In my Global Christian Heritage class this quarter we've studied what's happened within the global church in the past century. This past week: feminist theology.
We read a book by Letty Russell called Household of Freedom. I didn't expect to like it. She made this really horrible analogy between authority and playing Monopoly that almost did me in. But I'm glad I kept reading, because I really learned a lot.
Russell is a feminist theologian, but she talks a lot about all sorts of un-privileged groups. I thought a lot about my friends at Juvie while I read.
One thing that stood out to me in particular was Russell's discussion of "working from the other end." Anyone who has been around me at all this quarter knows that I've been pretty obsessed with hope , so it wasn't surprising that I clung to Russell's argument here. She says this:
"Theological thought is not just logical analysis of things as we think they are. It is full of imaginative uses of language and insight that help us picture what God is about in the work of mending creation and invite us to join in the process." (Russell, p.67)
Basically, God has promised redemption for all creation. So instead of getting bogged down in the weight of terrible present circumstances, we can look to what has been promised for the future-- that Jesus is coming again for the full reconciliation of all things. This isn't an escapist attitude though, because the reconciliation process has already begun. Remembering God's promise for the full mending of creation should move us to action.
Russell writes, "Even if we cannot see the alternative future for which we work, by beginning from the other end of God's promise we are able to live with a hope that is strong enough to transform the present." (Russell, p.67)
Some days at detention I wonder how in the world some of these kids are going to get out of their messes. Their situations seem pretty hopeless. But I think I may be working from the wrong end. There's hope when we are mindful God's promises to restore, when we remember the future.
"God has invited us to join as partners in the work of cleansing the temple and rebuilding creation. Because of the memory of God's future, we continue to hope and to plan according to the utopian vision of the new household of freedom." (Russell, p.72)
1 Peter 1:3 tells us that we have "new birth into a living hope through the resurrection of Jesus Christ from the dead." The hope to which we're called is a living one. We have reason for it when we remember that Jesus came, died, and resurrected. God's reconciliation has already begun, and we've been invited to live into its full consummation. To me, this sounds like a much better starting point.
*Letty Russell, Household of Freedom (Philadelphia: Westminster Press, 1987).
Tuesday, June 8, 2010
Saturday, June 5, 2010
Up is down
We've talked a lot about the Kingdom of God this quarter, especially as we read through the Gospels in our New Testament class. I met a kid today (who we'll call James) that reminded me what the Kingdom is all about.
God's Kingdom is counter-intuitive. Perhaps it isn't intrinsically counter-intuitive, but counter-intuitive because of the way culture and society has shaped what we know to be intuition. Up is down in the Kingdom, and down is up. The Kingdom belongs to the poor while Jesus bids woe to the rich. The hungry are filled and the filled are hungry. It's those who weep, those who are meek, those who make peace that are called blessed.
There's a unique life that we find among those that society considers least. I find that, more often than not, I receive a lot more than I give in my time at juvie. Sure, there is sacrifice involved from my end, but I never feel like it's in vain. After all, God has chosen the weak and foolish things of the world to shame that which is strong and wise. Jesus tells us that a blessing resides among the weak and the lowly. I don't think that's my blessing to own, but I think I can share in that blessing by knowing the weak and lowly.
James seemed to understand the Kingdom, and he also seemed to embody its ideals in a way.
James shared with me about his hopes and dreams-- things like spending time in all 50 states and cleaning up his life. James told me that he believes he was made in God's image and that God sees that image when He looks at him. He asked me my opinion on issues like immigration laws and how to interpret the creation account in Genesis. He told me that he wants to adopt kids, cherish them, and give them great names because he wants to look up to them. (All I could think while he said this were Jesus' words in Mark 10:15: "Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all.") James is smart, funny, and full of life-- even with all his pain and all his mistakes. James understands the Kingdom in a beautiful way.
