Nashville is a great city, but it has it's wounds.
Over the past few weeks, I've made some regular friends I can talk and have good conversations with. I met my friend Bobby last week: a man whose orange coat is about as loud and friendly as he is. He's had quite a bit of heartbreak over the past ten to fifteen years, along with a motor cycle accident and a bipolar fiancee and a recluse spider bite. (If you don't know the type of bite I'm talking about, look it up. Makes for a good squirm in your stomach.) But he stays as happy as he can throughout the junk that's come his way. He's a very humorous person and is sure to have a good time. He hates salad, but lives for the croutons.
I asked him last time if he had been looking around for a job and he said, "No! Why would I look for a job? I'm doing what I love! I make music and I get my check from the government and I don't pay taxes! Why doesn't everyone live like this?! They call me a conformist, but I think I'm okay."
This doesn't help the homeless stereotype, but he's a good guy, nonetheless. This week was a little bit of a downer for him, though. He found out that his sister passed the day he left Texas (which was about three months ago) and his family neglected to tell him. He was pretty upset about it, because she wasn't a Christian, according to him. Apparently she was a drunk and not a light one, either. I didn't pry on what it really was that killed her because, let's be honest, that's not the brightest thing to say when someone finds out that their family kept the death of a sibling from the other sibling. Though everyone else had something to say about the death, and it was a general consensus that his sister was burning her ass off in hell.
Here's where I get really uncomfortable:
It's an obvious "worst-cast-scenario" situation when people tell people about the Lord. The modern Gospel is that Jesus came to save our souls from damnation and reconcile our relationship with the Father God. (Never-we-mind that this take on the gospel is only about 150 years old and the previous "Gospel" was that Jesus came to destroy the devil and his works. This means to destroy hate, war and injustice. But hey, we live in a fallen world right? I guess the prophets and the JC were just kidding about that part.) I don't take the modern gospel lightly, and it's a very serious subject and I could go down a whole other theological rabbit trail, but here's the gist: Do we really want to see everyone go to hell?
No, not at all.
And I don't claim to know everyone who's going to heaven or hell. I think the only one who has that call and authority over this is God. And to say I know the thoughts of God is to say that I'm Jesus. Honestly people, I don't want blasphemy on my head with a stoning sentence as well. I can't handle that this week. It's sound theology to say that those only come to the Father through Jesus. I believe that. I live by that. But in this situation, do I tell Bobby that his sister is spending eternity in somewhere that I can't even give a clear definition of? I believe in hell, I just have no idea what the heck HELL looks like. I don't really like thinking about it.
It makes me very angry when Christians think they have the authority (and sometimes audacity) to tell people where their loved one ended up. Bobby didn't need to hear what those three people said. To tell someone who is hurting that their loved one died, "Well, I guess they're in hell now, aren't they?" What gives us that right? And if someone wants to feed me the scriptures about "we have authority," I'll politely tell you to shove it. We may have authority with the scripture and we have authority over Satan, but I doubt we know the true thoughts of God.
Death is not something that was designed for us. In the garden, there was no pain or death, but the whole sin thing got a hold of the world and now we find ourselves in the mess we have here, readily repairing and waiting for the Lord's total restoration of the world. It's a sad subject, something natural, and something that we can't comprehend until we're there. And death requires silence. Our "authority" or "knowledge" of the subject has no place in the time of pain. Love has no voice many times throughout our lives. And to try and voice love when it has no words to say just has us spitting empty words. And they are words we don't know.
It's like giving a loaded gun to a child.
It doesn't comprehend the power it has, and when we do crap like that...
...we don't even know what love is, then. We just know a bunch of phrases that are as worthless as clay.
As we find death among our lives, let us love. We don't need to tell people their fears. Their fears are to be dealt with however they will be. Sadness needs to take it's course, and grieving must take place.
Hey, even Jesus cried when Lazarus died. But wasn't Lazarus a follower of the Messiah? Why would he cry if he's already "saved"? I don't claim to know everything, but I know when I don't have the answers.
So, Bobby, I don't know if your sister is in hell. I hope she's not, but I'll be here to comfort you. I won't shove words down your throat, and I'll try to lift you up as much as I can. In the meantime, know I love you, and so does our Yeshua Meshiach, and our great father. Grace and peace to you, as well all try to love more and more and repair the broken kingdom.
Let the Kingdom come, because it's at hand.
Blessings.
Tim
Wednesday, April 22, 2009
Sunday, April 5, 2009
Voice Calling from the Wilderness
Nashville's a great city, but it has it's wounds.
This week I would return to the overpass to commune with the lonely and displaced: the refugees of fortune's backlash. I listen to my iPod on the way, listening to bands ranging from Take It Back! to Jon Foreman and M. Ward. If there are things that make me more sensitive to the voice of the omniscient or the beckoning of love, they usually pertain to M. Ward or other neo-folk. And then I listen to the song Ara Batur by Sigur Ros. Every time I hear it, my eyes look up to the sky and I swear I can see a rip in the fabric of the cosmos. God comes alive. And I dine with him.
