Heretics,
creative thinkers,
innovators,
seem to appear just when we need them,
despite the high cost of living in opposition.
They do so because they can’t help themselves.
Having seen a brighter light ahead of them,
they are not willing to walk back in the shadows.
Some inner force compels them forward
with a power greater than their fear
of the hostility that awaits them.
That force is God.
+ John Sloat
I was nineteen.
It was one of those ridiculous opportunities for friends to visit a friend studying in Florence for the semester, so we had to take it. My sophomore year of college, I skipped some classes and hopped on a plane (for $444 round-trip) with two friends to visit and see Italy for a whirlwind week. I had no idea how important the things I would see would be, I had no idea how important the place itself was, and I had no idea how absurd it is to live so luxuriously as a teenager…hopping off to Italy.
My first trans-atlantic flight, through Paris, and finally touching down in Rome.
It was a little after lunch time, and we hit the train station connected to Rome’s airport. I was first in line, and I bought the ticket I thought I needed to board the train I thought I wanted to ride to Florence where we would meet up with our buddy.
For whatever reason, I had a book on the journey by Sabrina Ward Harrison that had a page with the following lines ascribed to Walt Whitman: “These days must happen to us.”
[INSERT PIC IF YOU CAN FIND IT)…(I can’t find it. I will continue looking.)
We discovered, after I had already bought the ticket of course, that my ticket was different from my two other fellow travelers, although all were headed to Florence. That’s about all the info we knew, so I asked one stranger what train my ticket was for (I think that’s what I asked because I pointed at my ticket, and then raised both hands palms up thumbs in and raised my eyebrows). He pointed, and I got on a train that said “Florence.”
Should have been safe enough. Alone. 19 years old. First time in Europe. No phone, no language, no numbers, nothing but cash and passport and luggage and ignorance.
It was entirely made of metal. The bench, the ceiling, the panes of the windows, the poles down the middle of the cars to hold onto if it was packed. It was also almost completely empty. I sat down right inside the door of the car I had entered, and pulled out my journal.
(For the record, I just went through three bookshelves in the house and found the journal, photos included below. That is also where I found the train ticket at the top of this post.)
I started drawing the signs of towns that we were stopping in, because the train never seemed to make it to Florence. I learned once I finally arrived that my other two friends got on their train an hour after me in Rome, and arrived an hour earlier in Florence. I had paid for a a ticket on the deluxe train, but boarded the cheapest, slowest, most-stopping train between Rome and Florence. But I was on it, and we had left the station already when that knowledge was given me.
I learned that I had made some mistake when the man in uniform on the train came in, asked to see my ticket, then asked again in English, then looked at my ticket, and then started pointing (at what I think was where the direction of the station in Rome) and back at my ticket. Yelling.
Alone. 19 years old. First time n Europe. No phone, no numbers, no language, nothing but cash and a passport and luggage and ignorant innocence.
About ten seconds in to the man yelling, another passenger from across the isle stood up, walked to the man in uniform, pointed at the ticket, pointed at me, pointed at the man in uniform, pointed at me again, all the while yelling at the man in uniform.
My ticket was punched, thrown back at me, and the uniform left.
The other passenger, who had been having the conversation in Italian, looked at me and said, “Don’t worry about it. We will get there, and you paid more than this train is worth, so he’ll be fine.”
“Thank you,” I said, where the tone of the sentence lands somewhere between a question mark and a period.
“It’s nothing.”
+++
Ten years later, I struggle often as a Social Worker with what language to use about voices, and dignity, and those on the margins. As a middle class, white male who is a Christian, is my responsibility to “give voice to those who don’t have a voice” or “be the voice” for someone? I’ve wrestled this terminology not for being of being politically incorrect, but for concern over the paternalism in all those phrases.
In both therapy and community work, I find myself often in the role of advocate, but I still struggle over what that actually means, what I am actually doing, and whether it is the best thing to do that causes the least potential harm. How to help, how to view the scenario, and how to speak about it in ways that push dignity and justice.
+++
For whatever reason, tonight, thinking about that trip to Italy and remembering my train ride, nineteen years old, alone, money and passport, ignorance and innocence; I was in someone else’s world, and someone who knew the language of the world I was in spoke up for me, defended me, and stood––quite literally––between me and the opponent. The fault was mine, the inability to communicate was mine, the problem was mine, but a stranger stood up, stepped in, and made peace.
There are times when my clients, my friends, families in my community are in “my world” where I know the language and know the games, and I step in on their behalf’s. There are times in return where the world is theirs, and they are my only hope. Reciprocity is inherent, and a beautiful thing. And it’s all helping me better think about people and advocacy and helping and voices.
