Poverty: - Wrecked for the Ordinary

Meeting An Angel on the Street

Tue, 16 Mar 2010 00:00:00 GMT

"I'm not from Nashville. I'm from Columbia. There's a correctional facility around there and, well, I got out about a month ago."

He fit the profile. He was in worn clothes, a bright red jacket, dirty white shoes, and hadn't shaved for weeks. His mustache curled precariously over his upper lip and glasses sat as an ornament on the ridge of his nose. There wasn't much else to do standing in the remnants of the rain shower we just had fall on us, so I decided to strike up a conversation with James.

Earlier in the evening the college team (which was spending their spring break in Nashville on a mission trip) felt led to head downtown and initiate a "party" on one of the street corners.

They pulled out guitars, made a "prayer request" jar, bought ice cream to pass around, and infectiously stood on the street corner singing, talking with people, and just having a good time.

It was quite the sight to see in downtown Nashville last night, particularly near all of the bars and the restaurants. It's where I noticed James.

Our common bond was music and a thirst for creative expression birthed through the chosen medium. We both had a past history with jazz and shared an appreciation for rock and roll.

And while I want to share a story about how I prayed for James and he was miraculously healed from something - I can't. I don't have any complicated tales of heaven invading earth. Nothing.

The only supernatural thing that happened, happened in me.

I love the simplicity of conversation. And for some reason last night, I had a supernatural swelling happen in my own gut while talking with this guy. I'm still trying to process what happened. I've never had that kind of connection with a complete stranger, someone who - through just being who they were - shattered my heart in a way that it disturbed me. It merely birthed restlessness in my spirit.

As we were leaving to head back to the church, I turned to James and said, "James... I really hope that our paths cross again." I stammered over my words a little because I was so taken back by our conversation. "Like... I really hope they cross again."

He stared at me and gave me a look I'll never forget.

"Me too," he said.

Matt is an ordinary radical who just finished an 11-month, 11-country pilgrimage around the globe with the World Race. He loves to see the Kingdom of God manifest itself in the most unlikely places through his own life. He also loves Jesus and hopes that you do, too.

Wish List: Buy Me This Wedding Ring

Tue, 8 Dec 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Date: Christmas Season, 2009

To: Mr. Right, who may be just a dream, but perhaps is real and in training even now, gaining the skills and insight necessary to Be My Husband.

From: Ms. Recently Unemployed and Elated at the Next Possibilities

Re: Jewelry and Much Bigger Things

Hello again. I hope that during this stage and season of your life, your arms, heart, and mind are open wide to receive everything God desires to give you. As for me, I am in a strange and wonderful place. He's been rearranging my life again, and it seems that process is always followed by deeper intimacy with Him, not to mention gifts and assignments that make my highest and best imaginations seem paltry and spare. Oh yeah... I am definitely excited.

I don't really expect to discover you in this space of my life; something tells me that my meeting place with you (if there is a you) is well beyond a giant leap of faith that I've yet to take. I haven't found that leaping place yet, but I sure am watching for it. But today I found the place I'd like you to buy my wedding ring, when the time comes. With This Ring operates from a crazy, radical, over-the-top idea: the things most precious to me can make a real difference in this world as I sacrifice them.

Oh, I know it's not a new idea. After all, two thousand years ago, the Biggest Sacrifice Ever was made, and that changed the world in a way that echoes across all eternity. That Sacrifice made the only change that really matters in my life...and in yours, for that matter (for whether you know my Jesus yet today or not, beloved, if there is a you, then you most certainly belong to Him.)

The story goes like this: once upon a time, Ali Eastburn went to Africa, intending to save some lives. What she experienced there wrecked her. Coming home, she decided to sell her wedding ring and use the proceeds to help people who were in great need, sick, and even dying. Still wrecked, she has taken her mission forward, encouraging many to follow suit. Her website receives donated rings and auctions them for charity.

The Christmas season here tends to bring out people's longing for new toys, bangles, and general distractions that are "only" so many dollars. The reality she experienced away from our comfortable shores was that many of us wear rings that could buy a well for an entire village, in places where clean drinking water cannot be had.

With This Ring is hosting a "Twelve Rings of Christmas" auction, starting today, with a dozen rings featured for the financing of wells for decent water in Africa. The site has something for everyone, from high-dollar items down to rings even I could afford to purchase while on unemployment.

Mr. Right, I know you won't make it for the Twelve Rings of Christmas campaign, since we haven't even met. But when the time comes -- if the time comes -- please don't consider buying my ring anywhere else. Like Ali, I've been wrecked, you see...and I don't think I can settle for anything less.

Karen was called into hands-on ministry through a painful passage, for which she is grateful daily. Having recently transitioned from working in a shelter to the ranks of the unemployed, she waits with great anticipation for the next assignment.

To the Givers, this Holiday Season

Wed, 18 Nov 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Here come the holidays. I've already got my Thanksgiving plans made, including where I am going and what I am cooking. I'm working out what to do at Christmas. Some people I know already have their trees up and decorated. Others are ticking off how many gift-buying days remain. A lady told me the other day that she's already done shopping and wrapping. Wow.

With the holidays comes that special wave of giving. This is, for me, what helps to offset the shopping frenzy and the multitude of things attached to Christmas that have nothing to do with Christ at all: in the holiday season, people want to give. We look beyond ourselves. The "haves" think of the "have-nots" and look for ways to be a blessing.

I sort of always knew this, but I experienced it at a whole other level last Christmas at the shelter where I worked. Monetary donations took a sudden jump. People showed up at the door daily, their arms laden with things they thought we might need. Callers wanted to adopt families. Groups looked for creative ways to bless our clients. Entire carloads of groceries were hauled through our doors.

The generosity of people was a huge encouragement. Working in a Domestic Violence Shelter means knowing on an intimate basis the horror of what people do to each other behind closed doors. It means watching people hurt, and stumble, and struggle to understand. It means telling sobbing callers that we're full today, just like all the other shelters, but maybe we'll have space another day. It means practicing the art of not flinching when the person talking shares something that makes you want to run screaming from the room. But as much as the horrors of the clients' lives chipped away at my faith in the human race, the wonder of faithful donors revived hope in me that compassion still exists. If you are someone who donates time, money or resources to help those less fortunate, thank you and bless you - you are making a difference in the world today.

But sometimes dealing with donors is a whole lot of helping people feel good about helping, when the way they are helping creates more work and more waste in an already burdened system. Receiving donations means smiling, being gracious, saying thank you, and not trying to correct this problem, because some donors will simply stop giving if you offend them with your suggestions. Since today I don't represent anyone but myself, please allow me to make a few suggestions this giving season.

1. Your perfectly good shirt with just one stain or one little hole...well, it still has a stain or hole. Maybe a starving person in Africa would be glad to have a stained or holey shirt - I don't know, since I've never worked with starving people in Africa. But here in the States, unstained, intact items can be bought for a quarter apiece at goodwill stores. Used clothing is not a scarce item here. Keep it for a painting shirt, cut it up and use it for rags, or toss it in the garbage. Donating it simply means someone at the other end has to make the decision to pitch it. Please don't clog up the system like that; most of the people working that system make minimum wage and have given up hope on ever actually getting "caught up" on the work of sorting through all that stuff.

2. Do the laundry before you pass it on. Items that look dirty, smell bad, or are full of pet hair are not going to be used. Non-profit organizations are, by their nature, understaffed and overworked. There is not a nice lady who washes up your garbage bag of not-quite-clean clothing for the poor folks.

3. Fashion is not completely dead, even amongst the homeless. This means the stuff that is too hopelessly outdated for you is not going to appeal to them either. Put it up on ebay as "retro" or something. Homeless people aren't asking for $100 jeans or even brand new stuff, but they also don't want to look like they just walked out of their grandma's closet, you know?

4. Shelters and missions have to answer to health inspectors. This means they cannot serve expired foods. Most of us understand that the green beans that were good on July 31st are still good on August 2nd, even if the can says they expired August 1st. We know there's not a little bacteria bomb waiting to be detonated inside the can on the date stamped on top. BUT health inspectors have to enforce rules. If you'll take a second to check the expiration dates on food you're pulling out of your cupboard to donate, you'll save everyone some time. When receiving a huge food donation means pitching one third of the items into the dumpster because they expired two years ago...well...that's not a very efficient usage of staff time and energy, right?

5. Cooking in a shelter or mission means trying to please people en masse. As for me, I love to try new foods and cook strange things in my own home (my son STILL complains about my Indian cooking phase and that was something like five years ago!) But anything that might seem "exotic" is probably not going to get used in a shelter setting. Stick to basics. If you want to do something really special, bring fresh fruits and vegetables, milk, juice, or some kind of better-quality meat. Almost no one donates that sort of thing. Do check in with the shelter first and make sure someone else didn't just have the same idea; ten people can't eat twenty pounds of lettuce before it goes bad.

6. "Peanut butter and jelly are good enough for my house, and by golly they had better be good enough for poor people!" I've heard that said more than once and I kind of agreed with it. Apparently lots of people think so. The organization you're supporting probably has more than enough peanut butter and jelly, based on my experience.

7. As far as groceries go, keep this in mind: often, shelters and missions have access to food banks, where they can purchase food "by the pound" at discounts that far surpass anything the average citizen has ever experienced. The $10 you spend at your local grocery store would go a lot further at the food bank. If your heart is not totally set on choosing the items yourself, consider just giving the money. If you don't want to give just the money because you need to control how it's spent, carefully think through these two questions: A) Is this about what I want, or is it about being a blessing? and B) If I can't trust this organization to spend the money wisely, why exactly am I supporting them?

8. Some of the items most frequently needed are extremely unglamorous. Community living generates a tremendous need for toilet paper, paper towels, and garbage bags. Not exactly "feel-good" items. But you'll do a great service by giving them.

9. On a feminine hygiene note (everybody say "ewwww"), donors like to give pads, but clients prefer tampons. I don't know "why" on either end. Just factor that in, please.

10. Sample-size shampoo and conditioner seems like such a nice thing to give. I get that. I thought it was a GREAT idea before I worked in a shelter. They get massive amounts of that stuff - lots of people think it's a great idea. Here's the thing: regular-size items are more convenient and get chosen first. Which means the samples get stockpiled. Once upon a time I brought home some bottles from the massive surplus we had, and I quickly discovered that my hair was a disaster when I used them. I don't know why; it's not exactly like I'm a highly discriminating hair product shopper. I use the cheap stuff. But the cheap stuff in regular bottles works better than anything I found in sample bottles (and I tried several different varieties.) Yeah, my hair was still CLEAN and yeah, that should be the thing that matters most. I'm just saying - sample sizes are not as great an idea as we think they might be.

11. People under stress have a lot of headache and pain issues. Pain relievers of all sorts are needed all the time. Tylenol, Advil, Excedrin, Aleve, generics of all of these, kids' versions of them - you can't go wrong donating these. Just check the expiration date first.

12. One of the nicest ways to give is to call and ask what is needed. You can often meet an emergency need that you'd never have anticipated - God works that way. Tell them what you have to spend and let them shoot you some ideas. It blesses everyone all the way around.

13. A lot of people want to give directly to shelters or missions rather than to a goodwill or Salvation Army store because they don't like the notion of poor people getting charged for their goods. I love the heart of that thought. I do. But let's get practical for a moment. Sometimes the shelter or mission needs your clothes or other various household items, but sometimes they are overstocked and they don't have one more inch of storage space. Those stores do incur some expenses to warehouse the items they are selling - imagine their cost for maintaining the building, heating it, and paying staff. Often the stores offer voucher programs to shelters or missions, so that clients who are getting their own places can shop there for free. Ask. And on a let's-get-real level, it was my experience that the vast majority of homeless clients found the resources to get cigarettes. If they can manage that, they can go to the goodwill store on Quarter Day and spend fifty cents on an entire outfit. Right?

14. Giving money is vastly underrated. People don't want to "just write checks." Meanwhile, shelters and missions are getting grants that can only be used for improving the building, or can only be used for programming...and they just need to pay the heat bill and meet payroll. Writing a check is not a lesser option, no matter the size of the check. Send a nice note with the check. Make it a regular monthly commitment, even if it's only a few bucks. Write the check and know you are a blessing.

15. Want to volunteer? Be patient. Call and offer. Don't be frustrated when you have to fill out paperwork. Be willing to do what's needed, and not just the one thing you think would be a good idea. Much of what's needed is not glamorous at all. It's still a blessing.

16. Most of all, when you give, start with the fact that it's not about you. The needs might not be in the area you prefer to give. If staff is overly taxed, you might not get the recognition and effusive gratitude you expect for your efforts. The people you are trying to bless might be ungrateful or unlovely sometimes. If your gift comes with strings attached like "you must present yourselves as worthy of my efforts/time/money," or "you must be glad to get whatever I offer," then someone is probably going to come out unhappy. It's not about you. When you get a handle on that, you'll be free and you'll be a blessing.

Just a bit of wisdom from one who knows. May something here help you, as you are helping others this holiday season.

Karen Swank has tried her hand at all sorts of things in life, including working at a Domestic Violence Shelter for a year and a half. She recently joined the ranks of the unemployed, and is looking forward to experiencing the next adventure.

When the Poor Die

Mon, 5 Oct 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I got the news the other day that Maswane (pictured below) died.

At age 19, her life here on earth is over, stolen by AIDS. She desired to tell her story and let the truth be known. That's why I'm writing.

Our first day in Swaziland Pastor Gift told us about Maswane and asked if we would be willing to go pray with her. When she was five years old she was raped which is how she contracted HIV.

She was raped again when she was seven and has never once consented to sex with a man. One of the men who raped her has died, and the other is free; he escaped to South Africa. Her virginity as well as her life has been brutally ripped away.

We pulled our van up to her families compound. As I ducked from the bright day into the round stick building, it took a second to pick out figures in the dim light. The smell of rotting flesh and smoke permeated the air; soaked into everything, burnt my eyes and saturated my clothing. Maswane was too sick to sit up, she was on a one inch thick mattress and lay shivering under a light blanket.

