most hopeful
choosing to be most hopeful
it all starts with good questions
I feel like I’ve been bombarded this week by people who see the world from completely different perspectives than I, but who share the same heart for justice and development and kingdom-living.
Incredibly encouraging.
The questions of whether or not we work toward and in light of and in hope of the kingdom come have grown tiring. Of course we do…it is what keeps us up at night and wakes us in the morning. The questions of whether we are in pursuit of the American Dream or in pursuit of a kingdom dream are old news. Boring. We press on for things on earth as in heaven, as we were taught.
So the joy comes in asking the good questions: what does this mean? What does it look like to practice medicine, business, design, landscaping, writing, teaching, mothering, fathering, gardening, skiing, listening, acting, singing…what does it look like to do all things in light of the kingdom.
How are our businesses different? How are our commitments different? How are our churches, our families, our finances, our career goals different?
How are the stories we tell, and the stories we crave different?
It has been an encouraging week, whether in the homeless shelter or the country club, imagining with others what it means to participate in God’s making all things new.
And it all starts with good questions
and good prayers.
Our Father in heaven,
Hallowed be your name.
Your kingdom come,
Your will be done
on earth as it is in heaven.
Give us today our bread for the day,
and forgive us for the ways we have failed others
in the same way we forgive the ways others have failed us.
Lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil.
For yours is the kingdom, the power, the glory
forever.
djordan
Pine Tree
in the middle of a meeting
we often find ourselves in meetings
sitting around tables
clicking keys on laptops
and scribbles of doodle and words soon forgotten
written on pads and scraps and notebooks
we find ourselves in meetings all the time
and we love our work
and we are used to being tired
and we are used to being grateful
and we are used to working hard
and we are used to hoping our hard work is a part
of something that looks like the kingdom in our midst
and we are used to sitting in meetings
sitting around tables
trying to plan and execute.
What we are not used to, though
is the every now and then meeting that leaves
our hearts thumping louder than the keys,
scribbles and doodles and imagination racing
through our minds too fast to come out of our mouths
we are not used to these kinds of meetings
even though they happen all the time
with new partners and new friends
with new dreams and new imaginations
with new needs and new visions
with new prayers and new hopes
where we realize, for those brief moments,
the rules have changed
the ideals have changed
the agenda has changed
the reason has changed
the meaning has changed
the implications have changed
the group of women and men sitting around the table realize
together
that something from another realm is happening
smack dab in the middle of a meeting with
clicking keys
scribbles
doodles
pads
notebooks
and ourselves.
the kind of meetings we often find ourselves in.
And so smack dab in the middle of a meeting
we give thanks.
djordan
S Church Street
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in the shadows of great ambitions | failure to imagine | crack our great ambitions | calling out in the darkness
thin of a second
it’s sometimes in the thin of second
you get a breath
a shove of breath into your gut
up into your head
it clears your mind for
only the thin of a second
and all is well
and you see the world as if through a glass clearly
then it’s gone.
but the second itself, the thin of it,
changes everything.
and your lungs take a bit deeper of a breath
and your head lightens briefly
lightens in weight and in brightness
and all will be well.
djordan
Pine Tree
once upon every time
It’s as much of once upon every time as it is has ever been once upon a time.
Power and ambition kill. Others first, ourselves finally.
Humility and selflessness kill. Ourselves first, evil and injustice finally.
Having just returned from Snow White and the Huntsman, I found myself reeling throughout the whole thing, and even still.
The first words were, of course, voiced over in thick accent…
“Once upon a time…”
But it is once upon this time. And once upon a time a year ago today. And once upon every time.
The storytellers have tried to make it clear for ages upon ages and times upon times,
But we have to learn it again for ourselves once upon our times, and sometimes more than once.
All that is in us tells us to fight with might to protect our own.
But fighting with might to protect our own,
fighting with educations, investments, gates, codes, doctrines, prejudices, words, wars,
fighting with might to protect our own leads to a slow unraveling.
But fighting that actually protects is a byproduct of other pursuits.
a byproduct of seeking the good of others,
of giving up on great ambitions,
of investing for the sake of the lives of others rather that for the protection of ourselves against others, of opening gates, sharing codes, listening to the doctrines of others,
knowing before judging,
listening,
serving,
fighting with humility and selflessness, not with great ambitions of winning,
but simply because we can’t imagine not fighting for whatever things are
true
good
just
lovely
honest
And then, in the end, of course, just as the story begins with once upon a time, it finishes with…
But alas, we have never been known, in life outside the tales spun by fairies, as patient enough to wait for the ever after.
As if we’ve ever had a choice.
djordan
Pine Tree
monday mornings are the clearest view
Monday mornings are the clearest view
of the sharp contrast in which
we live and breathe:
the ideals of the weekend
Saturday and its rest
Sunday and its ethereal musings.
