CruciformMe

Today I’ve been reflecting some on a day that changed my life: May 25, 2008.

On that date, I picked up a 13 year old kid from the Freedom neighborhood to come stay with me for two weeks. A year later, Romeo’s still here and I have no regrets.

Unsure of what to type next, I just went to his room to check on him. When I opened his door, it made such a loud noise that I was worried it would wake him. It didn’t. Some things don’t change - he still sleeps like the dead. I remember, though, when the door had to be open and a light on so that he could get to sleep. This was back in the days when he would still hide food and sharp objects near his bed and even under his pillow, when he would still keep all his things in a box, when everything I asked him to do was a battle, when he just as soon lie to me as look at me. Thank God those days have passed, for the most part; there are still a few battles now and then, but what good would being 14 be if there wasn’t?

Over the course of the past twelve months, he has made several significant strides. He burned his gang’s flag (a handkerchief that signifies gang membership). He went from reading at a 3rd grade level to reading at an 11th, from missing 55 school days last year to only missing 1 this year, from straight F’s to all A’s and B’s. He’s responsible, honest, well-behaved… where did I go wrong?

We’ll probably get his TAKS scores in this week. As I told his teacher, if he passes one, we’ll be doing the happy dance at my house. Those scores may never give anyone a full picture of his progress. I really don’t give a rat’s ass what the tests say - and ass of rat is not a highly valued thing to me, except to feed the snake. He’s progressed farther than anyone ever could have dreamed. I know I’m proud of him, and I hope he can learn to be proud of himself, too. None of these things came easy, but he made it anyway.

“In all these things, we are more than conquerors through him who loved us.”

Romeo's Crip Flag... On Fire!

Romeo Eats a Pomchi

Romeo the Cowboy

Slow shutter speed and a lighter. Yes, we're playing with fire. At least he's a boy scout!

Failure.

Many have overcome it.

Everyone has experienced it.

Reality TV is really based around it.

True, isn’t it? We watch shows like American Idol, and just as much as we pick winners, we pick the losers, too. We judge the giftedness of others on the largest stage ever devised, and we’re all very comfortable with that. And we even brag about how good we are at deciding who will stay and who will go.

After all, there can only be one winner, right?

We take a moment to say a quick requiem for their broken dreams, usually taking the form of an, “Awwwww, look, they’re crying.”

We have all become very good at this. Our cynical nature takes over, sometimes from the moment we see them. That’s what happened in the video linked below. However, as reality (but not necessarily Reality TV) often does, it surprises us.

Cynicism, while often giving us an excuse to laugh, may not be the best thing for the soul. Cynicism tends to expose the bankruptcy and emptyness of the judge rather than the judged.

One of the elders from Highland brought his wife, who has many medical problems and is very frail, to Freedom on Saturday night. Normally she stays home, but I guess she wanted to come. She’s very sweet, and everyone at Highland loves her, but she hasn’t been at Freedom very many times.

She came in her wheelchair. A note about our building: it is possible to get into the sanctuary if you’re on wheels. However, accessibility was clearly not a major concern when it was built in the 1920’s. So once you’re in, you either need to step out of your wheelchair, or you have to stay at the very front of the auditorium. As everyone else is facing the front, where the band and the speaker are, you end up just to the left, facing the action from the side.

Her husband didn’t sit up there by her. He helps direct things from the back, so she was sitting by herself, singing along and tapping her hand to the music.  At one point, she apparently felt very moved by the music and decided to stand.

Watching her struggle to her feet was almost painful. Her thin fingers took hold of the black armrests on her wheelchair, and she began pushing herself slowly up, clearly straining for every inch of vertical movement. Finally, she was on her feet, though she look as though she might fall at any moment, perhaps even if someone coughed too hard. Growing more and more unsteady, she stood in front of us, wavering as she sang every word of the song. All the while, her knuckles remained white, still gripping the armrests with all her might in a valiant attempt to remain standing.

I was just about to try to figure out a way to get to her, when the door from the hallway opened at the front of the auditorium, on the other side of her from the congregation. For a moment, I hoped it was somebody who could help her, but was disappointed when I realized it was only Darlene.*

Darlene is one of our mentally handicapped members. Slow and simple, but sweet, she helps with the children most of the time. As is often the case with someone of her mental capacity, she is often socially inappropriate. For example, it took a long time for me to explain to her why I would really rather not be tickled whenever she sees me. As I’m not ticklish and didn’t respond to her whenever she did this, I’m still not sure how she got started. Regardless, it took a couple of months of reminding her before she switched to just giving me hugs. (”But Zaaa-ach, it’s supposed to make you laugh when you’re tickled,” she would pitifully say.) During the summer, with Abilene’s many 100-degree days, she often reeks of body odor. This does not stop her from giving out hugs, however.

Darlene stood at the front for a moment, unsure of where to sit. She slowly (little ever goes quickly with her) looked across the sanctuary, until her eyes settled on the woman who was struggling to stand just a few steps away. Darlene took a couple of hesitating steps and ducked under one of the woman’s arms, lifting her and allowing her to stand more comfortably and with stability. Together they stood until the song was over - the woman sang and Darlene just smiled under the burden that she was sharing.

