this morning, actually during the night, i was reflecting on my true friends. like most of us, i have legions of people i would consider casual friends. they are wonderful people who i have taken the time to know on certain levels. they are important to me.

but there are some people with whom i will share a life.

i had a friend tell me some time ago that lately it has been hard to be my friend. i have often reflected upon the tragedy of that statement and tried to refute it but she is very right.

"a friend will help you move. a real friend will help you move a body."

during the past years of my life i have struggled with being a true friend. so often i have skimmed relationally. i have been hurt, as many of us have, and it is easier to coast than invest. in this period of my life i have seen "friends" say damaging things "in christian love" and it has scarred me. anyone who knows me knows that lately i quick to take offence. simply put, my resistance is down. i am easily hurt, quick to judge, and often slow to believe. it has been hard to be my friend.

i value those who have born with me through many of the darkest hours of my life.

Tony Campolo relates a story about himself. Once he asked a class of students "What do you reckon Jesus would have said to a prostitute?" Campolo was apparently preparing himself to be able to speak about Jesus' compassion and understanding. At one particular point in the discussion a Jewish student responded: "Jesus never saw a prostitute." Campolo began to sensitively suggest that Jesus in fact related to a number of prostitutes. The Jewish man interrupted him and said: "Dr. Campolo you didn't hear me ... Jesus never saw a prostitute." Campolo responded again with a situation from the Gospels. Again the man said: "You're not listening to me ... Jesus never saw a prostitute." Suddenly, Campolo understood. When Jesus looked at someone he looked beyond their situation and he looked beyond their own perceptions and societies' configuration of them. He always saw the whole person. The salvation of self and society is the goal of Biblical conversion and it becomes possible with God through Jesus Christ .

The story is set in WW I. “One night, as the struggle settled into trench warfare, a lieutenant commanded his men to sneak across a field and attack the enemy. Obeying the officer’s command, the men inched their way out of their safety and began to crawl toward the enemy. Suddenly, gunfire rang out! Bullets flew in almost every direction! The frightened men scurried back to their own trenches as quickly as they could and hunkered down.

“When the gunfire ceased it was eerily almost still, except for the moaning and groaning of one of the men who had been left behind on the field, wounded. The man kept crying for his friend George, begging him to come and save him. George, in turn, pled with the young lieutenant to be allowed to go. But the young lieutenant said ‘No’ over and over again, trying to explain that he didn’t want to lose another man in what would be an obviously foolhardy rescue attempt. ‘I’ve lost him. I don’t want to lose you too,’ the lieutenant shouted. But the young recruit kept pleading and finally, in exasperation, the lieutenant said, ‘Okay! If you want to get yourself killed, go ahead! I’m tired of listening to your whining. Go out and get yourself killed, if that’s what you want to do!

“The young soldier sneaked over the edge of the trench and inched his way along the ground, crawled to his friend, grabbed him and slowly pulled him back to safety. He got his wounded friend back to the trench, and after pushing him over the edge of the trench, George fell on top of him. But it was too late – he was dead.

“The lieutenant yelled, “George, I told you there was no point to your bravery. Why did you risk your life? You put the entire unit in jeopardy. And for what? There was no point to what you did. You were a fool!’

“George answered, “I was no fool. When I got to him he was still alive, and the last words he said were, ‘George! I know you’d come!’”

That’s what a friend does. And that’s what Jesus did for us.”

When Tony Campolo was 16 years old, he attended his first funeral at a black Baptist church.

"I was there," Tony said, "because my good friend Clarence had died. He wasn't young, but he wasn't old, and my heart was broken that my friend had died so suddenly.

The pastor began the service by talking about the resurrection and the glory of that day. He left the pulpit and spoke directly to Clarence's family. He talked to them about the 14th chapter of John, where Jesus said, "Don't let your hearts be troubled. You believe in God. Believe also in me. In my Father's house are many mansions. I wouldn't have told you this if it weren't so. And I'm going there to prepare a place for you. And if I go there and prepare a place for you, I will come again and receive you to myself."

