5.4.2009
6:15pm
I’ve been thinking a lot about Native Americans, land, systems of organizing people, personal and collective heritage… well it’s a lot of stuff that’s not easy to list out. I’ll start with a Wendell Berry essay I read recently called The Body and the Earth, taken from his book “The Unsettling of America.”
In this essay, he talks about rites of passage, wilderness, and what it means to be human. The point of bringing all that up, of course, is to provide a meaningful critique of American culture. Rites of passage, he says, are a human tradition by which an individual faces his or her smallness (really mankind’s smallness) in relation to the created order and then comes out with a better understanding of mankind’s place in it all. Another way to say it is that one goes into the wilderness to face death and be reborn.
His point is that we don’t have any wilderness left; therefore, we cannot place ourselves meaningfully within creation. Rather than measure ourselves in relation to nature, we measure ourselves according to the manufactured world. By disconnecting ourselves from the earth, we have made it that much harder to understand what it means to be human. Thus, we further disconnect ourselves as we build a society centered on industry and information.
Reading this essay made me think about the couple days I spent in the Sierra Nevadas last summer. I’ve never understood why being in nature stirs me like it does, but part of it, I’ve come to realize, is because nature itself is counter-cultural.
Let me explain.
The environment which shapes our way of living and thinking and understanding our experiences is contrary to the natural order. Therefore, alone in nature, you have to understand yourself through a different rubric. You are not only removed from the modern infrastructure, but also the modern mindset.
The things around you are foreign. They do not depend on gasoline. They are not producing anything to market or sell. They were not put in place by a human thinking human thoughts. A tree does not measure its progress as it grows. An ecosystem does not study itself to figure how to maximize profit.
To be isolated in nature is to dwell in a realm not dominated and shaped by man's ambitions.
Technological advances in the last couple centuries and urbanization have created a world where a lot of people live their entire lives farther removed from nature than ever. We mostly live, as Berry says, in the world we have created. Basically everything we come into contact with has been fashioned by other people, most of it by some kind of business.
Just sitting here looking around my bedroom, I see products brought to me by Shwin, Dell, Work ‘n Sport, Basic, Bic, Morgan, Panasonic, Mirra, and a bunch of others. We forget that all the stuff these companies use to build their products comes from the earth, one way or another. Sometimes, we even forget this about the grocery companies!
Someone told me the other day that scientists have figured out how to grow meat! Imagine that! A slimy chunk of meat sitting under a plastic bubble in some lab, growing from the tubes stuck into it!
No wonder it felt so strange to spend two days by myself in the mountains last year—away from the sight and smell and sound of all our crazy inventions. No wonder if felt foreign to a mind shaped by such a conundrum from 23 years! We have so removed ourselves from the natural realm and the humility and wisdom it holds for us, that is feels un-natural to spend any significant amount of time within it.
Jeepers…
Saturday, July 25, 2009
Friday, July 17, 2009
Sierra Nevadas
The next couple of posts are basically adapted journal entries dealing with nature. As my own understanding mankind’s relationship to creation develops, I look back on experiences I’ve had over the last several years. (Or maybe it’s the looking back itself that develops my perspective). The following paragraphs were written in August of 2008, when I went out to California to visit my friends Dan and Rachel and go to my friend Eric’s wedding.
I spent a couple nights in the mountains by myself. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever done, probably. Dan dropped me off where the Pacific Crest Trail comes real close to I-80, right near Donner Summit. He had packed me a bag and let me use all his gear. He and Rachel were having a family gathering and Donner Lake, and the pass sits right between their house and the lake. So he dropped me off Friday night and picked me up Sunday afternoon.
The first night I stayed up on a place called Castle Peak. I found a little nest thing that somebody had made underneath a pine tree. In the morning I followed the trail, which goes north along this big ridge with huge valleys on either side. The valley on the east side had lots of ridges, big open grassy fields, pine trees, and huge rock formations jutting up within it. One big hill in the middle was covered with pines that seemed to lead up to a perfect point, like the spot in a painting or photograph where your eyes are naturally drawn by leading lines. As you walked further on the trail, you could see a little lake on the valley floor, surrounded by swampy green grass, trees, and white rock faces. That’s where I camped the second night.
I climbed down through a lot of scratchy bushes, wild flowers, and chunky rocks. The further I descended, the more isolated I felt and the more I questioned each step I took. Hundreds of potential disaster situations played through my mind. “If I slip and break my leg, nobody is going to find me for a long time. I will be a stupid hiker statistic. If I’m alive when the rescue crew finds me, they’ll say, ‘You’re damn lucky, kid. You almost got what you deserved wandering down there by yourself.’”
Well, I made it down. I only realized how huge of a hole I had climbed into once I reached the bottom and stood on the rocks by the shimmering lake water. What had looked like a big hill full of pines from up on the ridge was now a mountain of its own. This side of it was sheer, white rock faces that jutted up at least 200 feet. In fact, from where I stood by the little lake, I couldn’t even see Castle Peak where I slept the night before because this rock mountain stood in the way.
I got naked and swam in the lake (what else do you do when you’re alone in the mountains?) I wrote in my journal a bit, found a perfect place to sleep, made some food, went to bed as the sky was darkening. The next morning, I climbed out. Back up on the ridge, where you could see the whole valley, I realized I had taken a very difficult and steep route. There was a trail that led up a gentle, grassy slope that sat on the backside of a steep rock face. How was I to know from way down there?