I'm in the midst of finals, and today seemed like a sensible time to forego my Saturday chaplaincy visits. I'm glad I didn't. I left feeling so refreshed and filled with life after meeting with James, because, really, Jesus met me there too. And in that meeting, he let me share the blessing reserved for the least of these. It doesn't make sense, but I'm finding that the way of the Kingdom rarely does.
God's Kingdom is counter-intuitive. Perhaps it isn't intrinsically counter-intuitive, but counter-intuitive because of the way culture and society has shaped what we know to be intuition. Up is down in the Kingdom, and down is up. The Kingdom belongs to the poor while Jesus bids woe to the rich. The hungry are filled and the filled are hungry. It's those who weep, those who are meek, those who make peace that are called blessed.
There's a unique life that we find among those that society considers least. I find that, more often than not, I receive a lot more than I give in my time at juvie. Sure, there is sacrifice involved from my end, but I never feel like it's in vain. After all, God has chosen the weak and foolish things of the world to shame that which is strong and wise. Jesus tells us that a blessing resides among the weak and the lowly. I don't think that's my blessing to own, but I think I can share in that blessing by knowing the weak and lowly.
James seemed to understand the Kingdom, and he also seemed to embody its ideals in a way.
James shared with me about his hopes and dreams-- things like spending time in all 50 states and cleaning up his life. James told me that he believes he was made in God's image and that God sees that image when He looks at him. He asked me my opinion on issues like immigration laws and how to interpret the creation account in Genesis. He told me that he wants to adopt kids, cherish them, and give them great names because he wants to look up to them. (All I could think while he said this were Jesus' words in Mark 10:15: "Truly I say to you, whoever does not receive the kingdom of God like a child will not enter it at all.") James is smart, funny, and full of life-- even with all his pain and all his mistakes. James understands the Kingdom in a beautiful way.
I'm in the midst of finals, and today seemed like a sensible time to forego my Saturday chaplaincy visits. I'm glad I didn't. I left feeling so refreshed and filled with life after meeting with James, because, really, Jesus met me there too. And in that meeting, he let me share the blessing reserved for the least of these. It doesn't make sense, but I'm finding that the way of the Kingdom rarely does.
Sunday, May 30, 2010
Why?
Sometimes they ask me, "Why do you come here?"
I never know quite how to answer. It's a pretty loaded question, really.
For one, God tells me to go there.
We recently studied James in my New Testament class. I want to embrace everything James says, because I think it's so beautiful and so life-giving. But I also want to run, because I realize that my life will never measure up to the standard to which we've been called. I've committed to try and embrace it though. I certainly do it clumsily most days, but I'm at least learning to show up.
"What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works?" James 2:14
But more than going there in order to be obedient, I go because I think there is life for both me and the kids I meet.
"Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom that he has promised to those who love him?" James 2:5
I think a blessing resides among those that the world considers least, so I go in hopes that those kids and I can both experience Life. I think we have a lot to learn from one another. I trust that God uses me in their lives, and I know that God uses them in mine.
My answer to their question is different every time, but it always rooted in my conviction that God loves us fiercely.
Some days I, too, wonder why I go. But every time I leave I remember that beyond all the brokenness, it's a beautiful place, a place full of Hope.
I never know quite how to answer. It's a pretty loaded question, really.
For one, God tells me to go there.
We recently studied James in my New Testament class. I want to embrace everything James says, because I think it's so beautiful and so life-giving. But I also want to run, because I realize that my life will never measure up to the standard to which we've been called. I've committed to try and embrace it though. I certainly do it clumsily most days, but I'm at least learning to show up.
"What good is it, my brothers and sisters, if you say you have faith but do not have works?" James 2:14
But more than going there in order to be obedient, I go because I think there is life for both me and the kids I meet.
"Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the kingdom that he has promised to those who love him?" James 2:5
I think a blessing resides among those that the world considers least, so I go in hopes that those kids and I can both experience Life. I think we have a lot to learn from one another. I trust that God uses me in their lives, and I know that God uses them in mine.