Then the pastor did something strange. He turned from the family and approached the casket and began addressing the dead man. "Clarence!" the pastor said. "Clarence!"

He said it with such authority, Tony says, "We expected Clarence to sit up and say, 'Yes, what do you want?'"

"Clarence," the pastor said, "you left us too fast. You left us too soon." And he recalled the story of Clarence's life. He told Clarence of the ways in which his life had blessed the church, blessed his family, blessed strangers and people in his neighborhood.

"Now, Clarence," the pastor concluded. "We have said it all, and there's only one thing left to say."And with that the pastor grabbed the lid of the casket and slammed it shut with a resounding BANG! "Good night, Clarence!"

The pastor turned toward the stunned congregation and said again, "Good night, Clarence!" And then, with a sly smile, "We'll see you in the morning."

"Good night, Clarence," the pastor said. "Because God is going to give you a good morning up there. Good night, Clarence, because God is giving you a good, good morning. I know, I know," he said, "I know there's a good morning up there."

And the organ began to play and the choir began to sing, "On that great gettin' up morning, we're going to rise, we're going to rise. On that great gettin' up morning, we're going to rise." And the pastor and the congregation began to sing with them and the people moved into the aisles hugging and crying and laughing and crying some more, clapping and singing and dancing with the choir and with Clarence and with the great cloud of witnesses who have gone on before.

rose revisits street church and native spirituality

i was blown away, again, today. i ran into mike abercrombie and jordana (george) roblee at the office delivering pizzas. here's why it blew me away.

our youth, as well as a few additional friends, keep an orphanage alive in thailand. they average $700/month. they are the sole food providers, contribute to education, and keep the transport half-ton on the road. 32 kids. without us they don't eat. it's a shocking and daring enterprise.

when i say 'us' i certainly don't mean 'me' - a ragtag tag team of kids led by a sold out man and one of our pastor's, who totally get it. $700 a month. every month. it's amazing.

and so they sell chocolates, do yard work, make pizzas, collect bottles and do whatever it takes to change their world. every week. every month.

sometimes i pride myself on what i am doing to make a difference. then i walk in on people like mike and realize that they are more sold out to their project than i ever will be to mine. it's humbling. it's challenging.

i am so proud of my friends. they really make a difference. there are missions teams and individuals going out several months of the year. 6 of them are in costa rica right now. they feed the downtown core every sunday. they have a dance of hope for the street people and others every couple of weeks. they support an orphanage in thailand. they feed, clothe and love children in third world countries. they send underprivileged kids to camp. they support cancer research. they buy food for the unemployed. they send gifts to countries all over the world. they knit teddy bears. they fill shoe boxes. they raise money for tsunami relief. the list goes on and on…

so buy some freakin chocolates.
hire the kids.
write some cheques.
skip some frivolities.
make a difference.
these people are. every month. without accolades. without praise. without recognition.

i'm paid to be good. they're good for nothing... ok maybe i said that wrong.

a prayer for easter
May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half truths, superficial relationships, so that you will live deep within your heart.
May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression and exploitation of people so that you will work for justice, equality and peace.
May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer from pain, rejection, starvation and war, so that you will reach out your hand to comfort them and change their pain into joy.
And may God bless you with the foolishness to think that you can make a difference in the world, so that you will do the things which others tell you cannot be done.

what kind of a god would identify with me?

