Brown Eyes

Would I Even Let Jesus Drive My Shopping Cart?

2010-12-30T11:47:00.000-08:00

And so it begins… A new chapter. A new city, a new husband, a new job, a new life, and most recently a new understanding. I am certain that every believer knows the path Christ has chosen for them, and either chooses that path or chooses to ignore it. Many believers believe the two paths can be reconciled into one. I can live my life for the comforts of the earth and for the development of the kingdom. However, I am coming to understand that these two are not as evenly attainable as we have believed. These two paths start out side by side when we become believers. But slowly, step by step, the paths grow apart, almost imperceptibly. And, ten years later, you wonder why you hate going to church and are knit-picking the song selections. You can’t seem to allow someone to cut in front of you in traffic or get through the door before you. One eye is on your Bible and the other is oogling a sales add. And we ask ourselves, “Is this the Christian life?” We’ve surrendered so little in such a long time, that we are disillusioned with our faith and wonder if it’s really worth the effort at all. However, the path of following Christ is a slow, often painful process of disconnecting ourselves from the strings of attachment to the world. As Christ loosens the strings, our hunger for the kingdom grows insatiable. Our annoyances now are not customer service issues, but the endless marketing around us that beckons us back to the world, and perhaps more greatly, our weakness of longing for those things. As our eyes grow spiritual, our attachments to the world make us weary. “If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country—a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them.” (Hebrews 11:15-16) This process for me has been so very painful. I vacillate between what I know to be God’s gentle wooing towards himself, and my American mentality of success. I know that Christ is calling me away from those things toward his greater purpose, but the cost seems too high. What of public opinion? What of my self-esteem? I cannot tell you what a good shopping trip does for my state of mind. And yet, listen to the hollowness. I am actually saying that the deep gravity of Christ and the beauty of His kingdom is still not enough for me to completely abandon my consumerist mentality? Can that really be what I believe? Many will say, “But we must be clothed. But we must eat to live.” Yes, but I cannot bring myself to as of yet to spiritually grasp “Consider the lilies of the field, they do not labor or spin. Yet I tell you that not even Solomon in all his splendor was dressed like one of these.” (Matthew 6:28-29). This issue is not actually about what we are wearing or what our house looks like, but the power we give these things in the depths of our heart. This is about wicked attachments that will be burnt up when Christ returns and reveals what was really important all along. Yes, this is an issue of the heart much more than externals. But isn’t the Christian life all about the heart? Rooting out those things that are not perfect like our Lord. He is so patient with us, and we are such mindless sheep. We are masters at watering down truth to convince ourselves that we do not need to change, but I think if we loosened the chokehold we have on our lives, Christ’s word would truly penetrate our lives and humble us beyond all the barriers of pride. As C.S. Lewis says of Aslan, “Safe, of course he’s not safe, but he’s good.” Our comfortable lives are not safe in the Master’s hand, but he is so good, that we cannot help but find our hearts bursting in the glorification he gives his childen. What a big God we serve!- if only we would stop trying to fit him inside of our shopping bags.

Bullet the Blue Sky

2008-07-19T23:16:00.000-07:00

July 20, 2008

This past Tuesday, there was a shooting two blocks off from where the church is located. An AK-47 shot 28 bullets into the FEMA trailer where a local rapper was sleeping. Paramedics declared him dead at the scene. When my pastor, Dr. Taylor told me about the shooting, I was immediately overcome with a presence of evil. I could not bring myself to drive by the location of the shooting. I simply felt unprepared, spiritually, to take on the evil that I felt surrounded the place. My awareness of spiritual warfare was sharply piqued. I so rarely feel like I encounter true, frighteningly real spiritual warfare, but I was sure that if I went over there, I would be faced with it. On Friday, I finally mustered the mindset to drive by the scene where the shooting occurred. Sure enough, twenty-eight holes, all directed toward the end of the trailer where the man had been sleeping. Some had passed through the trailer to the other side, hitting an SUV upon its exit. It grieves my spirit even now to think of a person so filled with rage that he could intentionally murder a man in his sleep. The enemy was surely present that morning.
The next day, teams gathered at our church, as they do every Saturday, for visitation. Each team received a binder filled with the names of the people that were to be visited that day. I opened our team’s binder to find an address on the same street and block as the shooting. Surely this was not the address for the crime scene?! In fact, it was not... it was the address for the next door neighbor. Others on our team, and the coordinators for the visitation had not heard about the shooting, but my heart was anxious. As the three of us parked in front of the home of the family we were to visit, I could not help but glance, once again, at the holes. I would never in my lifetime be able to enter that trailer. Even the thought of it makes me shutter.
As I thought about that event throughout the week, I reprimand myself for having such a fearful attitude about that place. Don’t I believe that the Spirit within me is greater than any spirit of evil that is in the world? Don’t I believe that we as believers are more than conquerors in Christ Jesus? Shame on my spiritual life if a presence of evil paralyzes me from ministering. In the battle of spiritual warfare, perhaps I am just too afraid to advance to the front lines.
I sat thinking about this late tonight. The moon was brilliantly clear and I needed to go for a walk. As I laid on some steps, staring up into the night sky, I thought about all these things. I thought about how this man’s act grieved my soul so deeply. I thought about spiritual warfare. And then I thought about Jesus, and how desperately I wanted to be with Him, and how eventually, all of this would fade away and we would be in his perfect presence forever. But now, in the meantime, there is ministry to be done, and people who desperately need Jesus’ life and a peace that penetrates straight to the fearful, wounded soul. No matter how difficult ministry can be, or how disappointing, I must remember that it is all for the sake of Christ and His glory.

