Psalm Week

Psalm Week—what can I say? It was an outrageous idea: get a bunch of people together at each others’ houses, and read Psalms out loud together. The book of Psalms is divided into 5 sections, so we did it over 5 consecutive nights last week. We invited the whole congregation, but since it’s a weird idea, we did not get too many takers. I guess we averaged about 12 people each night.

The idea came from where? It’s hard to tell. There was a prof where I did my BA an MA who had her students read Paradise Lost out loud, together, in one sitting. Then in seminary, I had a great prof, Joe Dongell, who had us read Mark aloud, but we did it alone. I guess Jessica and I got to talking about those assignments, and maybe we should read Scripture aloud together. So we did Mark about a month ago, with 5 people. We knew we were on to something. As we talked some more, Dro (Peter White), Maggie, Meg and I am not sure who all else started buzzing about the idea of Psalms. So we set a time and did it.

It was wonderful. Community is not built because some people happen to know Christ and then get together socially. It I built when people are formed together by Christ, in Christ. But I digress.

Monday night at Meg’s house, the first night. Each of us seemed to have some way the Psalms connected with us personally and corporately. Jason read Psalm 13, and it seemed like that summed him up, seemed like a summary of all the text messages he has ever sent me.

Tuesday night at Mona 2’s house. What a cool house. And what deep devotion to 2 Monas have to Scripture. We all just basked in the Word.

Wednesday night, at the Church. Psalms took the place of the prayer meeting, which makes sense because the Psalms are prayer. Two guys looking for the Word came. They heard it, but maybe not like they expected.

Thursday night, my house. Awesome. Big crowd. Good dinner (thanks, Laura!) Amazing stuff. My man Lew came with his boy Seth and friend Sam. Lew has a great community up in Cincy, and we have long wanted to connect. Then, Michael, a youth from the community, maybe 12, sat and read with us. Wanted to read first, and belted out Psalm 90.

Friday night, Jessica and Laura’s house. Another good crowd, another good dinner. And the biggest chunk of Psalms, 45. Lots of people around the room, lots of voices. And when we got to Psalm 136, and Abigail had people respond with the chorus, “His love endures forever.” I was holding Jazmen, she was just about asleep and then she popped up. I asked her if she heard. Yes, she said. “God loves you, all the time.” She just smiled.

We’ll do it again. I think we’re going to do something ridiculous. I realized that you can read the New Testament through in 13 weeks, giving 2 ½ hours per week. So I think we’ll try to do that one time through, and see if we want to keep on, doing the NT four times a year.

Foti

Some of you may remember Foti, my Greek neighbor, the guy I got in a heated debate with. The debate was roughly about the existence of God, whether or not the “whole idea” of Christianity is ridiculous. We spent close to a year eye-balling each other as I passed his house, getting a little closer when the church helped Big Doug when his house burned down, and finally getting invited to Foti’s son’s birthday party this summer.

Well, Rebecca, Foti’s wife, came to last week’s community dinner. She mentioned that Foti is a little shy around crowds of people he doesn’t know, but that he really does want to come one day.

The day after (Friday), I stop by the house and Foti is there. We get to talking a little bit. I can’t really go into all he said, but he really opened up. It was an amazing conversation. I think if you said, “There’s an atheist who really can’t stand pastors and church,” you would not think we’d be friends. Foti says he appreciates that I could listen to him and then “fight back.” He is hungry for what he called “real conversation.” Amen. It’s good to have an argument, some deep thing to discuss over coffee or Indian tea.

So we’ll see where it goes.

Oh, there’s this. Rebecca is from India. A few weeks ago, Jessica introduced us to a friend of hers from India, Kulo. He has a powerful ministry in the villages of a state in India. John keeps his brochure in the car and reads it whenever we go somewhere. He went out to the car, got it and showed it to Rebecca, telling her about Kulo and letting people know about Jesus. Melissa said that when she prayed for John before he was born, she kept sensing that she would “lose” him to the mission field. I think back to the time we were in Las Vegas and John wanted to know if the people there knew Jesus, and maybe “we should go to places and tell them about Jesus.”

Assignment

Go to the space on your right, where I've linked some blogs. Click on Lew Ross. Read his post "Knother Knee Jerk" Scroll down a bit when you get to his blog.

We were separated at birth.

Great Quote, Random Note

Carlotta got kicked out of Tai Chi classes.

"Restraint is overrated." -- John Gallaher

Community Dinner

I always look forward to Thursday nights… it’s when we have our community dinner on Highland Park Drive. It’s a time I can’t quite describe. In a lot of ways it brings together what I am striving for here: Christians who will move in and connect with their neighbors, and be in each others’ lives; opening up houses to hospitality; reading Scripture together; praying together; doing evangelism by close living with people who don’t know Jesus; and getting together for the joy of it.

Luckily, we have not only ours, but 12^th Street’s dinner as well. I was mentioning a few days ago how good it is for the boys. It was after an encouraging walk with Peter White that I thought why wouldn’t I want my boys to grow up around Peter and Jackie? Or any of the folks who are a part of our lives here?