During World War II there was an incredible man who cared. His name was Metropolitan Cyrill. He was from Bulgaria. I don't know whether you know much about Bulgaria, but it was an ally of Nazi Germany during World War II. In spite of that fact, Hitler was not able to round up a single Jew in Bulgaria, primarily because of the leaders of the church there. They stood against Hitler. They cared for their Jewish brothers and sisters and they hung tough when the time came.
This is the story. They rounded up the Jews and had them down at the train station. They were ready to load them on the trains to ship them off to Auschwitz. It was the midnight hour. Suddenly at the end of the boulevard leading to the train station, there appeared this great church leader dressed in black with a beard that came down to his waist. He stood 6"5' to start with but those Orthodox priests have miters on top of their heads so he must have looked like a giant. They said when he walked, men had to run to keep up with him because his stride was so great. Suddenly this man appeared at the end of the boulevard with about a thousand church people behind him. He strode down the boulevard, the church people marching behind him in silence in the dead of the night.
They surrounded the enclave of Jews. The SS Troopers tried to keep them out. Metropolitan Cyrill just laughed at them, pushed their guns aside, and marched among the Jews. As the Jews gathered around them, he let them know that he cared for them. He raised his hands and with one verse of scripture changed the destiny of a nation. He quoted from the Book of Ruth. He said this to the Jews as they gathered around him hysterically, ready to be shipped off to Auschwitz: "Whithersoever thou goest, I will go. Your people will be my people. Your God will be my God." This was a man of courage. This was a man who cared. A man willing to give his life for a stranger.

i spent way too much time trying to win at this...

campolo. of course. i once did this for close to a thousand people at an ecumenical service in Fort McMurray. i was screaming at the top of my lungs. they had no idea what i was like when they asked me...

Here's the story. Tony Campolo is a member of the Mt Carmel Baptist Church, an African American church in Philadelphia. He describes it as "the closest thing to heaven this side of the pearly gates!" As in all African American churches, the Deacons sit on the stage behind the preacher, and whenever he says something good, they cheer him on and yell "Preach it, brother! Preach, brother!" The women in the church usually wave one hand in the air and call out ... "Well & well!" One Sunday when Tony was struggling half way through his sermon, a lady in the back row yelled . "Help him, Jesus! Help him!" That was all he needed to know that things really weren't going well that day!
One Good Friday service, Tony was one of seven to preach that day, one after the other! Campolo writes .. "When it was my turn, I rolled into high gear, and I want to tell you, I was good! The more I preached, the more people in the congregation turned on ... and the more they turned on, the better I got. I got so good, I wanted to take notes! At the end, the congregation broke loose with hallelujahs and cries of joy!"
I sat down next to the senior pastor and he looked at me with a smile. He reached out and squeezed my knee, "You did all right boy," he said. (I must admit that I hate it when he calls me 'boy.') I turned to him and said, "Pastor, are you going to be able to top that?" The old man smiled at me and said, "Son, you just sit back 'cause this old man is going to do you in.'
I didn't figure that anybody could have beaten me that day. I had been so good. But the old man got up, and I have to admit, he did just what he said! The amazing thing is that he did it with one line. For an hour and a half he preached that one line over and over. For an hour and a half he stood that crowd on its ear with just one line, "It's Friday & but Sunday's coming."
That line may not blow you away, but you should have heard him do it. He started really soft .. "It was Friday; it was Friday and my Jesus was dead on the tree, but that was Friday & and Sunday's coming." One of the Deacons yelled .. "Preach, brother, preach!"
"It was Friday and Mary was crying her eyes out. The disciples were running in every direction, like sheep without a shepherd, but that was Friday. And Sunday's coming." The congregation responded .. the men with 'keep going .. keep going' .. and the women with 'well .. well.' He picked up the volume .. "It was Friday. The cynics were lookin' at the world and sayin' `As things have been so shall they be. You can't change anything in this world; you can't change anything. But those cynics don't know that it was only Friday. Sunday's comin'! It was Friday, and on Friday those forces that oppress the poor and make the poor to suffer were in control. But that was Friday! Sunday's comin'!