Anyway, the point of this isn’t to relay every detail of my experience. At times during these 42 hours I felt this strange sensation that I was in the wilderness, but not really. Sure, I was more alone than ever in terms of access to people. Down in the valley, the number of people within a one-mile radius of me was probably the smallest it’s ever been. And it wouldn’t have been easy to get to any of those people. However, as I perched on huge, silent rocks looking over the valley that stretched to the east, I felt at the same time that I was at home and that I was a foreigner.
The mountains around me and everything growing on their surface—it all seemed comfortable with itself. The trees were comfortable to sit in stillness and let the wind comb through their branches. The boulders were content to rest as they had rested for thousands of years. Part of me blended so naturally into this life, adopting its posture of silent reverence, taking water from the cool streams to nourish myself, absorbing the sweet scent of wildflowers and taking shelter from the sun beneath the pines.
Yet I knew that I was carrying civilization inside myself. I knew my thoughts were not the thoughts of one who has lived long in the mountains. They had been molded by modern conventions—computers, cell phones, consumer centers, the music industry, automobiles, television, ect.
But you can’t blame it all on technology. I spent a good deal of time thinking about this girl who I’m supposed to see next week who I took on a date a year ago—you know, wondering what it’ll be like to see her, making conversations in my head about what we’ll talk about, thinking of where we’ll go and what we’ll do. I spent some time journaling about women in general, and something about it felt strangely perverse, like it was a shame to be cluttering the valley with all my goofy thoughts.
I spent a couple nights in the mountains by myself. It was the coolest thing I’ve ever done, probably. Dan dropped me off where the Pacific Crest Trail comes real close to I-80, right near Donner Summit. He had packed me a bag and let me use all his gear. He and Rachel were having a family gathering and Donner Lake, and the pass sits right between their house and the lake. So he dropped me off Friday night and picked me up Sunday afternoon.
The first night I stayed up on a place called Castle Peak. I found a little nest thing that somebody had made underneath a pine tree. In the morning I followed the trail, which goes north along this big ridge with huge valleys on either side. The valley on the east side had lots of ridges, big open grassy fields, pine trees, and huge rock formations jutting up within it. One big hill in the middle was covered with pines that seemed to lead up to a perfect point, like the spot in a painting or photograph where your eyes are naturally drawn by leading lines. As you walked further on the trail, you could see a little lake on the valley floor, surrounded by swampy green grass, trees, and white rock faces. That’s where I camped the second night.
I climbed down through a lot of scratchy bushes, wild flowers, and chunky rocks. The further I descended, the more isolated I felt and the more I questioned each step I took. Hundreds of potential disaster situations played through my mind. “If I slip and break my leg, nobody is going to find me for a long time. I will be a stupid hiker statistic. If I’m alive when the rescue crew finds me, they’ll say, ‘You’re damn lucky, kid. You almost got what you deserved wandering down there by yourself.’”
Well, I made it down. I only realized how huge of a hole I had climbed into once I reached the bottom and stood on the rocks by the shimmering lake water. What had looked like a big hill full of pines from up on the ridge was now a mountain of its own. This side of it was sheer, white rock faces that jutted up at least 200 feet. In fact, from where I stood by the little lake, I couldn’t even see Castle Peak where I slept the night before because this rock mountain stood in the way.
I got naked and swam in the lake (what else do you do when you’re alone in the mountains?) I wrote in my journal a bit, found a perfect place to sleep, made some food, went to bed as the sky was darkening. The next morning, I climbed out. Back up on the ridge, where you could see the whole valley, I realized I had taken a very difficult and steep route. There was a trail that led up a gentle, grassy slope that sat on the backside of a steep rock face. How was I to know from way down there?
Anyway, the point of this isn’t to relay every detail of my experience. At times during these 42 hours I felt this strange sensation that I was in the wilderness, but not really. Sure, I was more alone than ever in terms of access to people. Down in the valley, the number of people within a one-mile radius of me was probably the smallest it’s ever been. And it wouldn’t have been easy to get to any of those people. However, as I perched on huge, silent rocks looking over the valley that stretched to the east, I felt at the same time that I was at home and that I was a foreigner.
The mountains around me and everything growing on their surface—it all seemed comfortable with itself. The trees were comfortable to sit in stillness and let the wind comb through their branches. The boulders were content to rest as they had rested for thousands of years. Part of me blended so naturally into this life, adopting its posture of silent reverence, taking water from the cool streams to nourish myself, absorbing the sweet scent of wildflowers and taking shelter from the sun beneath the pines.
Yet I knew that I was carrying civilization inside myself. I knew my thoughts were not the thoughts of one who has lived long in the mountains. They had been molded by modern conventions—computers, cell phones, consumer centers, the music industry, automobiles, television, ect.
But you can’t blame it all on technology. I spent a good deal of time thinking about this girl who I’m supposed to see next week who I took on a date a year ago—you know, wondering what it’ll be like to see her, making conversations in my head about what we’ll talk about, thinking of where we’ll go and what we’ll do. I spent some time journaling about women in general, and something about it felt strangely perverse, like it was a shame to be cluttering the valley with all my goofy thoughts.
Thursday, July 9, 2009
Inspiration from a Child's Perspective
The last time I rode my bike from Manteno to my house, I stopped briefly at the state park. Next to the suspension bridge, I stood for a while looking at the stone memorial commemorating Rockville, a settlement established there in the 1830s. I looked down a path that leads to the bike trail, and something made me think about how exciting the sight would have been to me when I was eight years old.
