that blessed community

When I tell people that I live in intentional community, a lot of times they look at me funny. So I tend to obscure my answers to their common questions often enough. If I sense someone really actually wants to know, or perhaps will actually somewhat understand what I mean–then I will tell them the whole of it. Either way, people seem to generally either think that I am crazy, or that I am some sort of saint, and go on talking about how they could never do it. Yes, community is quite a blessed and beautiful thing you see. Or at least that’s what we’re generally ok with letting people believe (We also let them believe we’re crazy though too–better not to try to argue your way out of that (or then again of course, maybe we are)).

I suppose it is a part of every person in a community to come to the place of disillusionment. You always knew that community would be hard–or at least that’s what you’ve always been told. And it comes at some point that you realize that life in community is still life, and it is just that: life. You are still who you are. Maybe a little different yes, but not vastly. You have not been transformed by the power of the community. You have not become the saint of quiet wisdom and steady work. In short, community has not saved you.

I never thought of community as utopia, just as the best way to live. Sure I would tell others that it isn’t the only way to follow Christ well or is the truest expression of church compared to the book of Acts. It wasn’t the only way, sure. And in the back of my mind, but it is the right way now. This is what people really need. We have become too individualized and selfish. We have isolated ourselves from our brothers and sisters and found solace in entertainment. We have relegated church to an extra-curricular activity that occupies two blocks of our free time.

etc etc etc.

And the answer to all of this? Community of course.

But the truth is, community is just another place. It is another garden, complete with weeds and rocks, rabbits and insects. We try and put up the walls and structures that keep them out, but soon we find our that our fellow community neighbor is letting them in the back door. And we get upset and blame them for these obstacles and hindrances. Then we realize we are letting them in as well. They are coming from inside of us. None of us are innocent. And our great little garden is just like everyone else’s, still with so many of the same problems.

What we need, or rather, who we need, is Jesus of course. I think the problem though is that we like to need Jesus on our own terms, in our own favorite ways. Most of these ways are of course still not easy, but they are often not as hard as many of the words of Christ in scripture indicate–those words that we tend to pass over for other verses that don’t challenge who I am so much. A Jesus so full of grace and love wouldn’t really confront the way I live, right?

Community certainly has its values. I’m not saying it doesn’t. Community is really great at taking things beyond my own preference and perspective. It gives you other people to share life with, to strive together, to grow with–encouraging and supporting each other. It keeps you from wasting away too much time watching tv. It reminds you every day that life should not be taken for granted, and that each day really matters. And so much more.

But it will not save you. It will not magically make you closer to God or more the person you want to be. If things are going right–and believe me, they are not always going right–then it should be a place to help you along in those things. But it will take work. It will take effort on your part. Sacrifice. Struggle. And not giving up in the face of all those things and more. It’s still on your shoulders. Well, you and Jesus of course. And it’s usually better if he carries more of the load. More than you. And more than the community.

The Capacious Cloister

I could have been a monk. I love my wife very dearly and it has nothing to do with her. It’s the singularity of purpose in life, the dedication in common rhythm to a life about one thing. That’s what the word monastic means, not just to be alone, but the singularity of the will to one thing, that is, to God.

But instead I was part of group that sought to form a new monastic community. New monastics are kind of like monks, though not really hardly at all. They are often married. They don’t wear habits. They do pray together, and they normally share a common living space, but what similarities are there really beyond that?

I’ve been reading Kathleen Norris’ The Cloister Walk. It’s about her time spent as an oblate amongst a Benedictine monastery. I’m somewhat surprised that it was a NY Times bestseller, not because it isn’t written well–far from it–but because so much of it is about life at a monastery, reflections on problems faced by monks and monastics of old. What does all of this have to do with modern western society? How does it connect at all to modern, working, single-family dwelling Americans?

Norris does her best to make the connections, and there are some. But I don’t believe that’s why the book works. The book connects to people because they have a buried desire to escape from the seemingly endless trappings of modern life. They long for a simpler way to live. The following quote speaks to at least one of those trappings:

“Workaholism being a symptom of the desire to control and to fabricate our lives…I find that Benedictine liturgy counters that desire very well. It speaks poetry every day, and it is not productive.”

This is of course not to say that there is no work. Work is essential as well, not only for provision but also as a fundamental activity in the rhythm of life. This work is not fixated on efficiency and performance though, but is interlaced with levity and is often with the goal of community building. Completion of the task is not the measuring stick for what constitutes a good day of work. This is hard for Americans to grasp.