The preacher kept going. He picked up the volume still more and shouted, IT’S FRIDAY! , and on Friday Pilate thought he had washed his hands of a lot of trouble. The Pharisees were struttin' around, laughin' and pokin' each other in the ribs. They thought they were back in charge of things. But they didn't know it was only FRIDAY! SUNDAY’S COMIN’!!!
He kept on working the phrase for a half hour, then an hour, then an hour and a quarter, then an hour and a half. Over and over he came at us .. 'It's Friday & but Sunday's coming!, 'It's Friday & but Sunday's coming! 'It's Friday & but Sunday's coming!' By the time he came to the end, I was exhausted. He had me and everybody else so worked up that I don't think any of us could have stood it much longer. At the end he just yelled at the top of his lungs .. 'IT'S FRIDAY!' .. and all 500 of us in that church yelled back .. 'SUNDAY'S COMING!'"

and that's it people. we alll know it's friday. and you can get depressed. you can wonder if you make a difference. you can ask yourself if God cares, but that's just because IT'S FRIDAY.......AND

i am indebted to darryl dash for sending me the book, "jesus in the margins". and of course, now i must hate him. why? because for a year i have been working on a manuscript, blissfully unaware that the book had already been written.

here's a few quotes as i work my way through it:
"so many times it seems the rest of the world has gone ahead of me. they've created a mainstream life that mostly flows onward without me. whether in church or in business or in relationships, there are times when i simply feel the rest of the world is out on the field playing, but it's a game i can't relate to. a game i'm not good at. a game i can't win."

"and in those places in the margins we hold out the silent hope that one day we will be loved. that we'll be known for who we are, and when we put all our stuff on the table - everything that has happened to us, all the mistakes we've made, every bad thing we've done - that someone will look at all of it and say, "i love you. i accept you as you are."
when we bump into each other in the crowded margins, we doubt we will ever hear those words. and we admit it.
the great thing about the margins is the honesty.
no one here is still playing games.
we're all ready to have an authentic look at life. we desperately want love and acceptance, but we just can't bring ourselves to sacrifice honesty in order to get it."

Elie Wiesel is a Holocaust survivor and an internationally acclaimed author. A Romanian-born Jew, he describes in his first book Night how he was taken to the death camps in the spring of 1944 at the age of only fourteen, along with all the Jews of his community. They travelled by train for three days, eighty people in each cattle truck. On arrival at Auschwitz, the men and women were segregated, and Elie never saw his mother or sister again:
Never shall I forget that night, the first night in camp, which has turned my life into one long night, seven times cursed and seven times sealed. Never shall I forget that smoke.... Never shall I forget those flames which consumed my faith for ever.... Never shall I forget those flames which murdered my God and my soul, and turned my dreams to dust.... (p.45)
One of Wiesel’s most horrifying memories was when the guards first tortured and then hanged a young Jewish boy, ‘a child with a refined and beautiful face’, a ‘sad-eyed angel’. Just before the hanging Elie heard someone behind him whisper, ‘Where is God? Where is he?’ Thousands of prisoners were forced to watch the hanging - it took the boy half an hour to die - and then to march past, looking the corpse full in the face. Behind him Elie heard the same voice ask, ‘Where is God now?’ Wiesel writes, ‘And I heard a voice within me answer him: "Where is he? Here he is - he is hanging here on this gallows."

will be blogging some of my fav easter stories this week. i pretty much stole every one of them.

It was February 1941, Auschwitz, Poland. Maxmillan Kolba was a Franciscan priest put in the infamous death camp for helping Jews escape Nazi terrorism. Months went by and in desperation an escape took place. The camp rule was enforced. Ten people would be rounded up randomly and herded into a cell where they would die of starvation and exposure as a lesson against future escape attempts.
Names were called. A Polish Jew Frandishek Gasovnachek was called. He cried, "Wait, I have a wife and children!" Kolba stepped forward and said, "I will take his place." Kolba was marched into the cell with nine others where he managed to live until August 14.
This story was chronicled on an NBC news special several years ago. Gasovnachek, by this time 82, was shown telling this story while tears streamed down his cheeks. A mobile camera followed him around his little white house to a marble monument carefully tended with flowers.
The inscription read:
IN MEMORY OF MAXIMILLAN KOLBA.
HE DIED IN MY PLACE.
Every day Gasovnachek lived since 1941, he lived with the knowledge, "I live because someone died for me." Every year on August 14 he travels to Auschwitz in memory of Kolba.
"Greater love has no one than this, than to lay down one’s life for his friends." (John 15:13).