Revelation 21: 3-5 and 22:12-16 inspire me.
Then I heard a loud voice from the throne: Look! God’s dwelling is with men, and He will live with them. They will be His people, and God Himself will be with them and be their God. He will wipe away every tear from their eyes. Death will exist no longer; grief, crying, and pain will exist no longer, because the previous things have passed away. Then the One seated on the throne said, “Look! I am making everything new.”
Then, Jesus says,
“Look! I am coming quickly, and My reward is with Me to repay each person according to what he has done. I am the Alpha and the Omega, the First and the Last, the Beginning and the End. Blessed are those who wash their robes, so that they have the right to the tree of life and may enter the city by the gates. Outside are the dogs, the sorcerers, the sexually immoral, the murderers, the idolaters, and everyone who loves and practices lying. I, Jesus, have sent My angel to attest these things to you for the churches. I am the Root and the Offspring of David, the Bright Morning Star. Both the Spirit and the bride say, “Come!” And anyone who hears should say, “Come!” And the one who is thirsty should come. (and the girl, who lies looking up at the night sky whispers, “Come, Lord Jesus; It’s all for you!”)

Pistol on a Lanyard

2008-06-02T12:20:00.000-07:00

Written: June 2, 2008

I know I say it all the time, but I love Gentilly Baptist Church. It is so far removed from any church experience I have ever known, that it makes all my interactions with this church either a blessing or a surprise. It’s fun. There are a select group of kids that I am especially fond of because of how very different we are. We come from completely different worlds, which makes me pretty intrigued, and ultimately, burdened. Yesterday, one of the girls, Regina, asked me if we could make snacks for her to bring to school for the following day because her family could not afford the expense. I think at the end of the day, the kids make these requests because they really just want to get out of the house and away from their day to day. I agreed, upon the stipulation that her mother gave us permission. Regina called her mother after the service, but for some reason, she said she would only allow it if I took their one-year old baby nephew (it’s a sorted story) with us. Now, a little background on this little boy... The charts are not available at this time, but apparently, he is the son of a young, 16-year-old mother who thinks it would be okay to take a baby onto a “party bus,” which explains why he was so tired and so upset during church the following day. Nevertheless, he came to church today, but reeking of dirty diaper. Regina, about 8 years old, had been put in charge of him that day. When we asked her if she had brought any diapers, she explained that their family was completely out. Apparently, they had been out for a little while, because when I went to change him, his ragged jeans were completely soiled, even though he was wearing a diaper... Fast forward a few hours, and I am at the place where Regina sleeps (although, she told me, this was not the place where she lived; two different places, very confusing). Her parents live about three miles away. Their aunt, who may or may not have mental illness, explains to me that if Regina goes, the baby has to go with her because “I don’t want no baby around givin’ me headaches.” I have no idea where the baby’s mother was. I insisted that because I did not have a car seat or a baby-proofed apartment, that this was really not a safe idea. She will hear nothing of it and, while I am busy discussing this with her aunt, Regina is busy stuffing the sleeping baby into my back seat. This is pretty much how every interaction with this family goes. Finally, we decided that the baby would go to Regina’s actual parents’ house to sleep, and we would continue on with her other cousin, Theranesha (nicknamed, Nesha), to bake snacks for tomorrow.
When we arrive at her parent’s house, her father comes out to meet me. This comes as a surprise to me because most of the children at Gentilly are raised by single mothers. However, he is no Bill Cosby or Howard Cunningham. He has is probably early-30’s, tall, wearing an outfit straight from a FUBU ad, complete with a small pistol hung from a Taco Bell lanyard around his neck. I’m not making this up. Who knows if it was real, but it was shiny... which attracted enough attention to know I didn’t really want to find out. He was cordial enough, shook my hand, invited me in to meet the family (which I politely declined and waved at them from the door instead). Back in the car, I comment that Regina’s dad seems nice enough, for which she and Nesha both scoffed and said “yeah, he seems nice enough, but he’ll give you a poppin’.” Needing clarification, I started gently, “Do you mean he gives you a spanking?” They laughed and said, “No, he’ll beat you” which then leads her on a long tour of different places on her body where she has gone to school with a bruise or burn and been questioned by her teachers. Then, she breaks in to his prison record, which has mostly to do with what I can only expect would be drunk driving charges.
Time at my apartment, baking cookies, painting nails, playing with make-up and watching movies was nice. It felt like three eight-year old girls getting together for a slumber-party, but it was short lived. By 5PM, we were headed back. When we got back to Regina’s house, I was sad to see her go back in to that dysfunctional, unsafe environment, but there was little I could do. Just as I was about to pull away from the curb, I saw her father flag me down. Regina had already gone inside at this point, and I was left alone with this man. I rolled down my window ¼ of the way, expecting him to ask me about Regina or something. Who knows what I thought he was going to ask, but none of my possible options had included, “Will you take me to the store? I need some aspirin.” Quickly, I pulled open my console, and there, sitting like salvation, was a half-empty bottle of Excedrin. I passed it to him through the crack in the window and thought we were taken care of. Then, he looks at it, says thanks, and asks again if I will take him to the store. Thankfully, I had plans immediately following, and used that as an excuse. As I sat there, laughing at this strange situation in my head, looking at this guy’s pistol and recalling his track record, I can’t believe I didn’t feel any fear. As I pulled away, perhaps as a release of emotion, I said out loud to myself, no one around, “Of course I’m not taking you to the store; You’ve got a pistol strapped to a lanyard around your neck.”
As I recap this story, the underlying thoughts here are “how on earth can we help this situation, and the millions of others that are represented by it?” I thought that I would have to go to Russia or Bosnia to find a foreign mission field, but New Orleans has proven to be foreign enough. I am one person, and the need seems so great. Although this sounds like the making of a great story, which will later be turned in to a dramatic movie on Lifetime, hopefully played by someone other than Brooke Shields, it only has a good ending if the Spirit of the Lord will fall on this city, and this church, and this community. If the Spirit will bring conviction, and my own hands are ready and enabled by time spent with the Lord. Father, may this burdened spirit and troubling situation ignite change through your power.