My answer to their question is different every time, but it always rooted in my conviction that God loves us fiercely.
Some days I, too, wonder why I go. But every time I leave I remember that beyond all the brokenness, it's a beautiful place, a place full of Hope.
Wednesday, May 26, 2010
Stephen...
He asked me if I thought God cared about drugs-- and the fact that he uses and deals them.
I told him yes.
My point wasn't to put Stephen on a guilt trip or to convince him that his behavior was sinful. Stephen knew what he was doing was wrong; I could tell from the conversation that led into his question.
I told him yes, because I think Stephen needed to know that God cares. period. Yes, God cares about that. Why? Because God cares.
So we talked about it. We talked about God having an opinion about our decisions, not so that God can punish us when we make a wrong one, but because God wants us to be whole. We talked about how God doesn't set us up to fail, that God isn't sitting back waiting to see if we're going to make the right decision.
Instead, God gives us the Holy Spirit. God cares about our decisions, and God also guides us in our decisions. God doesn't want His children to do things that leave them broken. God wants us to be whole, and that's why God doesn't leave us to ourselves. The Spirit is with us as we live so that we don't have to be terrified at every turn that we may make some move that is out of God's will. We don't have to guess. We can trust who God is.
By this point in the conversation, we weren't talking about Stephen anymore. We were talking about me. Stephen may not have known it, but that's what was happening. I've been trying to sort through a fairly big decision lately, and I keep having to fight the idea that God has stepped back to wait and see if I'm going to screw it all up. God keeps telling me to trust. I needed that conversation with Stephen to remember who God is.
It's funny how often God ministers to me through my conversations there. God meets me at detention. And I think He wants to meet me everywhere else too.
I told him yes.
My point wasn't to put Stephen on a guilt trip or to convince him that his behavior was sinful. Stephen knew what he was doing was wrong; I could tell from the conversation that led into his question.
I told him yes, because I think Stephen needed to know that God cares. period. Yes, God cares about that. Why? Because God cares.
So we talked about it. We talked about God having an opinion about our decisions, not so that God can punish us when we make a wrong one, but because God wants us to be whole. We talked about how God doesn't set us up to fail, that God isn't sitting back waiting to see if we're going to make the right decision.
Instead, God gives us the Holy Spirit. God cares about our decisions, and God also guides us in our decisions. God doesn't want His children to do things that leave them broken. God wants us to be whole, and that's why God doesn't leave us to ourselves. The Spirit is with us as we live so that we don't have to be terrified at every turn that we may make some move that is out of God's will. We don't have to guess. We can trust who God is.
By this point in the conversation, we weren't talking about Stephen anymore. We were talking about me. Stephen may not have known it, but that's what was happening. I've been trying to sort through a fairly big decision lately, and I keep having to fight the idea that God has stepped back to wait and see if I'm going to screw it all up. God keeps telling me to trust. I needed that conversation with Stephen to remember who God is.
It's funny how often God ministers to me through my conversations there. God meets me at detention. And I think He wants to meet me everywhere else too.
Saturday, May 22, 2010
Hearing problems
Sometimes my meetings with kids at detention are really intense. I've heard a lot of stories that seem unreal. They're full of things that are only supposed to happen in movies-- drug trafficking, prostitution, abuse, gang violence, rape. Some kids are on the receiving end; some are the perpetrators.
I'll meet with a kid whose story nearly paralyzes me. All the words he speaks-- or perhaps whispers-- scream, "Broken!" Yet sometimes, I think "failure" and "deadbeat" are the only words some of us hear.
A young man recently told me about the judges he's faced for his court cases over the years as he has spent most of his adolescence in and out of the system. He explained that many of the judges don't treat him like a human being, but like an animal. One judge told him that dogs have more sense of the world than he does.
This kid's story screamed "broken" but that judge misheard it as "hopeless."