The process is kind of amorphous right now; I wish I could map out how it will work/is working. It’s a growth in relationships that is precious to me.

Last Thursday night, 2 folks from the neighborhood came, and a third guy showed up as we were leaving. Magilla had a Tupperware of chili she was taking home, and she gave it to him. It was a big step for him to show up. Slowly but surely, the neighborhood will see that we mean business, that the strange group of people who meet at my house mean it when they ask you to come eat with them… There are moments when it feels like we should take communion, and we would not really need the anamnesis (the ritual of remembering) because Jesus is with us, and we remember Him in our faces and voices.

Reading Mark

A few weeks ago, Jessica and I were talking about a professor at the seminary, Dr. Dongell, a guy we both really like. She took a class from him that I took, a study on the Gospel of Mark. We had it some years apart, and he still starts it off the same way: by having you read the gospel out loud. We both remarked how much we liked the assignment, and then at about the same time said, “Wouldn’t it be neat if we read it out loud with a group of people?” The assignment was to do it by yourself, to hear it. But we began wondering what would happen to a group of people if we were formed by the Word? Our goal was simply to listen. Not to have anything to say.

So Saturday, we did it. We cooked breakfast Saturday morning and then we read Mark. It was good to have some fellowship in the kitchen and around the table, and then to read. It was me, Jessica, Meg, Christy, and Christopher. It was wonderful to hear each other’s voices. It was wonderful to read through the gospel without stopping, to catch its immediacy, its entirety.

It took about an hour and a half to read it. But it felt (at least to me) like it went fast.

I had a couple of “feelings” during the reading. Somewhere around chapter 6, I was captivated by the sense of “I believe this?” “I believe this?” Finally, “I believe this!”

When Jesus tells the disciples that one of them will betray Him, He immediately broke the bread, taught them that it was His body and gave it to them. I thought, “He has just spoken of being betrayed and then He just gives Himself away. I betrayed Him, and yet He has given Himself to me.” It was one of the most powerful moments I have had in a long time.

At first, Christy knew she had a lot of studying to do, and thought she would not stay for it all. But she could not let it go. Christopher is a boy who is going through a rough time, and I was very proud that he could sit through it. When we were done Meg said she was not leaving until I told her when we were going to do it again.

Papa

It has been hard to know what to say about my grandfather, and I am not sure why. He was a great man, one of the most important influences on my life. I have wondered if it’s just not all too much in the past year to deal with, and so perhaps that is why I feel somewhat flat. I guess it has been a hard few years, with failing health, difficult diagnoses, and death in the family.

There are too many memories of Papa. His place in California was the one stable place in my wandering life. It was always home. But I suppose that really, he was always home. That is, he made it a welcoming place, in every way. People commented that he was always making a pot of coffee for anyone who might come by. But it went deeper, to his patience and wisdom. Those things really make you feel at home.

I had the eulogy at his service, and one of our cousins said, “You spoke more words in your 5 minute speech than Papa would have in a day!” Ha ha! How true. He spoke little, but always to great effect. You listened. You craved what he might say.

The best times were early in the morning. We’d be up before sunrise for chores on the ranch. When we were done, we’d come back to the house and he’d make me hot chocolate and peanut butter toast.

I think that the thing that will stick with me the most is a story about trees. I guess I get my love of trees from him. There aren’t many trees in that part of California, and many there were planted by men. When Papa came to visit us in Mississippi, he took back some Southern Live Oak acorns and planted them on his ranch. They thrived in the constant sun. They grew a little too quickly and were a bit leggy, so they needed to be staked for a few years. One of the trees had two leaders, and we took some pruning tape and tied them together, making figure eights up the tree.

Papa said, “One day, long after we’re gone, people will wonder, what the hell happened to this tree?” Because, of course, no one plants a tree for himself. You go into it knowing your grandkids will get the benefit of it.

Papa used to ask me fairly often if I remembered doing that with him. Of course I did. I wondered why he always asked me that and then it hit me: he wanted to know if I would remember him. Some part of him was going to live on in that tree. Turns out, we did not separate the branches enough, and so they grew back together, looking like one trunk. But if you look at one of the oaks on his property, you can see, up the trunk, a spiral scar.

I don’t need a tree to remind me of Papa. It’s a great memory, no doubt. But there is a lot more of him that lives on in me.

And then, I think a conversation my mom had with him a few months ago is lifting me up. He commented on how a lot of people, especially in California, can’t handle sickness and death. They think they’ll never die in the land of sun and looking good. But he told my mom he had been ready to die since he was 6. His faith was in Jesus. When those who belong to the Lord die, and leave this earth, how can you mourn? There is human grief, of course. But there is also great joy.

While I was out there, I got to baptize my uncle, Tim. It was awesome. We have always connected over music (we went to see Dylan and Petty; he could never get me into Poco and Little Feat… I was too much of a metal head). As were in his car, listening to Emmylou Harris’ “Pieces of the Sky,” he started talking about wanting to be baptized, and I suggested a pastor he knew in town. But he said he wanted me to do it. I was blown away and honored beyond belief. It’s hard to be a witness in your family; they know you too well, and they see you too raw sometimes. But it just goes to show, baptism is God’s work, not ours!