When Jesus comes he comes in power

He pours down his spirit like a shower

O you give us freedom and joy in your presence Lord

In your presence we're free

O let us shout and dance and lift up our hands and sing cause we are free

And He loves to come a fill me up

He loves to overflow my cup

He loves to come and bring his touch to my heart

He turns my mourning into dancing

He turns my weeping into laughing

-Special thanks to Matt Redman, who gets what I’m talking about, but puts it much more beautifully into song than I can with mere words.

Romancing the Park

2008-05-27T16:43:00.000-07:00

There is this beautiful place in city park here in New Orleans. It looks like old Grecian ruins, with tall, regal columns in a circle around this huge fountain that once sprayed water from a large, iron fish sculpture in the center. I can imagine it now. It probably once hosted these glamorous parties, with lights all in the trees and everything illuminated by candlelight. It is dry now, and the “ruins” have never looked more authentic, since the whole place has been essentially abandoned since the storm, but it is still terribly romantic. It is probably my favorite place in the whole city. I go there to think sometimes, and I am imagining myself in that place now, even as I write this, sitting in the dry bowl of the fountain, admiring a sculpture that, if it was anywhere else, would be incredibly tacky and tasteless. This place always makes a dreamer out of me... it’s all very beautiful really. I think about that place not too far from here now because beauty always inspires me to love Jesus, or vice versa...and the things that I’m reading right now are causing me to love Jesus, and the petty annoyances that bother me have led to conviction that has led me to Jesus, and beautiful acts from beautiful people with beautiful spirits have caused me to love Jesus, and even love itself, in the form of a crush, or watching the beautiful marriage of one of your friends... all of these things turn me into a romantic... and it is there, I think, that I find my truest self... the girl who delights in a secret garden, and in finding love, and, ultimately, in the beauty of Jesus himself. The world suddenly becomes much simpler, and I am ten years old again, remembering how deeply I loved and worshipped Jesus back then. There were no complications. Jesus made perfect sense. Love never hurt, cut, or burned you. And now, as Bebo Norman’s “A Page is Turned” plays, life is simple and beautiful, and I am overwhelmingly grateful for salvation, and God’s bestowal of love upon this world that has the power to eradicate fear and inspire a deep response unlike anything else.

I guess all of this rambling is coming to no point in particular, other than to explain why there has been no writing for the past few months. I always have to get into a kind of “mood” before I feel inspired to write anything. Usually, it is evoked by rainy nights after everyone has gone to bed and the apartments are quiet, or by upsetting events. All great books center around complex characters and intense crisis, right? But this, this is simply the culmination, or denouement, of the past few weeks of feeling nothing at all, or frustration at what looked like dead-ends and inadequacy. I felt like I was hitting my head against the wall with the church. I was not cut out to be a Minister of Education. I don’t know that I ever even liked Sunday School, and I’m pretty sure that’s the quintessential job of the ME... to implement Sunday School, and then baby it until it grows and we all get so excited about it! But this is not my heart... a handful of people sitting around awkwardly and uncomfortably in steel chairs that make an incredible amount of noise against the tile or concrete, even if you just uncross your legs or bend down to grab a pen. The teachers always get burned out and then someone else has to get strapped with the task of entertaining eight or so people each week. Yuck. Why would I want to be the one to establish this in my church if I wouldn’t even want to go? So, while I’m busy fuming about this for a few weeks, wondering if I shouldn’t tell someone that there has been a terrible mistake made in placing me in this church with this role, I am simultaneously working on a mission trip that seems to be falling flat on its face, which, of course, only serves to reinforce what I have already been thinking. Plus, for one week after I finished my finals at seminary, I had been asked to substitute at the private school in Metairie for some high school students. This, of course, is an adventure, but I loved it, which only leads me (who loves change, did I mention that?) to go on a whirlwind of excitement about whether or not I should work toward becoming a teacher. The only problem is, I really have no special concentration in any one subject where I would be anywhere near adequate to mold young minds. Hmmm. This all sounds very exhausting, and it was. And, the counselor in us all will look at this and evaluate what was going on in my head, and suggest possible solutions... maybe I’m discontent with seminary (ok), maybe I should be a teacher (hmmm), maybe I...

I think, at the end of the day, what it really comes down to is that my prayer life was severely lacking. This is not the point in the show where Stefanie gets self-deprecating on her spiritual life. That’s tiring for everyone, and not the point. We are working towards revealing God’s glory and sovereignty.... So, I picked up this book called, “Fresh Wind, Fresh Fire” by Jim Cymbala of the Brooklyn Tabernacle. From the first page, I was hooked. His struggles and confessions of inadequacy mirrored my own feelings regarding the work I was supposed to be doing. The first chapter of his story greatly mirrors the chapter I am currently living in. I love the way he writes and looks at the church and loves both God and people. It is simple, but it is not formulaic. He does not tear down the church and turn it over and over, analyzing it from all sides and trying to use today’s reasoning to evaluate it. Seminary, in a lot of ways, essentially makes a jeweler out of you. You are trained to look at anything spiritual with this super intense magnifying glass and point out every little chink and flaw and inclusion in it that renders it less than beautiful and therefore, void of its full value. Suddenly, I am looking at everything a church plans, a preacher preaches, and a Christian says and docking points until I am completely disillusioned with anything. We’re even trying to chip away at God! This is all too much and it wears on your soul. However, I can be grateful for this only because it has now led me to the throne of grace (although it took me a year to realize what was going on and grow very tired of this way of thinking).

