I recently asked my grandmother, who is 87 years old and barely speaks English, whether she watched the NCAA finals. Usually an avid ESPN watcher, she surprised me by saying "What NCAA final?" She then chuckled and said, "To tell you the truth, I haven't been watching sports lately. I've just been watching Hilary and Obama fight on TV! And it's SO much fun!"
I asked her about her opinion of the canditates and she gave me her synopsis of all the issues and the debates that were going on.
"I really like Obama. His face is so good to look at! His mouth, when he smiles, it's like the sun is going to come out! But Hilary, she's always shaking hands and signing papers, shaking hands and signing papers."
Sunday, April 13, 2008
Sunday, April 6, 2008
Real Life Stories
I'm currently reading a book called Same Kind of Different As Me. It's a novel that gives vignettes about two men living in Texas. One of them is a prestigious multi-million dollar art dealer. Another is a man who grew up as a modern day slave, a share cropper who lived in isolated poverty and who eventually hopped on a train to a city and became a homeless man. The book [which is a true story told in the two's own words] chronicles the lives of these two men as they're brought together by the rich man's wife, who happens to catch a glimpse of what Jesus talks about when He says to "love your neighbor and love the Lord". The book records their stories before and during their moments of getting to know one another, the challenges, and the transformation that happens for the both of them and then the community around them. I've appreciated this book so much because it seems to tell it from perspectives that are so honest to emotion and the reality of life. More than rich churches talking about the theoretical basis of "reaching the poor" and social structures and injustice, it's a real life story of about the reality of what Jesus' Kingdom looks like, what his love looks like, and how it transforms us and the relationships we have with people around us. I love these kind of stories.
Until it comes knocking on my door.
For the past two years of living in West Philly, our house has been consistently frequented by a homeless man who I'll call "Joe". It started out as a picture perfect "privileged person" and "homeless man" relationship. We would invite Joe over for dinner when he stopped by. We'd listen to his stories for hours, we'd laugh and hug, we'd pray together and we'd help Joe out with a couple of dollars as he had need. While it wasn't perfect, I felt like God had broken down some of the barriers of those two roles and had given us some pretty genuine interactions. Until he started coming at 3 or 4 in the morning every week. And while Joe has never out rightly lied or deceived us, friends who also knew of Joe told us he wasn't always honest [as if I've never lied or told partial truths to get my way!]. Suddently the suspicions began to grow and I felt the need to protect my space.
So Joe comes knocking on my door tonight and I invite him into our home to get out of the cold. After sitting and listening to him talk for a bit, my defensive shields go up when he mentions "needing a few bucks". Suddenly my compassion goes to the sidelines and I basically tell Joe that I need to go do something else [in essence, kick him out of my house]. And while I knew in my heart that it was wrong for me to ask him to leave into the cold as we were about to eat our steak dinner, I really didn't feel like being used. As Joe begins to realize that he's not welcome at our house at this particular moment, he begins to resort back into the "homeless man" speech - comments about needing money, helping him out. As he's leaving, I realize what I'm doing and offer him a ride to his next destination. He declines, saying he needs to wander around in the cold for a few more hours before he can go over. I tell him to come back if he needs a ride later on at night. But somehow I think that the damage done tonight was less so about him wandering around in the cold as it was me creating boundaries that shouldn't have been there.
It takes me back to just a few years ago when it wouldn't be uncommon to find myself sitting with a homeless man on the stoop eating a meal together, running around the streets of Philadelphia in the rain with a home cooked meal trying to find one of my homeless friends, or praying in the middle of the night with a couple that was beaten down by the roughness of the street. Perhaps it was idealism, but perhaps I just had less things distracting me from what the Gospel really teaches.