My jaw dropped, and tears came to my eyes. So often, those of us who have come over from Highland see ourselves in the supporting role. Middle-class in our assumptions and self-assured in our role, we find our support back at that other building or in some other place. Its our job to support these people here, not the other way around, right?

We are so wrapped up in a false perception of self-reliance that we think that it is our own strength that holds us up along with those around us. From our perspective, we look down on these neighbors, pulling them up as we say, “When will they learn to stand on their own two feet?” I’ve been wondering now if God must look at us and say, “When will they realize that no one stands on their own?”

This is the real Body of Christ. Every part with its own function, every piece desperately needed. Some are teachers, even without meaning to be. I’m learning this lesson over and over again. We need to remember that we believe in the upside-down kingdom where the king rides a donkey instead of a horse, to die is to live, and where the educated wealthy ones need a hand up from the retarded poor ones. This kingdom is not only possible, I saw it on Saturday night.

* name changed

This is the new place. Yes, it’s exactly the same.

I’m in the Highland office now, working at the computer in the community ministry office.  Mike Cope is in his office across the hall.  I occasionally wonder if he remembers the time in Randy’s and his Bible class when, from the row behind him, I poked his bald spot with a pencil eraser.

I don’t think I’ll bring it up. Two years is a long time.

That is not a general question, but I mean specifically whether or not to wash the ashes off my forehead. I went to my first Ash Wednesday service today. I have these vague kid memories of people walking around in San Antonio with ashes on their heads, so I guess we leave them on, regardless of what Jesus says about washing our faces.
Then again, that same chapter would have me not talking about it, either.

I have a feeling I’ll be in the minority today.

Dylan was suspended from school on Friday, and spent most of last night in a Juvenile Delinquent Center, because his friend shoplifted $400 worth of merchandise and Dylan is guilty by association. While I’d love to say that Dylan just had a bad couple of days, it’s not true. Things have been spiraling down since the beginning of this semester.

He was doing so well. His teachers, his principal, his mom, the other people at church - no one could believe how well things were going for him. And now my mind wanders and wonders and I think to myself that maybe none of us should have ever expected much. Maybe we gave him too much credit, and maybe it was just what economists call a “dead cat bounce” - there’s no hope, but things inexplicably improve for a short while. (This is based on the mildly entertaining yet graphic theory that even a deceased feline will bounce if dropped from a great height.) Or maybe it’s me, maybe my head got too big, maybe I’m completely unprepared to mentor any kid, maybe I should just quit tryi….

Enough.

I’ve long had it with the name-it-and-claim-it crowd. God does not give us everything we ask for, even it seems to be beneficial. But I’ve also had it with the notion that there is ever an end to hope. I believe in a God who calls into being what is not. (Rom. 4:17)

If I had to make a guess, I will see more of this from Dylan before I see less. But I refuse for him to be overtaken by evil, and I renounce any power of darkness that would seek to destroy his future. Even though he doesn’t know it, yet, he is a child of light. God has already staked his claim. Satan doesn’t even have squatter’s rights on this precious boy. He belongs to the shepherd who goes into dark places to find lost sheep.

When did this post turn into a prayer?

It’s past 2 am, but now that my computer is working again (kinda), I need to share some exciting news about this site:

photos.cruciformme.com

That’s right! You now have the priviledge of viewing the pictures I take, right from the conveniance of that chair your sitting in.

From Theirs is the Kingdom: Celebrating the Gospel in Urban America:

A truly worthy poor family: Is devout, close-knit. Has a responsible father working long hours at minimum wage wherever he can find work. Has a mother who makes the kids obey, washes clothes by hand, and will not buy any junk food. Lives in overcrowded housing; will not accept welfare or food stamps even when neither parent can find work. Always pays the bills on time; has no automobile. Has kids that do not whine or tell lies.

Hmph. Yeah, right. I love what I do with Freedom Fellowship, but sometimes it just seems we’re being manipulated - like when the family you meet while walking the streets says they need food, but the mom is chain smoking. On top of that, they’re headed to Subway for dinner. I love what Robert Lupton says next:

I want to serve truly worthy poor people. The problem is they are hard to find. Someone on our staff thought he remembered seeing one back in ‘76 but can’t remember for sure. Someone else reminded me that maybe to be truly poor means to be prideless, impatient, manipulative, desperate, grasping at every straw, and clutching the immediate with little energy left for future plans. But truly worthy? Are any of us truly worthy?

Oh, that. Well, I guess not.

The truth is, I compare this to how we act towards God when we get desperate. Grasping at the straws of his promises to take care of us, we try to weasel out a divine favor in every way we can - we make promises we can’t and won’t keep, we try to use our good behavior as a bargaining chip, and we definately aren’t above speaking to the Almighty with impatience. I imagine he could proabably view me the same way I might be tempted to view the family I mentioned above. He could, but he won’t, because he took the time to step into my shoes, our shoes. He knows what it means to be desperate.