Other people have led me there as well... all leading to the same conclusion: more prayer. This past Sunday, Michael Allen, a man who undeniably walks with the Lord and inspires others to do so as well, was asked to preach, and his sermon could not have hit closer to home. His sermon centered around the ability we have and the frequency with which we put out the Spirit’s fire. I think he could have been talking about anything, but the love for Christ that he and his wife exude is enough to inspire you to change. At one point, he stated that God wants every cell of you... even though you cannot see each individual cell. I thought about this, which led me to zone out for a few minutes, and realized that this means much more than Jesus wanting my heart or my mind, or even my body, whatever that means. If Jesus wants every cell, that means every second, every thought, every movement. If we just say, Jesus wants our hearts, it is easy to say, “Well, I have accepted his salvation. I pray before every meal. I care about Him. I am happy when I read something about someone doing something good in His name. That’s as good as anybody.” No. That’s tepid, dry, tiring faith that exhausts us. That’s boring. No wonder our churches are declining, or, if they aren’t, people are literally falling asleep during the services. I can wrap my mind around the “cell” thing, because I start to realize just how much that means... all of it. Suddenly, that thought was a cell, and I know it wasn’t offered to Him. That moment when my friend did that thing and I was so annoyed, that was a cell or two that was not dedicated to the Lord. I really like that cell idea, but it means a lot more changes than trying to make myself sit down for a Bible study once or twice a week.

My friend Candace loves Jesus in the cell way that I’m talking about. Everything she does is beautiful because it is completely covered in love and contentment in the Lord. She is unhindered in accepting everyone because she has nothing to hide. There is no darkness behind her eyes, no secret she is afraid to tell. I think every cell in her body is dedicated to the Jesus that she loves. She encourages the work of her husband, her friends, her next door neighbor, and the guy at the grocery store because she is shedding cells that belong to the Lord. Is this sounding weird? I hope not. I hope it is coming across as absolutely beautiful as her life shows. She loves Jesus in the beautiful, unreserved way that I did when I was ten, but with a maturity that reveals she has weathered love that has cut and torn and situations that should have left dysfunction in their wake. But they have not. They have not because those experiences have been looked on and healed with a balm that comes from Jesus’ pure love.

A believer dedicated to prayer... it’s beautiful and simple. Like the secret fountain in the middle of the park. It seems ancient, but the beauty to inspire remains. It has been forgotten, but it ignites imagination to the person who discovers it. This, this is prayer... and I am looking for it to change everything!

Culture Shock

2008-03-06T18:11:00.000-08:00

Written: March 3, 2008

Culture shock... you know you are going to get it when you move to New Orleans. You can’t help it. Even people who have lived here their whole lives will tell you that the things you see here are unlike anything you will ever see anywhere else (and not just at Mardi Gras time). Last Sunday was my culture shock. In retrospect, I actually think it affected me a lot harder than I thought it would. My Spirit was tight, my heart burdened, and in some ways, my mind kicked hard against the things I was seeing and internalizing. This past Sunday, our children’s volunteers had to go out of town, which left me to teach Sunday School. And, while it went off without a hitch, over the past few weeks, I have come to grow a bond with a few of the younger girls in the class. They are all related somehow, although I probably need some sort of flannel graph or intense flow chart to understand it all. However, they told me that they had a project due the following day for Black History Month. Understanding that they had very limited funds, I volunteered to take them on a little trip to buy the necessary supplies for their project. Innocent-sounding enough, right? Our pastor, Dr. Taylor, picks this family up and takes them home each Sunday, so I decided to ride along with them in order to receive permission from their parents (who had not been at church that day). Once we arrived at a little, dingy, white and green shotgun house in an area of town that could have been confused with Mexico for its rough roads and potholes, the girls asked me to come in and meet their mom. This, naturally, made me a little uncomfortable as I had been passed by a handful of rough-looking guys in their late teens on the way in. Nevertheless, I, a blonde-haired, Caucasian girl in her twenties, wearing some preppy button-up gingham shirt and khaki pants, comes walking into this house swarming with people who are strikingly different from me in virtually every way. Let me stop here to reiterate that I absolutely love these people and do not judge or look down upon them in any way. I mostly just want to paint a portrait of how very out of place I was in this home, and how humorous I saw the situation in my head... but most of all, I hold that picture as a snapshot in my head. I walk into this house, people strewn about all over. Finally, we reach her mom, lounging on mattresses on the floor with a few others in a back room. As I stood there and asked if I could take her daughter and her cousin to purchase project supplies, I wondered what they thought. I certainly did not want to come across as anything but loving towards them, but the situation opened itself up to all kinds of misunderstandings of my intentions. Nonetheless, their parents agreed, and I was back at three to pick them up. I pulled up, got out of my car, and half the family was outside on the porch or lounging nearby (on a car, on the steps, all over). They explained to me that the girls would be right back... that they had just gone to the store. So, there I stood, not wanting to be a bother, but definitely standing awkwardly in front of their house as they look at me from the porch. This lasted about 5-7 minutes before the kids come bumbling up the street. Although I had planned to only take the two girls who actually had projects due, I ended up with five. How? I’m not really sure. It was all a flurry of activity. So, off we go. The girls in the back seat are explaining to me which “store” to go to. As I weave through left and rights to get out of the neighborhood, they yell to me that the store is on the corner. Then, I realize that the store they want me to stop at (with five little children) is the liquor store/ corner mart. I have seen this little, green store with intense safety bars on all the windows and doors before, but had never actually considered going into this place. At that very same moment that I am trying to register my horror at this store, some man standing in the middle of the road starts yelling at me. I think he was intoxicated beyond all reason. So, for the safety of everyone involved, I decided not to stop. Here is the part where I question whether or not I should have stopped and just acclimated myself to the neighborhood of these kids, but, since I am a single, white female toting five kids that are not my own, my maternal instincts decided otherwise. So, we went to the Dollar Tree in the middle of a fairly clean mall. Everyone in the store looked at me with a different look of wonder. How had I come to be responsible for five little children that were not even my ethnicity? Why on earth was I trying to corral five kids on my own? Had I stolen them? They seemed to be having a good time, so perhaps it was okay. Still, they weren’t quite sure what to make of the whole situation. I had to laugh, except that I had my hands full with two posters, five toys (one for each person), and school supplies. Some man in the line behind me offered to hold the posters, just so I could hold everything else and make sure the kids weren’t breaking any of the tacky mermaid sculptures nearby.
Later, we made a pit stop for ice cream and headed home (which they strongly protested). As I drove home, absolutely exhausted, I was too overwhelmed to think. But now, as I sit outside on a windy night, with my lamp plugged in to an outdoor outlet, I think back on this time, and know that I have grown. Perhaps naively, I am less afraid of these neighborhoods that I still don’t fully understand. I know that we do not live similar lives, but I no longer fear them because I don’t have any experience with them. I grieve at the aspects of various cultures that lead them into cyclical cycles that will be very hard to get out of. The kids told me that very few in their family have even finished school. There is little respect for any possessions, so all are either instantly destroyed or lost. I am so grateful to the Lord for showing me that which I could never have learned otherwise. How do you teach a better object lesson than spending an afternoon with a handful of kids from the rough neighborhood you are trying to reach? So, while I am grateful that no children were harmed in the making of this story, and that no one turned me in, believing I had stolen someone’s children, I did actually come away with more than culture shock. I came away with a deeper love for a culture I am only just now starting to understand.