“Blessed are the Jobs, who suffer, yet stay faithful.
Blessed are the Josephs, who endure unjust treatment yet refuse to live in bitterness.
Blessed are the Hoseas, who continue to walk in obedience even though their spouses leave them.
Blessed are the Pauls, who pray for relief from the thorn in the flesh yet also respond, ‘His grace is sufficient for me).
Blessed are all those who can live with unanswered questions, who can rest in what they see, and who can wait patiently for God to reveal what they can’t see.”

Psalm 40:5
The world's a huge stockpile
of GOD-wonders and God--thoughts.

took a couple of runs to the dump today. there is a certain liberation, a sense of freedom, that comes with throwing out junk. because we are guys, it was necessary to turn it into a game. there were the mandatory "light saber" fights with the florescent light tubes. we had to smash anything that even remotely seemed breakable. certain heavier items were catapulted for maximum effect. all in all a very rewarding experience.

somtimes i wish my life was like a trip to the dump. at the dump you leave behind the vestiges of past messes. you drive away and quickly forget the specifics of the experience. no sooner is it catapulted than it is forgotten. though the dump stinks, is dirty and disgusting, there is a real sense that you are doing something worthwhile. after you are done, the junk is no longer your junk, it is someone else's problem.

there are many moments, experiences, problems, i wish i could just as easily toss and forget about.
i understand forgiveness.
i have experienced first-hand the old addage that "time heals all wounds".

unfortunately, though, there are significant scars. i have often thot that we walk with a limp. we have battled and bloodied and been scarred by experiences that are part of what we are. from many of these past deeds i have learned valuable lessons; though lessons learned the hard way. knowing what i know now and having experienced what i have - if i had to do many of my experiences over again i simply would not have. the life lessons, though we are taught differently, simply aren't worth it.

often in my daydreams i have wished i had a time machine to go back and redo some things, skip others, and fix many more. last week i watched the "butterfly effect" again and wondered anew what i would change, given the chance. hindsight is 20/20 but it is still hindsight.

many years ago i heard a song by canadian songwriter valdy which went like this - "old and tired, bent and busted, grey and wrinkled, can't be trusted, just a dirty old man." though the diry old man part holds a certain attraction i have often pondered the ramifications of one life.
will i look back with a suitcase of regrets?
will i wonder if i made a difference? will that matter as much as i thought?
will i find the joy that so many are missing and take time to smell the lasagna or will i spend my days fretting and frowning over things that don't matter?

when all is said and done.

when all is said and done will much more have been said than done?

don't get me wrong, i am not depressed. as i sit at a new crossroads in my life i have the opportunity to reflect on what i have accomplished in this past 9 years. certainly there are many experiences that i would change. some i would keep exactly as they are. some i am still dealing with. when i look back several years from now i wonder what i will think. i hope i will know i am a better person for having lived this life, but sometimes i wonder.

i'm also realizing that some things don't matter as much as they used to. the accolades of the crowd no longer hold the sway they used to. the praise of people must begin to wane.

i love what martin luther king once said, soon before his death -
"Yes, if you want to say that I was a drum major, say that I was drum major for justice. Say that I was a drum major for peace. I was a drum major for righteousness. And all the other shallow things will not matter. I won't have any money to leave behind. I won't have the fine and luxurious things of life to leave behind. But I just want to leave a committed life behind. And that's all I want to say."

and i just hope my family still loves me.

... and i still have some hair on my head.