I don't say this to pigeonhole the judge as the "bad guy." That would be ignorant and hypocritical, because I think we're all like judge in this story at least part of the time. I'm also not defending the crimes that this child committed. I'm not concerned with pegging who's the good guy and who's the bad guy in the stories we hear. I'm concerned with how we hear the stories and how we receive the people involved in them.
I think it would behoove us all to train our ears to hear "broken." Hearing "failure" doesn't move us forward, but instead, it robs us of hope.
We try to hear "broken," because we realize that we're all broken-- you, me, the kids I meet, the judges they face... all broken.
We try to hear "broken," because we know the great Fixer and believe that He is One who is mighty and faithful to un-break.
I'll meet with a kid whose story nearly paralyzes me. All the words he speaks-- or perhaps whispers-- scream, "Broken!" Yet sometimes, I think "failure" and "deadbeat" are the only words some of us hear.
A young man recently told me about the judges he's faced for his court cases over the years as he has spent most of his adolescence in and out of the system. He explained that many of the judges don't treat him like a human being, but like an animal. One judge told him that dogs have more sense of the world than he does.
This kid's story screamed "broken" but that judge misheard it as "hopeless."
I don't say this to pigeonhole the judge as the "bad guy." That would be ignorant and hypocritical, because I think we're all like judge in this story at least part of the time. I'm also not defending the crimes that this child committed. I'm not concerned with pegging who's the good guy and who's the bad guy in the stories we hear. I'm concerned with how we hear the stories and how we receive the people involved in them.
I think it would behoove us all to train our ears to hear "broken." Hearing "failure" doesn't move us forward, but instead, it robs us of hope.
We try to hear "broken," because we realize that we're all broken-- you, me, the kids I meet, the judges they face... all broken.
We try to hear "broken," because we know the great Fixer and believe that He is One who is mighty and faithful to un-break.
Friday, May 14, 2010
Hope
"Hope does not disappoint us, because God's love has been poured into our hearts through the Holy Spirit that has been given to us." Romans 5:5
I've been thinking a lot about hope lately, especially in light of my experiences at Juvie. I've been wondering what hope is and how we live it out in the midst of seemingly hopeless situations. In my theology/ethics class this quarter we've been reading Avery Dulles' Models of the Church. I've found myself exceptionally drawn to the model of the Church as sacrament, and I think it has many implications for the way in which we conceptualize hope.
If we understand a sacrament to be a visible sign of God's invisible grace, and if we are viewing the Church as a sacrament, then the Church is acting as a sign for God's Kingdom.
But it's not an empty sign. And, really, I'm not sure that an empty sign is any sign at all. Without some sort of actual, ongoing presence, how is the Church any different from the rest of the world? What would possibly beckon others to join this body if all we do is long for something in a day to come? A sign, in the way that I am presenting it, is not only pointing to something but is also embodying that "something" to a certain degree.
In the words of Dulles, "[The Church] is more than a sign. It betokens the actual presence, in a hidden way, of that to which it points" (Dulles, p.120). The Church is distanced from the fully-consummated Kingdom of God, but it embraces the mysterious presence of the Kingdom too.
Isn't this what hope is? Not just a wandering desire for something better, but a yearning that is rooted in faith and living into the desires for which our hearts were created. I can wish for something all day long, but we can't really name that "hope" without some real reason for those desires. Frankly, it seems absurd to to trust that one day things might be different without some sort of reassuring promise and reality of the difference.
The fact of the matter is, Jesus came and everything is different because of it. Certainly, we can see that the world is still a broken place, full of broken people. We still need reconciliation. Our very lives are obvious cries that we want something more from this life. Yet, I think we have experienced what that "something more" is to an extent; perhaps that is why the ache for it is so overwhelming at times. We have known the redemptive work of Christ in our lives, and that is why we hope for the culmination of God's Kingdom. The church is not merely a sign that proclaims redemption for someday, but I believe it is a place of actual presence that invites us to the beauty of God's Kingdom for both today and that someday.
