most hopeful
choosing to be most hopeful
a concrete maze
I walked the labyrinth at the hospital today. I can see it from my office window, the maples blooming with a sharp red that distracts me all day long as I watch past my clients through the glass into the courtyard beyond my office. I finished the drudge of my paperwork today in time to spend thirty minutes walking through it.
I see it everyday through the glass; today was the day to walk it.
I have read about them before, but I’ve never walked through one. I found myself taking one step at a time, observing the thoughts passing through my mind with each step.
Loop one: What am I supposed to be doing? Am I thinking solemnly enough? Am I messing this up? The last time I was here was when Brooke’s dad was in ICU after a stroke. Should I even be here right now?
Loop two: Shouldn’t I be learning something profound right now? Isn’t this supposed to be an existential process; a joining of mind and body and soul at one time? Am I doing this right? I have friends going through mammograms right now. I have other friends losing their jobs right now. I have other friends in the hospital with their parents right now; shouldn’t this be about them?
Loop three: You don’t know what you are doing. Be quiet in your mind. Stop working to figure this all out. Just put one foot in front of the other, and know that whether or not you see how the path in front of you plays out, it does––in fact––play out. You will keep walking, and make it to the other side. Stop pushing.
The person going through the mammogram right now is what is on your mind. Let it be.
The person who is losing a job is on your mind. Let it be.
The person who is in the hospital with his mom is what is on your mind. Let it be.
This is not about an existential process; this is about being truthful about where you are, what you can and cannot do, and who God is. Keep putting one foot in front of the other.
Loop four: You, God, are the same. You are the God who changed the course of the story in the garden. You are the same God who made Abraham the promise. You are the same God who anointed David King. You are the same God who gave Isaiah a vision. You are the same God who sent Christ. You are the same God who raised him. You are the same God making all things new. You are the same God whose son is King of the kingdom.
There is nothing magical about that maze of concrete that sits between the walls of the hospital and my Pathways office. There is, however, something sacred about the journey through a guided piece of art that brings me where I need to be: completely unsure about where this winding path leads, but knowing––more than I know most things––that where I will end up is where I need to be.
Be still and know.
djordan
Pine Tree
rise up
We were sitting around a table spread with pads, pens and leftovers a few feet off of Beale Street in Memphis. We had a two-day staff retreat for Area Relief Ministries, and we were closing up our time together with some overarching reflections on our different ministry areas, what we were seeing and feeling, and where we wanted to go in the days ahead.
Having been through the National Civil Rights Museum together, a staff of half women and half men, half black and half white, we were reflecting on our own experiences and those of the people we serve every day at ARM. One of our staffers, Vakendall, started talk-praying in a kind of musical tone that he often speaks in; what came out of his mouth has been lingering in my head since then.
In reference to the photos and pictures throughout the Civil Rights Museum of men and women standing up to oppression, racism and violence with a kind of sharp meekness seldom see, Kendall asked, “Who told them they were somebody?”
As I think of the people who walk through the doors at Area Relief, the kids who show up at The HUB Club for tutoring and mentoring in the afternoon, the clients that sit in my office at Pathways fighting bravely against all shades of mental illness, I am now wondering who is telling them they are somebody.
Churches often get swallowed up in the business of deciding who is and who is not…somebody.
There seems to be a task at hand, a responsibility and a privilege bundled up together the moment eye contact is made with another. Just as we hope to be bearers of a holy image, we feel a call to look another in the eyes, reach down deeply, and speak of their somebodyness.
The people not in those photos at the Civil Rights Museum were likely their teachers, neighbors, postal carriers––maybe if we are lucky, even their pastors––the women and men who made it clear over and over again that they were somebodies. People who were made to be kings and queens, even if nothing else in the world at that moment suggests that is anywhere near the truth.
I’ll be more satisfied if I ever end up not being the person who speaks at the pedestal for the world to hear, but rather the one who told him or her that she was somebody.
djordan
Pine Tree
what they are teaching me | 2
There is something quite stunning about this group of men and women. I watched them walk through the candle-lit, witness-lined path at the fourth annual Remember Me walk for homicide-loss survivors, and while emotions varied from person to person, there was a stunning mark of resilience that was breathtaking on all faces. Faces covered in tears beamed with resilience. Faces covered in solemnness beamed with resilience.