When I was a kid, simple things like an over-grown path surrounded by trees and leading down a hill inspired me. The trees were filled with Indians and I was a cowboy. The trees were filled with dinosaurs and I was a Jurassic Park ranger. Things in nature were bigger and grander when I was a kid.
I remember getting stung by a bee down the gravel road from my house when my mom and grandma were picking some kind of flowers that used to grow there. There’s just a little hill where the flowers grew, but back then it seemed huge.
I remember building a fort in the woods between my grandparent’s house and ours. The thrill of constructing a shelter in a wild, unsettled place nearly overwhelmed me.
Now, the woods is just a dinky splotch of dying trees, cut in half by ComEd’s power lines that stretch overhead. The state park is just an over-trodden patch of land, full of people seeking leisure next to the river.
But as I’ve learned about my town’s history and what the land held for the Indians and the early settlers after them, I wonder which perspective is more accurate. Perhaps it takes a child-like imagination to see the beauty and wonder that time and development have slowly covered up. With that understanding, what remains of the natural order still offers a wealth of resources and lessons.
When I was a kid, simple things like an over-grown path surrounded by trees and leading down a hill inspired me. The trees were filled with Indians and I was a cowboy. The trees were filled with dinosaurs and I was a Jurassic Park ranger. Things in nature were bigger and grander when I was a kid.
I remember getting stung by a bee down the gravel road from my house when my mom and grandma were picking some kind of flowers that used to grow there. There’s just a little hill where the flowers grew, but back then it seemed huge.
I remember building a fort in the woods between my grandparent’s house and ours. The thrill of constructing a shelter in a wild, unsettled place nearly overwhelmed me.
Now, the woods is just a dinky splotch of dying trees, cut in half by ComEd’s power lines that stretch overhead. The state park is just an over-trodden patch of land, full of people seeking leisure next to the river.
But as I’ve learned about my town’s history and what the land held for the Indians and the early settlers after them, I wonder which perspective is more accurate. Perhaps it takes a child-like imagination to see the beauty and wonder that time and development have slowly covered up. With that understanding, what remains of the natural order still offers a wealth of resources and lessons.
Monday, June 29, 2009
Trump's Tower
Anyone who has viewed the Chicago skyline with me lately knows of my distaste for the Trump Tower. I cannot look upon the thing without sneering and muttering something under my breath. Riding past it on my bike, I do not look up in awe; I do not celebrate the architectural accomplishment. Instead I compose a private monologue:
"Up till now, Donald, I've been able to ignore you. For most of my life you were just a name that flashed past in headlines; you were just that super rich guy from New York with bad hair and a worthless TV show. But now you're stretching your empire into my city, and I don't like it. What business do you have naming giant buildings after yourself, anyway? Can't you settle for New York, Las Vegas, and Dubai? Do you really have to come creeping into the Midwest?"
Some of my friends have had the pleasure of hearing this whiny litany while approaching the city on the Dan Ryan with me or walking together downtown. Indeed, the tower's very sight evokes in me a disdain so strong that I do not myself understand it. Isn't it irrational to have such emotions toward a man you've never met? Aren't there dozens of other buildings in Chicago funded by resourceful businessmen? Why don't Sears and Chase boil my blood so?
It is not Trump himself who angers me. His 93-story tower points to problems with the world and with human nature. When I see it, my mind thinks back through a hundred other depressing observations I've made about mankind, and the lesson learned from all of them is this:
People do a lot of things that don't make sense, thereby creating systems that don't make sense and perpetuating senseless activity.
Thoreau articulated this truth, writing from his cabin next to Walden Pond in Massachusetts in the 1840s. He digressed from answering the question of how a person can live most sensibly to discuss the construction of another architectural wonder, the pyramids. He writes:
Most of the stone a nation hammers goes toward its tomb only. It buries itself alive. As for the Pyramids, there is nothing to wonder at in them so much as the fact that so many men could be found degraded enough to spend their lives constructing a tomb for some ambitious booby, whom it would have been wiser and manlier to have drowned in the Nile, and given his body to the dogs. I might possibly invent some excuse for them and him, but I have no time for it. As for the religion and love of art of the builders, it is much the same all the world over, whether the building be an Egyptian temple or the United States Bank. The mainspring is vanity, assisted by the love of garlic and bread and butter.
This passage made me laugh out loud, and I immediately felt validated in my my disgust for the Trump Tower. I do not advocate drowning Donald Trump and throwing his body to the dogs, but Thoreau's point could not be heard more clearly. The way people live does not make sense because they are short-sighted and predisposed to foolishness.
It does not make sense to become rich, especially if it is by building giant towers full of luxurious accommodations that no one needs. It does not make sense to contribute to such an operation by offering your skills and labor in exchange for a paycheck. It does not make sense to buy a condo overlooking the Tribune clock tower for $2.4 million.
How far all of that is from the simple wisdom of the Psalms. Describing the greatness of the works of the Lord and how he provides for his creation, from the small animals that live in the crags of the rocks to the leviathan who frolics in the depths, the psalmist writes:
They all wait for You
To give them their food in due season.
You give to them, they gather it up;
You open Your hand, they are satisfied with good.
You hide Your face, they are dismayed;
You take away their spirit, they expire
And return to their dust.
You send forth Your Spirit, they are created;
And You renew the face of the ground.