And this is where my friends in juvenile detention come in....
If we trust that the Church is a sacrament, extended in time and space, we offer hope for all people of all time. We have a basis for hope. We have a reason to hope. We remember that we've tasted the goodness of God's Kingdom, that the taste is sweeter than any other, and that we want more of it!
Wishing that these kids had had a better childhood or that they hadn't made the dumb decisions that got them there isn't really hope; that's just unrealistic wishful thinking. Those thoughts appease for a moment, but they leave us wanting something of which there is no reality, no experience, no promise. Those thoughts are truly hope-less.
Instead, we have the opportunity to enter into a hope that is... well... hopeful. We can believe that there is more for our friends on the margins, because we've experienced some of that "more" already. We, as God's people, have the unique opportunity to be a sign and an embodiment, and to me, that sounds about as hopeful as anything.
* Avery Dulles, Models of the Church (Garden City: Image Books, 1978).
I've been thinking a lot about hope lately, especially in light of my experiences at Juvie. I've been wondering what hope is and how we live it out in the midst of seemingly hopeless situations. In my theology/ethics class this quarter we've been reading Avery Dulles' Models of the Church. I've found myself exceptionally drawn to the model of the Church as sacrament, and I think it has many implications for the way in which we conceptualize hope.
If we understand a sacrament to be a visible sign of God's invisible grace, and if we are viewing the Church as a sacrament, then the Church is acting as a sign for God's Kingdom.
But it's not an empty sign. And, really, I'm not sure that an empty sign is any sign at all. Without some sort of actual, ongoing presence, how is the Church any different from the rest of the world? What would possibly beckon others to join this body if all we do is long for something in a day to come? A sign, in the way that I am presenting it, is not only pointing to something but is also embodying that "something" to a certain degree.
In the words of Dulles, "[The Church] is more than a sign. It betokens the actual presence, in a hidden way, of that to which it points" (Dulles, p.120). The Church is distanced from the fully-consummated Kingdom of God, but it embraces the mysterious presence of the Kingdom too.
Isn't this what hope is? Not just a wandering desire for something better, but a yearning that is rooted in faith and living into the desires for which our hearts were created. I can wish for something all day long, but we can't really name that "hope" without some real reason for those desires. Frankly, it seems absurd to to trust that one day things might be different without some sort of reassuring promise and reality of the difference.
The fact of the matter is, Jesus came and everything is different because of it. Certainly, we can see that the world is still a broken place, full of broken people. We still need reconciliation. Our very lives are obvious cries that we want something more from this life. Yet, I think we have experienced what that "something more" is to an extent; perhaps that is why the ache for it is so overwhelming at times. We have known the redemptive work of Christ in our lives, and that is why we hope for the culmination of God's Kingdom. The church is not merely a sign that proclaims redemption for someday, but I believe it is a place of actual presence that invites us to the beauty of God's Kingdom for both today and that someday.
And this is where my friends in juvenile detention come in....
If we trust that the Church is a sacrament, extended in time and space, we offer hope for all people of all time. We have a basis for hope. We have a reason to hope. We remember that we've tasted the goodness of God's Kingdom, that the taste is sweeter than any other, and that we want more of it!
Wishing that these kids had had a better childhood or that they hadn't made the dumb decisions that got them there isn't really hope; that's just unrealistic wishful thinking. Those thoughts appease for a moment, but they leave us wanting something of which there is no reality, no experience, no promise. Those thoughts are truly hope-less.
Instead, we have the opportunity to enter into a hope that is... well... hopeful. We can believe that there is more for our friends on the margins, because we've experienced some of that "more" already. We, as God's people, have the unique opportunity to be a sign and an embodiment, and to me, that sounds about as hopeful as anything.
* Avery Dulles, Models of the Church (Garden City: Image Books, 1978).