Another reason I think the book works, is that it touches upon that desire for simplicity, but without the impetus to actually truly pursue it. None of the readers are expected to become monks. And the reflections, interesting and extremely well written, are not intrusive at all. Change the way you think about your life perhaps, in the midst of your busy struggles, but don’t think the monastic life, or anything close to it really, is within your grasp through means of external, logistical change. A monastery is other-worldly enough to not feel any guilt in personal disconnection from that way of life.

New Monasticism is something of a go-between. “Ordinary Radicals” is what we’ve been called. Radical as the monk, but ordinary as the guy next door. Or something like that. We’re meant to be in the world, working to make a difference, not like the retreated monastics of old. We can be surrounded by all those trappings, but turn our eyes away. We don’t need the cave. We don’t need to cast off the world, for that is not what we are called to. We are called to be a part of redeeming the world. So we are monks, we are husbands and wives, we are pastors, we are laypersons, we are missionaries, we are neighbors.

Sound like a tough job description? Maybe it would have been easier to just be a monk.

I struggle with this impetus, with this pressure. Even though it’s probably not far from the truth to say that a degree of it is self-generated. Still though, it’s a lot of stuff to try and get done with just 24 hours in the day.

What is it that people are really longing for? As I read how Norris talks about the simplicity of the monastery, I can’t help but think about my community and how different it is in that way. We have not become about one thing, but rather tried to sanctify the many things–in a way attempting to baptize our workaholism, to sanctify our control, and to bless our pride. Because after all, it’s ok if it’s for the kingdom.

Can our communities still be places dedicated to the one thing? Can we be active in the world without taking on its character and seeing our communities become the very thing we needed rescue from in the first place?

Because that “one thing” of course is God. And “God” is not a subheading for whatever work we seek to do. God is a person whose love for us is our greatest lesson to learn, and for whom giving our love is our chief task. I’m sure any monk would say the same thing.

Eggstravagant!

We have collected a lot of eggs recently–today we went out with the kids and gathered 90 eggs! Crazy. We’ll give you some, just come visit us. Very fresh!

new stars: privileges

Our church being a good typical baptist church, it does many things you might experience in your average baptist church (though being missionary baptist, there are also a lot of other things you surely won’t experience in your average baptist church). One of these things is your weekly altar call at the end of the sermon. Only they don’t call it the altar call. In the program, the altar call is when we all come to the center of the church, hold hands, pray, and then give nearly everyone in the building a hug.

They call it “invitation to christian experience or candidate for baptism.” It’s easy to be cynical about these times, especially if you’ve grown up in some form of baptist or conservative church setting. But I’ve seen a lot of goodness in these times. I’ve seen God work in people’s lives on many occasions.

After people have come forward, Pastor Howard always walks around down off the pulpit stage to the area by the front pews. He gets down on his knees and prays for them, often after he gives them a pointed admonishment (he knows many of them–he knows everyone). Not long ago, he finished praying and the deacons supported his arms to help him get up. And then he said, “It’s a privilege just to be able to get on your knees.“

Being a young man, I don’t usually give a second thought to something so simple. And yet it truly is a privilege. It’s easy to take things for granted when you are young and mostly healthy.

His statement also struck me on a deeper level as well. For what are the things that we usually think of when we think of having a privilege? We usually think of opportunity. Of power. Of uniqueness. Of access. And some of these apply to his statement.

But our opportunity is the privilege of access to commune with the God of the universe through the humble act of giving up our power, of a submissive action that we can share with anyone else who would invoke their freedom to lay themselves down and offer up a few words to something greater than ourselves, to someone greater than ourselves. To do so is to acknowledge that we are not the boss, that we don’t have the power to control our lives. And our privilege is to know that we have don’t have to let ourselves be ruled by the authority of ourselves, freeing us from all those limitations and fears we hold.

Now if only we could really believe and trust in that reality. Then we could see who are the real privileged among us.

the spiritual discipline of wrestling

It may be best to start with a poem by Gerard Manely Hopkins:

Carrion Comfort

Not, I’ll not, carrion comfort, Despair, not feast on thee;

Not untwist — slack they may be — these last strands of man

In me ór, most weary, cry I can no more. I can;

Can something, hope, wish day come, not choose not to be.

But ah, but O thou terrible, why wouldst thou rude on me

Thy wring-world right foot rock? lay a lionlimb against me? scan

With darksome devouring eyes my bruisèd bones? and fan,

O in turns of tempest, me heaped there; me frantic to avoid thee and flee?

   Why? That my chaff might fly; my grain lie, sheer and clear.