And then Monday morning;
push comes to shove
injustice comes to work
greed comes to pocketbooks
arrogance comes to interactions
distraction comes to dinner tables.
And instead of pushing to bring
the truth of the weekend into play on Monday morning,
we are tempted to
wait for the weekend
and curse the week.
But the week waits desperately.
djordan
Pine Tree
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to dad on father’s day
All in this year, Dad hit sixty years old, resigns in a few weeks from practicing law for the last thirty years, and starts a (semi) new career as professor. It’s all of these things together that remind me again how much I have to celebrate about my pops.
I’ve only known Dad’s career as that of a lawyer. When I was born, he was just beginning the practice after going back to law school at the age of thirty after running the “Card Shop” which was the old Greg’s Hallmark in the mall. The decision he made thirty years ago changed the life that my brother and I both led in multiple ways, none of which were difficult.
Day after day I work with people who have lost their fathers, hated their fathers, been abused by their fathers, been left by their fathers, been distanced from their fathers, or been tormented by the lives of their fathers. The ways that these choices bleed into self-image, confidence, disposition, and relationships are undeniable.
Also undeniable are the ways that a father’s ambitions and goals influence the steps and thoughts of his children. Pursuit of power, ambition, wealth, status, image, often are found successful, but leave a great wake of cost in the lives of those trailing behind in either diapers or adolescent pimples.
And so, this year for Father’s Day, I celebrate the fact that I have no sad stories to tell about my dad, and I thank him––and Mom––for it.
I remember as a child of about five or six, Dad dressed up as a judge, Jamey as an attorney, and my split roles as both sheriff and son (costume being only that of removing the cowboy hat). We put Mom on trial for Mother’s Day with the crime that of “Being a good mother.” She was convicted, and sentenced to Mother’s Day cake and hugs by her boys.
Dad taught us great respect of what women, working or not, and mothers, and grandmothers stood for, accomplished, offered to their businesses and homes, and ultimately of how much they were worth. I never saw him demean, belittle, roll his eyes, or even yell at Mom. They disagreed, as they should, but even their disagreements modeled ways of respect, patience and kindness.
Thanks, Dad.
I remember only two major arguments with Dad over the years; both were in late adolescence. And while the subject matter isn’t important, the far that the arguments were about things that mattered greatly is. I don’t remember petty disagreements. I don’t remember my point of view or disagreement being met with anything but ongoing questions and pushing of insight. I do, however remember apologies. I don’t remember what the arguments were about, but I remember, and my brother says the same, that Dad would always, always, apologize when he thought he had been unfair or unkind. It was commonplace after a small argument to hear a gentle knock on the door followed by a soft, “come in.”
Dad taught us that the strength of a man is not in stubbornness, arrogance, strength, ambition, or “not letting them see you sweat.” We were taught, by example more than words, that strength is found in humility, truth-telling, apology, integrity and gentleness.
Thanks, Dad.
I remember Dad saying to “think of your education as a way of life, not something to finish to get to life.” I also remember him saying, “Don’t choose a job where you work for the weekends.” I’ve heard of him changing careers once for this reason, and now at sixty, he does it again. His excitement for entering this new field, and the seriousness with which he is taking it on, and the courage to make a move thirty years later have not gone unnoticed my either my brother or me.
Dad taught us to value learning, trying, becoming and doing. He offered us stability and safety so that we could try anything. He took up guitar in his fifties because he saw a sixteen year old girl playing at a Clapton festival. The regular images I remember of Dad playing air guitar behind the couch have turned into Dad playing an actual guitar, and his example now of entering a brave new world have not gone unnoticed.
Thanks, Dad.
I can’t hit all the things…we were taught to value experiences and people over things. We were taught that generosity is the only appropriate response to wealth and possessions. We were taught that the world is bigger than our circle of friends, and so our circle of friends should be broadened to include the world. We were taught that new ideas were reason for great excitement and careful discernment, not fear and stoning. We were taught that to be a man was to honor all women, stand up for other men, live generously, choose carefully, and act thoughtfully.
As a child, I must admit, I was bothered by how different my parents were. How we didn’t make decisions and spend money and value things like many others did.
As a young adult, I couldn’t be more grateful. The more I learn about what it means to seek first the kingdom, and to live in kingdom ways, I’ve had no better example, and I now have no excuse.
Thanks, Dad. Happy Father’s Day.
djordan
Pine Tree
“Thank you for your prayers, we are tired of war” | a guest post by Caroline Powell
Caroline Powell is a dear friend of mine and native of Cape Town, South Africa. She works with The Warehouse, also dear friends of mine seeking to see the church be a transformative presence in the community in issues of poverty, injustice and division. Caroline has been sent on sabbatical by The Warehouse, in Caroline’s words, to seek kingdom “stories of hope and people of peace.”I’ve been following her blog these last several weeks, and this post is one I’ve enjoyed the most.