A positive attitude may not solve all your problems, but it will annoy enough people to make it worth the effort. – Herm Albright

Do what you feel in your heart to be right - for you'll be criticized anyway. You'll be damned if you do, and damned if you don't.
Eleanor Roosevelt

Forgiveness does not always lead to a healed relationship. Some people are not capable of love, and it might be wise to let them go along with your anger. Wish them well, and let them go their way.
Real Live Preacher

A life spent making mistakes is not only more honorable, but more useful than a life spent doing nothing.
George Bernard Shaw

Our best successes often come after our greatest disappointments. - Henry Ward Beecher

May your trails be crooked, winding, lonesome, dangerous, leading to the most amazing view. May your mountains rise into and above the clouds.
Edward Abbey

The Spirit of the Sovereign LORD is on me,
because the LORD has anointed me
to preach good news to the poor.
He has sent me to bind up the brokenhearted,
to proclaim freedom for the captives
and release from darkness for the prisoners,
to proclaim the year of the LORD's favor. (Is 61:1-2)

Do I have a “kick me” sign on me?
yesterday I’m going to the bank. When I say 'going' it’s because it took me a while to get there. I was almost there when all of a sudden a woman… familiar with the streets if you know what I mean, comes screaming up to the car all frantic… “oh blankity blank can you blankity blank help me?... her hair looked like medusa had thrown up. she informed me that she lived in a tent trailer and she had no running water, hense had not showered. it was not exactly a revelation inside that closed space. she needed a ride. she needed rolling papers. she needed help. she needed a bath.
If I only gave her a ride, then everything will be ok.
So then I finally get to the bank and some guy is beating the crap out of the automated teller. Talking to it - dialoguing with it using the same words the young lady used. I wanted to point out to him how the machine could not communicate and no matter what the dealeo.. it wasn’t going to make the bad machine monster give him more money than he actually had in the machine. Believe me, I’ve tried praying at the machine, tried talking to it, tried to speak sweet computer language into one of its slots but it still only gives me money that I have in it. I know it’s unfair but beating the crap out of it wasn’t going to do any good. And then I made the mistake of trying to tell the guy this. I was very articulate. Very rational, but for some reason the guy wasn’t receptive. If somehow he could hit the machine right or scream enough then things would be different.
And of course, then I was lucky enough to get to hear his whole life story. And I wanted to care but all I could think about was... why didn’t I go to the automated teller at the Petro-can?
Be nice if we could wave a magic wand and everything could be better.
Do any of you remember the Etch-a-sketch? If you don't know what an etch-a-sketch then you are just too young and i hate you. It had no digital readouts. It didn’t come for x-box. It didn’t even take batteries. You twisted two knobs on the bottom of the screen to draw a picture. If you messed up, all you had to do was shake the thing a couple of times and you got a clean screen - a chance to start all over.

Wouldn’t it be nice if life were like that Etch-a-Sketch...

as usual, amazing.

there is a certain sense of desperation when you cut yourself off of computer communications. i am a wired person (yes in a couple of ways). like many of us i check my email, peruse my blog and scan the net several times a day. it is a way of life. it is an addiction. i downloaded my email for the first time in several days today and it was scary.

spending 5 or 6 days away from it has helped me to examine my world. i am a frantic person these days. there does not seem to be an end to the input in my life. i'm sure many of us could say the same thing. there are emails to read, mail to process and throw in the garbage, flyers bombarding. lately the telemarketers have been relentless. i listen to talk radio. i listen to speakers and read books and reviews. i talk on the phone and if i don't, it seems to keep ringing anyway. there are people who need me. people i need. i am a frantic person these days.

it is hard to slow myself down sometimes. there are distractions and naps, to be sure, but my mind seems to relentlessly press on. there seems to be no end to the influences that desire sway. no ceasing of the information that comes pouring in. in some ways email has become a curse. there was a time, not so long ago, when we were forced to communicate on the phone or by letter. people were less apt to contact you, it seemed. today anyone can whip off a question or a comment in seconds. i am as guilty of this as anyone. i sometimes wonder if we are getting closer, or just more annoying...

it's back to blogging, back to email, back to the phonecalls and the letters and the tools of the trade. they are important, but i am left wondering if i have not placed an inordinate amount of value on things that may not matter. so with this in mind i am determined to make the next days of blogging count. the emails of substance. the phone calls. well, let's not get crazy.

let the games begin.

have been taking the week off from email and blogging.
back to normal next week.

having coffee yesterday with a friend and i started to whine about having to go home to do laundry. a guy overheard us and commented, "i wish i had a home".

just found TJ's blog. adding to the growing list of youth at the church who are blogging.

my 14 year old son ben is a poet. here are his reflections on church yesterday morning.

selling cars
I have long maintained that as a minister, I am only one good rumor from selling cars for a living. Now if you sell cars for a living, no insult intended. It is just that some years ago I noticed an inordinate number of ex-ministers in the automotive industry.