She was wrecked by AIDS, her skin cracked and calcified, open sores all over her frail, bed ridden body. In place of what once was smooth dark skin she had charred dry scales. It was one of the hardest things I have ever seen. Nineteen years old and dying by no fault of her own.

Soon after we entered she started whaling in agony, her piercing screams filled the hut. Seeing her writhe in pain and hearing her tortured scream was heart wrenching. We all started to pray and she was visibility calmed, her body stopped shaking and slowly uncurled while her breath deepened again.

As we prayed I felt God saying, "This is my beautiful daughter, see how lovely she is!" Then God reminded me that there would be no tears or pain in heaven, and that he had prepared a beautiful place for her.

Maswane labored to tell her story, to be known and to make known the evil that has robbed her life. Despite that evil, her spirit was strong and her beauty captivating. She fought to shine the light of exposure in a horribly dark place.

Some of my mission teammates and I got to go back to visit with her and to deliver a new thicker mattress and some warm blankets. We sat with her for a few hours, and filmed everything, her story, her spirit, her hopes and dreams, her truth and reality. She loved the camera and understood how exposing the truth was the key to bringing change to future generations in Swaziland.

Some day I'll get to see Maswane in heaven; we will get to laugh, dance and run. We will get to talk with no language barrier, and maybe she will show me around the beautiful place that God prepared for her.

Morgan is from San Diego, CA. She returned in November 2007 from traveling to 11 countries in 11 months on a mission trip.

The Shame of Poverty in Nsoko, Swaziland

Tue, 14 Jul 2009 00:00:00 GMT

There is something interesting about people living in poverty. Most of the time we don't like to admit that we have nothing, that we are taking each day at a time praying that maybe God will send someone with something to meet our needs.

Living out in Nsoko is heart-breaking. Living in Swaziland is hard enough for most Americans, being away from the comforts that we all love so much, but Nsoko is something completely different. I came to Manzini with Philile and Pastor Gift today. Our first stop was to pick up the lab results from The Luke Commission.

They came and visited Nsoko last week and offered HIV testing. Almost all that were tested were positive! Wow! These aren't statistics anymore. These are all people I know and have built relationships with and they are living with HIV.

Back to living in poverty, though...

I have been asked why it is I feel called to Swaziland. And every time I am asked I don't know how to respond. Each time I am here the Lord stirs something in my heart and I have this connection that I can't really explain. When Philile apologizes repeatedly for the food not being elaborate or enough I find myself at a loss of words.

There were many days when I was younger that my mom did her best at providing something for us, even if she did without. I'm not trying to say that I am starving in Nsoko, but living with Swazis has opened my eyes a bit. I am not angry or upset when there isn't any food, rather I realize that because of transportation and funds being in Manzini, things aren't always where they need to be when they need to be there.

Every time I have visited the carepoints over the last two weeks the teachers keep telling me their biggest need is food. These kids come day after day hoping that there will be some kind of food to fill their little swollen bellies. But even though people may be living in poverty, they are still not willing to tell you.

There is this shame that fills this country and these people, myself included. We feel shame because we are having to rely on others to provide for our needs. We feel like beggars. But this shouldn't be the case at all. The Lord has called us to live in community and to serve those around us. He has called us to love our neighbor as ourselves.

If we truly believed this gospel that we claim to be preaching, would we have thousands of kids going hungry for days to weeks at a time? Would we need to live in shame to ask our neighbor for even a little bit of something to eat? There are days that I open the fridge and there isn't anything in there. But everyday the Lord continues to provide and Philile has made yet another wonderful dinner.

Even though it may look like everyone is living in poverty, there is this amazing community of people ready and willing to help their neighbors.

Isabel, originally from a small town in Texas, has been on assorted mission trips in her life. She returned to Swaziland again in June 2008, where God has continued to wreck her world and turn everything upside down.

The Poor Teach Us How to be Christians

Tue, 19 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Singer/songwriter and Compassion blogger Shaun Groves posted a tongue-in-cheek blog last week about his recent trip to Kolkata, India, criticizing churches in the developing world for "doing it all wrong." He cites churches that he's visited in India, Africa, and Latin America that have made worship centers not just places where the religious parade their spirituality on Sundays.

In a compelling photo blog, Groves sarcastically lambastes the pastors who are doing "unchurchy" things like community development, education, and skills training.

In churches where the poorest of the poor gather, he found the sacred/secular dichotomy that is so prevalent in the West breaking down before his eyes.

Apparently, no one told them that in order to be good Christians, they had to separate religion from everything else in life.

As pointed as the blog is, Groves makes some worthwhile points about American spirituality and hints at the fact that maybe the poor get something that we do not - namely, how to be holistic Christians.

This is one reason why we need to go on mission trips and experience other cultures and discover new paradigms for redemption. Those of us who have been entrenched in the fast faith of America for so long need to find such foolish churches, as Groves found, that are sharing the love of Christ not in a way that not only transforms individuals, but changes entire cultures.

I want to believe that my Jesus is big enough to do that. Don't you?

Read Shaun Groves' blog post here.

Jeff graduated from Illinois College, a small liberal arts school, with a degree in Spanish and Religion. He lives in Nashville, TN with his wife Ashley. He works for Adventures in Missions, edits this silly little magazine, and loves to do new things. Check out his blog: Pilgrimage of the Heart.

What I'm Learning from Dorothy Day

Thu, 7 May 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I had read bits and pieces of her life through other works - who she was and who she is helping others become through her story. Dorothy Day was the founder of the Catholic Workers Movement, along with "co-founder/conspirator" Peter Maurin.

Peter had led an interesting life himself, traveling from his birthplace in France, to Canada and eventually into the shared living room of Dorothy and her family. Peter was a man who lived in intentional and relational poverty and was inspired greatly by the writings and prayers of St. Francis.

Entertaining Angels is a movie about her life - and though the title is a bit soft for the heaviness she carries, it was an important part of Dorothy's life, as she grew closer to God's heart for the poor.

Day didn't always support the work of Christians and saw them as hypocritical. It was only seeing the Church care for the poor that she began to walk through her own "spiritual awakening".

Day was a writer and was published in various "socio-radical" newspapers and as she founded the CWM, she, along with others, published The Catholic Worker.

It was also in writing that Day discovered that her radical words' could not be substituted for radical action.' This is not to say that her stories weren't important, but I believe she grew to an understanding that it wasn't fulfilling her restless heart and that her writing wasn't feeding the hungry, though it was calling attention that people were starving and dying on the streets.

This is important to me, because I love to write. I love to process the world, but it is no good for me to write if I'm not... doing. Maybe someday, something will come from this advocacy, but as important as words are in a movement, the word "movement" itself requires us to... move.

One thing out of many things I love about Dorothy is that she made the church uncomfortable. She made the church ask hard and conflicting questions. "What are we to do with you Dorothy? You can't tag your work with 'Catholic' because we can't be included in all this ruckus you're stirring up..." [This was basically the gist of that conversation and always a bit contradictory to the Gospel of Christ.]

There were a couple of scenes in this film that particularly made my breathing a bit irregular, and my heart seemed to beat beyond its capacity as it tends to do from time to time. I do love theatre because of its ability to reenact story that causes our bodies to react from emotion.

In one scene, Day had learned of a friend who had committed suicide in the bathroom of their house of hospitality. Enraged and discouraged from a string of hurtful accusations, Dorothy stormed into the church and stood at the bottom of the cross and screamed in tears at the pierced body of Christ:

"Where are you!?"

"I don't see you!"

"Is this what you want me to do?!"

"You're ugly...and you smell!"

"How... can anyone love you!?"

And it was with this last statement that I lost it.

In screaming at the broken body of Christ, she was screaming at the poor - at the unlovable and at the stench and site of the ones nobody else wants to love.

We are the symbols of Christ's broken body.

We hurt and bleed.

We are vulnerable to the elements of nature and the human condition.

Seeing Dorothy screaming at Christ's body aches inside of me. It aches because it is the poor that has led me to God's heart again. It is through the stench and strain, the confusion and lies, and the beauty of a full belly and heart that I find Jesus in the face of the Poor.

Because...sometimes it is me who wants to scream those words.

But instead I hear these, as Day spoke into the broken ones:

"No.

You're beautiful.

I see light in you.

I love you.

I love you."

Thank you, Ms. Day, servant of God.

Josh is a Mississippi boy who now lives in Portland, OR. He is currently enjoying being a newlywed to his wife Hannah, who both met in 2007 while serving with Word Made Flesh in Calcutta, India. His interests include: books, gardens, racial reconciliation, southern cookin', coffee and birds (in no particular order). Josh is also an aspiring: writer, Stumptown barista-extraordinaire and world-renowned southern chef. You can check out more of his "ramblins'" here.

All Together New: Falling Whistles in the Congo

Thu, 26 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

This time around, it's all together new. A year ago, I wanted to get lost. Today, I just want to understand.

Originally, I went to Africa to put shoes on kids' feet. My friend built a company grounded in giving and there I was, on the ground, giving.

After the TOMS Shoes drop, I went wandering. Sometimes with friends, sometimes alone, sometimes safe, sometimes not. I wanted to go into the wild. And wild it was.

Herman Melville said of getting lost, "It is not down in any map; true places never are."

I yelled at thieving monkeys and saw Nelson Mandela yell from a stage. Cried in refugee camps and laughed during moonlight tribal dances. Witnessed a baby born and parents buried. Climbed south to the bottom of the world and headed north to see invisible children become visible. Slept inside mansions and on mud, ate porridge and gazelle, fended off pickpockets, swam with otters and rarely stopped, showered or stood still.

For two months, there was death and destruction, failure and fear, adventure. wonder. motion. But all around was a pervasive hope moving steadily toward what could only be described as progress. Stories of change everywhere to be found.

Until I walked into the chaos of Congo. The so-called Democratic Republic of Congo, home to one of history's deadliest wars. Strange circumstances led me to her doorstop, but there I stood ready to see what she might show my western eyes.

What was meant to be only a five day trip turned into something much more. My partner and I stumbled into Titu, an illegal prison for children, and learned that abducted boys too small to carry a gun were being forced to the front lines armed with only a whistle. That night through tears I wrote, "with falling whistles, their only choice is to feign death or face it."

We resolved to find the people responsible for this and ask them, face to face, why they were fighting. Everything and anything upside downed in this rich land of uncontrolled expanse. We found rebels who spoke poetry and warlords with vision. Seventy percent of the world's rapes are here, but still, women lead the families. UN soldiers asked for bribes and men with nothing offered to help for nothing. Excuses abounded but honest answers were hard to come by.

Coming home and not knowing how to respond to what I had seen, one of my closest friends Marcus welcomed me home with a fierce embrace and an unusual gift. A whistle. Hanging just over my heart, this tiny tool kept the story of Falling Whistles alive. Everywhere we went, people asked what it was. That's when it struck me. Their weapon could be our voice. The world is changed by those who speak out. Whistleblowers. Rarely understood in their time, history looks back and calls them courageous. Whistleblowers speak up when few others will.

And so the Falling Whistles Campaign was born. The experts tell us that this war can be resolved. They tell us peace is possible. All we needs is a massive coalition willing to lobby for these kids freedom. We're talking millions of us fighting for the others." It's a big war they warn us, so the coalition will have to be committed to doing it time and time again.

We'll then have to reintegrate all the children who were forced to fight so the cycle of violence doesn't continue into the next generation.

So this is how we begin. Wear the whistle and become a whistleblower by sharing the story as a window into our world's largest war. Buy the whistle and 100% of the proceeds go to support war-affected kids. Seems easy enough. Speak up at home so they can speak up within the war. Grow the healing and grow the coalition. No problem.

For those of you who are new to this story, I'm going to send a few old journals to catch you up to speed. Then we'll proceed with the adventure at hand - we crossed into Congo this very morning.

But, like I said, this time it's all together new. A year ago, alone and overwhelmed, I gave up hope. This time we've got a team, they're on the move and, we're here to get some damn answers.

Sean is the founder of Falling Whistles and is currently in the Democratic Republic of Congo. Learn more and lend your support at fallingwhistles.com or visit Falling Whistles on facebook.

Better Hearts Through Breaking: Why orphan care matters

Wed, 4 Mar 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Deb Gangemi read Tom Davis' Fields of the Fatherless three years ago. In it, Tom introduces readers to "people God wants us to put at the top of our priority list: the orphans, widows, and aliens (strangers)." He writes of his life-altering experience caring for a group of orphans in Russia, and he makes the biblical case for God's heart and provision for the fatherless.

Then he challenges the Church to take God's priorities seriously-as James says, to bring faith to life through action.

Deb said, "I realized Tom wrote the book I had been talking. You can't deny God's heart for orphans, and for us."

Deb asked Tom to speak at an orphan-care conference she had organized in her home state of Florida. He accepted her invitation-and so began a relationship of activism around a mutual passion, helping the fatherless.

Deb and her husband adopted two boys, one from Kazakhstan and the other from Paraguay. But her own journey into the fields of the fatherless didn't begin and end there. Beyond adoption, Deb has been a fervent advocate of non-adoption orphan support.
When Deb traveled to the orphanage in Kazakhstan, she was smacked between the eyes with the reality of the children who remain. (Tom Davis writes about a similar experience in his book, when he and his wife adopted a daughter from Russia.)

Let's face it, when little hands latch onto your legs like the Jaws of Life, when children call you "mama" or "papa," when you look into an orphan's eyes-you don't forget it.

Deb's never been able to shake that experience with the children in Kazakhstan. And she's glad for it. Along with her commitment to be mom, wife, physical therapist and gardener extraordinaire, Deb's turned her effort toward the orphaned children who remain.

She crossed paths with Tom Davis several times after their initial meeting and learned about his organization's work in Swaziland. She was compelled by the stories of children in this nation of orphans, most having lost parents or caregivers to AIDS. They've been left to fend for themselves.

The thing that catches Deb's heart is provision. So, in Deb fashion, she started doing some social networking around the orphans at Benveni Carepoint. On December 6th, 2008, she launched an online community through FaceBook to raise awareness and support for these kids.