Thursday, May 6, 2010
Ben
I met a kid tutoring today that I had never seen before. Let's call him Ben.
Ben was pretty young, and it was obvious that he wanted to prove himself cool to the older guys. He was probably the most disrespectful kid I've met at juvie. He cursed, he made snide remarks, he mimicked me. Truth be told, I probably should have had him sent back to his room, but for some reason I didn't.
Ben was driving me crazy. All I could think was, This kid is such a punk. I can’t wait for him to leave.
Then, out of nowhere, Ben started telling us why he was still in detention. He chose to stick around for a few extra days because he would rather go to a group home than live with his father.
Wow.
All the sudden Ben had let me see a sliver of his life, and it was a painful one. I began to wonder, maybe when Ben keeps saying, "I fucking hate this shit," he isn't just talking about math.
I was moved to compassion in light of the realization. I hurt for this child who obviously carried a heavy load of pain. It now made sense to me why he acted the way he did.
But I can’t end my thoughts here (although I wish I could). After that moment passed, I continued to find myself beyond frustrated with Ben. I still drifted to objectifying opinions that painted him as nothing more than an ungrateful criminal in my mind. Then I would remember that unveiling moment in which I saw Ben as a broken child of God in desperate need of love.
I would say that my whole interaction with Ben today was one that teetered between these two extremes. I would get frustrated… and then I would remember the piece of Ben's story that broke my heart. I went back and forth, back and forth, for the whole period.
I don't know how to make sense of it...
How do we stop the see-saws in our minds?
How can we be steady with people?
What does it even mean to be steady?
How do we remember people's stories while they infuriate us?
How do we learn to care about people's stories at all?
I'm reminded of a quote:
"There isn't anyone you couldn't love after you've heard their story." -- Mary Lou Kownacki
I want to believe this is true. I think it is true, but we must choose it.
Wednesday, April 28, 2010
Adam
I met with a kid during chaplaincy visits a couple weeks ago who we'll call Adam. Mine and Adam's time together started off as most of my visits do. We talked for a bit. He shared some of his frustrations and explained why he hated being locked up so much. Adam had a lot of anger, not towards me, but just a lot of anger in general. He was angry about the way people treat him and their lack of accountability for it. Adam recognized double-standards in a unique way, and it was infuriating for him.
When our conversation ended I asked Adam if he wanted me to pray with him. He said yes, so I did. When I finished I was about to stand up and walk him back to his room, but he wasn't standing up yet. Then he asked, "Your name's Jessica, right?"
Then something happened that has never happened before in my meetings with kids there: Adam started praying for me.
He asked God to be with me and to keep me safe.
He prayed for my family and my loved ones.
He prayed that God would help both of us make the right decisions in life.
He asked God to help me keep coming back there to talk with kids.
There's no way that Adam could have known how profound his prayer for me was-- especially the last part. Even though I love my time at Juvenile, it's terrifying for me. I'm not afraid of the kids there, but I'm afraid of so many other things. It's intimidating to interact with the guards. It's scary to have no idea what sort of things I'm going to hear when I walk in. It's unnerving to realize the responsibility I have to hold the stories of broken kids in a loving, faithful way.
Adam ministered to me that day. He gave me a gift that I didn't even realize I needed. It's easy for me to remember that these kids need my prayers, but sometimes it's hard to remember that I need theirs.
Thanks, Adam.
When our conversation ended I asked Adam if he wanted me to pray with him. He said yes, so I did. When I finished I was about to stand up and walk him back to his room, but he wasn't standing up yet. Then he asked, "Your name's Jessica, right?"
Then something happened that has never happened before in my meetings with kids there: Adam started praying for me.
He asked God to be with me and to keep me safe.
He prayed for my family and my loved ones.
He prayed that God would help both of us make the right decisions in life.
He asked God to help me keep coming back there to talk with kids.