As a public official it has become increasingly apparent, at least to me, that people are truly interested in my welfare; though not always in the terms that I would naturally prefer. As a colorful character by nature, it seems that everyone has an opinion about me. If I get a haircut, people notice. If I am not available, there are comments and questions. If I am in public I need to be ‘on my guard’ 364 days a year. There are no exceptions.
Sure I have friends with whom I can be myself – but the list of so called friends who can’t be trusted is growing. Rapidly.

I long to live a life these days where I can be anonymous and uninteresting; but it appears that is not soon to be the case. The notoriety is a dark side to the profession I have chosen, or have been chosen for; I am uncertain any more which it is. While many people crave the spotlight, lately I crave the back row. Too many innuendos, too many inferences, too many people wondering “how I am doing”. Too many lies. Too many “friends” giving me advice, too many restrictions on how I can live my life. I feel like I’m fourteen years old and everyone in the church thinks that they are my crazy uncle. I’m tired of performing, feeling sorry for myself and in danger of becoming bitter.

In fairness it has been hard for me to be objective about my life these last years. I have experienced grief on a level I could never have imagined, and been deeply changed and scarred as a result. I have learned things about myself I never desired to know. It has stripped away some of the glitter for living and left me older. Gone is much of the idealism of my youth, and I mourn my loss of innocence. I hold my relationships more lightly than I once did. I no longer love my friends with abandon. I am guarded with my heart. I am skewed. I wear my idealism like a cloak, though underneath I am conscious that some of it is a lie.

This latest round of public smearing has only served to further entrench some of the negative aspects of the hell I have gone through. Yes, there has been incredible healing; but I can’t help feeling somehow different inside. Something is missing, or dead. I can feel it, though I don’t entirely understand it.

There is a reason why I cannot allow comments on this blog. You can read it throughout the manuscript. People won’t just listen. They will need to form opinions, project solutions, feel pity or make assessments or judgments. I don’t want concern. I desire apathy.

street church is the best thing i do in my life. our church has other ministries that make a difference, but for me its sunday nites.

no matter what my week has been like, how little i feel i have contributed, getting up there and singing "johnny be good" reminds me that in a small way, i am a part of something gospel.

we talk constantly about impacting our world, yet few churches and people actually make a difference in their community. we have meetings and functions, but see little tangible results on the street. street church, not my idea, is something in my life that i can point to when i don't know what difference i make.

it's a dance for homeless people and the rest of us. for a few brief moments we try to show everyone, regardless of social status, they matter. our teams don't just minister, they live alongside the people they love. it isn't a project for them. they are interested in their friends on sunday nite. they actually care and show it.

there is prayer. there are drunken confrontations. we sing. we dance. we party and we eat. sometimes i get a hug. sometimes the finger. it doesn't matter. it's church.

desmond tutu -
Theology reminded me that, however diabolical the act, it did not turn the perpetrator into a demon. We had to distinguish between the deed and the perpetrator, between the sinner and the sin, to hate and condemn the sin while being filled with compassion for the sinner. The point is that, if perpetrators were to be despaired of as monsters and demons, then we were thereby letting accountability go out the window because we were thereby letting accountability go out the window because we were then declaring that they were not moral agents to be held responsible for the deeds they have committed. Much more importantly, it meant that we abandoned all hope of their being able to change for the better. Theology said they still, despite the awfulness of their deeds, remained children of god with the capacity to repent, be able to change for the better.

jordon's response - My other reaction to the post is how quick we are as Christians to write someone off as irredeemable, as if we make that decision.

read jordon's whole post here.