We did it California style-- in a hot tub!!

You have to be ready in season and out of season. God is good.

Neglected Fruit

I am still trying to figure out what to say about my grandfather's death... it is part of the mystery of faith that the time surrounding the funeral became a family reunion, with a lot of laughter and joy.

My grandmother always has some fruit and cheese around. It just so happened that she had my favorite cheese, Petit Basque, a sheep's milk cheese, and my favorite fruit, pears. You don't always get pears, it seems. In fact, it seems that only now am I considering that they are my favorite fruit. Apples are their more glamorous, popular, available cousins.

But pears and sheep's milk cheese, it gets no better.

Pears are a lesson, really. You see them. But they're not ready yet. You have to wait and let them get to their syrupy best. They sit on the window sill and you about die until you can eat one.

So there I was in Cali, with some comfort food. And how awesome was it to come back to two pears waiting for me? I had them on the window sill.

Life in the Oh-5

So last night I had a run-in with this joker. He's a real punk and needs to get a clue. He's been harassing someone I know and was trying to use me in getting to the person he's harassing. I told him in pretty clear terms he'd better hit the road or...

He ended up hollering at me and said, "how can you call yourself a f@#$ing preacher!"

I hollered back, "You need to do better than that. People ask me that all the time. Doesn't even bother me."

Now, if he had said, "You look like a Baptist," we'd have rumbled.

Son of A Preacher Man

On Friday, I headed to drop the boys off at Mammaw’s, where they stayed while I was in Cali. I called my mom to see how she was doing. John talked to her for a minute. I gathered that my mom was explaining to him that my grandfather was her dad. I heard John say something amazing. “Mimi, it will be ok. My mommy died, it will be ok. I bet they are having a good time in heaven.” He said it compassionately, but as a fact. I wonder if John knows that God redeems everything? That even pain and worry can be turned to good.

My mom said that was the most comforting thing anyone had said. “From the lips of children and infants, you have ordained praise, because of your enemies, to silence the foe and the avenger” (Psalm 8:2) That Psalm was on the schedule for me and Jessica this morning. A 7-year old boy shut the devil up and shut down all his plans for death.

Psalm-O-Matic

A few weeks ago in our prayer and fasting time, I started with reading Psalm 15 aloud:
“Lord, who may dwell in your sanctuary?
Who may live on your holy hill?
He whose walk is blameless, and who does what is righteous,
Who speaks the truth from his heart and has no slander on his tongue.
Who does his neighbor no wrong and casts no slur on his fellow man,
Who despises a vile man but honors those who fear the Lord,
Who keeps his oath even when it hurts, who lends money without usury
And does not accept a bribe against the innocent.
He who does these things will never be shaken.”

I try to read five Psalms a day. I’ve been doing that for I guess 4 years now. I have impressed that on as many people as will listen. Leo is one who took to it immediately and has been doing it for over a year. It goes in cycles; some days I forget. But Leo and I were in sync on that day of prayer and fasting. He came in late and after a few minutes he said he had something on his heart to read and it was Psalm 15! We wondered why did God want us to hear it twice? Maybe we didn’t get it the first time around? Maybe it’s just good to hear it twice? Maybe, in fasting, we were seeking to live on the holy hill, purifying ourselves? Whatever it was, we were blessed!

This morning (and I mean early, because I am in Cali), Jessica called. We had decided that we were going to read 5 Psalms together, and it seemed we needed to start as soon as the Lord placed it on our hearts to do so, not waiting for me to get back to the Kentuck. I guess, too, I really needed it; being here for my grandfather’s funeral has opened up a lot of stuff.
So the phone rang. Psalms 1-5. Read out loud. And then prayer. And then bye. That was it. Perhaps the best conversation we have ever had, letting God speak into us.

Uncle Johnny

This past Thursday night we had our first dinner for the community on Highland Park. Those of us preparing the meals, being the base of the work, whatever, had met three times before, getting to know each other. I think it is going to take some time for the neighbors to see that we mean it, that we are actually doing it every Thursday at my place, that it really is open, that we’re not the stereotypical church folk (i.e. me and Andy making plans to see Gov’t Mule), etc. As it was, Ann and her granddaughter came (thanks Maggie!) and then a whole pile of kids showed up early. One of them, Chance, told me that he would like to be a pastor. I think he thinks it’s all partying and wrestling…. Which isn’t far from the truth!

I have been doing some reflection about this whole community dinners thing, why it is that I like it so much. As I reflected, some things were obvious—the 12^th Street Girls do a good job of making an open and inviting space, and who doesn’t like that? But then, some buried things cropped up. I am always surprised when theology shows up so practically. The Parable of the Great Banquet in Luke 14 and the celebration at the Prodigal Son’s return in Luke 15 are probably my favorite parts of the gospel. When you see them happening, that’s what gets me. It really is this simple: “They’ll know you’re my disciples if you love one another.” And then, to paraphrase, “invite them to eat at your house. Where a few of you gather in My Name, I’ll be there, too. Let My Kingdom come.”

