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.

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.

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.

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).

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.