Let the glory of the LORD endure forever;
Let the LORD be glad in His works;
He looks at the earth, and it trembles;
He touches the mountains, and they smoke.
Why not take joy in the basic provisions so graciously supplied by the one who gives you breath? Why not take only what you need? Why not recognize that when your breath is taken away you will expire and return to dust? Why not live with the understanding that you and your race are a small part of the created order?
Instead, people lust for power, and the ones who gain the most- be it pharaoh or his modern descendants- memorialize themselves with needless and expensive structures. They gobble up money and human labor that could be put to use in a thousand other reasonable and decent ways.
The Daley administration, for example, encouraged Trump, who has currently sold units amounting to $600 million in his Chicago tower, to spend an extra $1.5 million to include a 326 foot decorative spiral. This spiral would make the building taller than the Sears and give Chicago claim to the two tallest structures in the United States. Trump declined after some residents in the building said they did not want to live in the nation's tallest building for fear of a terrorist attack.
Thank goodness! I wish such a ridiculous project would be turned down out of common sense, but I will settle for fear. If Donald Trump offered me $1.5 million dollars to help build a $1.5 million dollar antenna that poked a few feet further into the air than the antenna of the building next door, I would kindly refuse. I would hand him the Psalter and a book full of pictures of AIDS orphans and meat-packing plants and strip mines and refugees and landfills and people dying of famine.
To clarify and summarize, the problem is not the man himself or the tower itself. They are two small symptoms of a sickness that infects mankind and hinders people from living rightly. In Christian vernacular this is called sin nature, and it manifests itself in many forms over the centuries. The giant Trump Tower, as handsome and slick as it is, will always cause me to ask giant questions. So if you ever visit downtown Chicago with me, be prepared for a monologue.
Thursday, June 25, 2009
Psalm for a Tree-Hugger
I came across this one this morning. It challenges me and affirms that the environment is something Christians should care about. It’s not just hip to green; it’s also biblical. Much of the “developed” world lives so far removed from the natural order that we are unable to appreciate the Lord’s simple provision or to take joy in the ways he cares for his creation.
This little Psalm is a good reminder.
Lord Jesus, create in us a longing for the coming kingdom, whose beginning was marked by your work upon the cross! With the rest of creation, we are yours; and we long for renewal in you.
PSALM 104
Bless the LORD O my soul!
O LORD my God, you are very great!
You are clothed with splendor and majesty,
covering yourself with light as with a garment,
stretching out the heavens like a tent.
He lays the beams of his chambers on the waters;
he makes the clouds his chariot;
he rides on the wings of the wind;
he makes his messengers winds,
his ministers a flaming fire.
He set the earth on its foundations,
so that it should never be moved.
You covered it with the deep as with a garment;
The waters stood above the mountains
At your rebuke they fled;
At the sound of your thunder
they took to flight.
The mountains rose, the valleys sank down
to the place that you appointed for them.
You set a boundary that they may not pass,
so that they might not again cover the earth.
You made the springs gush forth in the valleys;
they flow between the hills;
they give drink to every beast of the field;
the wild donkeys quench their thirst.
Beside them the birds of the heavens dwell;
they sing among the branches.
From your lofty abode you water the mountains;
the earth is satisfied with the fruit of your work.
You cause the grass to grow for the livestock
and plants for man to cultivate,
that he may bring forth food from the earth
and wine to gladden the heart of man,
oil to make his face shine
and bread to strengthen man’s heart.
The trees of the Lord are watered abundantly,
the cedars of Lebanon that he planted.
In them the birds build nests;
the stork has her home in the fir trees.
The high mountains are for the wild goats;
the rocks are a refuge for the rock badgers.
He made the moon to mark the seasons;
the sun knows its time for setting.
You make darkness, and it is night,
when all the beasts of the forest creep about.
The young lions roar for their prey,
seeking their food from God.
When the sun rises, the steal away
and lie down in their dens.
Man goes out to his work
and to his labor until the evening.
O LORD, how manifold are your works!
In wisdom have you made them all;
the earth is full of your creatures.
Here is the sea, great and wide,
Which teems with creatures innumerable,
living things both small and great.
There go the ships, and the leviathan,
which you formed to play in it.
These all look to you,
to give them their food in due season.
When you give it to them, they gather it up;
When you open your hand,
they are filled with good things.
When you hide your face, they are dismayed;
when you take away their breath,
they die and return to their dust.
When you send forth your Spirit, they are created,
and you renew the face of the ground.
May the glory of the LORD endure forever;
may the LORD rejoice in his works,
who looks on the earth and it trembles
who touches the mountains and they smoke!
I will sing to the LORD as long as I live;
I will sing praise to my God while I have being.
May my meditation be pleasing to him,
for I rejoice in the LORD.
Let sinners be consumed from the earth,
and let the wicked be no more!
Bless the LORD, O my soul!
Praise the LORD!
This little Psalm is a good reminder.
Lord Jesus, create in us a longing for the coming kingdom, whose beginning was marked by your work upon the cross! With the rest of creation, we are yours; and we long for renewal in you.
PSALM 104
Bless the LORD O my soul!
O LORD my God, you are very great!
You are clothed with splendor and majesty,
covering yourself with light as with a garment,
stretching out the heavens like a tent.
He lays the beams of his chambers on the waters;
he makes the clouds his chariot;
he rides on the wings of the wind;
he makes his messengers winds,
his ministers a flaming fire.