Join Caroline on her sabbatical journey at www.thelongwindingroad.me, and in the meantime, thank her for joining the guest voices here at mosthopeful.com. Her words are always words with which to spend considerable time and generous thought. Thank you Caroline.
“Thank you for your prayers, we are tired of war” | a tribute to the DRC
When I was planning this trip, one of the first places I desired to visit was the town of Goma, on the Democratic Republic of Congo (DRC) side of the western border between DRC and Rwanda. There were several reasons for this. In Cape Town, I study with and enjoy the friendship and encouragement of several Congolese people, through connections at college, church and my work at The Warehouse. I have been fascinated with and deeply troubled by the story of this part of Africa for some time. I have met some very inspiring residents of Goma through Amahoro-Africa who run awe-inspiring initiatives through their churches in their town, and I longed to see first hand what they are involved with on a daily basis.
Getting there and fulfilling this dream has been a different story but one that has invited me into a deeper sense of love and committed prayer for this nation. Advised by Joel from Goma, that I must have a visa before trying to visit the DRC, I went about filling in application forms and getting invitations letters from my friends in Goma. Once this was done, and all was sent off to the embassy in Pretoria, the waiting game started. I was convinced that visiting this region was to be part of the plan for my trip and especially felt that I would love to go there to encourage my friends by receiving their hospitality – visiting them despite the fact that at times, there are more people leaving the DRC than coming to visit for a holiday. I prayed about it and felt that, while I would take no unnecessary risks at all, if it was a time of peace, I would strive to spend a portion of my trip there.
At about the same time as I was planning for my visit, rebel warlords in the region were planning their next move and just as my passport was arriving in Pretoria for processing, war was breaking out in the very region I was hoping to visit. My passport got stuck at the embassy for too long, as they were in crisis mode due to the conflict and it became clear that this was not to be part of my journey. I called the visa agency and asked them to send my passport home to me. I wrote to my friends, thanking them for the great effort they had gone to in writing invitation letters, scanning signatures and planning to host me. With a deep sadness in my heart I explained that I would not be visiting. With a hope that they did not sound like empty words, I said that I would be praying for them.
A kind reply came back to me, sharing sentiments that they hoped there would be a chance in the future. It was signed off: “Thank you for your prayers, we are tired of war”
Very few words on a computer screen have affected me as deeply as this simple, sad greeting. In much the same way as I might say “I am tired of being cold” at the end of a long winter in Cape Town, they stared back at me. A stated fact. We are tired of war. A fact that I cannot imagine for my own context and yet a fact for countless numbers of people on our planet.
I have just returned from visiting the town of Gisenyi on the border of the DRC. I had arranged to meet my friend Joel on the Rwandan side of the border that is shared between Gisenyi and Goma, and as I travelled from Kigali towards Lake Kivu, the lake that shares is shores with the two cities, the man seated next to me on the bus pointed out a large tented settlement. “Transit Camp” he told me. We were passing one of the many refugee camps that exist, sometimes temporarily, but often permanently in this part of the world. I have made friends in the past few weeks with people who grew up for many years of their childhood in a camp much like this.
Joel met me at “Grand Barrier”, a not so grand piece of road that makes the enormous difference between living in a land at war and a land in times of peace. This same piece of road operated in the opposite direction during the 1994 Rwandan genocide as thousands of people fled their homeland. Then, the transit camps were on the others side. Today, for me, it is a cul-de-sac on my long and winding road. A country that I can only dream of visiting. Homes, less than a kilometer away with rooms and beds where in more peaceful times, I would have visited and slept. Joel took me on a walking and moto tour of his town from the safe side of the border. The two towns are separated by a stone wall at most in some places, even less in others. They are reportedly the two closest border towns in the world. He showed me the region where his family home was destroyed along with thousands of others during the eruption of Ndiragongo in 2002. I took a photo of him with this still active volcano in the backdrop. He pointed toward where he now lives with his family. We walked and talked- of church, recycling, youth ministry, war, upcoming life events and hope. And then he returned home and I went back to Auberge de Gisenyi and watched some of the Queen’s Diamond Jubilee celebrations on TV in French.
It is my hope that this essay, as insignificant as it is in the grand scheme of things, will serve as a tribute to the Democratic Republic of Congo and her courageous people. There are too many wars like this one in the world for us to pray individually and with understanding for each one, but sometimes, as the case is with me in this season, God brings one thing to your attention, and all you CAN do, is pray. DRC, I pray for hope, peace, courage and patience for you. I pray too, that one day I will be able to enjoy your hospitality on your soil, not just from over a stone wall.
Amen.
as are we
Even the tinniest of birds
in the most remote of places
on the earliest of mornings
in a distant land
with their unfamiliar chirping
remind us
at our best, when we allow ourselves to be reminded
that the world is enormous
and deep
and complicated
and is still in its adolescence
as are we
as are we
djordan
León, Nicaragua
most hopeful 