I have an excitement to my step tonight. I'm eager to search the crowd for John the Anarchist (who provided me with the gospel last week), but as I circle the concrete in anticipation, I don't find him. I get a little sad and stand in the back with the friends I come with. I should call them my family. We all live together and eat together and learn together. I guess that's what families do. (And I have a great one back home to show me such a manifestation of love) I find one of the girls who came with me and we both circle the lines of people, shaking hands and asking how they were doing. Some recognized us from last week, but I see a lot of fresh faces. I inquire the Almighty if there's someone who needs prayer. I come to a guy who's name escapes me at the moment (Lord Almighty, I hate it when that happens. I loathe it). We pray for him and his family. He just got a part-time job at Vanderbilt hospital, and he's hoping for it to promote to fulltime. He has a family, though most of them are grown. He has children and grandchildren. And he's on his way up, and he doesn't want to fall. We retreat to the back supports of the over pass where someone stands guard the "Prayer Request Table" (as the cardboard had it labeled). We all look at the service, whose stage lights have now come on. The rich white people of whatever Baptist church begin to sing their songs with their backtracks, and I get a bit unsettled. Rich white people talking to a bunch of addicts, runaways and just plain people with bad luck about how God provides. I get a bit judgemental and start to get ancy to get the night over with. If John isn't here, what reason am I here for?
And then I see him.
This guy is dantily picking up soda cans out of the trash can. I had seen him before when I first got there, but I didn't talk to him. I was nervous and I wanted only to see John, so I just kinda patted his shoulder and said, "Hey man, grace and peace." Now, here he is in front of me, picking up some spare change from the garbage. I feel the push and the girl forementioned follows me again. I say, "Hey, how's it going?" and smile a big smile because I know I'm about to get to smell like the inside of some grandfather's armpit. I unzip my sweatshirt and pull of my sweater. I have a single white t-shirt on, and I start to dig through the salisbury steak and the veggies to get to the off-brand tin that would get this guy at least some moolah. My friend, the girl, comes and joins in and the victim of our help let's out a little "Ooo!" out of shear suprise. After we get enough sauce on our hands, he says thank you about a million times and we move on to the next one. And then the next one after that, and the next one after that; and the one of after that. We end up going through five garbage cans around the sanctuary. We managed to get someone hand-sanitizer from the ladies in the food trailers, but rubbing alcohol ain't gonna rub that stank away. I put my shirts back on and zip up my hoodie, and I smile. I shake his hand firmly and look right at him when he repeats, "Thank y'all! Thank y'all so much! Name's Clint! Thank y'all! Y'all wonderful! God bless ya!"
But admist our own mission, we see Clint starting to go and grab everyone's trash and throw it out for them. He actually goes through the probably one hundred fifty people and cleans it all up for everyone. And then we see other people giving him their cans, and this cycle of people cleaning up and helping each other booms! It was a truly wonderful sight to see.
God is good.
I had also talked to a guy named Mike. He'd been out on the streets for a few weeks, or some short length of time. He'd gotten caught up in drinking and all that goes with it, which isn't anything pleasant. He said he'd been drinking heavily for two years and then it just caught up with him. I pray with him and there were specific words and phrases within the prayers that rang completely true with him. They were factors that he'd actually be struggling with, which made me feel glad that the spirit used me. Selfish, I know, but I was happy to be able to talk with the guy and help him out as much as I can.
I stayed with him the rest of the service, not even talking much, but just sitting with him. He was smiling and young. The guy's not deranged or anything, nor is he old. He's only gotta be about 24...26 at the most. He's tall and pretty fit. Just a bad stroke o' luck, and it sucks. And sometimes, looking at these services, I feel like the barrier is still there. I feel as if the social classes are two levels of Dante's Inferno. Each having it's own torture, but we got there one way or another and we have to deal with it. This, however, can be remedied easily by a shake of hand and exchanging of words. He was glad I was there I would see him the next week.
I saw Clint that next week (which I guess is this week now) as well. I helped him get his cans again, and we were actually told we were distracting attention from the service, so we took our garbage cans behind the cement barrier. Which is funny. I figured church service wouldn't mind us helping out the poor, but I guess it was a bit distracting from the hype booming from the pre-recorded tracks and rich whiteys.
But that's a very judgemental statement and I complied with something they wanted us to do. To make a scene is to be prideful. But pray for Clint. His car payment is due, he's got no money, and someone stole all of his cans (and he had a crap load of cans.) So, lady luck is not so helpful right now.
It's late on a friday night and I'm tired. This is a lousy ending to a great story, but my body is punishing me right now.
May grace and peace reach us all.
Let us bring the kingdom closer.
Love wins.