It’s so quiet, so simple and finally so subversive. The world changed because of the dinners and parties Jesus showed up at.

Then there’s my uncle, John Gill. He was a successful farmer in California. He and his cousins had a huge operation. Still do. But Johnny was always a farmer first, and I think that dealing with too much business or knowing that he had a software engineer was weirding him out. So he bought some acreage out towards Jolon, CA and planted grapes, had his own wine label. He was looking for a simpler life. He built a huge house. That doesn’t sound simple until you realize that most of the space was a huge living room and kitchen. Johnny was an awesome cook and grill master. The house was built for parties.

I can remember calling during Monday Night Football, knowing that he would be there and so would half that part of Monterey County. Someone would answer the phone and I’d ask to talk to Johnny. They’d ask who was calling. Sometimes someone would say, “I knew your old man,” or “I was your mom’s friend in third grade.” To know and be known… Maybe the one answering the phone did not know me and they’d holler “Do you want to talk to Aaron Mansfield?” And Johnny would holler back, “That’s my nephew, Nina and Bobby’s boy…” Half the time the phone would get passed around to people who wanted an update on where the heck were we—my mom and dad left a small farming town and never went back, but it’s still home.

Johnny died of ALS in summer of 2000. We named my oldest boy, John, after him. I did not get to go to too many of the parties. I remember going when he was ill, and you can’t recover from ALS. Somehow, there was still great joy in getting together. I heard about one time that Nessen killed a wild boar and Johnny grilled it. Talk about pot-luck!

Everybody knew they did not have a lot of time with Johnny, so they made the most of it, because, really, the times are evil. We live in this world full of violence, sickness and death. When we can transcend it, we jump on it. So, something theological, desperately theological, can happen when there’s a party with great joy. When I think of Johnny nowadays, I usually think of it in terms of the Last Supper. Friends and family were there with him. I don’t doubt that there were some folks there for the wrong reasons-- because it was a party, because the liquor was top shelf. But that’s the amazing grace of the Kingdom—when I came to the Cross, how selfish was I? How fawning and seeking? Not fully aware of this Jesus, I was just there to get what He had, what He so liberally spread out before me.

So hear this lesson they did not teach me in seminary, but rather that I learned from my uncle Johnny: if you pour it all out, a new life forms around you. In some way, Johnny hated his life in this world. He gave so much of it away, and he keeps it for eternal life. This is what makes me so wildly content when my house is full.

My Big Fat 05 Wedding

Friday night was huge for us at The Rock. Charley and Becky got married.

Charley and Becky moved in next to the 12^th Street Girls back in the early summer. Laura told me one day back then that there was a house with 5 kids in one family and four visiting cousins. So I headed over one day and so did Melissa McDonald (our children’s pastor). We made some contact, building on what the girls had started.

Charley and Becky were displaced by Katrina, and have been bouncing around since that storm. But, they were bouncing around even before that, trying to scrape by. As we got to know them, I began to sense that they were the kind of family we work best with: a family with kids, a family that needs some close fellowship, and a family that needs some serious, committed financial help to get on their feet. Luckily in the 12^th Street Girls, we have a group that draws people in thru hospitality and prayer, and also has bought into the model of ministry to the poor that says you have to be willing to pay a lot, to have an accountable relationship as opposed to a one-time shot of some pittance that won’t change anything anyway.

It hasn’t been easy, that’s for sure. There have been times where all kinds of relationships have been strained—between us and Becky and Charley, between Becky and Charley, between those of us doing the ministry. But one great thing came out of it: it drove us to prayer and intentional community.

So after a few months of Becky and Charley seeing how much we love each other, how much we love them, they started realizing that we weren’t going anywhere, that we stood beside them through all kinds of hard times, they began to want to be part of the work the Holy Spirit is doing among us. A few weeks ago, I baptized their youngest children, reminding the congregation that baptism is not our individual vote for Jesus (I stole that from Charles Brockwell), but rather is God’s work, His grace, bringing us into the Kingdom. It would be especially important for the congregation to know that Becky and Charley were giving us their children. We will raise them with them, especially until Becky and Charley reaffirm their faith.

So they told me they wanted to get married. So much stuff came out of that. Chucky, their first-grader asks, “Do we have to get married, too?” I wanted to say, “But you are getting married! The closer your family comes to Jesus and the Church, the more it must resemble a marriage, love and submission to the Lord.” But you can hardly explain that mystery to adults. But maybe kids can get it? Jazmen said, “Mommy, I am so glad you are getting married!” So while we may think that getting married after you have 5 kids doesn’t seem like the way to do it, look what God redeems! I think it will be very important for the children to remember when their mom and dad got married!