He set the earth on its foundations,
so that it should never be moved.
You covered it with the deep as with a garment;
The waters stood above the mountains
At your rebuke they fled;
At the sound of your thunder
they took to flight.
The mountains rose, the valleys sank down
to the place that you appointed for them.
You set a boundary that they may not pass,
so that they might not again cover the earth.
You made the springs gush forth in the valleys;
they flow between the hills;
they give drink to every beast of the field;
the wild donkeys quench their thirst.
Beside them the birds of the heavens dwell;
they sing among the branches.
From your lofty abode you water the mountains;
the earth is satisfied with the fruit of your work.
You cause the grass to grow for the livestock
and plants for man to cultivate,
that he may bring forth food from the earth
and wine to gladden the heart of man,
oil to make his face shine
and bread to strengthen man’s heart.
The trees of the Lord are watered abundantly,
the cedars of Lebanon that he planted.
In them the birds build nests;
the stork has her home in the fir trees.
The high mountains are for the wild goats;
the rocks are a refuge for the rock badgers.
He made the moon to mark the seasons;
the sun knows its time for setting.
You make darkness, and it is night,
when all the beasts of the forest creep about.
The young lions roar for their prey,
seeking their food from God.
When the sun rises, the steal away
and lie down in their dens.
Man goes out to his work
and to his labor until the evening.
O LORD, how manifold are your works!
In wisdom have you made them all;
the earth is full of your creatures.
Here is the sea, great and wide,
Which teems with creatures innumerable,
living things both small and great.
There go the ships, and the leviathan,
which you formed to play in it.
These all look to you,
to give them their food in due season.
When you give it to them, they gather it up;
When you open your hand,
they are filled with good things.
When you hide your face, they are dismayed;
when you take away their breath,
they die and return to their dust.
When you send forth your Spirit, they are created,
and you renew the face of the ground.
May the glory of the LORD endure forever;
may the LORD rejoice in his works,
who looks on the earth and it trembles
who touches the mountains and they smoke!
I will sing to the LORD as long as I live;
I will sing praise to my God while I have being.
May my meditation be pleasing to him,
for I rejoice in the LORD.
Let sinners be consumed from the earth,
and let the wicked be no more!
Bless the LORD, O my soul!
Praise the LORD!
Saturday, May 23, 2009
Serving the Poor: A Cultural or Biblical Understanding?
“Most churches are a one-sided disaster,” says Ronald Sider, president of Evangelicals for Social Action, in his book Good News and Good Works: A Theology of the Whole Gospel. I laughed out loud as I read the statement, amused that Sider has the guts to summarize the situation so bluntly. He is a qualified writer who has made it his life goal to see more Christians live with an equal zeal for evangelism and social action.
I’ve never thought of the suburban church I grew up in as a one-sided disaster, but Sider has a point. Politics and denominational distinctions have polarized Christians when it comes to serving the poor. To over-simplify the situation, liberals focus on social action while negating evangelism, and conservatives do the opposite. In the following paragraphs I speak to fellow conservatives, arguing that we must learn to see past mutually exclusive, man-made structures in order to rightly understand Scripture and live out Christ’s call.
The Social Gospel is a good starting point. This movement at the beginning of the twentieth century was a response to the massive poverty that accompanied industrialization. According to John Atherton, Canon Theologian of Manchester Cathedral, the orthodox theology of traditional American Protestantism did not provide answers to problems like the exploitation of factory workers. Those who were sensitive to this reality, such as William Gladden and Walter Rauschenbusch, reached into emerging liberal theology to fuel the movement of the Social Gospel.
Unfortunately, in doing so, they wed the biblical mandate of solidarity with the oppressed to heretical theology that frowned upon doctrines like substitutionary atonement. They claimed such doctrines only internalize faith and render it useless for a society.
In 1910 the Presbyterian General Assembly reacted by establishing five fundamentals of Christianity. According to Kenneth Collins in his book The Evangelical Movement, this statement was re-enforced by a twelve-volume series called The Fundamentals, written by leading conservative scholars of the day. Christians needed this reaction in order to guard orthodox teachings such as the virgin birth and Christ’s bodily resurrection; however, the Fundamentalist movement fostered a school of thought that downplays social action because of its association with liberal theology.
To this day, people at places like Moody Bible Institute (where I attended undergrad) look suspiciously at social action because they automatically label it as liberal.
For example, during Moody’s 2008 mission conference, I attend Bread for the World’s workshop. The representative, a woman who looked to be in her late 20s, spoke briefly about her background as a social researcher in Africa. Then she presented loads of information about poverty and hunger in Africa and how we could help solve it by promoting legislation to ease world hunger. At the end she passed out forms to send to our congressmen in order to encourage the government to take action.
One student raised his hand and said, “This is a cool idea and everything, but I’m not sure if I can participate because I’m conservative and this seems kind of liberal.” Everyone chuckled at the student’s apprehension, but it is living evidence of a serious and deeply rooted problem with the way many people think within mainstream Christianity.
I am not saying that Christians need to abandon theological concerns in order to devote all their energy to making the world a better place by serving the disadvantaged. The desire for greater unity among confessing Christians has its place, but because we swim in the water of pluralism and tolerance it can also be dangerous. Kevin DeYoung, co-author of Why We’re Not Emergent, gave a powerful reminder in a recent message I heard. He said that we abandon the cross if we make the ethical teachings of Jesus the supreme call of Christianity.