This week I would return to the overpass to commune with the lonely and displaced: the refugees of fortune's backlash. I listen to my iPod on the way, listening to bands ranging from Take It Back! to Jon Foreman and M. Ward. If there are things that make me more sensitive to the voice of the omniscient or the beckoning of love, they usually pertain to M. Ward or other neo-folk. And then I listen to the song Ara Batur by Sigur Ros. Every time I hear it, my eyes look up to the sky and I swear I can see a rip in the fabric of the cosmos. God comes alive. And I dine with him.
I have an excitement to my step tonight. I'm eager to search the crowd for John the Anarchist (who provided me with the gospel last week), but as I circle the concrete in anticipation, I don't find him. I get a little sad and stand in the back with the friends I come with. I should call them my family. We all live together and eat together and learn together. I guess that's what families do. (And I have a great one back home to show me such a manifestation of love) I find one of the girls who came with me and we both circle the lines of people, shaking hands and asking how they were doing. Some recognized us from last week, but I see a lot of fresh faces. I inquire the Almighty if there's someone who needs prayer. I come to a guy who's name escapes me at the moment (Lord Almighty, I hate it when that happens. I loathe it). We pray for him and his family. He just got a part-time job at Vanderbilt hospital, and he's hoping for it to promote to fulltime. He has a family, though most of them are grown. He has children and grandchildren. And he's on his way up, and he doesn't want to fall. We retreat to the back supports of the over pass where someone stands guard the "Prayer Request Table" (as the cardboard had it labeled). We all look at the service, whose stage lights have now come on. The rich white people of whatever Baptist church begin to sing their songs with their backtracks, and I get a bit unsettled. Rich white people talking to a bunch of addicts, runaways and just plain people with bad luck about how God provides. I get a bit judgemental and start to get ancy to get the night over with. If John isn't here, what reason am I here for?
And then I see him.
This guy is dantily picking up soda cans out of the trash can. I had seen him before when I first got there, but I didn't talk to him. I was nervous and I wanted only to see John, so I just kinda patted his shoulder and said, "Hey man, grace and peace." Now, here he is in front of me, picking up some spare change from the garbage. I feel the push and the girl forementioned follows me again. I say, "Hey, how's it going?" and smile a big smile because I know I'm about to get to smell like the inside of some grandfather's armpit. I unzip my sweatshirt and pull of my sweater. I have a single white t-shirt on, and I start to dig through the salisbury steak and the veggies to get to the off-brand tin that would get this guy at least some moolah. My friend, the girl, comes and joins in and the victim of our help let's out a little "Ooo!" out of shear suprise. After we get enough sauce on our hands, he says thank you about a million times and we move on to the next one. And then the next one after that, and the next one after that; and the one of after that. We end up going through five garbage cans around the sanctuary. We managed to get someone hand-sanitizer from the ladies in the food trailers, but rubbing alcohol ain't gonna rub that stank away. I put my shirts back on and zip up my hoodie, and I smile. I shake his hand firmly and look right at him when he repeats, "Thank y'all! Thank y'all so much! Name's Clint! Thank y'all! Y'all wonderful! God bless ya!"
But admist our own mission, we see Clint starting to go and grab everyone's trash and throw it out for them. He actually goes through the probably one hundred fifty people and cleans it all up for everyone. And then we see other people giving him their cans, and this cycle of people cleaning up and helping each other booms! It was a truly wonderful sight to see.
God is good.
I had also talked to a guy named Mike. He'd been out on the streets for a few weeks, or some short length of time. He'd gotten caught up in drinking and all that goes with it, which isn't anything pleasant. He said he'd been drinking heavily for two years and then it just caught up with him. I pray with him and there were specific words and phrases within the prayers that rang completely true with him. They were factors that he'd actually be struggling with, which made me feel glad that the spirit used me. Selfish, I know, but I was happy to be able to talk with the guy and help him out as much as I can.
I stayed with him the rest of the service, not even talking much, but just sitting with him. He was smiling and young. The guy's not deranged or anything, nor is he old. He's only gotta be about 24...26 at the most. He's tall and pretty fit. Just a bad stroke o' luck, and it sucks. And sometimes, looking at these services, I feel like the barrier is still there. I feel as if the social classes are two levels of Dante's Inferno. Each having it's own torture, but we got there one way or another and we have to deal with it. This, however, can be remedied easily by a shake of hand and exchanging of words. He was glad I was there I would see him the next week.
I saw Clint that next week (which I guess is this week now) as well. I helped him get his cans again, and we were actually told we were distracting attention from the service, so we took our garbage cans behind the cement barrier. Which is funny. I figured church service wouldn't mind us helping out the poor, but I guess it was a bit distracting from the hype booming from the pre-recorded tracks and rich whiteys.
But that's a very judgemental statement and I complied with something they wanted us to do. To make a scene is to be prideful. But pray for Clint. His car payment is due, he's got no money, and someone stole all of his cans (and he had a crap load of cans.) So, lady luck is not so helpful right now.
It's late on a friday night and I'm tired. This is a lousy ending to a great story, but my body is punishing me right now.
May grace and peace reach us all.
Let us bring the kingdom closer.
Love wins.
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