Charley and Becky were worried about a reception. I said, “Let you friends take care of that.” I suppose I was presumptuous in this (Sorry, Laura!) but I knew the 12^th Street Girls would have no problem with their Friday night dinner being a wedding reception, especially not for Charley and Becky, because all this Holy Spirit work started in Laura and Jessica’s back yard…

So last night we had a simple service in the chapel. Becky looked beautiful (Shannon, a 12^th Street neighbor, set her up with a dress, nails, make-up, hair) and Charley had on a nice suit and bow tie. Jazmen and NeNe were flower girls. I was so glad to see everyone there who came. It was some important work we were up to, something that transcends the personal lives of the people involved; it is the very heart of the church.

It was a cool night and so we decided that 12^th Street had to be in the Fellowship Hall. Some folks set it up really nicely, with lights and a bridal party table on the stage. Jim and Becky Connell of the Lexington Rescue Mission made a great meal for us. How awesome is that, to have those kinds of friends who jump in because they see what God is doing and want in!

We had a great reception for Becky and Charley. Sure enough, 12^th Street was there that night, and it felt good to be in the church, to be at home with family. Carlotta said, “We need to celebrate stuff like this more often.” Amen, sister. I sense that if we kepe being faithful to this move of the Holy Spirit, this drive to quit planning and controlling, to let Him work and bless and push us past where we are comfortable, we will see more people bringing more of their lives to celebrate with us.

We were involved in the mystery of God last night. It seems simple enough: a wedding of two people who love each other, who are seeing the possibility of a different kind of life, friends getting together. But it was so much more. A shadow of things to come. An exhilaration if we think how much we should, and can, commit our lives to Jesus, to each other.

Monday

Monday was a long, wonderful day. It started at 4:30, getting up, making lunches for the boys, bustling them off to Don and Laura Ellis’ house right around the corner. They would get them off to school in Don’s work van (a real treat for the boys), because I was headed down to Knoxville. At 5, I had the boys at Don and Laura’s—Laura is already up by this time, because she is a sick woman! Next stop to pick up Jessica and Russ on Twelfth Street, and then Becky and her two youngest, Selena and Justin.

Russ had to go back to Knoxville for a court date. He was worried he might end up in jail. Becky’s mom lives near Sevierville, and she had not seen her two youngest grandkids, so Becky would stay there while Jessica and I provided moral support to Russ.

The first case came up, and the judge threw the guy in jail, and Russ was pretty worried that was where things were headed for him. But the judge dismissed the charges and waived the fines. At that point, we were able to have a good talk with Russ about giving God the thanks, glory, and credit. He agreed, and felt like a burden had been lifted off of him. Pray that he can keep a thankful heart, and that we can keep letting him know how Jesus dropped all the charges Satan has laid against us.

Becky had a good visit with her mom, and it was important to her for us to meet her mom, to learn a little bit more about her story.

Becky’s family and Russ’ family were both homeless a few months ago. We have been working with them, getting them places to live, but mostly loving them. This simple thing Jesus was talking about, that people will know we’re His disciples by how we love each other, it works. Both families went from people who were hardened against the church by a life of poverty, to people who are coming around to accepting that they are in a family of believers now.

Becky and her man Charles are going to be married in our church on Friday. The 12^th Street Dinner is going to be the reception. How appropriate! It was there on 12^th Street when they lived next door to Jessica, Laura, Seble, and Rebecca, that all this stuff started happening. They not only came to dinner, but found themselves surrounded by people who would visit with them, pray for them, teach them the basics of life together, and sometimes press them to make better choices, to push through the places where people in poverty generally give up trying.

The Kingdom is happening in our midst! But we don’t always see it. It’s slow, hidden work, this building relationships, loving people in Jesus’ name. I sometimes get the credit—because of the blog, because I show up and have more apparent authority because I’m the pastor. But it has taken Meg’s prayers and gentleness, Jessica’s refusal to let go, Laura’s willingness to keep the house open for a bunch of kids, Peter’s having my back when I wasn’t sure how a confrontation with the evil landlord was going to turn out. And there have been people who have come alongside the families in ways that I don’t know about. I know you’re out there, and thank you.

The Kingdom is happening in our midst. We’re going to have to find some way to express the importance of it without being self-conscious about it. An awesome wedding will happen. And then, we’ll walk over to where the Jesus life started breaking into this family. Somehow, I don’t think we’ll ever quite get the importance of it. At the bluegrass concert we had a few weeks ago, apparently I was looking pretty content. Peter said something like, “You looked like you were really happy. You didn’t sit still much, moving all around, shaking hands, talking to the people who have never come to the church.” I think I said something like, “They’re my people. They don’t know it yet, but they’re my people.”

Peter asked, “do you think sometimes after Jesus performed a miracle, like the loaves and fishes, that He said to Himself, ‘That was awesome!’?”

Yes, I do.

It Works/ How It Works

About a year ago, I made a call for people to move into the community. I heard from some of them recently that they were pretty mad about it. The community doesn’t have the best reputation. Northside is a great place to live! But the idea is that since it is older, and tough in some places, it’s not the place to live. So some of the folks felt like I was asking them to live in a war-zone. (It is a war-zone, but not quite the way we think: the war is for lives and spirits, and is fought slowly and in hidden places.)