Nay in all that toil, that coil, since (seems) I kissed the rod,

Hand rather, my heart lo! lapped strength, stole joy, would laugh, chéer.

Cheer whom though? the hero whose heaven-handling flung me, fóot tród

Me? or me that fought him? O which one? is it each one? That night, that year

Of now done darkness I wretch lay wrestling with (my God!) my God.

 

The poem doesn’t speak quite to where I am now, but I find it connecting to myself in the past. Indeed, the poem itself is a reflection on a previous experience (especially the last stanza). How do we look back on certain times in our lives? Often times we would much rather choose not to look back at all. Or think that we have done the necessary processing and healing and the past is in the past. One has to keep on living life, right?

I wonder if Jacob ever tried to hide the limp that he walked with ever after that fateful night of wrestling, when he refused to let go of his God. Was his wrestling over? or did he continue to struggle with every step he took from that night on?

The psalms also speak to us of the need for wrestling, for struggle, for sincere emotion–even with God, perhaps most with God. The need has arisen for it to be a discipline because it seems most of us would rather avoid it. It’s much easier to hide or disengage or bury those feelings. It will not be a regular discipline that we schedule into our day planners every week. But it will take setting apart a particular time and place. It will take a level of emotional energy. It will take more than I know to describe.

God help us–for we will need it if we are going to take you on. We already know we will lose, but you assure us that is the only way to really win, the only way to really live.

the simplicity of the present

Right now as a community we are trying to focus on simplicity. It’s not an easy practice in this day and age, in this society and culture. We are constantly being told in one way or another about all the things that we do not yet have, all the things that we are missing, all the things that we need to be protected against going wrong. Our lives are framed around the journey to succeed at life–which means getting to a place where you have all you need and you don’t have to worry any more, or something like that.

And yet despite all those voices, there is something so appealing about the idea of simplicity. The word itself just sounds nice. It speaks of a freedom from the ridiculous amount of choices that are supposed to represent freedom. It speaks of a freedom from the constant pressure of acquiring more and more, of replacing item after item. It offers a way out of judging our self worth by getting more, doing more, and climbing higher.

Of course the idea of simplicity is a lot easier than the actual practice of it. And that’s just the thing of it. We our entrapped by exactly what we seem to think we want. And it is very contrary to our culture to realize that we will find freedom in denying ourselves and letting go of what we want.

What stands out to me now, what seems still so early in this journey, is a simple line from a book on simplicity that just says, “the present isn’t enough for them.” I think that’s a good place to start, to learn to be satisfied with the present. to realize in a very concrete way that it is enough. And to accept that.

dirty jobs

We’ve had an exciting last couple of weeks here at the community. All the dry weather and then sudden rain did seem to agree very well with our plumbing. Our sewer line backed up and it wasn’t long before we knew that it hat broken somewhere underground. This is a major problem. The first major issue you face is where the break is–whether it’s under the building or outside, or if you’re really lucky, in the street (then it’s a city problem). The problem was only about 30 feet out though, so we knew that wasn’t going to be the case.

A.B. May really helped us out a lot with this, sending out someone to send a snake down the pipe with a camera and locator. We were extremely fortunate the the break was not under the building, and that it was only 3 feet deep (it can be as far down as 8-10 feet I believe). It was also just under a sidewalk, so we didn’t have to tear up any garden space or any of the pergolas or peach trees out back. Also extremely fortunately, we have a concrete saw because of the work we are doing for the farm out on the parking lots behind the church. In fact the giant saw (it’s like the size of a shopping cart–but WAY heavier) was only a few feet away. Also extremely fortunately, Bobby’s father is a contract plumber, so he was able to tell us all the things that we needed to get. I think it’s safe to say we were being watched over during this whole ordeal.

After locating the break, Bobby and I set to work digging down to find the pipe. After removing the concrete and a couple feet of dirt/clay, we got to the invested section. I’m not sure how long the pipe had been broken, but it had been at least awhile, because there were lots of goodies waiting for us mixed in with the clay. Side note: did you know that pee can crystalize? It also turned out the the pipe was fitted into a groove of a giant limestone boulder, making access to it somewhat difficult (it was also made to go around the rock, and it was at this joint that it broke). It was a messy job, but we got it done (Bobby did most of it) and saved thousands of dollars doing it ourselves. Thank God! Even though it’s fixed we are still strongly considering compost toilets!

Here are a few pictures from the whole ordeal (click for larger images):

St. John of the Cross

To come to the pleasure you have not
you must go by a way in which you enjoy not.
To come by the knowledge you have not
you must go by a way in which you know not.
To come by the possession you have not
you must go by a way in which you possess not.
To come to be what you are not
you must go by a way in which you are not.