Her invitation says: "I want to offer you the opportunity to join an online faith community who has come together to provide prayer and care for 102 orphaned and vulnerable children in the small nation of Swaziland. The Beveni Carepoint is a gathering place for the children to receive food and care from the gogos (grandmothers) of the rural community of Engculwini in Swaziland."

Today, 305 people are members of this community, and 37 of 102 kids have been sponsored. "It's a very interesting, widespread group," says Deb. "Right now, five people are ready to travel to Swaziland."

Deb says, "I have seen a groundswell in interest for orphan care in the last four years." She believes God is working to wake up the Church, to open our eyes to the people who are closest to God's heart. She readily admits, coming to adoption and then stepping firmly into The Fields has been a progressive journey.

"Oh, I've changed. Now, I ask myself, Is it important to have that new rug for my house?' What I've seen, what I'm doing, puts everything into a different light."

Deb's family shares her passion. Her 14-year-old Andrew, whose love language is squarely in the camp of "Gettin' Gifts," surprised Deb and her husband this past Christmas. On December 22nd, he gathered up the presents under the tree designated for him. Then he asked his parents to return them. He wanted the money to go to Benveni.

For him, this was a super-size sacrifice. In one of those boxes was a Nintendo DS, a gift he'd wanted like nothing else. And Andrew's act of reverse generosity has led others to give to the children of Benveni. Just another part of that groundswell.

Deb's FaceBook page says: God has made my heart better by breaking it for orphans. I pray that everyone has such heart surgery!

To learn more or join this community, email Deb at benvenicarepoint@comcast.net or look her up on FaceBook.

Moira is a freelance writer who lives with her husband and two children in Colorado.

Being the Oaks of Righteousness: Domestic Workers United

Wed, 25 Feb 2009 00:00:00 GMT

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   and the day of vengeance of our God, to comfort all who mourn, and provide for those who grieve in Zion- to bestow on them a crown of beauty instead of ashes, the oil of gladness instead of mourning, and a garment of praise instead of a spirit of despair.

THEY will be called oaks of righteousness, a planting of the LORD for the display of his splendor. THEY will rebuild the ancient ruins and restore the places long devastated; THEY will renew the ruined cities that have been devastated for generations. -Isaiah 61:1-4

"I want to be in tune with my maker."
"I pray for the organization to get the (Domestic Workers) Bill of Rights passed".
"Without God we can't do anything".
"I put fliers in the churches, I speak to the pastors".
-Marilyn Marshall and Joyce Gill-Campbell Leaders in Domestic Workers United (DWU)

"We have a dream that one day, all work will be valued equally". -Mission of Domestic Workers United

During the spring of 2006 I started to closely read Isaiah 61 and began to gain spiritual encouragement from meditating on God's concern for the poor and oppressed. I began to study this scripture whenever I had the chance. In 2007 I started to work with New York Faith & Justice after meeting founders: Lisa Sharon Harper, Anna Lee and Peter Heltzel at Pentecost 2007. In the fall of 2007 New York Faith & Justice did an in-depth Bible Study on Isaiah 61 and from the study I learned that this passage declares the poor "the oaks of righteousness", and "that THEY will rebuild the ancient ruins and restore the places long devastated".

This new insight revolutionized my approach to the ministry of ending poverty. Instead of the poor just being passive recipients of the Gospel, the poor are called to rebuild and restore their communities! If you are a person of privilege instead of working for the poor you are called to work alongside the poor. And if like me you come from the ranks of the poor you are called to rebuild and restore your community.

This re-reading of Isaiah 61 is further supported by my work with the Poverty Initiative's Poverty Scholars Program. The Poverty Scholars program brings poor activist from across America to Union Theological Seminary. These scholars take part in an educational program of conferences, theological reflection and action planning centered on re-igniting Dr. King's Poor People's Campaign.

Members of the above quoted Domestic Workers United are nominated Poverty Scholars. "Founded in 2000, Domestic Workers United [DWU] is an organization of Caribbean, Latina and African nannies, housekeepers, and elderly caregivers in New York, organizing for power, respect, fair labor standards and to help build a movement to end exploitation and oppression for all."

The members of Domestic Workers United (DWU) are not only people of activism but people of faith. One member of Domestic Workers United is currently studying to become a minister. When members of DWU do educational/outreach sessions they do more preaching than speech giving. It only takes a few minutes of listening to these activist testify to see that God is central to this work and provides these dynamic women with the courage they need to organize while currently employed as domestic workers.

It is not unusual for DWU to protest in front of luxury condos in Manhattan while advocating for a member who was treated unjustly on the job. Stories of illegally low wages, verbal, physical, and even sexual abuse are not unusual for domestic workers across the country. This invisible, but essential part of our workforce is now becoming visible through the work of being the oaks of righteousness Isaiah prophesied about. In New York City alone there are over 200,000 nannies, caregivers, and housekeepers who are essential to New York City's economy.

When Lehman Brothers closed its doors, many domestic workers also lost jobs; the current economic crisis is further affecting this already venerable group. Currently DWU is advocating for the passage of a Domestic Workers Bill of Rights because historically domestic workers have been excluded from legal protections, face long hours, low pay and no benefits. "The Domestic Workers Bill of Rights (A628B, S5235) amends New York State labor law to guarantee basic work standards and protections: time-and-a-half for every hour worked over 40 hours per week; one day off per 7-day calendar week; and other basic employee rights that most of us take for granted. The bill provides a means of enforcing these standards in court (Domestic Workers Bill of Rights)".

Domestic Workers United is currently attempting to gain support from the faith community. DWU ask that "religious leaders reach out to any of their congregants that are connected to the domestic industry, and to speak in church about this issue". The faith community is essential to making the Domestic Workers Bill of Rights a moral imperative.

As a progressive Christian movement continues to solidify, it is exciting but we must not stop at "preaching the good news to the poor" because that is only half of the Prophet Isaiah's message, now we need to move into the second part of this word: standing beside the poor as they become oaks of righteousness and speak for themselves. Helping to support the work of Domestic Workers United is one way to do this.

Here are some practical ways you can support the work of DWU:

Attend the February 10th New York State Lobby Day- for more information contact: domesticworkersunited@gmail.com.
Encourage your church or organization to endorse the Domestic Workers Bill of Rights by going to www.domesticworkersunited.org where you can download an organizing packet.
Give information about DWU to a domestic worker you know.
If you employ domestic workers practice fair labor practices.
Speak to your church or organization about the Domestic Workers Bill of Rights
Volunteer, intern or donate to DWU-information on these options can be found on the website.

Links of interest:

Onleilove is a former Beatitudes Society Fellow at Sojourners. She serves on the Servant Leadership Team of NY Faith & Justice, is a nominated Poverty Scholar and a Faithful Democrats Fellow.

A Different Kind of Vacation

Wed, 18 Feb 2009 00:00:00 GMT

When you regularly plan activities for youth, it's difficult to find variety, particularly when you're almost 7 years into it. The requisite beach trips, laser-tag, putt-putt mini-golf, go-kart lock-ins, gym lock-ins, youth camps and ski trips are enough to make anyone die of monotony.

In the desperate search for something different I decided 2009 would be different. I had noticed at church that our folks seemed to genuinely enjoy being around one another (which is a good thing, as churches go).

More specifically, they have a blast--it doesn't matter where, when or the conditions. It could be joking around while spreading mulch on a church workday or serving nachos to a kid in a Spider-Man outfit at the Halloween festival or serving dinner to the homeless at MUST Ministries --these people have fun together.

With teenagers this happens almost immediately. Whether it's the guys racing to see who can pack food boxes the fastest, or a middle-schooler priding herself on her re-organization of shelves, they always make the best of it.

I think it's for all those reasons that I've decided that every youth activity we do this year will have some element of service attached to it. And this included our first event of 2009, the annual Youth Ski trip over New Years.

Through the wonder of Google, I was able to make contact in September with Jimm Norman, the director of Tender Mercies Ministries in Princeton, WV, where we temporarily took up residence in the Hampton Inn. By the time the Ski Trip actually rolled around, my head was spinning. I awoke the morning of Ski trip at 5 AM and suddenly realized I had signed us up for this.

All the thoughts you might think ran through my head. It was too late, I hadn't put this in the itinerary, I hadn't told the kids and parents, they would be ticked because we were cutting into time on the slopes which they had paid for with their "all-day" pass. I figured we wouldn't do it--that if Jimm called I'd just tell him we weren't going to be able to do it and we'd try to catch him next year. I felt more than a little guilty about that, but I figured I'd be over it when we were into our tenth Rook game in the Ski Lodge, or about to stab each other over a game of "Spoons".

Then the phone rang. It was Jimm and he wanted to make sure we were coming. I couldn't get past the guilt. I looked into he rear-view mirror and saw a van full of teenagers that think they can do anything. They'd get tired of skiing soon enough--we could even let the hardcore ones night-ski if they wanted to. I couldn't tell him we weren't coming. "Yeah man, we'll see you about 8 in the morning!"

We got lost at least twice trying to find it, but by the time we made it down the gravel road we saw a small steel building with a sign on it. Nobody seemed to be home, until a man walked around from the back and called us over.

Jimm's in his thirties, a former youth minister and someone who feels passionately that taking care of people's most basic need--food--is something Jesus would want us to do. He was humble and gracious. He beamed with pride when he talked about the new insulation they'd been able to install over the "waiting area". The chaperons and I looked at each other in disbelief when he said they served 640 families out of this little steel building. He showed us the boxes vegetable pasta he found for $4 per 30 lb. box, adding that it was vegetable pasta, so it provided some much need nutrition to residents of West Virginia. He showed us the unopened 25-pound bags of biscuit mix.

We packed and stuffed, each bag carefully scooped and weighed into 2 lb. portions before one of the college kids heat sealed them. (And everyone tried to refrain from pointing out the obvious resemblance between the bags of biscuit dough and blocks of cocaine.) Meanwhile, the rest of the group managed to re-organize two entire pantries of canned and dry goods. I had the broom in my hands and was sweeping up at 11 AM, thinking we had worked way ahead of schedule and done everything we could to help. I asked the question I knew I shouldn't have--"Anything else we can do?"

The answer was not what I expected. What we hadn't seen on the tour were 20 boxes of diced apples sitting in the walk-in freezer. They needed to be broken up and repackaged just like the biscuit dough and the pasta. The natives were getting a little restless by this point, but I knew it needed to be done, so I got another youth to start unloading the apples.

One hour later it was done. 800 pounds of apples, 400 pounds of biscuit mix and 800 pounds of pasta. Almost one ton of food, packed by 11 teenagers and three adults in 3.5 hours. There was a genuine sense of accomplishment when we knew that we had finished, but we didn't really understand it until I asked Jimm to say a few words before we left.

Jimm went on to say that the apples has been in the freezer for three months. He has about 40 volunteers, but they are sporadic, normally coming in groups of four or five and working 1-4 hour shifts. The pasta was ordered in September, the flour in October. In one morning, 14 people from Georgia did three months of work. They were caught up, and ready to face all those who would come through their door in 2009.

We did a lot of other things on Ski Trip. The youth had a blast, whether on the slopes or across the card table. Those memories will hang around for a while, but they'll disappear eventually. The food will disappear too, into the stomachs of people across lower West Virginia who we'll never meet or know. They'll be hungry again and Tender Mercies will still be there to help meet those needs.

The reality is my first thought when I remembered scheduling our visit to Tender Mercies was that we should just stick with the vacation. Let the kids have fun, don't bring the realities of poverty and hunger into a "fun" trip. But that wasn't the plan, and it never should have been.

Last year when Jen and I were on a cruise we started trying to figure out how to be faithful on vacation. We tried to be kind to our taxi drivers, tour guides, host and hostesses. We tried to over-tip everywhere and not come off as stereotypically self-involved Americans. We had a blast and I'm sure we failed at points, but I realized that I can't out-run the gospel.

It follows you wherever you go.

It has a nasty habit of asking "What's that person's story? Is this how they feed their family?"

When we left the Ski Lodge the first night I looked at the piles of trash on the tables, the drinks knocked over and the gumdrops trod into the carpet. I wondered how the workers who had to clean it up that night felt about all these church youth groups (including ours) leaving this mess behind. What kind of Jesus could they make out from the aluminum foil, ketchup packets, foam trays and half-empty soft drinks?

More than anything our time at Tender Mercies reminded me (and I'd like to think the youth) that faith doesn't take a vacation. We shouldn't be able to hide our love for Jesus any more than we can hide our hair color or our freckles.

Don't get me wrong; I'd like a vacation as much as the next guy. I'm just afraid that when I say "Lord, when did I see you hungry, or tired, or thirsty, or beat down, or oppressed and I didn't stop and help?" he might have a whole staff of people to point to.

Trey is a minister/writer/techno-geek/observer/teacher/wanna-be social activist living in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia.

Our Daily Bread: Dining with Strangers

Wed, 11 Feb 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I once was eating lunch in downtown Nashville with a friend. We met at an ice cream shop, but relocated to the Cheese Steak Factory (not to be confused with the just-as-delicious Cheesecake Factory) for toasted sandwiches.

During our meal, my friend told me about his mission trip to Tanzania, and I mentioned some of the work that I do with missionaries. We talked about Jesus, about how God was challenging us to care for the poor, and how we wanted to serve Christ wholeheartedly for the rest of our lives. What was ironic about the whole conversation was that Jesus was sitting beside us at an adjacent table.

That day, it was particularly hot in middle Tennessee. For the most part, the summers are bearable in this city, but there are a couple weeks that are really scorching, and during that time, there are at least a few days where if you step outside for more than ten minutes you're certain to melt. It was one of those days.

In the midst of our lunch conversation, in walked a man in his mid-forties. He was drenched in sweat, and the only reason we noticed him was because of the stench that wafted past us as he searched for a place to sit. He didn't order any food, only a glass of ice water. The cook glared at him, and a few minutes later the manager came out to talk to him. Apparently, the two knew each other, because the manager told the vagrant that he could only hang out here for a few minutes, if he wasn't going to buy anything. Yes, he understood how hot it was out there, but this is a business, you know?