+++
“It’s nothing.” He said as he went back to his seat.
djordan
Pine Tree
Some days we open our eyes
I was sitting with a good friend a few nights ago over a last minute dinner. We’d made jokes already about who was late (me, as always) and about what it was going to cost me (dinner, even though it never does).
At some point in the meal, after we’d been laughing and harassing and deciding all kinds of things, I realized that we had grown very quiet. But it’s the kind of realizing that it’s gotten quiet after it’s been quiet a while and yet I hadn’t realized no one was talking.
(There’s the other kind of silence, you know, when all parties are dying to speak but no one can think of a thing to say, either because they are bored senseless or the moment has grown too thick for words. This night was neither of those kinds of silences.)
I looked up at my buddy and knew in that moment that the last year for both of us––although in very different ways––had been both hellish and life-giving. We had endured all kinds of things, and moved unsurely but necessarily to the other side of what was lost, and began looking toward what will be found.
We are both still looking, of course, as everyone who is telling the truth about anything at all will admit that he is still looking for what will be found.
But in that moment when I realized no one was talking, but all was well, I realized how much I appreciate this kind of silence. It’s a kind of silence that is no longer pregnant with impending misery and loss and sadness, but has been there when misery and loss and sadness have been there. It’s a kind of silence that is no longer awkward and wishing for words, but has pushed through to where nothing needs to be said, and nothing else has to be made known. It’s a kind of silence that speaks to the fact that while there’s not much to talk about, that means there’s not much to talk about––which means that of all the things the space between me and my buddy has had to hold onto and make sense of, tonight it need only make sense of good food and good laughter and good memories of time when we have carried heavy silences together.
It’s a loudness of silence that makes me thankful for the last year. A year that looked like the end of all things, but ended up being the beginning of all things new.
New hopes for what God is doing through his church in the world.
New hopes for what God is doing through his people in their
businesses, offices, homes, churches, classrooms, streets, neighborhoods, banks, schools,
New hopes while though we feel unsure, unable, unwilling, unfeeling, unhelpful
a year later
after trying
praying
listening
pretending
we still feel, above all, most hopeful.
Most hopeful about the future.
Most hopeful about the stories that will be told about the past.
Most hopeful about what God is doing in the world.
Most hopeful about how God will bring his church to life to join him.
Most hopeful for the way the stories of pain and sadness will resolve.
Most hopeful about the way the stories of excitement and anticipation will continue.
Most hopeful about the coming of God’s great kingdom.
Here’s to one year of mosthopeful.com, and all that has it represents of things lost, learned, and loved.
We cannot walk alone.
djordan
Pine Tree Dr.
CLICK HERE TO SEE THE FIRST POST ON WWW.MOSTHOPEFUL.COM, posted one year ago today.
RELATED POSTS
On John 11
When There’s Nothing Else to Do
I remember it pretty well, actually. About four years ago I think it was.
It was some kind of all-of-a-sudden party that the college folks from my Sunday night small group were getting me used to all over again. It started with “Can I come over and study?” and ended with us all sitting in different rooms of the house, laptops open, seeing how many video skype conversations we could have going at one time.
Of course, after three or four the sounds starting echoing and whistling, my internet started gasping, and we had to shut the whole operation down.
I think, often on Sunday nights, about those guys, and all the other people they brought into my world. I think about where they are now, what they are doing, and how they are seeing and joining in signs of the kingdom all over the world these days.
Gentlemen: Ben, Quick, Coop, PeterB, Toddley, Ryan, Noah, Corey, Andrew, Bradley, Scotty Scott, Matt, Dennis, Dan, Devin, Ross…you fill me with pride.
It occurs to me this evening, actually being forced to talk to one of you via Skype because the distance has grown much greater than den to kitchen, that I would love to have you all sitting on the couch laughing, arguing, talking, praying, learning, hoping and skyping with your laptops in your hands.
But alas, the world is waiting for kingdom come, and you are those who bring it.
Gentlemen, you make me proud. Always.
djordan
Pine Tree
I feel an increasing struggle as to what it means to be who we have each been called to be, but only in the context of a grander story, the story of the world, and even bigger than that, the story of God and what he has been all along and is now doing in the world.
It’s a struggle worth increasing struggle.
In London’s closing ceremony, all the pieces made the whole. All the pieces, faces, names, styles, dances, artists made a fascinating whole. They, with the opening ceremonies, told a story of the global mark made by individuals, groups, artists, authors, doctors, and stories. There were videos, moving sculptures, light shows…each only briefly, artistically, dramatically and perfectly making their entrance, momentary dance, and exit from the stage.
In sharp contrast to the awe-inspiring show of Beijing’s ceremonies, the spectacle was made in different ways. Beijing had the lights and the smoke and the choreography and the music, but no names, no celebrated players, no celebrated individuals making celebrated marks. A show can be made without characters, but a story cannot be told. Something no doubt was missing. But the celebration of only individuals, often our problem in the West, leaves a similar emptiness.