--St. John of the Cross

New Stars: The Gift of a Day

One of the things I’ve noticed from the very beginning of going to the church service downstairs was a phrase used over and over again in prayers and sermons: “Thank you Lord for waking me up today.” This was an unfamiliar phrase to me, something I hadn’t really ever heard in my past–certainly not in church. Maybe it’s because it’s something we take for granted. Of course we’re going to wake up tomorrow, why wouldn’t we? Or because we think of it as something passive, something that simply just happens. I wake up. God doesn’t really play a part in that process, does he?

And there is the beauty of the prayer. We begin to realize that waking up is not a given. It is not just the scientific process in which our physical bodies (something separate from ourselves) instinctively know they’ve had enough sleep. Or it is not ascribed to the sound of an alarm clock. We have woken up this day by the grace of God. Our life is not fully within our control. Our life is not our own. Each new day is a gift.

I suppose one of the reasons it stands out to me so much is because it is one example of how the church downstairs helps me to see things that I normally just take for granted. Another time a woman prayed: “Thank you Lord, for a day we have not yet seen.” Far too often I approach my day by looking at what things are on my planner and think “well it’s another Thursday.” But this is a day I have not seen before. I take it for granted that it will be another day like any other. But we have not seen this day. Only the Lord has seen it and knows what is in store for us. And only with openness can we begin to see the things that might make this day different, that might change our lives in the small, summable ways that make up a good life.

the shots

For awhile there loud noises would startle me.  I could be out in the middle of a field in the country, or on the deck of a friends house in the suburbs, and any loud bang would cause me to jump.  That was shortly after moving into this neighborhood, after hearing gunshots regularly many nights.  It struck me, the conditioning that quickly overtook me, feeling the fear rise up in me at the bang of a door or the pop of a dropped object.  I had never had to grow up on edge like that.

I don’t know when it changed, but it did.  The popping in the night became all too familiar.  Just another round of shots.  Sound carries in the concrete city, and usually it’s not that close.  You can tell with the close ones.  But even those now–I don’t jump.  Maybe something has changed in that I am no longer afraid of the stray bullet.  Or more likely I’ve been desensitized to it.  Just another noise.  Another few shots.  Could be someone firing in the air.  Could be worse, could be much worse.  If these are the bells calling me to prayer, too often I’m hitting the snooze button–one that doesn’t work but to shut off the alarm.

Tonight they were close. It was only 8:30.  I didn’t jump.  I froze and listened to the four or five shots. I was in the kitchen and looked out the window. A man was walking down the street, the shots less than a block away. If he broke stride I didn’t see it. He just kept right on walking. I didn’t see anything else out the window so I kept doing what I was doing.  A minute later there were another ten shots, just as close, same gun. This time I awoke.

The sirens came. I looked out the window and saw neighbors running into their houses. I saw a police car pull into the car wash on 42nd and Prospect.  I went out on the roof and I could smell the gunpowder in the air.  An ambulance came but it was moving slow.  More police came but they weren’t searching for anything or anyone.  They taped off the area.  These are not good signs.

The news says a man was found dead, shot behind the car wash. No details are known yet, but that car wash is a shady place, especially after dark. So the guy wasn’t up to anything good–though that’s speculation. Would that make it better anyway? Did this man deserve to die, whatever he was mixed up in?

I heard a man die tonight. The lights went out. The consciousness gone. No more experiences. No more living. It’s different when you really think about it and don’t just pass it off with a single word and a categorization. When we keep right on walking. When we hit the snooze another time on drawing up compassion because well there is just too much shit in this world, and we can’t take it all in and expect to actually get anything accomplished can we? As long as it’s not close to me and doesn’t affect the people I know then I don’t generally have to honestly care about it. I can compartmentalize it, especially if it happens in those places it’s supposed to happen–war zones, drug zones, the ghetto.

I’m not trying to make anyone feel guilty. I’m writing this mostly for myself, because that is what I’ve done my whole life. I’ve set myself aside from it. I’ve disconnected myself from the problems and realities of life of those I am not connected to. But who is my brother? Who is the whole world that God loves? Who is the Samaritan if not the one that I am not expected to care about?

Change my cold and weary heart Lord. You who see all the pain of the world, do not let us shut our eyes and our hearts. Wake our souls to the desperate need for life among our neighbors. And let us not forget the answer to that question, “who is my neighbor?”

Even now the sirens continue to cry out into the night.

Lord have mercy. Christ have mercy.