As our conversation was wrapping up, this bedraggled-looking man kept catching the corner of my eye. I'm not sure exactly why, but I think it was the conviction that talking about Jesus and not doing the things that Jesus said just don't go together for me any more. I know that it was just some guy sitting at a table beside me, and the conversation I was having with my friend was, indeed, edifying, but I couldn't shake this thought:

We love because he first loved us. If anyone says, "I love God," yet hates his brother, he is a liar. For anyone who does not love his brother, whom he has seen, cannot love God, whom he has not seen. And he has given us this command: Whoever loves God must also love his brother. (1 John 4:19-21)

My friend and I said a prayer, I bade him farewell, and then walked over to the homeless man at the table. "Hey," I said. He looked up at me and greeted me politely. "I'm Jeff," I said, extending my hand. He shook it and muttered back his own name: "Eli."

"Nice to meet you, Eli. Hey, are you hungry?" His eyes lit up, and he said he was. I suggested a sandwich from the menu, and he eagerly consented to it. I went to the counter for the second time to order some food. The cook gave me a curious look but rang up my second sandwich of the hour. Eli and I visited for a few minutes, waiting for his food to be made. He told me that he was a musician; he came to Nashville to "make it big," but that never happened. He ran out of money, started staying on the streets, and just never left. He still sometimes plays in bars to earn extra cash and sings karaoke for fun when they let him. He told me all the best music venues that you never knew about in the city.

"Order up!" shouted the cook. I grabbed the sandwich, chips, and bottled water, thanking him. The manager eyed me, came out and said, "That's a real nice thing you did for him." I nodded, feeling a little uncomfortable. I brought the food back to Eli, and we talked while he scarfed down his lunch. He shared a few chips with me and I sipped my own water, listening to him tell me about his life.

At the end of the conversation, I offered to pray for this new friend of mine. Eli agreed to it, and afterwards said, "You know... I've never broken bread like this before with someone else." I chuckled, not sure if he was just saying something religious-sounding to appeal to me or if he really meant it. I pondered it for a moment and then admitted: "You know, I don't think I have either."

I had a friend once tell me how the homeless taught him the true meaning of "Give us this day our daily bread..." To truly depend on the mercy of God for where your next meal will come from is a level of humility that most of us haven't dealt with on a regular occasion. And yet, Jesus' rag-tag group of followers understand the meaning of this. They had left their jobs, their homes, their families; all sense of security was thrown out the window, because of this rabbi who told them to lay down their lives, pick up their crosses, and follow him.

Praying for our daily bread is more than just saying a half-hearted "thanks" at the dinner table; it is completely leaning on your Creator to alleviate that hunger pang in your stomach. But perhaps even more than that, it's breaking bread with the most unlikely dinner guests; maybe as the Body of Christ (who was the "bread who came down from heaven") we can feed a world that is dying of hunger, poverty, and loneliness.

Jeff graduated from Illinois College, a small liberal arts school, with a degree in Spanish and Religion. He lives in Nashville, TN. He works for Adventures in Missions, edits this silly little magazine, and loves to do new things. He just got married in January. Check out his blog: Pilgrimage of the Heart.

Holding Obama Accountable: The Poor People's Campaign

Wed, 4 Feb 2009 00:00:00 GMT

"A true revolution of values will soon cause us to question the fairness and justice of many of our past and present policies. On the one hand, we are called to play the Good Samaritan on life's roadside, but that will be only an initial act. One day we must come to see that the whole Jericho Road must be transformed so that men and women will not be constantly beaten and robbed as they make their journey on life's highway. True compassion is more than flinging a coin to a beggar. It comes to see that an edifice which produces beggars needs restructuring."

-Martin Luther King, Jr., "Beyond Vietnam: A Time to Break Silence"(Delivered April 4, 1967, at a meeting of Clergy and Laity Concerned at Riverside Church in New York City)

On Tuesday January 20th, 2009 I was blessed to be in Washington, D.C. to witness history. As a descendant of one of the largest slave holding families (the Alstons of North and South Carolina) it was surreal to realize that less than 200 years after the Emancipation the first African-American president was sworn in on Abraham Lincoln's Bible. I have been overwhelmed with emotion and still cannot believe that the new first family looks like my own.

I am very proud of how far African-Americans have come towards freedom and though a major part of Dr. King's dream was realized we are still not at the Promised Land. Many leaders from the Civil Rights movement have alluded to fact that it has been 40 years since Dr. King's assassination.

This fact has made me think about the Exodus story which has given African-Americans encouragement and a framework for their experience in America.

The Exodus story is the foundation of the Black Church, and I think that it can provide important insights for how we as an American people can make it to the Promised Land Dr. King preached about in his Mountain Top sermon given the night before his death.

Though the Exodus account ends with the Children of Israel entering the Promised Land, not everyone was able to enter. Moses himself had to be left behind, and some from the older generation passed without entering the Promised Land. As a nation if we truly want to enter into the Promised Land Dr. King preached about, we have to continue to challenge the three ills Dr. King discussed: Poverty, Militarism, and Racism. We have to hold our president accountable to addressing these ills through his policies.

In my opinion, we need to have a revolution of values, a revolution that places the least of these at the top of our agendas. The time has passed for the Greed is Good ethic that has characterized the last twenty years, the time has passed for patronizing charity, and the time is now to reignite Dr. King's Poor People's Campaign. The Poor People's Campaign brought poor African-Americans, Whites, Latinos, Asians, and Native Americans together to converge on the nation's capital to challenge our government to address the needs of the poor. As people of faith we must challenge this new administration to deal with the scourge of poverty once and for all.

With the current economic crisis the ranks of the poor are growing to include not just the homeless or the welfare mother, but to include the former Lehman Brothers employee, or our suburban neighbor. Now that the issue of poverty is at the forefront we can begin to address issues of sexism, racism, and militarism; which all feed into poverty.

Now is the time to challenge President Obama to continue the unfinished work of the Poor People's Campaign, lest we are left behind like Moses and the Children of Israel who did not completely yield to God's call and missed entering into the Promised Land. Will we yield to Christ's call to "preach good news to the poor" or will we be left behind?

Organizations dedicated to ending poverty:

If you liked this article, check out: Poverty and Possibility

Onleilove is a native of Brooklyn, New York. She is a student in the dual M.Div/MSW program at Union Theological Seminary and Columbia University. In NYC she organizes with the Poverty Initiative and New York Faith & Justice.

From Exclusion to Embrace, Pt. 2: Three stories of poverty and compassion

Wed, 28 Jan 2009 00:00:00 GMT

Continued from From Exclusion to Embrace: Three stories of poverty and compassion

Three:

From my office-cave I pecked away at the keyboard, blissfully unaware of the tall man with the scraggly beard who had made his way into the church office. After a little while, I picked up a few details. He was trying to get home to Kansas as soon as possible to see his wife and mother. Traveler's Aid had promised to pay half the bus ticket if he could come up with the other half.

Our secretary called one of the deacons who was coming to the church anyway to hang the greens for Advent. He graciously took a cup of coffee, but looked antsy sitting in the church office.

When they called me to help with the lights on the tree I saw him gingerly unwrapping one of the large golden cross ornaments. There was a certain care he showed it--like it was some incredibly fragile ornament that could shatter at any moment.

Meanwhile, the rest of the senior-adult set were hustling and bustling - fluffing old garlands and filling the oil lamps. One of our fearless septuagenarians lovingly grabbed his arm and said "I need your height!"

They commenced to decorating the tree, widows and wives, gray-haired candy-stripers and one tall grizzled stranger. When the task-master senior climbed the rickety ladder to work on the top of the tree, he braced the ladder. When it gave a shudder, he lifted his arms, ready to catch her and break her fall. For a split second it looked like an embrace.

This morning an envelope arrived. In it was a check for $100 and a simple note. "Thank you for helping my son. I don't have all of it, but I wanted to send you something to pay you back for helping him out."

Epilogue:

Short of Jesus, I don't know any writer more influential to Jen and I then Miroslav Volf . There are a hundred quotes I could put here, including "exclusion and embrace", the title and subject of his first book, but this binds them all together.

"There are two commands which persist in the Scriptures - to have no strange gods, and to love the stranger."

Trey is a minister/writer/techno-geek/observer/teacher/wanna-be social activist living in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia.

From Exclusion to Embrace, Pt. 1: Three stories of poverty and compassion

Wed, 21 Jan 2009 00:00:00 GMT

One:

She was just lying there. Between the Fulton County Courthouse and the Cathedral. Half on a giant concrete planter, the latter half on a makeshift ottoman of old blankets, clothes, bags and a shipping dolly.

I watched as one of our college students pulled a pair of gloves over her arthritic fingers. That's when I really stopped and looked at her. There were hats and hand-warmers, candy-bars and cookies to be passed out to the other people on the street, but when I saw her try again and again to open a water bottle, I asked her if I could help. Her top layer of protection--an old wool trench coat, covered by an ugly gray packing blanket--was spattered with shelter stew one of the other guys-turned-care-givers had brought to her.

Her eyes looked barely human--dark as midnight, with no expectation of dawn. She couldn't talk, but nodded in approval. She nursed the water bottle like an infant--her lips solidly around it, refusing to let so much as a drop go the way of the stew stains she wore. And I didn't know what to do. She nodded in approval and placed the water by her side. I put the cap back on it loosely and headed down the street to pass out the rest of our supplies.

We met other people along the way, but none stood out like her. I couldn't quit seeing her eyes, equal parts fear and resignation. By the time the ringleader of our distribution efforts pulled the Volvo-wagon up to the curb, I knew one of those big blankets had her name on it. I ran across the street to where the car was parked illegally. I knew she had to have something to give her some more warmth--that old packing blanket wasn't enough. Forgetting to look to see the cars coming I ran back across, realizing I had grabbed the biggest blanket left, but being struck by the irony of the wires running through. There's little place for electric blankets on the street.

I saw those eyes again, and I wondered what kind of monster I might look like to a woman lying helpless on a tree planter. I told her I brought her another blanket and she nodded gracefully. "My feet" she muttered. I folded a corner underneath her to the makeshift pallet. I spread the top out only to realize how little good it would do. I folded it under as best I could while she shifted her weight to help tuck herself in. Suddenly I was struck by the fact that in attempting to warm this woman, I had no option but to embrace her. Not a handshake or a pat on the back, but a full-on, "only for loved ones" embrace.

And I thought I was going to lose it.

I don't know what kind of shape she's in. I felt powerless, impotent--all the things you feel when you just don't know what to do but you'd swear there's got to be more. There were people there to help her, I knew that--but it wasn't just their task--it felt like my task. And I can't quit thinking about her.

Two:

The young guy in the coat and jeans had a convincing story. A woman at the shelter a few blocks over was trying to get back to Virginia after coming to Atlanta for work, only to be scammed. All she needed was gas money. I was skeptical, but when he rolled up in an old Mustang with Virginia Plates, loaded to the gills with shopping bags and clothes, my skepticism lifted like a morning fog. She got out with a thick Colombian accent, matching the story he told us a half-hour before. She said all she needed was gas money and directions. She knew how to get home from I-64 East, that it took about 10 hours to get there, but that was it. We did some quick math and figured out 2-3 tanks of gas should get her there.

I started thinking where the nearest gas station was, and whether or not I had the church credit card on me. The other adult with us pulled out his wallet. While I was still trying to think how to get to the BP on Spring Street, he had counted off five twenties to hand to her. He put it in her hand and she nearly missed it. In a frenzy of tears and excitement, she grabbed him--the kind of big bear hug only a mother can give. She swore she would send it back when she could. She said she was alone and didn't know anyone in Atlanta, but she had a base there.

I pulled out the cell-phone GPS and put "Virginia Beach, VA". She wrote the directions on the back of his executive business card. We went on to grab some lunch, wondering how far she would get--if she could make it home, if the directions were good, if that guy would try and take advantage of her or the money. There was no guarantee, but it felt right.

I was sitting the youth room yesterday morning when his wife came in. "That lady ya'll helped called him this morning. She made it. She's back in Virginia! She said she'll be okay, some friends are helping her and she wants to send the money back a little at a time."

And I realized that I had been a skeptic. Skeptics don't embrace.

Continued in: From Exclusion to Embrace, Pt. 2: Three stories of poverty and compassion

Trey is a minister/writer/techno-geek/observer/teacher/wanna-be social activist living in the suburbs of Atlanta, Georgia.

Book Review: The Treasury of American Prayer

Wed, 14 Jan 2009 00:00:00 GMT

I picked up the copy of The Treasury of American Prayer by James P. Moore, Jr. I studied the corners and cover of the outside. I opened it to scan the introductions, meet the author, and read the prologue. "Impress me," I thought to myself.

Picture America for a moment. Thousands of different conclusions could come from each of you. Happily settled in a safety net of prayer and simple devotion isn't something that comes to my mind.

James R. Moore Jr., creator of the American Prayer Project, has brought together collections of poems and prayers from America's past 300 years.

Moore's intentions were to gather the prayers and stories of varying people throughout history that have impacted our nation in order that we may "understand the country we have inherited today and how we might face the formidable challenges of the twenty-first century."

Yet, we are in a more difficult position. Those that claim to be truly "wrecked for the ordinary" - God is challenging us to respond more actively and selflessly in prayer.

I was disappointed.

My heart is deeply set in the practice of intercession for people, Kingdom, nations (including America). I've seen and experienced the power of falling at the Lord's throne with nothing and asking of nothing but Him.

Reading through the delicately-spaced poems of prayer in this book, I felt like I was holding a fragile attempt to motivate. I challenge a reader of this collection that they look past themselves. Die to yourself once again before opening the cover. I pray the words of America's selfishness and pettiness from the cries of our people hit your heart. Our God is not a genie in a bottle so we should stop treating Him as such.