Poetry

2008-03-06T18:09:00.000-08:00

Written: February 12, 2008

I am currently reading this book entitled, “The Externally Focused Church.” Most books that have a class assignment strapped to them are fairly good, but you’re not all that disappointed when it is over. There are a few take-away points from the book, but for the most part, you are left wishing for your ten or so hours back. This book, however, I just can’t seem to put down. I am supposed to attend a basketball game tonight with a friend but keep checking the clock to see when I must, begrudgingly, put down the book and get ready to leave. I think the thing I love so much about the book is that the authors speak my language. As I grapple for what ministry will look like through me as the Minister of Education at Gentilly Baptist, this book is poetry to me. In summary, the book speaks about the church being a blessing to the community by being a source of unique service to it. It is difficult to inspire a church to move toward anything when you have no motivation or idea where you are moving either. I often felt like the church was this big, overgrown mass that the couple of staff members and I were trying to figure out what to with. With so few leaders, we were pushing an elephant up a hill with no idea how far we had to go. But, I can get behind this message. It is just unique enough and has the potential to take on such a life of its own, that it is a message I can get behind. At one point, the authors discuss how they knew of a church that threw a Super Bowl party in the nicest room of the church for the homeless community. They mention another church that threw a dance for a nearby retirement community were young men danced with the elderly ladies and vice versa. I love these ideas. The authors state,

“A dance and a Super Bowl party... what do they mean? Are they expressions of mercy? Are they expressions of justice? Maybe they simply reflect love- doing unto a neighbor what you’d like done for you if you were in his or her shoes. When a woman poured out a flask of perfume on Jesus, the disciples exclaimed indignantly, “Why this waste?...This perfume could have been sold at a high price and the money given to the poor” (Matthew 26:8-9). The spiritual bookkeepers of the world love a return on their investments, but what Jesus asks us to do can’t be measured in those terms. Jesus replied to the disciples, “She has done a beautiful thing to me” (Matthew 26:10b). [Here’s the best line!]Sometimes things shouldn’t be measured in terms of better or best, but of beauty.”

I’ll admit... I’m not all that good at administrative work. I don’t always ask the right questions, lead to the right places, or anticipate every need, but I do register with this. I embrace and delight in thinking of all the possible ways to minister to the community. I can get excited about showing Jesus to people by way of not only meeting their needs, but by serving them beyond their needs. This excites me. This is something I can wrap a ministry identity around. It is inspiring to me. A wise mentor of mine once brought great clarity to my seemingly unrelated list of interests: photography, working with youth, interior design, seminary, hiking, writing, etc. She said that I just want to create beauty to share with others. It has been years since she said this to me, but the words still ring so true. I think of them quite often. I think it just came down to understanding how this deep-seeded desire found its voice in work with a little hurting church in New Orleans. Praise God for offering hope, joy, and beauty to our lives!

Excited about the possibilities,
Stefanie

...struggle

2008-03-06T18:04:00.000-08:00

Written: February 12, 2008

I have to admit, this work I’ve stepped in to is daunting. Each day, I do some work to chip away at the looming needs in the church and feel as if I am using an ice pick to carve Mount Rushmore. Certainly, God has His plans for our little church and He will fulfill them in His timing. I know this. However, even as I work, I cannot help but look back over my shoulder and see the incredible amount of work that needs to be done. I feel like we are losing ground every day that we do not have ministries reaching out to the community. Our greatest need right now is for leaders to take on responsibilities in the church. I suppose that every church experiences this struggle, but when there is not even a pool of congregational leaders with a history of serving, it makes you come to believe that you are starting from scratch. In addition, many of our core leaders will be leaving in the May/ June timeframe. Again, we have confidence that God will provide for his little church, but we realize the great potential, perfect timing, and strategic location of church to be doing things ten times greater than they are currently being done and are chomping at the bit. The community is starving for a safe place where their kids can play. Our women’s Bible studies grew largely because women in the community simply wanted something that they could come to. Youth are pouring out of households all around the church, but we have nothing to offer them. Our children’s leaders are so few that we do not have the capacity to put on a Vacation Bible School or even maintain a strong children’s program. This breaks my heart. I almost feel as if we are standing in the middle of a very big destruction zone and are starting all over from scratch, which is actually what has happened. Of course we have hope. People are being baptized and coming to know the Lord on a regular basis. Our sponsor church, First Baptist in Euless, Texas, has been an amazing source of support to us. In fact, only a few days ago, two men from their congregation drove down to deliver baby beds, toys, musical instruments, etc. to help our kids. They have agreed to pay for our floors, which bear the markings of flooding, roof leaks, and other damages, to be stripped and redone. Their great hearts toward our church is overwhelming. We are so blessed to have a sponsor church that is so deeply invested in Gentilly Baptist. When many volunteer groups have come and gone all around the city, Euless has been a constant partner and source of deep encouragement all along. In fact, Euless was aiding Gentilly Baptist long before they agreed to become a sponsor with the Unlimited Partnership. Their work began before I arrived on the scene. Because of this, my mentors at the Euless church are already such a source of encouragement for me. They understand the situation of the church and have seen, firsthand, the work to be done.
I am a firm believer in vulnerability. I’m willing to be transparent enough to admit that I am in over my head. Juggling the responsibilities of school, the Unlimited Partnership, relationships, and Gentilly Baptist has not come without great effort. However, I have to admit that this demand on my time and energies has also made me very careful about my time with the Lord. I KNOW that no good, effective work can be done without His strength, but even more than that, I understand that His word gives life. Some day, Gentilly will have a new Minister of Education, school will be a (hopeful) diploma on the wall, and my relationships will look completely different, but one thing that will make the profound difference will be the precious time I spent away from these things, seeking the Lord out of a deep love for who He is. Things fall into place with the Lord at His rightful place as King of my life. The work He places in my hands will turn out much more beautifully if the focus is maintained upon Him.
I covet the prayers of my friends who have taken the time to read this. Thank you for caring about our church, its leadership, our hurting congregation, and the incredible work the Lord has done, is doing, and will do in the future. Your partnership with us in every way is so greatly appreciated!