And it is stunning.
I am prone to be all one thing.
All furious.
All joyful.
All hopeful.
All helpless.
But I am learning the deeply human art of being all of two things at once. I am learning to carry two emotions in their fulness at one time, refusing to let one swallow up the other. I can be enraged at injustice, arrogance and ignorance on my own part or the part of others that causes grief and pain in the world; and at the same time, I can be grateful for the peacemaking, the meekness and the thoughtful engagement on my own part or the part of others that slowly gives promise to the reality of the coming kingdom.
There is this need for the truly human women and men to stand in a space between horror and hope and refuse to lie about the former in an effort to find the latter. There is a call to stand, much like Christ, with arms outstretched in an effort to keep a tight grip on both reality and promise, knowing our hearts can hold the tension.
And these men and women––walking with photographs in hand of the husband, daughter, mother, grandbaby they had ripped from their lives in violent murder––they walk, faces shining with complete resilience and complete grief. They promise by the mere act of putting one foot in front of the other that God has placed deeply within us his own nature of being fully enraged and fully proud of all that humanity is and will one day be.
Kingdom come.
djordan
Memphis, Tennessee
foolish clocks, all time was broken
what they are teaching me
You think you know what you have to offer, but you’re always surprised by those you think to be the recipients.
In the last few weeks, on top of counseling with individuals one on one, I’ve been helping facilitate group therapy for people who have lost someone to homicide.
The first meeting, I flew in to the group meeting, just in time, from a day at Pathways filled with clients.
I sat around the table, and felt my emotions move from wherever I store them to the edges of my eyelids. I heard stories from men and women who have had fathers, mothers, daughters, brothers and sons stolen from them. The weight is incredibly heavy, and yet, they show up. They have their clothes on, their faces on, and their minds on.
And they show up. No matter what.
One man talked about the temptation to get in “the mode.” He went on to describe a mode that keeps him trapped in sorrow, pain, and the stories of the past and futures that will not be realized. He said he works hard to keep from falling into that “mode.” And when he does fall into that mode, he recognizes it, stops, keep going.
And that was where he made all the difference for me. I heard his wise, steady, strong voice for the next eight days.
Recognize it. Stop it. And keep going.
I continue to play out conversations, actions, past and future possibilities that could be different. And when I don’t pay attention, these played-out conversations consume the space in my mind that could be occupied with far more beneficial things. And in the past, when I have discovered myself stewing there, I have added anger to misery.
But I hear his voice now.
Recognize it. Stop it. And keep going.
If five minutes later, I have to stop stewing about what is distressing me and look to all that is hopeful––it’s the same response.
Recognize it. Stop it. And keep going.
Thanks to the man in our support group who is working through his own unspeakable grief––and who, in the process, is changing my world.
djordan
Pine Tree Dr.
i can’t wait
I was squatting down looking through the glass wall just outside the elevators on the third floor of the hospital. I found tears sitting in my eyes; I was both curious as to why the tears, and also not curious at all. He talked about his brand new baby boy’s eyes. His chin. His neck. His temperament. He talked about the things he had already learned from him.
And then he said what has been sitting with me.
“I can’t wait to get to know him.”
My best buddy looked through the glass at his brand new son he’s known for just over 24 hours. He is excited about getting to know him, his perspective, his personality. He can’t wait to see all he brings to the world. All the world brings out in him.
“I can’t wait to get to know him.”
In my class this semester, I’ve learned a great deal from my students already. I’ve tried to “catch” them talking about the people we serve in ways that aren’t filled with dignity and respect, but they have surprised me completely. As I get to know them more, they are filled with compassion, humility and energy to serve those around them in ways that will no doubt, and already have, been used to transform our community into something that looks more like the kingdom of God. I’ve been changed as I get to know them.
For all I still can’t seem to get into my head, I’m learning about the thrill it is to get to know someone, some group, some people…not because of what I can find out, but because of who I am likely to become and what I am likely to learn.
For those who have allowed the time and chance to get to know me, I’ll do the same in your honor.