As the title invites us into a treasury of sort, I will admit that I found a few gems of truth. I can hold onto those, but it was my own prayers that helped me continue to finish this book. Has that ever happened to you before? You read a good book, and the Spirit falls on you in a way that draws you into His presence in prayer, a discussion with the Father. Well, this time, it was all I could do to keep coming back to the Almighty in true worship and adoration. Nothing in that personal cry was made up to sound right. My own prayers and conversation with God proved better than ingesting 300 pages of sugar. There was little meat so my stomach hurt after a while.

I'm not pessimistic. I am hopeful. Hopeful for America and the Kingdom-building prayers from a new and wrecked generation. I believe lives, hearts, and a nation can change to be more Christ-like if that's where our prayers begin.

Caitlin graduated from Asbury College with a degree in Media Communications and a desire for something more. She recently returned from traveling with Adventures in Missions on their World Race program. She's been wrecked for this nation and desperately wants to see the youth and young adults of American know God more intimately, actively, and selflessly.

Comfortable Christianity: Lessons from Africa

Wed, 7 Jan 2009 00:00:00 GMT

My most important spiritual lessons were not learned in a Sunday School classroom, a Bible Study group, or a Sanctuary. They were learned in the presence of poverty, death, and suffering. They were learned from the eyes of a hungry orphan, the words of a sick widow, the smile of an abandoned little girl, and the shame of a homeless man.

I can't go back to the way I was. I'm not the same person I used to be. Even in the simple things I do every day, I will never do them the same way as before. I've been changed. And I can never go back.

I used to get impatient if I had to wait more than 30 minutes for my food at a restaurant. That was before I saw orphans at the Thulwane Care Point in Swaziland who had not eaten in days.

I used to complain under my breath when I realized someone had taken the Expo markers from the classroom when I was preparing to teach my weekly Bible Study. That was before I met a missionary in Africa who taught children about Jesus under a tree each Sunday morning and counted it the greatest privilege of her life.

I used to stand before my closet full of clothes and complain because I had "nothing" to wear. That was before I met an orphan in Swaziland wearing rags.

I used to waste food every day. To toss half of an uneaten meal in the trash meant nothing to me. That was before I met my adopted daughter and saw pictures of her tiny emaciated frame and found out her birth mother abandoned her because there was no food in their Haitian village.

I used to go to the mall and drop $50 for another pair of shoes I really didn't need. That was before I held the shoes of a little seven year old Swazi girl as she played. Those shoes were her most prized possession.

I used to arrive early when I would speak at retreats so I could make sure my lectern, lapel mic, and music were working properly so every detail would run smoothly. That was before I met a female pastor in Africa who preached the Word of God straight from her heart to a full congregation with nothing but a small tattered bible.

I used to complain about my mattress because it was 10 years old and I thought it was not comfortable like the ones I sat on in the store. That was before I saw a small boy in Haiti sleeping on his "bed"-a pile of dirty clothes in the corner of a dirt floor shack.

I used to get frustrated when I had a doctor's appointment at 8:00AM and at 9:00AM I was still sitting in the waiting room-the air conditioned waiting room that had a TV and magazines. That was before I saw a desperate mother in Port-au-Prince who walked all day in the heat to bring her sick baby to a Mission Clinic.

I used to secretly sigh when I would get letters in the mail from Christian ministries asking for donations to help them support their programs. That was before I became close friends with the director of an inner-city ministry and saw first-hand how that ministry changed countless lives with very little resources.

I used to walk into church with my big leather bible, ready to be blessed by the pastor's weekly message. That was before I worshiped in a cinderblock building with African Christians who had nothing of earthly value. They taught me more about worship in two hours than I had experienced in my entire life of "church-going."

I used to want to protect my children from the horrible atrocities of this world by keeping them safe under my "wing." That was before I put my 15 year old son on a plane with 18 other teenagers and 3 counselors to spend his summer in a Third World nation. He came home completely wrecked for the ordinary' with deep spiritual insight he'd have never gotten at home under my motherly protection.

I used to read articles about AIDS and thought compassion was just to pray for them. That was before I invited a widow who was HIV+ and her son, to spend Christmas with our family several years ago. She taught me about true compassion.

I used to think that homeless people were in their situation because they drank too much, took drugs, or had somehow caused their own despair. That was before our family ministered to a homeless family. The father had been laid off and they couldn't pay their rent. God showed me that they were no different than me.

I used to see statistics about the 154 million+ orphans around the world, and frankly those numbers where too overwhelming for me. That was before two of those orphans became my own children. Those statistics are now very much alive in my soul.

I used to think compassion was saying a few prayers for the sick, the outcast, the orphan and the widow. I used to think if I gave some money once a year to a ministry, I had done my part. But that was before. That was before God patiently showed me true compassion. .

What about you? When was the last time you decided to ask God to break you free from your comfortable Christianity to show you how to learn real and genuine compassion? Ask Him. But, friend, beware. You'll never be the same and you'll never go back.

Lorie is a busy homeschooling mother of six children, including twins and two children who were internationally adopted -one from Haiti and one from Liberia. She has taught and ministered in Bible Studies for over ten years. She and her husband Duane are founders of Reaching Hands Orphan/Adoption Ministries. Through a partnership with Children's HopeChest, Reaching Hands Ministries enables nearly 300 impoverished African orphans to receive regular food, clothing, and education. You can visit her website at lorienewman.com.

One Step Behind: How to help beggars

Wed, 31 Dec 2008 00:00:00 GMT

There are so many times that I just think I could be doing better. I always feel like I could be doing that much more than what I already am. It's easy to walk these streets and feel like I'm a Christian who has it all together, that just because I had answered a call to travel the world and follow Jesus, I'm somehow above reproach, that I'm somehow better off than all of those others who still work their 9-5 jobs in the States, miserable as hell.

Sometimes I can't stand the things people say to me. A lot of times I want to turn and run when some of the people in these countries treat me like I'm a saint, like I'm some high and mighty guy who's riding into their Sunday morning service on a white stallion, ready to rescue them from their impending spiritual death.

Most days I don't feel like a saint.

In fact, most days I wonder if I really even have it as together as I think I do. When I was in India we were in some marketplace, called the "Bazar" market or something. It's a hot spot in Delhi for tourists. And trust me, there were a fair number of white people there. You know, the weird kind that travel the world and think themselves better than the rest of American society, not because they're missionaries, but because they have seen the world--all those places that countries make look nice for people like them. But I guess it's okay because I think I'm better than them because I go stay in the slums and then find sanctuary in a westernized coffee shop.

Anyway.

We were walking this market looking for some really awesome pants. The girls has seen a lot of tourists wearing them and they wanted a pair. These pants looked like something vagabonds would wear; genuine world travelers who plug themselves into the fun parts of culture. I was kind of along for the ride because I wanted to pick up some trinkets of my own, like a pair of linen pants that ended up being made of hemp. Who knew...

But take yourself out of the environment you're in for a minute. Stop thinking about work. Stop thinking about those emails sitting behind these words. I want you to remove yourself from your own reality. Picture instead a narrow street flooded with people: Indians, Americans, Europeans, Asians - the like. Imagine that on your left and on your right are rows of apartment buildings, buildings that are run down and should be vacant, but instead they are houses, shops, and packed full of people who live there day in and day out. The street's part mud, part dirt, and part pavement. Bicycles, feet, and cattle pollute the road you're trying to walk, a path that's littered with trash and other things you can't easily identify. As as you walk and try not to take in the wretched smell, you also try desperately to ward off the men trying to sell you useless things that you have no interest in.

This is the marketplace - welcome.

And I wish that I was better at describing this place, at putting words to an image in my head, but I can't seem to get out anything that would give it justice. It's utter chaos, chaos in a world of what appears to be hopelessness that masks itself by the harsh realities of everyday life. I'm unsure where I even fit in within it all.

These were the streets we walked in search for pants.

My friend Mark and I were the only guys with about eleven girls that day. It proved to be a VERY long day of shopping, which is okay in some places, but not in places like this. I looked anywhere for something to take my mind off of the girls who couldn't seem to decide which style of pants they liked more, what colors, and those other girly concerns. My eyes caught a beggar, a man sitting on the disgusting road shaking a small tin cup in his hand. My mind raced back to the day that my heart would instantly break for men like him, but I've found that I had developed a certain callousness for people like that.

Traveling the world does do something to you: it either makes you more human or more animal. I've found that my compassion for beggars has tended to wane. I don't know if it's a good thing or a bad thing. I think Jesus would gravitate towards people like this but I just don't much anymore. The beggars here never see a cent that they earn anyway. They sit and beg and at the end of the day turn all of their money into the begging syndicate, a council that more or less is structured a lot like the mafia.

Imagine begging for eight hours a day and never seeing a penny that you earn.

I sat there and wrestled with my conscience for just a few seconds before letting my mind stray to something else, but I didn't realize that God was searing something into the back of my heart. We walked around more, this time in search for a purse. I'm not sure I could have been doing anything more manly at that point in time, so I forced myself to be okay with it. But I kept seeing this man out of the corner of my eye, sitting on the ground, one leg curled in with a clubbed foot, the other sticking straight out, stiff as a board, with yet another clubbed foot. He dragged a small wooden cane along with him. His clothes were rags and his beard was caked with dirt. I'm sure this old man could have passed off as a leper in one of the colonies we visited, but I don't know for sure.

He just looked miserable.

And then there arose this battle in my spirit, almost as if the forces of darkness were grappling fiercely with the power of Light within me. I swear there was a physical battle in my stomach, which probably showed itself by my hesitation to even move from the shop I was standing in. But next thing I know, victory presented itself and I was freed from my vacancy of movement.

Through the sea of white people, bicycles, and salesmen, I made my way towards this child of God who perched himself on the ground, reaching his cup as high as he could for some spare change. Tourists were dropping in coin after coin as I began raising my voice. I just locked my eyes on this guy and started speaking life into him. Some people stopped in their tracks and tried to figure out what the heck I was doing. Apparently there was no doubt in my intentions because it's as if everyone knew this man was my target of Jesus' love.

Next thing I know my hand was on this man's shoulder, I'm hunched over looking directly in his eyes, he in mine, and I won't move.
I felt the world moving around me, I felt things stirring, I felt people staring, but I didn't seem to really care. I even heard the clinking of coins hitting the inside of his tin cup as his hand remained raised. But his gaze remained on me. I spoke life into his bones, I prophesied the day he would pick himself up and walk.

And even though I spoke English, I think he heard Hindi because he listened with that much intensity.

I stood, while he sat and stared.
Time ticked.
And then I moved.

I began walking away, allowing myself to be caught up in the movement of the world. I didn't see a man walk. I didn't reach out my hand and invite him into a world of faith, into the grace, mercy, and love of Jesus Christ.
I'm always one step behind.

And so I wonder if I keep up this lifestyle of always being one step behind myself if I'll ever see a difference made in this world. I mean I should have reached out my hand and seen if he would have grabbed it, if he would have put down his cup and pulled himself to his feet, but I didn't. He didn't. I just walked away with a varying lack of faith resonating in my bones and his. Or did I?

I think that a lot of times, everyone feels as if they're just one step behind, as if they always forget what move should come next. And so I write this, again, not to prove to you that I'm a saint who globe trotted my way around from country to country. I'm just a man walking with a limp that's much bigger than a beggar's that I tried reaching out to.

Maybe one day I'll pull a man to his feet.

If you liked this article, check out: A Picture of Grace

Matt graduated from Friends University in May. (Yes, it's called Friends University, but they do not have a Central Perk...) He loves Jesus very much and is passionate about the Kingdom he seemed to talk about all the time. He likes cheesecake, chick-flicks, traveling, coffee, music, trying to write music, reading, and the outdoors. He is currently traveling the world for a year on the World Race.

Baby Jesus in the Bar

Wed, 24 Dec 2008 00:00:00 GMT

In The Ballad of Ricky Bobby: Talladega Nights there's a hilarious scene where Will Ferrell, John C. Reilly and Jane Lynch are arguing around the dinner table about whether or not it's correct to pray to "little baby Jesus." Well, we're in that time of year again where the infant Christ becomes the focal point, whether directly or indirectly, of so much going on around our troubled world.

Here in Nashville, the small fellowship that I'm part of has been doing something for the past 8 years that even the aforementioned Mr. Bobby would find relevant. A bunch of us from The Village Chapel like to go Christmas caroling to the clubs and eateries in our Hillsboro Village neighborhood. You would think 40 folks piling into the entranceway of a crowded bar would get some strange looks-but they welcome us every yuletide season.

As we belt out "Oh Come All Ye Faithful," "Jingle Bells," "God Rest Ye Merry Gentlemen," "Rudolph the Red Nosed Reindeer," and "Joy to the Word" the places always start jumpin'. Folks sway back and forth with us and often join-in full on. When we get to some of the softer pieces like "Silent Night" and "Oh, Little Town of Bethlehem," it's not odd to hear customers with a catch in their throat, or even wiping away a stray tear or two.

I find that so many people are longing for some type of deeper meaning in life. These lyrics and melodies trigger something very deep in all of us. On several occasions we've seen clientele who were sitting alone suddenly break down in deep sobs. It's allowed us an opportunity to spend a little time with them, invite them to come to our humble little church, and see if they might be able to find a sense of community there that they are missing. Quite a few have ended up attending because of this fun, light-hearted caroling.

In our often cynical society, people are "up to here" with Christianity that is mostly talk, and-when there is movement-it's mostly embarrassing picket lines, or someone wagging their finger. But when folks see fellow sinners actually trying to meekly act out their faith in simple and heartfelt actions that bitterness starts to dwindle away. We've felt like our faith means nothing if we don't live it out in practical ways like this, interacting with those in our part of town.

While I was driving back from Pittsburgh after my Mother's funeral a few years ago, I remember our pastor, Jim, calling me while on the road to see if I had plans once I got back in town (he had been very diligent about calling me several times during my Mom's sudden stroke and subsequent passing that week). Telling him I didn't, he asked if I'd like to meet him and his wife Kim for dinner at my favorite Chinese restaurant after I got settled. To my surprise, when I arrived at The Great Wall, there were 14 others from the church there to encourage me, and help me reminisce about my Mom. And for the next 10 days after that, I got dozens more calls and visitors, and never had to cook a single meal because of all the dinners that were brought to my home by my fellow sojourners at our little church.