Anyway, a number of people have moved in—me and the boys, Maggie, Sara, Chelsea, Rebecca, Jason and Tawndee, Peter and Jackie, and John and Laura. Hope I did not forget anyone. They were added to those who have lived here for some time, and also to the 12^th Street Girls who have been incarnated here in one form or another for a few years.

John and Laura were living rent-free in a family member’s empty house. They were on the Southside, right where the American Gospel says you ought to be. But they felt like they could get a lot more ministry done if they lived here, in the 05. So they left a free 3BR house to pay rent on a one-bedroom apartment, in the complex where the refugees live. And they are so happy! Praise God!

I went with John just a few minutes ago to see his place. It is right in the middle of it all. But the cool thing was not they place. It’s what they’ve done with it. And I don’t mean Laura’s mad decorating skills. It’s bar-b-q’s with Mapigano, Laura taking Joyce and Rosy with her when she goes shopping, youth group kids coming over. And then John told me that a few days ago he and Laura went to a youth’s house and by the time they made it back home, he had talked to 23 people that he knew. All right here in the community. When he was talking to Russ, Peter pulled in. After he talked to Tina, I pulled up—the people he talked to are people that many of us have relationships with. So we’re doing the work, and winning people to Christ by our love for each other and for them.

We’ll be starting our “community dinners” soon, at my place. Our neighborhood is a lot different than 12^th Street, so we’ll have to adjust. One of the adjustments is that two of my older parishioners-- Lida Fugate and Thelma Glass—are going to be involved with us in the dinners. The awesome thing is, we have picked up 19 people in the last 3 months thru the work on 12^th Street—the work of hospitality, evangelism and most especially prayer. We are hoping that the same happens on Highland Park.

Prayers

So it’s back to this: making choices. Every day with the boys, you have to make a choice that the day is going to be good. I have to make that choice, they have to make that choice. Largely, it rests on me to keep pushing for all of us to make the choices, because if they wake up in a foul mood, or a sad mood, or an angry mood, they’re not going to break out of it without some help.

It’s hit or miss, if I rely on myself. That is, I am generally happy and ready to go in the mornings, but if we start running late, or there’s a lot of whining about breakfast, or they’re slow getting dressed… it can all add up. And then I’m not so nice and I only add to the frustration and misery of the morning.

One of the great blessings of living in the 05 now is that we have a lot more time for and with each other. Even though I am a lot busier scouring the neighborhood for people who don’t know Christ, we spend more time with each other than we have in almost three years. If I let it, resentment builds about that, how hard this has been on them, how hard it has been on me. We’re not much interested in stuff—we just like each other, and any energy we have comes from hanging out, doing even the simplest things, like throwing balled-up socks at the ceiling fan.

I think I am a lot calmer than I have been for, well, two years now. But again, it’s not about my own strength to pull off having a productive relationship with the boys. That still goes awry. Jason Dillard and I were pounding the pavement a few days ago, and he mentioned that he and Tawndee have a kind of modified Liturgy of the Hours. It’s not just devotional time, but there is a sort of Vespers where they discuss the day and God’s presence in it. It got me to being more intentional about what I call The Little Seminary. (Kerry and Tim, you’ll hear about this at your wedding…) The Little Seminary is what I hope me and the boys’ life together is, a space where we learn in a kind of natural way the rhythms of Christian life. It’s not just church on Wednesday and Sundays, but evening prayer, discussion about favorite Bible stories, remembering Jesus…. And now our own sort of Vespers, where we ask about where God was in the day. Thanks, Jason! We’ve added it to our Compline, where we have had over the years some regular prayers that both express and form who we are (That we could know Jesus’ voice so that when He calls we can say “Here I am,” that God might make us “preachers together,” that we would be ready to go to far away places—like Las Vegas, John says—and tell people about Jesus). And it strikes me that a sweet time back in the day was when John and Joe were infants, and they would wake up early, it was a good time for Lauds, or praise. And so we start the morning with praising God for another day, for each other, and all the ways He is going to be there with us. That seems like a pretty good choice. This is, finally, “praying without ceasing.”

Translating

This morning, I went to Arlington (the school the boys go to) to translate for the three of the Congolese families. Usually such conferences involve me trying to remind people that these kids have been through a lot, and so when they have behavior breakdowns, it's a lot more than language and culture differences.

I am working with a little boy, Schadrach. When his father was asked are there anythings the teachers and staff need to know about Schadrach, or about Congolese culture that could help in communicating, the father gave a brief account of what the boy had been through. Bruno, the father was a minor functionary in the government, and when the fighting started, he had to flee without his wife and children. So Schadrach feared he might not see his father again. He saw lots of killing. Bruno said he saw different toys in the school, and he hoped there weren't any toy guns because that really affects Schadrach. "Traumatize" was the word he used.