Along with DeYoung and the long-deceased writers of The Fundamentals, I agree that followers of Jesus must never loose sight of the gospel as a message of historical assertions calling for belief that leads to transformed lives. In maintaining that belief however, conservatives must admit their tendency to label some things liberal that are actually biblical, especially when it comes to serving the poor.
What we are left to ask ourselves, then, is not which political camp we belong to or what movement we identify ourselves with. We are left to look at the Scriptures and our lives before God and ask; “Am I modeling God’s concern for the poor and bearing verbal witness to the death and resurrection of his Son?”
I’ve never thought of the suburban church I grew up in as a one-sided disaster, but Sider has a point. Politics and denominational distinctions have polarized Christians when it comes to serving the poor. To over-simplify the situation, liberals focus on social action while negating evangelism, and conservatives do the opposite. In the following paragraphs I speak to fellow conservatives, arguing that we must learn to see past mutually exclusive, man-made structures in order to rightly understand Scripture and live out Christ’s call.
The Social Gospel is a good starting point. This movement at the beginning of the twentieth century was a response to the massive poverty that accompanied industrialization. According to John Atherton, Canon Theologian of Manchester Cathedral, the orthodox theology of traditional American Protestantism did not provide answers to problems like the exploitation of factory workers. Those who were sensitive to this reality, such as William Gladden and Walter Rauschenbusch, reached into emerging liberal theology to fuel the movement of the Social Gospel.
Unfortunately, in doing so, they wed the biblical mandate of solidarity with the oppressed to heretical theology that frowned upon doctrines like substitutionary atonement. They claimed such doctrines only internalize faith and render it useless for a society.
In 1910 the Presbyterian General Assembly reacted by establishing five fundamentals of Christianity. According to Kenneth Collins in his book The Evangelical Movement, this statement was re-enforced by a twelve-volume series called The Fundamentals, written by leading conservative scholars of the day. Christians needed this reaction in order to guard orthodox teachings such as the virgin birth and Christ’s bodily resurrection; however, the Fundamentalist movement fostered a school of thought that downplays social action because of its association with liberal theology.
To this day, people at places like Moody Bible Institute (where I attended undergrad) look suspiciously at social action because they automatically label it as liberal.
For example, during Moody’s 2008 mission conference, I attend Bread for the World’s workshop. The representative, a woman who looked to be in her late 20s, spoke briefly about her background as a social researcher in Africa. Then she presented loads of information about poverty and hunger in Africa and how we could help solve it by promoting legislation to ease world hunger. At the end she passed out forms to send to our congressmen in order to encourage the government to take action.
One student raised his hand and said, “This is a cool idea and everything, but I’m not sure if I can participate because I’m conservative and this seems kind of liberal.” Everyone chuckled at the student’s apprehension, but it is living evidence of a serious and deeply rooted problem with the way many people think within mainstream Christianity.
I am not saying that Christians need to abandon theological concerns in order to devote all their energy to making the world a better place by serving the disadvantaged. The desire for greater unity among confessing Christians has its place, but because we swim in the water of pluralism and tolerance it can also be dangerous. Kevin DeYoung, co-author of Why We’re Not Emergent, gave a powerful reminder in a recent message I heard. He said that we abandon the cross if we make the ethical teachings of Jesus the supreme call of Christianity.
Along with DeYoung and the long-deceased writers of The Fundamentals, I agree that followers of Jesus must never loose sight of the gospel as a message of historical assertions calling for belief that leads to transformed lives. In maintaining that belief however, conservatives must admit their tendency to label some things liberal that are actually biblical, especially when it comes to serving the poor.
What we are left to ask ourselves, then, is not which political camp we belong to or what movement we identify ourselves with. We are left to look at the Scriptures and our lives before God and ask; “Am I modeling God’s concern for the poor and bearing verbal witness to the death and resurrection of his Son?”
Saturday, May 16, 2009
Why the Hood is Good
This is something I wrote during my internship with Innerchange in New Orleans last summer.
I've always heard people talk about encountering Jesus in the poor, and now I've experienced it for myself. There was no physical manifestation of the Christ in a cardboard shelter under a bridge, no divine message from a dirty man warming his hands over a burning trash can. I simply realized after talking to a homeless man that, through the poor, Jesus speaks to us like he spoke to those he encountered while on earth. For example, by drawing a line in the sand, he revealed the inward sin of each person in a blood-thirsty crowd. By telling a young man to sell all he owns and give the money to the poor, Jesus disclosed his disabling selfishness. By telling a story over a meal, he brought attention to a Pharisee's self-denied neediness and guilt.
To put it plainly, Jesus leads people to truth by challenging the way they look at themselves and at the world. Provided that we don't ignore the poor, Jesus speaks through them to us in the same way. If we have ears to hear, the Lord will use people who are marginalized and overlooked to challenge us, disarm us, and leave us with brooding questions that lead to truth. The following paragraphs tell a story that illuminates this process.
Calvin is a homeless man with a beard growing white. He was holding a cane in one hand and shaking a plastic cup of change in the other when I met him in front of the Marriot on Canal Street one evening. He was trying to get seven more dollars in an hour so he could get into a shelter before it closed. If he made it, he could stay there for a week. Otherwise he'd be staying again in tent city underneath I-10. Calvin was playing the "friendly neighborhood homeless man" routine—standing on the sidewalk cracking jokes at businessmen and tourists and making off-color comments at women. Some smiled, and some looked away. A few put money in his cup, but most ignored him.