And for this baby boy, there will be no greater honor. I can’t wait to get to know him either!
djordan
Pine Tree Dr.
when you throw a party
“When you put on a luncheon or a banquet,” he said, “don’t invite your friends, brothers, relatives, and rich neighbors. For they will invite you back, and that will be your only reward. 13 Instead, invite the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind. 14 Then at the resurrection of the righteous, God will reward you for inviting those who could not repay you.” 15 Hearing this, a man sitting at the table with Jesus exclaimed, “What a blessing it will be to attend a banquet[c] in the Kingdom of God!”
16 Jesus replied with this story: “A man prepared a great feast and sent out many invitations. 17 When the banquet was ready, he sent his servant to tell the guests, ‘Come, the banquet is ready.’ 18 But they all began making excuses. One said, ‘I have just bought a field and must inspect it. Please excuse me.’ 19 Another said, ‘I have just bought five pairs of oxen, and I want to try them out. Please excuse me.’ 20 Another said, ‘I now have a wife, so I can’t come.’
21 “The servant returned and told his master what they had said. His master was furious and said, ‘Go quickly into the streets and alleys of the town and invite the poor, the crippled, the blind, and the lame.’ 22 After the servant had done this, he reported, ‘There is still room for more.’ 23 So his master said, ‘Go out into the country lanes and behind the hedges and urge anyone you find to come, so that the house will be full. 24 For none of those I first invited will get even the smallest taste of my banquet.’” | Luke 14:12-24
I’ve always heard the story told as an opportunity for me to do “the right thing.” As if, were I to choose to do something else, I would be fine, but they wouldn’t be. If I choose to do “the right thing,” then they will be better off…but don’t worry; I’ll get mine. I’ll be rewarded when kingdom comes in its fullness.
And yet, this past week, I heard it all differently.
When you throw a party, invite the people you would never invite. When you do, all the rules change. Instead of it being about a who’s who, a name-dropping-affair in an effort to get an invite to the actual parties, it becomes a whole different affair. It becomes more like a dinner party in the kingdom of God.
And it will be incredible.
If you think you are too good to sit down at the table with the homeless man, the chronically ill woman, the woman out of prison, the man who stands just outside of downtown Jackson in the soup kitchen parking lot staring at the street as North Highland traffic drives by…if you think you are too good to have them at your party, you’ll invite all the “important people,” and they will…no doubt…stand you up. And when you invite the man from the corner to keep from embarrassing yourself when no one else shows to your party, you will actually find that you are enjoying yourself––perhaps even becoming more of yourself. You are likely to decide that the “men of standing” aren’t invited to your parties anymore.
This weekend, and these last several days, I have been thinking about the people I wouldn’t have invited to my table in the first place. Those who come in for counseling just out of jail. The people who show up for help on their utility bills because times are hard. The people who think God is mad at them because they left a fist-throwing spouse five years ago, but sat down for a church service sermon today about “sticking with it” for God’s sake. I think about the things that they have taught me that I would never, ever have learned otherwise.
The things that I now know to be true about God’s world, because I ended up, despite my best efforts, throwing and enjoying a dinner party with “them.”
Truth is told as we sit together at the table. Passing the bread. Refilling the wine.
The passage has haunted me for much of the last week, and much of this weekend. It’s been more of a fair warning than an opportunity for me to be “more than fine” by doing “the right thing.”
When I throw a party, if I want to know anything about the truth of the world, and the depths of God’s love, and the promise of God’s kingdom––if I want to be taken from my safety and cowardice at all into something bigger and truer––then I will invite the homeless, the ill, the ex-cons, the poor, the lonely; I will invite them to my table. I will throw a party and they will be the guests on my actual guest list. I need them at my party more than they need to be invited. Not so much because it will be good for them, or the right thing to do, but because I need to see the world as they see it. Not because I will teach them about Jesus, but because they will allow me to meet him. Not because I will tell them about the kingdom, but because they will open my eyes so I can see it.
It is at the party table that we will find it. Sitting together. Passing the bread. Refilling the wine.
“When you throw a party,” Jesus says, “let me tell you how it’s done.”
djordan
Pine Tree Dr.
most hopeful 