In fact, that practice is not out of the ordinary at all. Probably over a thousand meals have now been provided in just a half decade for parishioners who are going through mourning, recovering from surgery, getting settled with new-born babies, etc. When any kind of need is brought up, whether helping with the toddlers, or raising money to dig fresh water wells in the Sudan, our Village Chapel family responds above and beyond what anyone would expect. I guess it is borne out of a deep sense of gratitude for what Jesus did for us by coming into our world, walking around in skin and emotions like ours, and making the ultimate sacrifice to show us that God does indeed care so deeply and affectionately for each of us...even though we dare not say we deserve it.

So, if you'd like to join in the sheer joy of singing these familiar strains for complete strangers who will greet us warmly, just let me know and I'll send you the particulars. Our group always includes everyone from kindergarteners to grandmas. We'll also have a group going to sing for some wonderful friends at some area Retirement Homes if you would like a bit "easier" pace. After several hours of caroling from place to place, we celebrate with spiced apple cider, coffee, hot chocolate and Christmas pastries back at our facility located in the 105 year old St. Bernard's Convent Building on 21st Avenue South-just two blocks from Hillsboro Village.

Yes, little baby Jesus will be celebrated in the bars this week. It's the kind of Christianity that I think resonates deeply in all of us.

If you liked this article, check out: Rose Colored Glasses

Mark is a Christian activist, radical moderate, and cultural sociologist who has traveled to 44 countries. Besides his work with Compassion International, he has also managed musical artists Petra, Sixpence None the Richer, Steve Taylor, and Smalltown Poets. Mark is based in Nashville, TN and is currently finishing his first book. His blog is at http://www.myspace.com/markhollingsworth.

A Pauper's Rite of Passage: Mission Year in Philadelphia

Wed, 17 Dec 2008 00:00:00 GMT

While doing Mission Year in Philadelphia, we are given the opportunity to visit the city and live a day in the life of a Pauper. Instead of going to feed the hungry, we will learn what it is like to be hungry on the street. We have no money or food but are to rely on God for our daily bread. We are encouraged to spend time with the homeless and beg.

One of the most impacting experiences I have had this month and perhaps even since I have been in Philadelphia happened last weekend during P.R.O.P. Friday night we learned about homelessness in the U.S. We spent the night in a church - no heat, no electricity, no bathroom. We traded our clothes for clothes found in the thrift store. We were not allowed to bring any of our belongings (only 3 things and the shoes on our feet).

That night the reality of what I was doing hit me. I leaned over to Tina, my roommate, and said, "When I became a Christian everyone thought I had gone crazy. And now, as I lay on a cold church floor with no pillow, in someone else's clothes, in the pitch black dark, with a room full of empty church pews, I am beginning to realize they were right. If I keep this up, there is no going back to normal!"

The next morning we woke up early and headed to Center City. On the ride down, I didn't experience any overwhelming emotion. I had spent time hanging with the homeless in Saint Louis so the soon-to-be surroundings weren't going to be completely foreign. I paired up with my friend Tera (a member of the southwest Philly team) and we were dropped off near City hall.

Side note:
I have realized that I daydream a lot! I play multiple scenarios in my head for just about every event that could be (keeps me busy). In the van, I was thinking about finding a pair of boots to wear for the day. I had picked out a pair of pants that were rather short (baggy but too short) and my calves were exposed. I then thought how RIDICULOUS was such a thought because if I were to get boots, I would have to leave my shoes behind. I would never do such a thing because I love them very much!

We got out of the van and IMMEDIATELY (not even 30 seconds), a woman started to wave Tera and I over. We, being eager to meet people, went to her. She started pointing at our feet and we realized she had no shoes. Her feet were worn, blistered and dry. She started frantically talking about shoes and it became obvious that she was not all there. She had a pair of shoes in her hand, size 11 and they were too big. Tera being barely 5 feet tall, told the woman that she wears a size 6 (go figure). Then she looked at me (size 8.5), looked at my shoes, and asked me for them.

My stomach dropped. It was then I realized that I was saying goodbye to my shoes. I (or God working in me rather) took off my shoes, first the left one and then the right. They didn't fit her; they were too small. I tried to tell her that they smelled bad and they had holes, but she didn't care.

She handed me her size 11, no skid, old lady kicks and said "You'll be fine in these. Have a nice day".

My Shoes:
They are knock-off converse tennis shoes from Hong Kong that I got on my trip two summers ago. They are my traveling shoes. They smell and have holes. They are a part of who I am. So silly to say but in moving to a place where no one knows who you are, I have begun to cherish such items. These shoes are me; they are mine.

I put on the black shoes; they were too big but fit fine. I turned and walked away. I lost it. It is silly they were only a pair of shoes but I cried anyway. I knew that I could easily go out and buy a new pair or that if I asked, my friends and family would shower me with shoes. Still, I cried.

There is no justifying my gift either. I can't say "Oh, these shoes will really help her feet" because they won't - they don't fit! She will never have the same love for them as I do. At the same time I can see the big picture.

A woman asked me for something (alright, maybe demanded) and I gave to her. Is this not what I believe I should do? Is this not what I am passionate about? Giving to the poor, loving the unlovable, this is what I want and it is what I received. There is this laughable idea going around that loving your neighbor and serving the poor should be a lot of "fun." Wrong. It is not fun, it is hard - really hard. But I wouldn't trade it for the world.

The rest of the day was full of eye-opening and heart-breaking experiences. I had the opportunity to live as a beggar for the day, asking for quarters on corners, meeting the prophets and angels that have no place to lay their head. It was quite the day downtown.

I have been thinking about my shoes and how the lady can't possibly love them as much as I do. I have come to realize it doesn't matter much. What is more important is that I (by God's intercession) was able to give. Perhaps it isn't whether or not the homeless man will buy booze with my quarter - but whether or not I can actually spare a quarter. And maybe it isn't whether or not the woman will love my shoes or even throw them in a dumpster, but whether or not I can recognize that these shoes aren't "mine." And if someone is to ask for my shoes, I should not only kick them off in a fit of joy but also toss in my favorite panda socks as well.

Lindsey is a woman who is learning how to love... for today. If you would like to support her in her adventures in Philadelphia, please visit her blog.

Bless The Hands That Prepared This Food

Tue, 9 Dec 2008 00:00:00 GMT

In July I attended the DC campaign kick-off for the Justice at Smithfield Campaign.

"Smithfield Foods is the largest pork processor and producer in the world, the fourth largest turkey processor and fifth largest beef processor in the U.S."

In the early 1990's Smithfield opened its Tar Heel, North Carolina plant, with 5,500 workers who slaughter and process 32,000 hogs per day. The Tar Heel plant is not unionized and overall only about 56% of Smithfield pork processing plant employees are unionized.

Though raised in Brooklyn, NY, my family hails from North Carolina which makes this campaign of personal importance to me. At the campaign kick-off two young women testified about mistreatment at the Tar Heel plant. A 22 year-old woman spoke of developing such a serious case of carpal tunnel syndrome that she can no longer lift more than 15 pounds. The testimony of this woman had a profound effect on me because I saw myself in her face.

At 22 years-old I was a recent college graduate excitedly planning my future. I did not have to worry about an injury that could leave me disabled for life. If my grandparents remained in North Carolina instead of migrating to Brooklyn, NY, I could have easily been one of the Smithfield workers. What separates me from the workers at Smithfield?

Some of the tasks at the Tar Heel plant include cutting the skin off of frozen meat as it comes down the line, a task that is especially difficult when having to work at breakneck speeds. As stated in the Human Rights Watch report: Blood Sweat and Fear: Workers' Rights in U.S. Meat and Poultry Plants:

Many workers have painful reactions to conditions, but they do not act for fear of losing their jobs. In this report one employee is quoted as saying I am sick at work with a cold and breathing problems and my arms are always sore. But I am afraid to say anything about this because I am afraid they will fire me.'

Workers have also spoken of sexual harassment and racism. How can working conditions like this exist in our modern society? What is the role of race, class and economics in the Smithfield worker struggle?

As I reflect on the Justice at Smithfield campaign I am reminded of a common request made during the blessing of a meal-"may God bless the hands of those who have prepared our food." Let us remember the workers of Smithfield when we bless our meals by asking God to bless their hands and their struggle.

If you liked this article, check out: The Lord's Prayer is a Prayer for Justice

Moses and Managing My Money

Wed, 3 Dec 2008 00:00:00 GMT

I really like Excel spreadsheets. They're so cool with their formulas and grids and table and whatnot. I know I don't know how to use them to their full-extent but I really like them. Tonight, I decided to check out my finances for the remainder of my mission here in Japan.

I added up my expenses for the month (bills back home...like school loans and card payments, etc) and then multiplied that amount by the number of months I have remaining here. Then I put the money that I have in my bank account (money that was donated for my trip before I even came out) and deducted my expenses. My jaw dropped. According to my figures, I wouldn't even have enough to buy my plane ticket home. I was shocked. I'm pretty good with money, I keep a pretty good handle on things, but these past few months, I've kind of let things go without paying much attention on it. I'm really sad.

Ok, sometimes I feel like God owes me certain things in life. A lot of times, it's silly stuff, stuff that God is not obligated to give me; and even the things that I can legitimately expect from Him, He's not obligated to give them to me on my own timeline. But when looking at my spreadsheet, I felt a wave of obligation come over me. Seriously, I came out here to Japan for a year. I didn't want to come out here. But God set things up and I couldn't ignore Him and so I came. I came knowing that God works in amazing ways, and that in my faith to follow Him even when it didn't make sense to others, or me God would do a good thing. He wouldn't leave me hanging. So I started praying to God... well, more like telling Him what's what and how He better get His act into shape.

I was reminded of Moses. Moses liked things to be on his own timeline, but he also walked in faith with God. Sometimes God would become fed up with Israel because the people would start complaining the God wasn't going to take care of them and they would often start worshipping idols. God would be telling Moses all these judgments that would be falling upon the nation of Israel. Moses, standing in amazement, actually held up his finger and said, "Um, God...don't You remember that these are Your chosen people? You promised that You would preserve them...and You don't want all these other nations to think that You are not a God of Your promises."

It wasn't that God needed to be reminded of this promise...He knew it. He never breaks His promises. And because Moses, in his faith, petitioned God for mercy, God granted mercy (whether by turning away His wrath or postponing it). It wasn't that God changed His mind, in the way a person can change his mind...but because of Moses' faith and righteousness (and in other accounts, because the people repented of their sins), God's intense judgment was not necessary.

While praying, this came into my mind. I've always been in awe of Moses that he was willing to "remind" God of His promises, but I suddenly thought that I have the ability to do the same. Whether in sin or in genuine petition, God knows my heart, and He wants to hear my thoughts. So, I reminded Him of the promises He made to me... not really specific ones, but the kind like: "If I follow God, with childlike faith, then He will not let me fall. He only has good for me. He has a plan for my life and will see it through, and it will be a good plan."

As I finished the prayer, I remembered that I made a miscalculation. I included about $200 extra in my expenses each month. So I changed that. I also realized that I multiplied my expenses by 7 months instead of the 6 months I have left. When I fixed that, I couldn't believe my eyes. The sum of my remaining funds came to, $2911. Now...this isn't a whole lot better. With the rising gas prices, airfare has really increased in price. BUT, the significance of these numbers is wonderful. It was a little gem of hope and love from God.

Even though the result of my miscalculations wasn't thousands of dollars of difference, I came to the wealth of the goodness of God, that I am in His hand, that He truly does have a plan for me. Even when I act like a child with Him and complain that the things I'm seeing aren't what I want to see, He is still gracious to me and reminds me of His love and His promises. He does keep His promises. We have that amazing hope and peace!

Sarah is a college graduate from Cincinnati, OH following the call from God to go and make disciples of all nations. Currently, she lives in Shimonoseki, Japan teaching English at a church and reaching out to Japanese adults and college students. She also loves climbing mountains, flip flops, and cloud shadows.

Many Blessings: Satisfaction after starvation

Wed, 26 Nov 2008 00:00:00 GMT

"Oh my gosh, these are amazing!" I exclaimed as my mom gasped at me in horror. After being in Africa for a year serving with Mercy Ships where the humidity is constantly 80-90% or more, stale nacho chips were a norm, so the bag of semi-stale chips seemed fantastic to me!

For the first several months of living back in the States, all food seemed overwhelmingly incredible, as we were accustomed to only a small variety of foods - mostly revolving around rice.

I remember thinking how miserable the food selection was when I first arrived to Africa, but after several months, I began to have a totally different outlook. I was grateful for any food, since the scorching heat works up massive appetites, and I actually came to love all of the rice meals.

As the world of materialism and vast amounts of choices are taken away, you experience what a lot of the rest of the world is thankful for - and you realize why.

I become so angry listening to Americans complain about how our newest craved item is not stocked properly on the grocery store shelf, how Starbucks is out of the salt for a salted caramel hot chocolate drink, or how horrible the weather is, and my heart breaks as I realize that I am right there complaining with them. How quickly we forget what we have seen or been through - people are starving to death. People are thankful for the one small meal they may get a day if they are so-blessed, and I'm complaining about a traffic jam while sitting in my heated car listening to my favorite CD. What is wrong with this picture?

We feel that our world is shattered when we can't find a pair of new corduroy trousers that fit properly after searching hundreds of different stores. Do we stop to think of how thankful we should be to have a job so we are able to afford such luxury items? Do we think of how much of the world doesn't even have one store, let alone the hundreds surrounding us, or the option of buying items over the Internet that we have? Do we consider that one more pair of trousers jammed into the already-full wardrobe is probably not a necessity?

Most of us can't even be bothered to donate our old clothes for a worthy cause, let alone buy a new, decent item for someone in need... someone who may have no trousers, no shoes, not even water. Yet we become angry if we can't get our newest desire, because we feel we deserve anything and everything.