Rain

2008-03-06T18:00:00.000-08:00

Written: January 26, 2008
2:30-3:00 AM

I absolutely love the rain. I am sitting in my apartment at 2:30 in the morning. My roommates are fast asleep. Our apartment is cluttered and in disarray, revealing the day’s activities, but rain is pouring down outside and I am sitting in my favorite chair in the living room, my work illuminated by a single table lamp. It is restful. I have always attributed rain to newness in my mind... as if the old was being washed away and something new would rise with the sun the next morning. This is all sounding very poetic, but I do think there is something metaphorically beautiful about rain and what it represents. God brought rain for 40 days to cleanse the earth. Illustrators of Disney’s Lion King used rain to signify the washing away of an old king’s order as the new king took his place. Even rain in romantic movies always suggests a change of some sort. It is the “thinking period” of the movie. 2:30 AM in a seminary apartment is my “thinking period.” The events in my life over the past week have been eventful. Starting classes this week brought instant syllabus shock as I began to calculate the hours each demanding course would suck from the time I should also be dedicating to the church, or friendships, or relationships, or family, or.... It all became very overwhelming. Nineteen hours is probably ridiculous. This I know.
However, after the rush of the day has calmed and the homework has been put away for the evening, there is relaxation in the silence of the apartment and the steady fall of rain outside. This week was not only marked with the beginning of a new semester. By the middle of the week, I also found myself in the emergency room with a dear friend of mine who had accidentally overdosed on prescription medication. By overdose, I mean by a speculated 56 Adderoll pills. When you are only supposed to have 30 mg and you take 855, your body is bound to react. As I sat next to her in the hospital room and watched her drink two cups of gritty, tar-black liquid charcoal, I felt sick to my stomach; Not because of the substance that no one should have to drink, but because the person I was sitting next to was not my God-loving, passionate friend, but a different person altogether. As she was speaking incoherently, gasping for air, falling asleep while talking, and hallucinating people in the room, I missed my friend. A dark moment in the middle of the night, and a bag full of haunting memories drew my friend away to a dark place none of us could go. It would be days before she was back to the girl we all knew. Pastor Taylor and others have been warning that spiritual warfare has been much stronger over the course of the past few weeks. The children’s minister at Gentilly Baptist had seen the signs at the church as well and had just commented on it last week. My friend said that she felt a demonic presence in the room on the night of her flashbacks. God has been creating a sense of urgency in my heart toward fervent, extended times of prayer. I am not necessarily sure that the overwhelmed feeling I’ve been having was not something more like an oppressed spirit. My heart, emotions, and thoughts were so heavy this week.
For so long, I have neglected prayer as a bedrock fixture in my life. My personality is one that I get easily distracted (go figure). A recent personality survey taken at the last Unlimited Partnership meeting we had said that in prayer, I am easily distracted and find it very difficult to focus on particular requests over an extended period of time. I’m sure it is more a mark of spiritual immaturity in that area. Nevertheless, the Father is beginning to impress upon my spirit to begin a deeper prayer life. If my pastor, his wife, and other church friends are correct, I think prayer is going to be increasingly necessary over the next few months. Pray for us at the church. If these are spiritual attacks, they are bound to be dirty and painful.
It is exciting when the enemy feels the need to stage an attack because you know he is opposing something that is currently happening or on the verge of happening. Perhaps this is the new horizon dawning on the church, our congregation, our community, or our leadership. So, as I sit listening to the rain, I pray for Gentilly Baptist. I pray for the surrounding community struggling with life issues of finances, family crisis, post-Katrina New Orleans, violence, etc. I pray for the congregation of Gentilly Baptist who is hungry and eager to know Christ, find family, and affect the community. I pray over Dr. Taylor and the other church leadership who have labored faithfully in spite of great opposition and disappointments. I pray encouragement, strength, and support over them. I pray others will be sent to help alleviate the burden carried by the few. May God raise up servant leaders in His timing!

As always, we cherish your prayers.