But a single story told by the voices of many characters… One story of humanity trying its best, with glimpses and mumblings––like the olympics––to tell a single story well together. A story of individuals making marks on a bigger storyline being written of what God is doing in and for and with the world.
Till kingdom comes.
Thanks, London.
djordan
Pine Tree
It is not uncommon to think we know exactly who matters and exactly who will shape the course of our future, or join us as it shapes. At the ripe age of 16, there were several folks who would be those people. They filled the shop for a surprise party that I was too dumb to figure out. Those people still remain friends, and fewer remain close. At 18, we headed to Memphis in a limo and made predictions about the future; we were right on with most of them. And now, at 29, we will head again to Memphis for the last birthday of the twenties. All that we did know, and all that we didn’t know, wrapped up like a gift for the opening.
I remember my high school English teacher, Mrs. Kee telling us once in class that we would never talk to the people we were friends with in high school after we graduated. She was right in most things, crazy in many, but wrong about that. Yet knowing how she worked, and how crazy she was, maybe that was a dare, a challenge, a kind of psychological game to make us make it work.
And now, looking at the last of the twenties, it has worked. The picture above was taken laying down on Mom and Dad’s foyer rug on mine and Brooke’s 21st birthday. We will hop in a limo later this week to celebrate the 29th.
I suspect I can speak for all of us to say it’s a privilege to celebrate with old friends.
The privilege is likely greater, though, that the circle has grown. When I was laying down on the carpet back then, I would never have imagined the role those folks would play in my life, but I would have expected it. What I never would have expected, however, is the role that new friends who have entered the circle would play––how they would become crucial pieces in the story of who I am and who I am becoming.
There would have been no way to know.
Even 8 years ago, two years ago, I would not have guessed what people who crash into the circle would bring, how they would change my mind, broaden my understanding, invigorate my imagination, and strengthen my hope in the already-not yet kingdom come on earth as in heaven. From West Texas to South Africa; from a desert meal in Israel to a client in a trailer in Lexington; from the front porch on Pine Tree to the valleys of Napa; from a group of those wrestling with grief to a classroom of those disciplining hope; from cheese and toast around the kitchen counter to hors’ doeuvres on white tablecloths under candlelight, from a rocking chair in Nicaragua to a hammock on Pleasant Plains; from a limo ride over ten years ago to a limo ride today, I am now more sure than ever:
I am still confident of this:
I will see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living.
+ Psalm 27:13
djordan
Pine Tree
The stories are always close together;
Whether banked on the west coast looking out over the Pacific
or banked on another west coast looking out over the Atlantic.
Stories of trial and error
hope and defeat
attempt and confusion
love and war
peacemaking and peacekilling
connectedness and isolation
restful work and work gin rest
redemption and destruction
an undercurrent of longing
that someone else
on one coast or another
resonates with the stories we keep
shackled behind our eyes––
stories remarkably close together––
even with miles of history or miles of dirt between.
but we keep them to ourselves
because our story, we’ve been told,
is the only one that looks this way.
and so we imagine the space between our stories
that was never there to begin with.
Our stories are always close together.
djordan
Napa Valley
I remember distinctly being 17 years old, sitting in a Wendy’s with a buddy. The comment went like this: “You know how sometimes you start laughing so hard you can’t even breathe?” He replied that he couldn’t remember laughing that hard.
“That’s the only time it counts. It only counts when you laugh until you can’t breathe,” i informed him.
I think since then, unlike most seventeen-year old know-all conversations, that has become one of my lines to live by.
And I can think over and over again of times I have laughed until I couldn’t breathe.
Last night was one of those nights.
Laughter and breathless tears.
The kind that leaves you sweating.
After incredible appetizers where the comment heard over and over was, “This is delicious? Who would ever think of it together, but it’s delicious” down to the cinnamon dulce dessert with cream cheese ice cream that had me craving the entire container hidden in the freezer, the meal set the artful stage in an already artful atmosphere for the holy kind of dinner and after dinner conversations that end, over and over again, in tears.
Now added to the stayed seventeen-year-old proverb will be the value of landing in a place where you laugh so hard you cannot breathe with people you don’t really know. It speaks to a letting go of circumstance and pomp, letting go of first impressions, and acting as you act with good friends. Perhaps in the acting, something actually changes.
My stomach this morning hurts from laughing till I was breathless and teary-eyed, and it reminds me that while the world goes not well, the kingdom is coming.
djordan
Napa Valley
RELATED MOST HOPEFUL POSTS
At a high top under low light
In the middle of a meeting
Catch us up into reality
most hopeful 