Schadrach misses his grandmother, still in Congo. I think if John misses Mammaw from one weekend to the next, how much more Schadrach? Pulled from his home, witnessing unimaginable violence (Congo's war is the most violent conflict since WW II), stuck in a refugee camp, in a new country where he doesn't know the language. I saw this with Rosey last year-- it's a hard time, getting acclimated. It's hard to explain that one day he'll make friends, that it will take time. Until then, you'll be a sad, lonely boy, that's what I'd really be saying.

Schadrach was born the day after John. Such different lives.

Congo

First United Methodist’s mission trip to Estonia was a watershed event for that church, because it was a watershed event for the people involved. It’s not too much to say that the people I met on that trip changed my life and continue to do so. In the first instance, so many of the people who went on the trip have become close friends. There was something that bonded us all together.

It’s been 11 years now, so I feel I can tell this story. Statute of limitations is over. Albin Whitworth, First’ s irrepressible organist, has a severe problem with antiques. Addiction might be the right word. So wherever we went we were on the lookout for antique stores. Albin had heard that a particular street in St. Petersburg had a lot of antique stores. But we were going down the street and could not find a one. It took me a second to figure out that that’s what he was looking for. I took a little Russian in college, and so I could see a few stores selling antiques, but Russian letters are so different you couldn’t catch it. I was sitting next to Susan Arnold and said, “there’s one. There’s another,” etc. She jabbed me in the ribs and said, “I’ll pay real money if you keep quiet…”

But it was the Estonian Christians who got to me. Their faithfulness in the face of a brutal Soviet occupation (between the Nazis and the Soviets, Estonia lost ¼ of its prewar population) inspired me. Well, it challenged me. I knew I was called into ministry almost as soon as I converted to Christianity. But I hedged, wanting to finish the Ph.D., teach English etc. It was mostly that I did not want the hassle of being a pastor. I wanted to do my own thing. Here were these people who risked it all to follow Christ. I was ashamed of my complacency about faith and calling.

Ok, so I come back from Estonia in 96. Sometime that fall, late summer, I am in the UK library and see a woman looking lost, no one helping her. I ask if I can be of assistance. I can tell quick she’s Russian, named Svetlana. Turns out she is from Kazakhstan. We converse a little bit, I help her find what she is looking for. Then she invited me home. I met her husband, a computer engineer, her parents who lived with them. Svetlana is a great pianist and her dad is an awesome tenor. They gave me a concert, set out some good food, “Here’s the man who helped me,” etc. I met lots of Russians that day.

I was blown away how many Russians there were in Lexington. I tried to get someone to see that it was time to have a Russian church. No dice. Who was I? And besides, immigration was (is) just not part of the church’s vision. I made a decision that if God ever put me in the place to reach immigrants, I was going to jump on it, and drag anyone I could along with me.

So eight years later, I get to Louisville, and I start meeting Ukrainians—a seamstress, a guy in the post office, a fellow with a Ukrainian flag on his car. I took it simply as a sign. Terena Bell hooked me up with some resources to find the Ukrainian community in Louisville. A doctor hooked me up with Igor and Ira Derevyanni (Igor owns Diamond Night jewelers, over by Sonic on La Grange Rd in Lyndon. He is a great artist and jeweler. Stop in and see him.) So I started learning Ukrainian, but things did not work out to do any ministry there.

This produced a crisis of faith in me. That is, I made the vow in 96, it looks to become reality in 2004, but it came undone, regardless of how hard I tried. What gives? I have kind of pushed past it, but it still hurts. The weird thing is, the call has been in effect from the standpoint that what I expect to do with whatever group God gives me is what I did in Winchester, what I do here at the Rock: learn the language, find the needs, share the gospel.

Then enter the Congolese. I find out about them by accident in a chance meeting with a former friend at Asbury Seminary. It seemed easier than working with Russians or Ukrainians because there was no new language to learn (I guess, tho, I will learn one of the African languages. I hope.)

There was a kind of theological reflection that was going on with the families from Congo. That is, it seemed like Pentecost was still going on—people coming from all over, hearing the gospel in their own language—now we just had to figure out to send the gospel back out into the world, to the places where people are coming from. So for example, the Rock has been active in helping churches in Honduras and Mexico, built on folks who used to worship with us here in Lexington. The same thing can and should happen in Congo. Or Togo. Or Cameroon. Anywhere people have come to us from. Except that many of our people can’t go home because they will be killed. But we can use their contacts so we can go to strengthen the work of the church in Africa.

Today, I started working with a first grader from Congo, over at Arlington School. He is a sweet boy, but traumatized. Sometimes we forget they fled for their lives, from a war. And they are strangers in a strange land. He got to talking about a country he can’t remember. I told him I’d like to go there. He looked at me, maybe to say why? “The people there are suffering greatly,” he said matter-of-factly. The churches are in disarray. The pastors and congregations need support. I am not sure how it will work out. But I have been waiting for 11 years now, for something like this. Now that it’s here, I’d ask for prayer. And any help you want to give.