Blessings,
Stefanie

Introductions

2008-03-06T17:59:00.000-08:00

Written: January 20, 2008

I think this may be the most beautiful church I have ever been a part of. Aesthetically, no. With ceiling tiles missing to reveal overhead scaffolding, floors stripped to the concrete sub-floor and still bearing witness to the previous crude tile floor, this is not a church of the wealthy. We warn people to bring their coats because in the winter the temperature of the room is dictated by the temperature outside. However, if you come early, you might notice a quiet bustling in the back of the room. There, you will find a strong, beautiful spirit making hot chocolate and toast for a handful of people in the congregation who literally arrive starving. This is not a planned event or an announcement in the bulletin. It is the overflow of one woman’s beautiful heart expressed in the way we imagine it might have happened with the early church. The first Sunday I witnessed this take place, the woman explained to me that when every person is eating four helpings of food, even the children, you know they are starving. As she told me about them, I actually laughed, thinking she was joking that they were actually starving. It was a busy day, very few things had gone according to schedule, and she was somewhat frazzled. I figured she was just being somewhat dramatic, as we have a tendency to do when we tell stories. I’d said “I’m starving” only a few days before, which of course, was only an exaggeration. My chuckle was met with a blank stare. She was not being dramatic. She was serious. I was silenced. However, she quickly said, “You know the Spirit is going to be at work today, because everything seems to be going wrong.” And the Spirit is at work... the previous Wednesday night, I had attended the Women’s Bible Study for the first time. There, I met a woman named Tina with enthusiasm and attitude to spare. She was animated and eager to know the Word, as, I’ve found out, so many in the church are, as well. In fact, the night of the study, we were discussing Creation. Just about the time that Michelle, the study leader, began to explain the Fall, Tina enthusiastically shouts out with exasperation, “And she ate the d*** [excuse the explicative for story purposes] apple!” which thoroughly shocked the room, but ended in nervous chuckles all around. I actually really love the beautiful attitude of the people though. They have not been spoiled, ever, especially not by the church. We sit on metal chairs in the middle of a cold gymnasium. Seminary students often turn their nose up at this place, but, if we’d all look just a little deeper, invest an ounce, there is this incredible beauty to be found. The sad part is that I’m not sure I ever would have discovered it myself if a staff position at the church had not been placed in my lap. If I had not instantly been given responsibilities at the church, I wonder if I would have remained either. It is tough work to attend a hurting church and it demands that we get our hands dirty. Christians are not often very eager for that work, unless they feel that they are really a part of something. Enough classes on Servant Leadership and Ministerial Administration have taught me that “without vision, the people perish.” Today, I was introduced to the church as the Minister of Education. Afterward, as a few of us were winding cords, one of the members said, “Now that you’re paid, you’re coming to help, huh?” His attitude was good, and we were only joking, but I wondered about that statement to myself later. I knew that this statement was not true, because serving is worship to me, but there was a shift in my mind that now gave me some sort of “permission” to help in a more aggressive way, to ask if I could help with tasks that seemed to be “reserved” for those in leadership. I think the thing that I really love about this church, that perhaps I had not noticed until today, was that there are no “reserved” tasks. The church is a family, and the seeming “leadership” never plays its authoritarian card. I pray that I will be able to communicate that with others, as well. An early example of this came when, suddenly, it was announced that a female visitor would be reciting a poem at the end of the sermon. She had approached the pastor during the invitation and requested to be allowed to recite the poem her mother had written in honor of Martin Luther King. The pastor quickly prayed that the Lord would guard what was said, and he agreed to allow her to do it. The informality of the situation and the beauty of the poem spoke volumes about the pastor and the church. Many in the 75% African American congregation were moved by the words, and blessed by their presentation. I think the informality of the situation also enhanced the beauty of the moment. Impromptu creativity was allowed in church!
It seems only fitting that Dr. Taylor, the pastor, had just spoken about Martin Luther King, Jr. in his sermon, which ended with him quoting, “The world is in dire need of creative extremists!” Had I heard him correctly? I later Googled those words to see if I could understand their full impact. In a 1963 letter from Birminham Jail, Dr. MLK Jr. wrote some intensely moving words that, I think, apply to us, the body of believers. I have excerpted a portion of it below because the powerful words are beautiful and inspiring.
“... I have not said to my people: “Get rid of your discontent.” Rather, I have tried to say that this normal and healthy discontent can be channeled into the creative outlet of nonviolent direct action. And now this approach is being termed extremist.
But though I was initially disappointed at being categorized as an extremist, as I continued to think about the matter I gradually gained a measure of satisfaction from the label. Was not Jesus an extremist for love: “Love your enemies, bless them that curse you, do good to them that hate you, and pray for them which despitefully use you, and persecute you.” Was not Amos an extremist for justice: “Let justice roll down like waters and righteousness like an ever flowing stream.” Was not Paul an extremist for the Christian gospel: “I bear in my body the marks of the Lord Jesus.” Was not Martin Luther an extremist: “Here I stand; I cannot do otherwise, so help me God.” And John Bunyan: “I will stay in jail to the end of my days before I make a butchery of my conscience.” And Abraham Lincoln: “This nation cannot survive half slave and half free.” And Thomas Jefferson: “We hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal...” [Here’s my favorite part!] So the question is not whether we will be extremists, but what kind of extremists we will be. Will we be extremists for hate or for love? Will we be extremists for the preservation of injustice or for the extension of justice? In that dramatic scene on Calvary’s hill three men were crucified. We must never forget that all three men were crucified for the same crime—the crime of extremism. Two were extremists for immorality, and thus fell below their environment. The other, Jesus Christ, was an extremist for love, truth, and goodness, and thereby rose above his environment. Perhaps the South, the nation and the world are in dire need of creative extremists.”
(source: http://www.scribd.com/doc/46251/Letter-from-Birmingham-Jail)
I’ve grown long-winded, and people can only take in so much passionate talk at one time, but one final thought: perhaps we all can rally behind the idea of creative extremism for beautiful causes. Extremism is often discouraged, frequently by the church, but understanding what MLK, Jr. is saying here, and the case he makes in regard to Christ and Amos and Paul, my prayer can only be that my life would be marked by a godly creative extremism. It’s inspiring!