As I stood with Calvin, he let me in on some of his secrets. He explained that he knew which kind of people to mess around with and how to make people laugh. He bet me a dollar he could get these two businessmen to crack a smile. As they walked by he said, "Hey fellas, some change to help the homeless? I also take MasterCard, Visa, and American Express! " They passed him like he was invisible. "Alright, the Lord bless you," Calvin said, waving to their backs. My heart sank, and similar encounters occurred at least two-dozen times in the 20 minutes I stood with him.
During that time I learned a few things about Calvin. He was born and raised in New Orleans. He has no family in the city; his parents had passed years ago. He was homeless before Katrina and was evacuated to Texas for a year with several other homeless folks. While there, they stayed in boarding homes. "They packed us up like sardines," he told me. Calvin is Baptist, he but enjoys spending time at the Catholic shelter. He even taught a Bible study there for kids one time. I leaned against the wall next to him, and we watched the activities of the street while the evening deepened. He talked to me, interrupting himself to ask for change and crack jokes at passer-bys. I gave him a dollar and 15 cents because that's all I had in my wallet, then I walked on towards the Square.
When I returned after about an hour to catch the street car Calvin was still there. As I walked toward him, a guy was giving Calvin the finger as he walked away from him. I remember the look on the guy's face as he held up his middle finger over his shoulder towards Calvin. His expression said, "Screw you, you goofy old black beggar. You're a joke." and he was looking around at people like he wanted them to think the same thing. The dude looked like a typical college-aged tourist—board shorts, flip flops, a tight white T-shirt to show off his build. You know the type. He is in New Orleans to get smashed and party and go to strip clubs on Bourbon. He'll go home to his very small world with his buddies and they'll tell everyone about how sweet New Orleans is. Such disgusting ignorance! Such contemptible pride! I wanted to punch the guy's teeth out, but I knew my anger wasn't really caused by him. It was conjured up by a lot of things, and besides, who am I to cast a stone?
The hateful action this tourist showed toward Calvin was sort of the straw that broke the camel's back. After three weeks in New Orleans, we are starting to see how sin manifests itself in this city—division among churches, racism, objectification of women, materialism, faulty systems driven by selfishness, drug and alcohol abuse, political corruption. These all play their part in producing a lot of sad stories that have never been told. Most people don't listen and even fewer ask. But, for one reason or another, the Lord has put me and Lyndy here.
With a heart growing heavier, I learn these stories one at a time: the cemetery worker whose 7-year-old son was killed in a drive by shooting; the 23-year-old mother of four who gave birth to her firstborn at age 12 and offers her body to her landlord for rent because she doesn't know any other way; the high school senior who bragged to me about the guns he owns and told me he can't go too far down the street in the daylight because he'll get shot; the 70-year-old woman living in a gutted out home who calls an emergency line to ask for nothing more than a mattress so she can quit sleeping on the dirt. We lift each story to the Lord, asking Him somehow to be with people who are broken. We ask also that He will break us of our own pride. It may not be as ugly as it was in that tourist who gave Calvin the bird, but it's there, Lord! Lead me to truth and change me, that I may see myself and others with your eyes...
I don't think Calvin got his seven dollars. I talked to him again, and he was exasperated. The shelter closed its doors in a few minutes, and he was going to try until the very last second. Yet we both knew he wouldn't make it. He would spend the night sleeping on cardboard in a concrete alcove about four feet long behind a little tree. I gave him my nalgene, half-full of water, and he gulped it down. I pondered getting some cash for him from an ATM, but he handed me back the bottle and turned to keep begging. So I just walked to the street car.
Perhaps Calvin was conditioned by the welfare system to depend on handouts. Perhaps you think I should relax and remember that Jesus said we will always have the poor with us. Perhaps the dollar and 15 cents I gave Calvin will only perpetuate a cycle of hopelessness.
You can claim those ideas and use them as excuses if you want. But I know if I had walked past Calvin like everyone else did, I would have missed something crucial. My evening may have been easier had I passed by, and my summer may have been more fun if I'd spent it in the suburbs or with my friends somewhere. Instead I am encountering the Lord in new ways through the poor of New Orleans. And I spend my nights wrestling with deep questions about my own character and about what Jesus the Messiah calls me to do.
Lord, you want me to recognize and confess the same sin in myself that I condemn in shallow tourists? You want me to give to Calvin in a way that causes me to sacrifice? To recognize that poor young mother as better than myself and seek her healing? To overcome evil with good while making people aware of their sin?
These are lessons that won't be learned apart from the needy, so don't be afraid to turn aside, to give, to ask questions, and most of all, to listen. Jesus speaks through the poor.
I've always heard people talk about encountering Jesus in the poor, and now I've experienced it for myself. There was no physical manifestation of the Christ in a cardboard shelter under a bridge, no divine message from a dirty man warming his hands over a burning trash can. I simply realized after talking to a homeless man that, through the poor, Jesus speaks to us like he spoke to those he encountered while on earth. For example, by drawing a line in the sand, he revealed the inward sin of each person in a blood-thirsty crowd. By telling a young man to sell all he owns and give the money to the poor, Jesus disclosed his disabling selfishness. By telling a story over a meal, he brought attention to a Pharisee's self-denied neediness and guilt.