The Porch

I guess there’s something important about the front porch. We’re here in the 05 (our ZIP code is 40505, and me and some of the folks at the Rock refer to our turf as “The Oh-5”), and I have been looking for opportunities to meet the neighbors. This evening, I sat on the front porch, reading some Scripture. The warm breeze gave me some relief from the sweating I was doing, I suppose as some mild fever broke. I read a bit and then the woman from across the street came by and out of nowhere starts telling me about some problems she is having with her kids. A bit later, I see an elderly lady struggling to get some tree limbs to the curb. I help her a little bit and we get to talk. Then a couple walk by and we get to introduce ourselves. All because of the front porch.

I don’t half doubt that reading Scripture on the porch helped a bit, too.

Since I wrote this a few weeks ago, more has happened on the front porch. My neighbor across the street talks to me pretty much everyday, and has been getting up the nerve to come to church. The neighbor on my left is a believer, but limited in attendance by illness, so maybe he will come to church at my house on Thursday nights.

The neighbor to the right is a phenomenal musician, who likes to sit on his porch and listen to me try to learn to play banjo. His brother has come by a time or two, inviting me to his club, “TD’s” on Second and Elm. Of course, Butch goes there and knows TD and his brother (my neighbor). They play R&B. When they asked what I do for a living and I said I am a pastor, they were quick to say, “We play Gospel, too! We play Gospel, too!” I guess they felt weird asking a pastor to a blues club. Why? That says more about pastors than it does about blues clubs.

Thursday nights, we’ll be having dinner at my house for the people in our little neighborhood. It’s amazing the “colony” we have over here: me, Steffi, and the boys; Don, Laura, Ashley, and Jordan; Kim and Andy; Maggie, Rebecca, Sara, Chelsea.

It’s not simply being in Lexington that has made the difference. It is being right here in the community. It has been having the boys in the school across the street from the school. They make relationships with their classmates… it’s amazing to watch them, their joy at thinking they can tell people about Jesus in school. I wonder what that means to them? I don’t think they ever say anything. I think they just play and be friends. There’s a lesson there….

Baptizing James

Wedenesday was an interesting one. Rosario led a fellow to Christ after a Bible-study at the Lighthouse.

I hit the streets on my bike, seeing who I could scare up. Last stop I made was Butch’s neighbor, a fellow who is dying of cancer. Butch took me over there about two weeks ago. The guy wanted to get right with Jesus, but he was laboring under the common thought that he had to be good enough, or he had not had the time to make up for his wild ways. I tried to talk to him about grace, that God gives us the free, unmerited gift of His love and salvation, if we will believe, repent, and accept it. He couldn’t quite get it. Maybe it’s pride, we want to hold on, think we’ll get it right one day…

I came into a different situation today. He was on the couch, it’s just a matter of time, a few days maybe. I won’t lie, it was hard to see, changing color, all that stuff that comes as death closes in.

He could not talk. I asked him if he was ready to get right with the Lord, to finally let go and let grace take over. He nodded. We prayed to accept Christ as Lord and Savior to trust Him for forgiveness of sin, for whatever time is left, and for a future of light. Then I got a bowl of water and baptized him.

I tell you, there have been a few times where those very close to death have either accepted Christ or had some spiritual awakening and it seems that there is more light in the room than there was when you came in. It always seems that “I Saw The Light” is on my heart in such moments.

I don’t understand how these Jesus freak-outs happen. They have been ramping up lately. I will miss them when they are gone. I’ve come to see that there are seasons to this. There is a dry spell where you wonder, “Does it make any sense for me to keep pounding the pavement, keeping the feet on the street and the eye on the people?” But then I know there will come a frenetic time when somehow, the Holy Spirit is active and stuff starts happening, weird stuff. Like seeing the girl I have been waiting for, the school becoming even more open to us, getting to baptize someone in their home, and realizing it is coming from countless faithful people spreading the love of God, and using words sometimes when necessary. I just get to come in for all the fun.

The big need, the big prayer request: that more people will enter this hard work of loving our neighbors—becoming friends, sharing life together. To catch how this works, check out Peter White’s blog, Jesus in the 05: www.oligopistos.blogspot.com

The Allman Brothers

I guess I need to tell the boys more Bible stories. Melissa, our children’s pastor—at least I think she was the one who passed this on to me—says that Joe told her he was in a band called “The England Brothers,” that he played the piano and his brother played guitar but he died in a motorcycle wreck.

A few days later, a song by the Allman Brothers comes on the radio. Joe says, “Hey, this is the England brothers!” And it hits me that he asked about them one day and I told him how Greg Allman is an awesome organist and his brother Duane played guitar til he died in a motorcycle wreck. They listen to everything!

I do tell them Bible stories, too. Seriously, I do.

There was an interesting moment tonight, just before children’s ministry. When I was working on answering all the questions to be ordained, John was just born, and he would sleep in his bassinette next to me while I worked. When I went thru the next round, he was about 3, and he would play his trains while I had all my stuff spread out on the tables in the fellowship hall. John has my nervous habit of pacing around while he thinks. He went over to my shelf, picked up a volume of the church Fathers, began walking around and talking about Jesus to himself—imitation, the sincerest form of flattery!