P.S. Tina was baptized in the service today. I sat next to her disinterested, 17-year-old daughter, and watched as Tina stepped through the next door in her faith. If only more churches had an enthusiastic, hungry, delightful woman like Tina in their congregations, and actually delighted in who she was!

Face Down

2008-03-06T17:35:00.001-08:00

I hate blogs. I’m really not that interesting of a person, which makes blogging completely obsolete. However, I’ve also never lived in the city where the largest national disaster in American history struck just over two years ago. That changes things. So, for those who are unable to be here, to live here, to put their finger on the pulse of the city, this blog is for that purpose. I don’t claim to understand. How could I understand devastation that intense by observing it two years later? However, there is something about living in the city as opposed to seeing pictures in the paper or on TV. I do not pretend to understand the incredible loss suffered in New York when people were jumping out of the windows of their high rise offices, but I think the people who live in New York probably do. I do not write to solicit a response, to sell you a religious service, to help us feel better that we grieved. Actually, that might be the reason. I just don’t know. I was reading in Isaiah about Jerusalem. “Oh Jerusalem, Messiah wepts for you.” It goes on to explain a watchman sitting on your walls. And then I thought about Jeremiah, as the weeping prophet. In some ways, those verses melded into a mental image for me. Sometimes I feel like I’m sitting on the walls of my own Jerusalem, and I weep for them. I sit on the walls, because I was not here. I cannot pretend that I know the depth to which people here grieve, but I know that my own grief for this Jerusalem has grown since I moved here, and for that, I am grateful to Jesus.

I recently read a biography about U2’s Bono. In it, he addressed his work in regard to aid in Africa as “justice, not charity.” I think about that here in New Orleans. Charity feels like pity. Certainly, there is sorrow and grief and your spirit bleeds for the people who used to occupy the homes marred with spray painted X’s across their doors, but it is not pity. Pity strips them of their dignity, of their genuine true emotion. It separates you from the reality of the event. As I’ve lived here now, I’m beginning to see devastation for myself. For a while, when I first moved here, I felt nothing. I allowed myself to feel nothing because I had felt nothing in San Antonio in regard to New Orleans- - I guess nothing except for pity. Now, when I can’t even drive a block from my home without seeing half the businesses and homes on my street completely unoccupied with windows blown in and roofs sagging, I am beginning to allow myself to be moved by Katrina. I want Katrina to affect me. I want to feel something—to feel my heart bleed for this city. My friend, Joe was able to shed a lot of light on the city post-Katrina that really doesn’t get talked about, except maybe on Oprah or something, but even that show is filmed far from San Antonio, so it, too, feels disconnected and impersonal from my own life. Like I said, Joe was able to help my heart feel something for these people as he explained how people have literally lost everything in this storm… and they are losing their minds. This is not metaphorical or poetic, this is real. Actually, I do have to pay Oprah some credit for her show on Katrina. On it, she told her audience that only 22 counselors have returned to New Orleans to administer counseling to people. In a city where residents are steadily losing their minds, children weep when it rains, and people don’t like to leave their houses because the traces of the nightmare still remain, the need is very great. I think I’m beginning to understand when Jesus said that the harvest is ripe but the workers are few. I sit in my safe seminary, really, the only pristine looking place in the entire 9th ward, and get restless. Half of my friends are counseling majors. I wonder to myself, could God use me better if I was a counseling major? And then I remember that I am an awful listener and never have good advice, and remember why God did not choose me for that purpose. However, there is so much that still needs to be done. But, when I consider what Bono said about Africa, and how his work is about justice as opposed to charity, I think about whether helping in New Orleans is about charity or justice. I understand that New Orleans is not one of the notches in the Bible belt. Rather, it seems to be that little black hole where morals slip down and get lost. In light of that, some have said that Katrina was justice. That pains me very much. I hate that “kill em all” attitude of believers that seeks all justice with no mercy. If we think in a more holistic approach, we realize that we are all in this together. Who was it that said “Injustice anywhere is injustice everywhere?” I like that quote because that person who can’t afford to build their house again, even if the house had previously been a run-down shack to start with, is still our neighbor. The person weeping on the roof of their flooded house is my neighbor now, AND when I was in San Antonio. Suddenly, their problem becomes my problem. Only because I’ve been reading Bono’s biography and respect him so much do I keep quoting him, but in regard to Africa he said, “What makes you qualified to help a person who has been knocked down in a car accident? There’s only one qualification necessary: that you happened to be there, and you happened to be able to call the ambulance[…] When you’re lying down there, choking in the road, you’re not gonna ask: “Excuse me, have you got a qualification? Are you a doctor? Do you really care about people, or are you just doing this because there’s a newspaper reporter on its way? You don’t care. Just get the job done!” Perhaps this is a better point of view. What are our qualifications?… that we love Jesus beyond all reason. It is when we think that we have qualifications that we do not help. If we realize we are bankrupt, it is then that we are willing to get our hands dirty because we have nothing to lose in doing so. This is not to say that everyone in the nation needs to rush down to New Orleans and get their hands dirty by building a house with Habitat. But, there is something to grieving and praying for a real problem. A real need. What better time for Jesus to be proclaimed in a place that is now vulnerable? “Sodom and Gomorrah” has its face in the mud. This is not an abstract Bible story—these are real people. Perhaps Christians could put on the Samaritan hat for a while, not out of pity, but out of like-mindedness to Christ. Sure, we are Levites or Priests or whatever, but clinging to a title is not clinging to Jesus. Remember, he wept for Jerusalem, and we weep for New Orleans.
Please pray for us down here. People are bowing to depression, and what is to prevent them? Someone warned me that about three months in, almost everyone who moves down here has to start fighting the tendency to get depressed. Please pray that God would use my hands, keeping them pliable to his work, before that three month time hits and my hands run the risk of turning to stone. I’m praying that winter is lifting in Narnia and perhaps, Aslan is on the move!