To put it plainly, Jesus leads people to truth by challenging the way they look at themselves and at the world. Provided that we don't ignore the poor, Jesus speaks through them to us in the same way. If we have ears to hear, the Lord will use people who are marginalized and overlooked to challenge us, disarm us, and leave us with brooding questions that lead to truth. The following paragraphs tell a story that illuminates this process.
Calvin is a homeless man with a beard growing white. He was holding a cane in one hand and shaking a plastic cup of change in the other when I met him in front of the Marriot on Canal Street one evening. He was trying to get seven more dollars in an hour so he could get into a shelter before it closed. If he made it, he could stay there for a week. Otherwise he'd be staying again in tent city underneath I-10. Calvin was playing the "friendly neighborhood homeless man" routine—standing on the sidewalk cracking jokes at businessmen and tourists and making off-color comments at women. Some smiled, and some looked away. A few put money in his cup, but most ignored him.
As I stood with Calvin, he let me in on some of his secrets. He explained that he knew which kind of people to mess around with and how to make people laugh. He bet me a dollar he could get these two businessmen to crack a smile. As they walked by he said, "Hey fellas, some change to help the homeless? I also take MasterCard, Visa, and American Express! " They passed him like he was invisible. "Alright, the Lord bless you," Calvin said, waving to their backs. My heart sank, and similar encounters occurred at least two-dozen times in the 20 minutes I stood with him.
During that time I learned a few things about Calvin. He was born and raised in New Orleans. He has no family in the city; his parents had passed years ago. He was homeless before Katrina and was evacuated to Texas for a year with several other homeless folks. While there, they stayed in boarding homes. "They packed us up like sardines," he told me. Calvin is Baptist, he but enjoys spending time at the Catholic shelter. He even taught a Bible study there for kids one time. I leaned against the wall next to him, and we watched the activities of the street while the evening deepened. He talked to me, interrupting himself to ask for change and crack jokes at passer-bys. I gave him a dollar and 15 cents because that's all I had in my wallet, then I walked on towards the Square.
When I returned after about an hour to catch the street car Calvin was still there. As I walked toward him, a guy was giving Calvin the finger as he walked away from him. I remember the look on the guy's face as he held up his middle finger over his shoulder towards Calvin. His expression said, "Screw you, you goofy old black beggar. You're a joke." and he was looking around at people like he wanted them to think the same thing. The dude looked like a typical college-aged tourist—board shorts, flip flops, a tight white T-shirt to show off his build. You know the type. He is in New Orleans to get smashed and party and go to strip clubs on Bourbon. He'll go home to his very small world with his buddies and they'll tell everyone about how sweet New Orleans is. Such disgusting ignorance! Such contemptible pride! I wanted to punch the guy's teeth out, but I knew my anger wasn't really caused by him. It was conjured up by a lot of things, and besides, who am I to cast a stone?
The hateful action this tourist showed toward Calvin was sort of the straw that broke the camel's back. After three weeks in New Orleans, we are starting to see how sin manifests itself in this city—division among churches, racism, objectification of women, materialism, faulty systems driven by selfishness, drug and alcohol abuse, political corruption. These all play their part in producing a lot of sad stories that have never been told. Most people don't listen and even fewer ask. But, for one reason or another, the Lord has put me and Lyndy here.
With a heart growing heavier, I learn these stories one at a time: the cemetery worker whose 7-year-old son was killed in a drive by shooting; the 23-year-old mother of four who gave birth to her firstborn at age 12 and offers her body to her landlord for rent because she doesn't know any other way; the high school senior who bragged to me about the guns he owns and told me he can't go too far down the street in the daylight because he'll get shot; the 70-year-old woman living in a gutted out home who calls an emergency line to ask for nothing more than a mattress so she can quit sleeping on the dirt. We lift each story to the Lord, asking Him somehow to be with people who are broken. We ask also that He will break us of our own pride. It may not be as ugly as it was in that tourist who gave Calvin the bird, but it's there, Lord! Lead me to truth and change me, that I may see myself and others with your eyes...
I don't think Calvin got his seven dollars. I talked to him again, and he was exasperated. The shelter closed its doors in a few minutes, and he was going to try until the very last second. Yet we both knew he wouldn't make it. He would spend the night sleeping on cardboard in a concrete alcove about four feet long behind a little tree. I gave him my nalgene, half-full of water, and he gulped it down. I pondered getting some cash for him from an ATM, but he handed me back the bottle and turned to keep begging. So I just walked to the street car.
Perhaps Calvin was conditioned by the welfare system to depend on handouts. Perhaps you think I should relax and remember that Jesus said we will always have the poor with us. Perhaps the dollar and 15 cents I gave Calvin will only perpetuate a cycle of hopelessness.
You can claim those ideas and use them as excuses if you want. But I know if I had walked past Calvin like everyone else did, I would have missed something crucial. My evening may have been easier had I passed by, and my summer may have been more fun if I'd spent it in the suburbs or with my friends somewhere. Instead I am encountering the Lord in new ways through the poor of New Orleans. And I spend my nights wrestling with deep questions about my own character and about what Jesus the Messiah calls me to do.
Lord, you want me to recognize and confess the same sin in myself that I condemn in shallow tourists? You want me to give to Calvin in a way that causes me to sacrifice? To recognize that poor young mother as better than myself and seek her healing? To overcome evil with good while making people aware of their sin?
These are lessons that won't be learned apart from the needy, so don't be afraid to turn aside, to give, to ask questions, and most of all, to listen. Jesus speaks through the poor.
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