There's no way that Adam could have known how profound his prayer for me was-- especially the last part. Even though I love my time at Juvenile, it's terrifying for me. I'm not afraid of the kids there, but I'm afraid of so many other things. It's intimidating to interact with the guards. It's scary to have no idea what sort of things I'm going to hear when I walk in. It's unnerving to realize the responsibility I have to hold the stories of broken kids in a loving, faithful way.
Adam ministered to me that day. He gave me a gift that I didn't even realize I needed. It's easy for me to remember that these kids need my prayers, but sometimes it's hard to remember that I need theirs.
Thanks, Adam.
Thursday, April 22, 2010
The responsibility of knowing
When I was in elementary school I was so eager to hear secrets. I wanted to know which boy my friend Jessie liked, and I wanted to know why Erica ignored Rachel on the playground that day. I didn't have a reason to know any of it; I just wanted to know.
I'm finding that the older I get, the more intense those "secrets" become... and the less eager I am to know certain things. I love learning, whether it be theology or the stories of people's lives, but I'm more hesitant to invite knowledge than I once was.
Why? Because there's a responsibility that comes with knowledge and exposure. Certainly we are called to inform ourselves about the hurts of the world. In fact, I think it's sinful for us to choose ignorance. But I think we have to be careful about the knowledge we invite and consider whether or not we're willing to thoughtfully respond to it.
So I'm left wondering, how am I to be responsible with the stories kids share with me?
I can't necessarily walk through their journeys with them; I am forbidden to have any initiated contact with kids once they're released from detention. I can certainly meet with them while they're being held, but I might see a kid only one time before he is released or moved. Usually though, it only takes one meeting to hear a multitude of unimaginable stories marked by hurt and brokenness. I know that I'm called to sit with kids in their pain for the hour we meet, but I think there's more to do. I think I'm supposed to intercede for these kids.
I can look back on my life and see so many times that the Spirit has worked in and through my prayers for people. God has recently begun revealing to me that intercession is not meant to be a great thing I take part in here and there, but rather, God has called me to a life of intercession. This is one of my gifts. When I take the time to listen, the Spirit leads me to pray about things-- weird things a lot of the time, things that make me wonder, Why am I praying this?
It's not my job to fix, but God has invited me, by way of the Holy Spirit, to participate in the reconciliation of all things through Christ. Even if it's just in those few moments of listening and interceding, that's how I participate in God's restoration of these kids' lives, and that's what I'm called to do in order to be faithful with my knowledge. I trust that it's enough too, because after all, Jesus is the One that saves... not me.
I'm finding that the older I get, the more intense those "secrets" become... and the less eager I am to know certain things. I love learning, whether it be theology or the stories of people's lives, but I'm more hesitant to invite knowledge than I once was.
Why? Because there's a responsibility that comes with knowledge and exposure. Certainly we are called to inform ourselves about the hurts of the world. In fact, I think it's sinful for us to choose ignorance. But I think we have to be careful about the knowledge we invite and consider whether or not we're willing to thoughtfully respond to it.
So I'm left wondering, how am I to be responsible with the stories kids share with me?
I can't necessarily walk through their journeys with them; I am forbidden to have any initiated contact with kids once they're released from detention. I can certainly meet with them while they're being held, but I might see a kid only one time before he is released or moved. Usually though, it only takes one meeting to hear a multitude of unimaginable stories marked by hurt and brokenness. I know that I'm called to sit with kids in their pain for the hour we meet, but I think there's more to do. I think I'm supposed to intercede for these kids.
I can look back on my life and see so many times that the Spirit has worked in and through my prayers for people. God has recently begun revealing to me that intercession is not meant to be a great thing I take part in here and there, but rather, God has called me to a life of intercession. This is one of my gifts. When I take the time to listen, the Spirit leads me to pray about things-- weird things a lot of the time, things that make me wonder, Why am I praying this?
