalism lacked. We've become peddlers of a more inclusive salvation. We're tuned in to the world around us, and we're not afraid to ask the tough questions. Neither are we afraid to break down racial boundaries, and we recognize that God and country are not synonymous. Yet, in our rejection of the past, God forbid that we forget what our forefathers were reacting against. In our contempt for legalism, may God give us the foresight to see that there's death in the other ditch as well.

The root of left-wing Christianity is an emphasis on the here and now. If it doesn't help us here, and if it doesn't help us now, it doesn't help us period. It is, by necessity, a lateral movement. It is us moving toward our brother in charity and good-will. Anything that halts, or delays this movement, is to be rejected. Followed to its logical conclusion, it leads to an outright denial of supernatural intervention and revelation. Waiting on miracles keeps us from solving the problem ourselves. Therefore, miracles must be shunned. Somebody needs to tell Mr. Jefferson, Mr. Tolstoy, and our other enlightened brothers that a Gospel without miracles is a Gospel without hope.

The old Wesleyan guard is dying off. My concern is that our future state may look shockingly similar to the present state of the United Methodist Church, unless we slow our leftward slide. In the end, I'd rather argue over the color of the carpet than the deity of Christ.

A saint and an activist

2007-09-21T21:06:00.000-04:00

disclaimer: sorry for the somber mood of this post. I think I've been reading too much Ecclesiastes recently.

Different people can see the same sin,the same injustice, the same oppression, and react oppositely. The activist, when he sees injustice, is thrust into the world, seeking to extract the sin from society. The saint, seeing the same injustice, is thrust into himself, seeking to extract the sin from his own heart. One is with the people. He works tirelessly in the heat of the sun to bring about restitution. The other is with no one but God, and toils in the heat of brutal examination. The activist is perpetually frustrated. When one hole is patched, another one just as big springs a little further down the line. Always searching for a clue without, he fails to notice the presence of the perpetrator within.

The saint has no false notions of moral exemption. And so, he stays hot on the trail of sin's inner descent. It's not that he doesn't go out into the world, he just does so with a different point of view. Like the activist, the saint walks the streets of a sin-sick society and seeks to administer mercy. Yet the world to him is like a mirror. It merely serves to reflect back the wickedness of his own heart. The dark, dingy alleys that surround him pale in comparison to the putrid pathways of pride in his own heart.

After a job well done, the activist rests easy. As he drifts off to sleep, he whispers a prayer; "God, give me one more day to make a difference." The saint next door is wide awake. He stares up at the ceiling and prays quietly; "Search me O God, and know my heart. Try me and know my anxious thoughts. See if there be any wicked way in me, and lead me in the way everlasting."

These days, God is gently teaching me that he doesn't need any more activists, but that saints are in short supply.

Life as a Protest

2007-09-07T21:10:00.000-04:00

Thomas Merton was a promising young writer, destined to become a martini-sipping socialite in 1940's New York. Fortunately, a radical conversion rescued him from the jaws of decadence and landed him squarely in a Cistercian monastery, deep in the woods of Kentucky. From there Merton, a monk stripped of his worldly identity, would become a best-selling author, amassing a legion of fans who would never lay eyes on him. Much of Merton's writings were spiritual in nature, offering a transparent glimpse into one man's search for Transcendent Truth. Yet every now and again, the good Father would point his pen directly at the sinful structures of American culture.

He wrote scathing rebukes of American foreign policy, and gave articulate expression to the injustices of racial intolerance. In this way, Merton was a paradox, both relevant and reclusive. Much of this paradox was reconciled after his death in 1968. It was then, upon venturing into his hermitage, that his fellow monks found stashes of News Week magazines and Bob Dylan records piled high next to his collection of theological commentaries.

So what would possess a gifted writer with a social conscience to take on the life of a hermit? Though he had many reasons for his pursuit of solitude, one of his most provocative motivations was the making of his life into a symbol of protest. It wasn't a rejection of the world, but of its values that led Merton into self-imposed exile. He rightly saw that a perverse quest for power stemming from deep shame on a personal level, led to nuclear warfare and genocide on a grander scale. He considered it to be the calling of every Christian to let their lives stand as a ringing indictment of a sinful society. And so, he lived his life as a resounding "no" to a value system that stood in opposition to the Good News of Christ Jesus.

In contrast, I find my resounding "no" to be muffled by the undeniable presence of greed and selfish-ambition. Likewise, if we Christians are supposed to be living life as a protest, I must say that we form a pretty sad picket line. At best, our witness is more of a resounding " Uh, I'm not so sure about this."

Our Little One

2007-08-27T15:01:00.000-04:00

Here's Anna Grace making pottery... while sleeping.

She loves her daddy and her daddy loves her.

A smile!

A tough mind and a tender heart

2007-08-22T21:23:00.000-04:00

One of my favorite preachers of all time is Martin Luther King Jr. He is, by general consensus, one of the most persuasive speakers to ever step into a pulpit. In his collection of sermons entitled the Strength to Love, he uses his typical imagery and alliteration to state that Christians are to have both a tough mind and a tender heart. He draws from Jesus' command to be as wise as serpents and as innocent as doves to solidify his point.