"After twenty-five years of priesthood, I found myself praying poorly, living somewhat isolated from other people, and very much preoccupied with burning issues. Everyone was saying I was doing really well, but something inside was telling me that my success was putting my own soul in danger...I woke up one day with the realization that I was living in a very dark place and that the term "burnout" was a convenient psychological translation for a spiritual death."
henri nouwen
via

... men are stupid.

via

i used to be a social worker in northern alberta.
i remember the meeting in which i realized something was very wrong. i was the lone male in a room of female social workers and we were discussing the day's caseload. as with most SS agencies, there was too much to do for too few workers. we rifled through the work and the discussion of 'what to do' ensued. a very bizarre trend started to emerge.

while we were discussing who to ascribe blame to in these situations it became apparent that whenever a man was involved he was assumed to be guilty. all men, it seemed, were closet perverts and offenders and we just assumed they would be the guilty party. at first i could not tell this was happening. by the end of the meeting i was very upset. it seemed that no matter what the situation, the token "man" was the scumbag that was to blame, even if we couldn't prove it.

i know this is the second post i have done defending men. it's the way my mind works this week. next week i may post for days on the glories of bologna, i don't know. i think the last post got me thinking about the role and characterization of men in society. there are many more generalizations at work as well in the media and in conversations we are a part of. i have mentioned some of them before.

things like -
men are simple. this is a sick generalization that i see creep into relationships all the time. the male brain is wired differently than the females. we process information differently. one is not better or worse than the other. cross gender conversation, i am convinced, is critical and difficult. face it ladies, most of us still don't know what you mean by "fine". we don't process subtlety the same way you do. when two guys argue we just hit each other and go for a beer and its settled. when we say we're fine... we really are... fine. the converse is also certainly true. most men never take the time to learn how to communicate with women. we assume women are the same as we are. hahahaha. some of us are working on helping men on that end of the equation but don't get your hopes up.

men are perverts. ok, while this one seems to be true for the average 17 year old i hung out with, it can lead to incredible misunderstanding. all men are not driven by their testosterone and incapable of an independent thought. it's simply not true. though it is true that most of us think about sex pretty ALOT, it is an issue of self-discipline and maturity. most of us are able to differentiate between sexual and emotional relationships. some of us are even capable of turning down sexual opportunities for the greater good. at least i have heard this is true.

men don't understand housework. ok this one is true. it is why we bbq. you can burn the heck out of the grill and it is considered clean. actually, though, i heard a good speaker say that many men are wired up so that, though they do not see dirt right in front of their face, they don't mind helping. they just need to be asked. i know it seems like hen-pecking but i for one can attest that this is true. i walked around a sock on the floor for months (exaggeration) until one day i realized it wasn't going to get up and throw itself down the laundry chute. it was an epiphany. since that time, as a single parent, i have come to have different eyes. sight i never had when my wife was around to pick up after me. i have even found myself getting frustrated at my own boys for their lack of intuition when it comes to domestic chores... men!

men don't communicate well.
actually, we do.
with each other.
i remember an episode at a coffee shop when the three guys i coffee with on a regular basis (john, rod and aaron) and i were talking and a female friend joined our conversation. from a sociological perspective it was hilarious to watch the tide turn. within minutes we reverted into apes incapable of entire sentences. it started when our female friend called us on some of our exaggeration, hyperbole, and random musings. we shut down and the grunting began. ten minutes later when she had to go the conversation started up again without a pause. it was very interesting to be a part of...

i could go on. i could also invite a conversation on how women are misunderstood as well. of course, i am grossly underqualified to comment on that subject. maybe if i get an email on the other side of the coin i'll post that and we can continue to muddy the waters. and, as usual, you don't have to agree. as dave ashton used to say, "you are entitled to your own opinion, even if you are wrong." j/k