It's sickening to see the priority Americans put on their pets - watching people stock up on over-priced pet foods, toys, clothes, beds, and hearing about the vet bills they are too willing to pay for their precious FiFi. Granted, pets can be great companions for people, but people are dying... and I feel like screaming, "How is this okay?" How is it right for us to spend so much money on animals when children and people around the world are dying of thirst, hunger, and disease when we easily have the resources to save them, but lack the motivation to do anything about it?

To top it all off, we refuse to thank God for all that He has blessed us with, which just furthers the dreadfulness of it all. One of the hugest impacts the Africans made on me was the way they praised God - how thankful they were for the "many blessings" He had bestowed on them, whereas in American standards, their lives and so-called "blessings" would be grounds for having a complete hatred and bitterness toward life. We would be so horrified at living in such conditions that we wouldn't even be able to handle a single day of it. Yet they are dancing and praising God for everything. How? Knowing that the resources are out there, that people could help, how can they be thankful while watching brothers, sisters, parents, friends die because the help doesn't come?

If we took a moment each day to thank Him for one thing he has blessed us with, how many days would it take for us to run out of things. How many years? Or, if we took one day and began thanking Him for all that we have, would we even be able to finish the list in one day? To what extent must God's heart shatter at our repulsive priorities, our lack of motivation to care about or help the rest of the world, or to watch the way in which we go through a day thankless of all of His blessings to us?

I can't even imagine.

I think I care, and my heart breaks over all of this, but then a moment later I'm complaining about the cold weather as I drink my hot chocolate and curl up in a blanket.

Jeni works for the Cleveland Clinic in northeast Ohio and enjoys helping out on her family's farm back in the country. She loves watching Christ work in people's lives and wants to be available for His service at all times and everywhere.

Homeless For A Night

Wed, 19 Nov 2008 00:00:00 GMT

I've never been homeless. I've never had to wonder where I was going to spend the night. I've never had to contemplate sleeping in my car. I've never had to consider who I would call if I lost my house and had nowhere to go. I've never had to consider how anyone could possibly sleep outside in 42-degree weather.

Until last month.

On Oct. 16, 2008, I spent the night homeless.

Now, in the interest of full disclosure I should let you know that I signed up for the experience. I didn't lose my house. I didn't have to consider sleeping in my car. I wasn't actually homeless.

I joined more than 500 teens and adults from across the Twin Cities who became homeless for a night and camped out at the Minnesota State Fairgrounds to raise cash and awareness for homelessness. Our efforts raised more than $11,000 for Families Moving Forward (http://www.familiesmovingforward.org/) and Project Home, two organizations that provide emergency shelters in the Twin Cities.

While many of us slept in boxes or tents, and were served a meal of bread and soup, it didn't exactly approximate the homeless experience. For starters, a musical group and a DJ entertained the teens for hours, giving them something to do and a way to keep warm. It was also voluntary and at any time anyone could have thrown in the towel and gone back to their nice, warm bed. I even had my cell phone and was sending text message updates to my Twitter account (http://www.twitter.com/kevinhendricks), letting my loved ones know that I hadn't frozen yet and that despite the cold, I would not do the Macarena to keep warm.

But reality did settle in for me twice during the experience.

Reality Check #1: The Voice of Homelessness
The first moment came during a break in the music and dance scene when the event organizers came to the stage to talk about why we were all freezing. They played two minutes of audio that nearly brought me to tears. Those two minutes contained the voices of the hundreds of men and women, moms and dads, who had called Families Moving Forward asking for emergency shelter. A single mom with a six-month-old baby. A dad and his teenage son. A family with three kids under the age of four. All of them were in dire straits and needed a place to stay.

I knew that Families Moving Forward and Project Home primarily served families. I also knew that 80% of homeless people are in need of short term, emergency help (http://www.gladwell.com/2006/2006_02_13_a_murray.html). I also knew that a growing percentage of the homeless are families with children. But the reality did not set in with the cold, hard statistics, but rather with the frazzled voices of these parents. For whatever reason, their options had been exhausted. They had nowhere else to turn. You could hear the desperation in their voices.

This is the true voice of homelessness. It's not the raspy holler of the drunk on the corner asking for a handout- though he could use some help, too. We're talking about the voice of families; people with kids who had come to the end of their rope.

Reality Check #2: No Way Out
Reality set in again at 4 in the morning. I had barely enough layers and blankets to keep warm. I had managed maybe an hour or two of sleep because every time I rolled over, a sudden wave of nausea would hit and I'd struggle to keep from throwing up in the tent. My body had plotted against me and fallen ill sometime between the Electric Slide and falling asleep.

At 4 a.m., I could stand it no longer. I disentangled myself from my blankets and sleeping bag, found my shoes in the dark, and zippered my way out of the tent without waking my fellow homeless tent-dwellers. I went to the bathroom. I drank some water. I didn't throw up (that came later).

But I spent the next hour pacing the grounds, taking in the utter quiet of 500 people sleeping outside. I kept moving to keep warm, but also because it seemed to keep the nausea at bay. I realized in a few short hours this would be over. I could climb into my nice warm bed; I could throw up into my own toilet (and I did).

I also realized that if things had gotten really bad, if I couldn't hold it in and managed to sour the inside of my tent, I could have called in reinforcements. My wife, crabby as she'd be to get that call, would have come to get me (she later asked why I didn't call, even though things weren't that bad). Even if my wife weren't a saint, I could have called a cab or just taken the bus.

What I realized at 4:30 in the morning, pacing the sidewalk at the Minnesota State Fairgrounds, where Ford had just displayed their F-150s a few months ago, is that I had a place to go and people to call. If a real homeless person were sick in the middle of the night, they had no place to go or person to call. Even if they were in a shelter, they'd have to cling to a strange pillow, hobble to a strange bathroom. They'd have to be miserable in a strange place. They'd be exposed and weak and all the things you are when you're sick without any of the comforts we all take for granted. My kitchen may not be well stocked, but I knew at the very least there'd be some stale crackers for when my stomach was ready to try food again. Homeless families don't even have the minimal comfort of those stale crackers.

Hope in the Homeless Transient
These two moments of reality humbled me. My homeless experience was hardly realistic. It's safe to say that I did not experience anything close to true homelessness. But I began to understand what it might be like to have no options. To have no family or friends to turn to, no savings account or credit card to get you through the night. Homelessness is a rough gig.

With our cratering economy, homelessness is going to get worse. Families Moving Forward has gone from 25 calls a month to 300 asking for emergency shelter. Even before the stock market took its dive there were tent cities of homeless people popping up across the country (http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/26776283/) in places like Seattle, San Diego, Portland, Columbus, Reno, Chattanooga, Fresno and more; people made homeless by foreclosures and rising prices. People who lose their jobs will turn inward to take care of their own. Already strapped nonprofits will have to cut back. It starts to sound ugly.

But it doesn't have to be.

Project Home provides emergency shelter for the homeless in church basements. If anyone can answer the cry of the homeless no matter the economic conditions, it should be the church. After all, we serve a homeless transient who never had a place to lay his head. Jesus was homeless, too.

Kevin does writing, editing and roller-skating with his company Monkey Outta Nowhere and has been saying dumb things on his personal blog since 1998. He lives in St. Paul, Minn., with his wife, daughter, adopted child on the way and two spazzy dogs.

Unlikely Orphans

Wed, 12 Nov 2008 00:00:00 GMT

It was the City itself that called me to it.
It told me it needed me to come.

For me, New York City had always had this unexplainable draw, as if it held within it all of the answers to the questions that I didn't even know how to ask yet.

And what I found upon making my spur of the moment move to come here and begin to call this place my "home", was that the draw my soul felt so heavy upon it only intensified after I arrived. It was a draw to come out of the familiar, out of the comfortable; not only of my physical location, but also of my heart as well. It was a draw asking me to somehow come out of myself by first entering deeper into myself in order to discover what was truly inside.

I felt that now, more than ever, I had to seek out my honest, holy discontent. My spirit was longing to make that discovery and I found that the more and more I set my face to the search, the more and more my Beloved was revealing the deeper places of HIS Heart to me- the lonely, hurting, painful places.

I confessed this difficult journey to a group of women that I have come to know through a beautiful community of followers found here in my neighborhood. While I was speaking, one of them interrupted, asking what had brought me to New York in the first place. I told her I wasn't entirely sure, but I just knew I had to be here. I have always known. And when the opportunity arose, I quickly seized it and have refused to look back. As every woman in the room nodded with deep understanding, she responded by saying that for some people, that's just how New York is.

"It calls you to it. You can't explain why you have to be here, just that whatever you are looking for and needing to find, it's here. You know, there are so many people here- lonely and hurting in many different ways. That's why everyone is so busy all the time; because they don't want to acknowledge their deep emotional and spiritual pain. There is just so much pain held here, but if you are brave enough to do what God is leading you to do and to tap into it and suffer with them, that will change everything."

To tap into it.
To suffer with them.

That is what I had been asking my Beloved for, ever since my move, and should I really have been surprised when he honoured it? He began wrecking my heart in ways I never knew it could be pained. I have found myself becoming overcome so powerfully with a hunger and thirst not only for social justice, but for personal and individual righteousness as well. I have been moved so deeply with genuine and sincere love and compassion like I never thought my heart could contain.

I walk these streets, stare into these faces, and learn these names all the while being reminded of the truth held within the verse: "Religion that God our Father accepts as pure and faultless is this: to look after orphans and widows in their distress and to keep ones self from being polluted by the world".

This city is teeming with orphans.
True, they may not look like your typical idea of an orphan. They are not cute, young children. They are older. They are rougher. They may not be as easy to look at or as comfortable to hold.
But they are just as hungry, just as empty, and just as lonely.
Their pain is real and their hearts are tired.
Their stories are long and their spirits weak.

They are orphans in very real distress. The distress of cold and homeless nights in this harsh city winter; of their obvious helplessness and need in this, the Mecca of self-sufficiency and excess.

I have been many places and seen many people held in hard conditions, but the distresses and shames on the streets of New York City are unlike anything I have ever seen before. It can be overwhelming if you are not careful and accidentally turn it into an issue of numbers, rather than names. Or when you focus more on statistics and less on the difference that one meal makes to that one person in that one moment.

"We can do no great things, only small things with great love." -Mother Teresa

Change is a gentle giant; it's like a whisper in a room filled with noise.
Barely noticed in the beginning, but slowly, the busy talk and the clamour cease... because the masses long to hear the secret for themselves.

This world is desperate to catch wind of that beautiful secret; that message of hope that I can feel rising up on these streets, down these dark alleys, and behind these closed doors. But it rises, the brightest and the clearest, inside of those unlikely orphans eyes, when a simple touch or a gentle word awakens their soul to feel that their long awaited Rescue is finally on Its way.

It was the City itself that called me to it.
It told me they needed me to come.

Jamie has a nomadic heart that currently finds itself in Brooklyn. She is passionate about setting captives free and is currently involved in developing a non-profit committed to fighting human trafficking. More than anything, she desires to seek the Kingdom and bring the Kingdom into the places where it is the hardest to imagine.

Loving the Rich Along with the Poor

Wed, 5 Nov 2008 00:00:00 GMT

Much of my Christian life has been a progressive understanding of God's heart for the poor. He has shown me his concern for the poor in the statutes of the Pentateuch; the judgments of the prophets; the laments of the Psalmist; and the selfless service of Christ, the Apostles, and the early church.

As this revelation began to move me, I started working among the homeless, speaking with my friends about social justice, and teaching about our obligations to the poor in my college and career-age bible study. God's immense love for the poor became self-evident and my heart began to throb at the thought of seeing the Kingdom of God manifested among the "least of these."

Unwittingly, a critical spirit began to creep into me as I ministered in Christ's name. I began to see myself as "spiritual" and having it "figured out." I became frustrated with Christians who did not give time to the ministries that I was working hard to sustain. I started to think of the rich as second class Christians for the simple reason that they had retained some of their wealth for themselves.

Didn't Christ teach that we were to leave all and follow him, and didn't the Church in Acts 2 sell their possessions to serve the poor? Wouldn't the logical consequence then be that to become like Christ, they must give themselves to those trapped in poverty?

I thank God that in the midst of this He began to teach me about the all-inclusiveness of the gospel through my fiance. She comes from a more aristocratic, upper-middle class Southern world that had been totally foreign to me. Seeing her family and their world led me to question some of my previous assumptions.

The questions that were beginning to be raised in my mind essentially boiled down to this: "Is the world of the influential and wealthy legitimate within the coming of the Kingdom of God?"

My inquiry led me into some interesting discoveries. Reading biographical snippets of the early church fathers revealed that nearly all of them came from wealthy, aristocratic families.

In history, I saw feudal lords governing their lands justly, to the benefit of even their lowliest serfs. I began to see wealthy (and immensely generous) Christians becoming benefactors of the church out of love, not for a tax break. And in the midst of a financial crisis I saw how important it was for honest and wealthy people to make just decisions about how incredibly complex markets work.

Of course I still realized that the love of money could be a source of sin. But God showed me that He is redeeming the whole world, not simply the poor. He may not have called many rich or noble, but He has called some, and they are equal members of the body of Christ.

In the end, I saw that Christ loves all people, and that He has called both the rich and the poor to stand awestruck at the foot of the Cross, a unified Church made clean by the blood of the Lamb.

Tom is busy working on trying to figure out how to balance all of his sundry duties. He is a reluctant construction worker, a bewildered philosophy student at Florida Gulf Coast University, and acting as Business Manager for Wrecked. He enjoys reading confusing books, playing Rock Band, and going to dress-up parties with his girlfriend Ashley. You can visit his blog here .

Treasuring Christ: Lessons from an Ethiopian Beggar

Thu, 23 Oct 2008 00:00:00 GMT

Jamie just returned from Ethiopia with the Red Letters Campaign to help Children's Hopechest launch an orphan care ministry. He was most moved by the people in the country, including this blind beggar. This story originally appeared on the Red Letters Campaign blog, a partner site of Wrecked.

Worship at St. George's Cathedral couldn't have been any more different than where I usually worship on a Sunday. Other than Jesus, it seemed everything was different at this Ethiopian Orthodox Church in Addis Ababa.