It's not my job to fix, but God has invited me, by way of the Holy Spirit, to participate in the reconciliation of all things through Christ. Even if it's just in those few moments of listening and interceding, that's how I participate in God's restoration of these kids' lives, and that's what I'm called to do in order to be faithful with my knowledge. I trust that it's enough too, because after all, Jesus is the One that saves... not me.
Saturday, April 17, 2010
Introduction
"The Spirit of the Lord is upon me... He has sent me to proclaim freedom to the captives."
- Jesus of Nazareth
Welcome to "Freedom for the Captives."
I am a theology graduate student, and I have a growing burden for those that society considers least. Over the past few months, I have been volunteering as a tutor and chaplain at a local juvenile detention center, and I've decided to start writing about my experiences there.
This blog is part of an assignment that requires the integration of my coursework with practical application. This blog is a reflection of my time volunteering with youths who are spending days, weeks, months, and even years in detention. More than anything though, this blog is a cry of my heart as I seek to share the sorrows and joys of children who find themselves broken.
I went back and forth about what to call this blog. "Captives" is a strong word and one that seems to imply innocence. Can we really call these kids captives? Most of them aren't being wrongly held. Most of them are guilty of the crimes that put them there, and most of them need to be in detention. That doesn't mean that these kids aren't captive though. They are captive to addiction. To broken families. To violence. To pain. To generational sin. To corrupt social systems. They're captive, and they need the freedom that Jesus is offering.
I need that freedom too. I need freedom to realize that we're all in need of God's grace. To know that there is a unique blessing among the poor and oppressed. To share life with someone who isn't like me. But also to come to terms with just how alike we are.
I think they and I both find some of that freedom by sharing our lives with each other.
I'm learning how to hope, and this blog is part of that...
I hope that I can carefully and thoughtfully enter into the lives of the kids I meet.
I hope that I can be humble enough to learn from them.
I hope that this blog is a way for others to see the humanity of these kids.
I hope that we can learn to define people by the image they bear, not the mistakes they've made.
I hope that we can all be moved to participate in the reconciling work of our Triune God.
I hope that we can learn to hope.
So that's what this blog is. I'll certainly do this clumsily, but I think it's going to be worthwhile nonetheless. Thanks for joining me!
- Jesus of Nazareth
Welcome to "Freedom for the Captives."
I am a theology graduate student, and I have a growing burden for those that society considers least. Over the past few months, I have been volunteering as a tutor and chaplain at a local juvenile detention center, and I've decided to start writing about my experiences there.
This blog is part of an assignment that requires the integration of my coursework with practical application. This blog is a reflection of my time volunteering with youths who are spending days, weeks, months, and even years in detention. More than anything though, this blog is a cry of my heart as I seek to share the sorrows and joys of children who find themselves broken.
I went back and forth about what to call this blog. "Captives" is a strong word and one that seems to imply innocence. Can we really call these kids captives? Most of them aren't being wrongly held. Most of them are guilty of the crimes that put them there, and most of them need to be in detention. That doesn't mean that these kids aren't captive though. They are captive to addiction. To broken families. To violence. To pain. To generational sin. To corrupt social systems. They're captive, and they need the freedom that Jesus is offering.
I need that freedom too. I need freedom to realize that we're all in need of God's grace. To know that there is a unique blessing among the poor and oppressed. To share life with someone who isn't like me. But also to come to terms with just how alike we are.
I think they and I both find some of that freedom by sharing our lives with each other.
I'm learning how to hope, and this blog is part of that...
I hope that I can carefully and thoughtfully enter into the lives of the kids I meet.
I hope that I can be humble enough to learn from them.
I hope that this blog is a way for others to see the humanity of these kids.
I hope that we can learn to define people by the image they bear, not the mistakes they've made.
I hope that we can all be moved to participate in the reconciling work of our Triune God.
I hope that we can learn to hope.
So that's what this blog is. I'll certainly do this clumsily, but I think it's going to be worthwhile nonetheless. Thanks for joining me!
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