I never really understood what Jesus or Dr. King meant until this past week. We here at the Bridge Project had our first outreach event in east Asheboro just a couple of days ago. By the grace of God, and with the help of a lot of committed church people, we delivered over 1500 dollars worth of school supplies to some financially less fortunate young people. Some of those who worked with us had done this before. Most of us hadn't, and it showed. We were perhaps naive and over anxious to be of service. Maybe we gave some of those book bags to the wrong people. Maybe there were people who needed them worse than those who got them. Maybe that old lady with the unlit cigarette in her mouth really doesn't have sixteen kids whose book bags all got stolen by a masked bandit with a hook for a hand. I know I need to have my mind toughened, and that until I do, I might get taken a few times. I just hope I don't trade my tender mind for a tough heart.

Doozie of a Two-zie

2007-08-08T10:15:00.000-04:00

Usually on this blog, we deal with issues related to our ministry. But right now, I would like to pause and reflect upon the pleasures and perils of parenthood. I apologize in advance. We took Anna Grace home from the hospital on July 22. Since then, we have experienced the full-range of highs and lows, all punctuated by a seemingly endless supply of poopy diapers. During her first two days at home, there was virtually no bowel activity to speak of. Naturally, we were concerned. I found myself doing what I never imagined I would do; praying for someone to poop in their pants. That prayer has since been emphatically answered.

That her intestines are functioning at full capacity was never more clear than yesterday afternoon. What began as a routine diaper change quickly descended in to an astonishing display of fecal fireworks. Perhaps sensing that her hiney was finally unfettered, Anna Grace let loose with a barrage of human waste. Laura and I stood by helplessly as our little princess morphed into a merciless projectile of poo-poo. Our baby room used to be decorated in pink. Now it's decorated in a mixture of pink and a brownish-yellow. I just hope the world is ready for her highly interpretive art work. Call me old-fashioned, but I find it all a bit too edgy.

The Newest Bridge Builder

2007-07-24T16:41:00.000-04:00

Anna Grace LeRoy has arrived!

Patrolling for Prostitutes

2007-07-04T11:40:00.000-04:00

Have you ever been shocked at your own capacity to hate? To me, there's nothing more humbling than coming face to face with my personal monster of maliciousness, especially when he springs forth unannounced. I had such an encounter just this afternoon. Driving through the east side neighborhood which we hope will become the home of the Bridge Ministry Center, I was approached by two young black males. Before I had time to think, I had two new, uninvited passengers in my pick-up. I was instructed to peruse the block in search of "chicken heads" (don't ask). After mentioning that I was a pastor, my two companions thought better of my abilities to locate prostitutes, and I was alone once again. Yet what remained was a lingering skittishness regarding people of color.

As tempting as it is to chalk this skittishness up to common sense, I suspect it has a lot to do with fear's dominion over my fallen nature. Common sense is not driving down Brewer Street with my doors unlocked. Locking out an entire race just to be on the safe side is another matter entirely. To fear is to hate, therefore you cannot love that which you fear. That's why, for Christians, the fear of man is not an option. But the fear of man is not the only emotion that I must guard against in these situations. In many ways, the only thing worse than fearing/hating a people group, is feeling guilty about fearing/hating a people group. Guilt-induced pity is nothing more than a sugar-coated poison that only serves to secure the chains of those that we feel bad about oppressing. In my relationships with those of a different persuasion, I need less fear, and therefore less hate, and therefore less reason to feel guilty. Only through the annihilation of these base emotions can love rule my actions. I could also use power locks, but that's beside the point.

Gettin' Settled

2007-06-15T14:19:00.000-04:00

About a week and a half ago we moved into our new home here in Asheboro, and I (Josh) have only eaten at Bojangles twice. We've been extremely busy these past couple of weeks, but feel that the Lord is already confirming our calling . Pastor Charles and I are currently mulling over an idea for a ministry center in an impoverished section of our city. Every vacant building I drive past has become a possible suspect. I'm spending a lot of my time driving through the streets and praying for open eyes and open doors. Yesterday morning was spent in "Real Cuts" on Martin Luther King Drive. I exited the premises with an impeccable fade and a pocketful of stories.

In other news, Laura is doing great, and looking beautiful. Today is our fifth anniversary, and we plan on eating somewhere really nice (Bojangles perhaps?). The little one seems to be doing great, but her mama is starting to get a bit anxious.

Continue to pray for us as we spend our summer presenting our vision to the local churches.

On the Move

2007-05-24T21:01:00.000-04:00

The Bridge
Laura and I are happy to announce that the Lord has led us to begin a new church plant project in Asheboro, in partnership with the NC East District and Foster Street Wesleyan Church. We will start out on staff at Foster Street and begin laying the groundwork for a multi-racial, socially conscious church in this Randolph County community.

Many of you may be asking, “Why start another church in Randolph County?” That’s a good question, seeing as how there are more Wesleyan churches in Randolph County than there are Sir Pizza’s. Yet, by some accounts, there remain some 82,000 unchurched people in this county. In addition, there are approximately 3,000 people living below the poverty line in Asheboro alone. There is still much work to be done, and we want to be part of the solution to the spiritual, physical, and social problems present in this city.

We long to recapture John Wesley’s vision of a salvation that touches every aspect of the human condition. It was a vision birthed by our Lord Jesus Christ himself, who was compelled by compassion to consistently act on behalf of “the least.” And so, we call our project “ The Bridge.” By means of this bridge we hope to provide community for the outcast, opportunity for the oppressed, deliverance for the addicted, and grace for the hopeless sinner. We'd love to have you join us in the bridge-building business. Let us know if you want to help, because we need plenty of it.

“Called to be a prophetic witness of personal holiness, racial harmony, and social healing within the community of Asheboro.”