First, there was the leper who was begging outside the gate. I flashed in my mind to the story in Acts 3 of Peter and John healing the beggar outside the temple gates. Unlike the apostles, I didn't tell him to stand up and walk. Instead, I began to think of how ancient this place was.

We walked into the courtyard and began to worship. Now, realize the whole service was liturgy in Amharic, so we couldn't understand a word they were saying. But it was beautiful, I thought on how long these people must have been worshiping like this, back to when the Gospel first came to the Ethiopian people in Acts 8.

As we stood, we all noticed a blind woman who was making her way around the courtyard. She would take a shuffle forward, poke around with her stick, then reach down with her hands to make sure she wasn't about to fall down a step.

It was painful to watch I can't imagine how her back felt after a day, much less a lifetime of this.

As she made her way around, worshipers would walk up to her and give her some change. To give you an idea of her usual donation, the most valuable Ethiopian coin is worth 1/2 half a birr about a US nickel. One member of our team stepped forward to meet her needs as well. He quietly slipped her a 100 birr bill the equivalent $10 USD.

As she pulled out her money purse from around her neck, a nearby woman stepped up and began to talk to her. It wasn't until someone explained it that I understood what was happening.

Being blind, she didn't know how much she had been given. She couldn't read the bill. The blind woman assumed it was only 1 birr, which was probably as big a gift as she ever got. It wasn't until the stranger intervened that she realized the gift was 100 times what she thought.

As the woman found a special place in her garment to tuck away her gift, I began to wonder how often I do the same thing. How often God gives me a gift, and I treat it as routine and mundane, just enough to get me by.

What followed was a beautiful picture of grace. This woman fell down on her face and worshiped Jesus, for the great and unmerited gift she had been given. As I watched her weary bones rest and give heartfelt thanks to the King, I wondered how much I needed to do the same thing.

Now that I am back in the routine of life in the States, and I am asking God to show me the true value of the gifts He has given me. My wife, my kids, and all my material possessions are unmerited gifts from Him. They are too great for me to ever earn.

Most of all there is Jesus, the true gift of grace. Everyday, I know I undervalue Him, and try to tuck Him into a convenient place in my life. Instead, He is worthy of far more than what I can see through my dim mirror.

He is calling for all of me to worship him. Worship him with my body, like the blind woman but also with my time and energy to glorify Him to the ends of the earth. I am resolved that He is worthy of all my worship, including with my pocketbook to give to the poor in Ethiopia.

If you liked this article, check out: When Orphans Worship

Husband, father, and web entrepreneur, Jamie is passionate about Christ being lifted up by His kids responding to the needs of widows and orphans around the world. Besides co-founding the Red Letters Campaign , he also runs TinyRockstar.

Two Case Studies of the Poor in California

Wed, 22 Oct 2008 00:00:00 GMT

In the past few years I have come to an ongoing question as I have worked and lived amidst the poor. I have seen poverty and outward suffering in ways that have made me jump, jerk, cringe, cry, and have no response. Other questions like these seem to have lost their grip on me, yet this one gets stronger as I continue to live life. Yet, the odd parallel for me in that is that the peace that goes alongside that magnifies itself as well.

I believe it parallels the interesting attributes of God. His complexity, his facets of wisdom and knowledge, our lack of understanding in the midst of it, our certainty in the midst of it, and the simplicity of his love and character. It is interesting how each experience in life brings an array of knowledge and life, similar to a rainbow. In the hope, joy, truth, and life the question is still clear to me. Does God hear the cries of those in suffering and pain? The following are stories from my time in these places.

San Francisco, CA - Fall 2005

This man stood outside with the sun beating on his already burnt face. Sweat dripped down his face. Hunched over, his torn clothing hung on him like a clothing rack. He wore a soiled red button up shirt, and sweatpants that were half torn from the knee down. One foot was covered with a light brown shoe that appeared to be once white. The laces were untied.

On the other foot there was no shoe but an exposed foot to the atmosphere. Blood covered the right foot that was bent and barely touched the ground. Specks of dark brown appeared in four inch long increments, the depth of them covered by the blood that was part crusty and part fresh. Colors of brown, blue, and black ran up his leg in random yet formulated order. Where was it coming from?

He appeared to be a statue, with each slight move affecting his facial expression from pain to more pain. His left hand was held outward, mimicking a limp crane, and the sound of slow jingling of a few coins in a tattered cup cut the air.

The tourists and locals of this trendy area of San Francisco walked by. Some carried maps and looked intently at their maps and avoided eye contact. Others in business attire walked with prominence and weaved two feet away from the man while keeping a straight forward gaze. There was no response, except laughter from a mother and daughter that carried 4-5 Macy bags each, as they munched on their ice cream. How loud does one have to scream or not scream to get attention?

Oakland, CA -Spring 2006

The bike pounded down the steps from the second floor down in its usual sound getting ready for a new day, a new ride. The air was fresh, sunshine shone upon the street and my face. The scene changed abruptly as I turned the corner. Police cars covered the scene, intermixed to stop traffic. Do not cross lines were up, covering the overpass next to our block. Dogs barked, handfuls of people stood on their porches viewing the scene and response.

A week later the scene looked different. At the edge of the end of the overpass lay a memorial. A few tall candles stood burning, shaped around teddy bears placed strategically in the middle of the candles that formed a heart shape. The newspaper reported a woman who had been raped, killed, and kept in the assaulter's home for a few days.

It was reported that after a few days the smell became too much, which led the assaulter to wrap the woman's body in a blanket and dump her under the overpass. The overpass was a usual dump area to fridges, old cabinets, shoes, litter, feces, and broken glass. How could someone dump a person there? What was her life all about? Who was she?

In the many stories of life, both my own and in the lives of others who are friends, family, acquaintances, and strangers I observe. I observe and ask many questions, wondering about their motives, their lives, their dreams. I wonder if I see it in an incorrect way. I wonder if I see it in a way that honors God, dishonors him, honors me, or dishonors me.

How do you explain pain, injustice? Why does it hurt so bad to see others in such pain without an exact remedy at that moment? This is where I have to surrender, surrender to unknown questions, and pursue finding those in my own life, thus affecting my perspective to the pain and suffering around me and within me.

Sarah currently resides in an inner city community in West Philadelphia. She is attending Eastern University in St. Davids where she will be getting her Master of Arts in International Development this June. She enjoys exploring, learning, sewing, creating, dance, youth, writing, drawing, music, and painting.

Psalm 151: A Psalm for the Working Poor

Wed, 15 Oct 2008 00:00:00 GMT

Editor's Note: This modern psalm has been written to reflect the lives of the urban poor. It has been prepared as if it were appearing in a study Bible, complete with scholarly commentary. The reader will notice that footnotes have been added at some points to further clarify the meaning of the Psalmist. Article first appeared in Burnside Writer's Collective.

Come, magnify the Lord with me,

And Let us exalt His Name together.

I will bless the Lord every day, and His praise will always be in my mouth.

For He alone delivers. He alone hears my cry. He alone understands.

Preserve me, O God, because my enemies are everywhere.

They come into my neighborhood to crush me.

I borrow enough to pay the bills, but give up my own soul.

My debtors gang up to keep me down. "Fast cash" or "money now" becomes slow progress and exaggerated debt.

The tax collectors deceive and enslave me.

In an endless cycle, I cry out from the darkness,

I cannot escape on my own!

My children cry out, they hunger and thirst.

I look to you Lord, when their birthday is near, to provide just one Barbie, or Spiderman, or ball, or shirt.

My face is hidden from them. They sleep when I return from work; my bleary eyes watch over them as they slumber in blissful ignorance of the fragility of their world.

Deliver me from temptation, O Lord, for many dishonest and degrading means could put food into their mouths.

I slave all the day, serving more than one master , sacrificing my health and well-being for my family. I never see the sun, yet I do not make ends meet.

I am cursed and despised, accosted and lectured. I am called lazy and irresponsible.

How long, O God, will I suffer at the hands of the self-righteous?

Deliver me from false prophets who sneak into my camp at night.

They pretend to be wise and holy, but shame Your Name, O Lord.

They spread lies and manipulate your Word to make a god in their image.

Lost, all is lost! Now no man will employ me.

I am rejected and despised.

Worry and dread encroach upon me like I have never known.

I look to the Lord, who gives and takes away.

How long, O Lord?

Though I walk through alleys of shadowy death, I will fear no evil, for You are with me.
My Protector and my Shield. After dark You walk me home.

Where can I go and not find You?

When I rest in a warm apartment, you are there.

When I make my bed in the gutter, you are there.

When I choke on my tears and turn from my friends, then sell my body for a cheeseburger, even then Your hand can reach me.

Whenever I say, "I'm cold and it's dark. Tomorrow I die," You light dazzling street lamps and provide me a coat. Even in the darkness, you see me clearly.

Provider and Rock of my salvation,

I go to a homeless program conducted by Your people. Praise Your Holy Name!

There you open my eyes to teach me what it means to be in need.

When I, as a grown adult, am made to ask permission to cross the street with my daughter to buy a soda, I understand what poverty is all about.

When I drape my body across an uncomfortable couch in the midst of the sweltering heat of a church basement, I know what it means to be poor.

As the baby screams through the night, suffering from a bad diaper rash that no one has medication for, I weep alongside him for want.

I am cursed by my fellow resident, a woman in bitter withdrawal, only seven days clean from her addiction to heroin. Then I understand anew what it means to be poor and broken.

They enter in and preach at me, giving me the answers I am supposed to know.

"Pray harder," they say, "Dress nice, go to church."

They preach a happy, healthy, wealthy gospel and I laugh them to derision.

But, even then, You are there.

O God, my Provider, you bring me out of despair! No longer a wandering refugee, You make for me a house.

Section 8, in a better neighborhood, I rejoice! In the midst of my troubles, You make for me a shelter.

When the doorknob falls off in my hand, You make the way open before me.

When the refrigerator sputters and dies, spoiling my final meal, You make provisions for me to eat.

In those rooms where electricity fails, You light up the room by Your presence.

I huddle near the stove in the middle of long winter, and You warm my bones.

I cannot even flush my toilet without filling the tank by hand, but You comfort me.

Even the mice and cockroaches and ants and hornets fall prostrate before you in humble worship.

I can't always see You, but all of creation bows before You.

O Come, magnify the Lord with me,

And Let us exalt His Name together.

I will bless the Lord every day, and His praise will always be in my mouth.

For He alone delivers. He alone hears my cry. He alone understands.

If you liked this article, check out: Giving and Taking: God Loves the Poor

Jack is the Co-Director of an inner-city organization that reaches out to troubled youth. He is also one of the founding members of a Christian intentional living community in Springfield, OH.

Days of Significance: Embrace Uganda

Wed, 8 Oct 2008 00:00:00 GMT

During June of 2008, we returned to Uganda with a team of 45 people, many of them youth, to Kaihura in Western Uganda to work in our daughter's home village. We lived in the village, learned about the children's needs, carried the water with them, ate with them and shared their rooms.

Throughout, we wrote a blog where many of us had an opportunity to share their impressions. Jane's story, more about the work of Embrace Uganda , and our trip blog can be found at www.embraceuganda.org. The following is an excerpt, written a few weeks after coming home:

Since coming home from Uganda, I have struggled to figure out why I am here, in this place.

I think back and believe that one of the most important things that I have done, personally and professionally, this entire year, was to purchase, to load and to deliver mosquito nets to the children in Kaihura, on behalf of Embrace Uganda. I would like to go back to that local shopping district in Kampala and do it again and again, to provide nets for more and more children.

It made a significant difference, and it was mine to do.

No other amount of time or money was better spent this year. While working in the clinics in Uganda, I mostly saw children sick with malaria. It is the leading cause of illness in Kaihura and the single most common reason why children miss school due to illness. Prevention through nets is cheap and easy.

These days, here in the US, as a community pediatrician, I spend time having to convince families to vaccinate their children according to schedule against preventable diseases, and many argue and refuse.

I listen to teenagers who don't care about their education and scoff at their parents' efforts trying to encourage them to do well in school. I am asked to medicate them to help them do better in school. I am unable to say the things that need to be said about discipline and motivation without drawing fierce expressions of disapproval from frustrated parents. Meanwhile, these very children are overindulged with every amenity and gadget available to this culture, beginning at a very young age.

In Uganda, we saw children who are begging for help, holding our hands, or asking us in scribbled notes for financial help for them to be able to continue in school past seventh grade, to be able to learn a skill, or to go to college. Not having a pencil or a notebook can keep a primary school student out of school. The equivalent of an ipod can send a child to secondary school for a semester, including room and board.

I understand the principles upon which this, our, nation was founded. I realize I can say and write these things because of the freedom and the education granted to me in this country. But I wonder if we are not wasting our time and resources, if we cannot return to the next generation of this nation a sense of appreciation and gratefulness for the blessings that we have been given. Meanwhile, wouldn't we accomplish more giving to those who really want our help?

I am encouraged by the youth on our team to Uganda this past June, and by the support that we were able to receive to take resources with us to the children of Uganda. These are signs of hope, and some of these youth may go on to do world-changing things because of how they were impacted by what they saw in Africa.

Will I be able to find peace of mind simply by remaining here and continuing on in the way things were? Will I look back one day, knowing that I did the best to live a life full of days of significance? Did I make a difference?

"God grant me the serenity to accept the things I cannot change;
courage to change the things I can;
and wisdom to know the difference."

Often quoted, often true and important to remember; but often, we dwell on the things that we think we cannot change, having decided in our own "wisdom".

After Uganda, I believe that for many of us in this part of the world, that there are more things that we can change rather than things that we cannot change, and that it takes not only courage, but also willingness.

May we be good listeners, as God will continue to share His wisdom with us.

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Dirk is a general pediatrician in Wake Forest, NC. In 2007, he and his wife Paige, who already had four older children, adopted an eight year old girl from Uganda. Jane's story is an example of God's ability to take an impossible situation and to work modern day miracles to create something good. Since their return from Uganda, the Hamps have continued to help raise awareness and funds to help support orphans in Uganda. More information can be found at www.embraceuganda.org.