Matthew 6 is one of those passages that blows my mind. The passage talks about giving to the needy, storing up treasures in heaven, how we should pray, and then caps it off with "don't worry about your needs because your Daddy will take care of you". Somehow that chapter seems to tie together so much of how we're practically able to live when dealing with situations like Joe's. Of particular, Matthew 6:24 pops up for me"No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money". I've never thought of myself as someone who loves money ~ I work because I enjoy my job, I don't mind giving away portions of my money, I don't really need a lot of stuff to be happy. But, I'm realizing more that perhaps my love for money isn't the actual "stuff" that it brings as much as it's about the safe boundaries that it brings. Money seems to be the thing that most blatantly separates me and Joe. And somehow, inherently, I want to believe that my having money makes my motives more true, my actions more noble. But Jesus comes and ruins all of those pretty boundaries. Suddenly we all become poor and it's not about the amount of stuff that we have here on earth, but the riches that God gives us. Suddenly, there's not too much of a difference between Joe and I.
Until it comes knocking on my door.
For the past two years of living in West Philly, our house has been consistently frequented by a homeless man who I'll call "Joe". It started out as a picture perfect "privileged person" and "homeless man" relationship. We would invite Joe over for dinner when he stopped by. We'd listen to his stories for hours, we'd laugh and hug, we'd pray together and we'd help Joe out with a couple of dollars as he had need. While it wasn't perfect, I felt like God had broken down some of the barriers of those two roles and had given us some pretty genuine interactions. Until he started coming at 3 or 4 in the morning every week. And while Joe has never out rightly lied or deceived us, friends who also knew of Joe told us he wasn't always honest [as if I've never lied or told partial truths to get my way!]. Suddently the suspicions began to grow and I felt the need to protect my space.
So Joe comes knocking on my door tonight and I invite him into our home to get out of the cold. After sitting and listening to him talk for a bit, my defensive shields go up when he mentions "needing a few bucks". Suddenly my compassion goes to the sidelines and I basically tell Joe that I need to go do something else [in essence, kick him out of my house]. And while I knew in my heart that it was wrong for me to ask him to leave into the cold as we were about to eat our steak dinner, I really didn't feel like being used. As Joe begins to realize that he's not welcome at our house at this particular moment, he begins to resort back into the "homeless man" speech - comments about needing money, helping him out. As he's leaving, I realize what I'm doing and offer him a ride to his next destination. He declines, saying he needs to wander around in the cold for a few more hours before he can go over. I tell him to come back if he needs a ride later on at night. But somehow I think that the damage done tonight was less so about him wandering around in the cold as it was me creating boundaries that shouldn't have been there.
It takes me back to just a few years ago when it wouldn't be uncommon to find myself sitting with a homeless man on the stoop eating a meal together, running around the streets of Philadelphia in the rain with a home cooked meal trying to find one of my homeless friends, or praying in the middle of the night with a couple that was beaten down by the roughness of the street. Perhaps it was idealism, but perhaps I just had less things distracting me from what the Gospel really teaches.
Matthew 6 is one of those passages that blows my mind. The passage talks about giving to the needy, storing up treasures in heaven, how we should pray, and then caps it off with "don't worry about your needs because your Daddy will take care of you". Somehow that chapter seems to tie together so much of how we're practically able to live when dealing with situations like Joe's. Of particular, Matthew 6:24 pops up for me"No one can serve two masters. Either he will hate the one and love the other, or he will be devoted to the one and despise the other. You cannot serve both God and Money". I've never thought of myself as someone who loves money ~ I work because I enjoy my job, I don't mind giving away portions of my money, I don't really need a lot of stuff to be happy. But, I'm realizing more that perhaps my love for money isn't the actual "stuff" that it brings as much as it's about the safe boundaries that it brings. Money seems to be the thing that most blatantly separates me and Joe. And somehow, inherently, I want to believe that my having money makes my motives more true, my actions more noble. But Jesus comes and ruins all of those pretty boundaries. Suddenly we all become poor and it's not about the amount of stuff that we have here on earth, but the riches that God gives us. Suddenly, there's not too much of a difference between Joe and I.
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