This week I have found a great deal of comfort in scripture. Unfortunately this has not been a regular occurrence for me in the past couple of years as I have struggled in a continual love-hate relationship with the Bible. I often wrestle with doubts about how it can be divine yet written by humans, and which translation is the most correct and why we must go through such great pains to interpret exactly what message the authors were meaning to convey and why, after praying for the Holy Spirit to give me understanding, I often come away more confused and frustrated than when I began. This is the battle that I find myself having to lay down on weekly basis.
I have a pile accumulating on my shelf of sermon notes from Sundays past, random devotional clippings and various verses scribbled on pieces of scratch paper. So I've decided to take from the top of the pile at every quiet time and see what inspiration comes from these random notes I at some point thought worthy of saving.
Today I picked up a sheet with various scripture references. Several months ago I was reading my Bible on the subway while coming home from church one Sunday. Before getting off at his stop a nice older gentleman said he had seen me reading and gave me a paper with several verses he had jotted down for me to look up. His name was John, and I thanked him for his thoughtfulness. I skimmed the references and added the paper to my pile once I got home thinking I would read the verses in a few days...or three months later. He had written about 10 different passages down, so I decided to look up each one and read them out loud. Sometimes that gives me a clearer picture of God actually speaking to me. I came to Hebrews 11:6 and read:
"And without faith it is impossible to please God, because anyone who comes to him must believe that he exists and that he rewards those who earnestly seek him.."
Feeling comforted, I decide to read further:
(v.8) "By faith Abraham, when called to go to a place he would later receive as his inheritance, obeyed and went, even though he did not know where he was going. By faith he made his home in the promised land like a stranger in a foreign country; he lived in tents, as did Isaac and Jacob, who were heirs with him of the same promise. For he was looking forward to the city with foundations, whose architect and builder is God.
(v.13) All these people were still living by faith when they died. They did not receive the things promised; they only saw them and welcomed them at a distance. And they admitted that they were aliens and strangers on earth. People who say such things show that they are looking for a country of their own. If they had been thinking of the country they had left, they would have had opportunity to return. Instead, they were longing for a better country--a heavenly one. Therefore God is not ashamed to be called their God, for he has prepared a city for them. "
I've struggled this week with a couple realizations: 1) New York has not changed my love for the Lord and His people. If anything that commitment has strengthened, grounding me deeper in my purpose. 2) A very rare minority cling to my same convictions, and thus I feel more isolated than ever.
It's difficult feeling unsupported or misunderstood in something you believe in with your whole heart--constantly having an awareness that you are different, an outsider. And some days I question if it's worth it to have to die to yourself so much and always do the right thing and pray that you will love someone unselfishly when it would be easier to just not associate with them at all. I'm comforted to know that the very pioneers of our faith faced the same dilemma of being "aliens and strangers on earth". But for some reason they thought it was worth it to persevere. Yet nothing in these verses gives good reason for doing so--living in foreign lands, never having a real earthly home, and being able to enjoy their promised rewards only "at a distance." Let's face it, the Christian life makes absolutely no sense. How then did these men and us believers today find not only justification in pressing on, but great joy in doing so?
(v.1) "Now faith is being sure of what we hope for and certain of what we do not see."
This is the part where I should wrap up this little segment with some profound wisdom that ties all of these loose ends together. But the truth is, I'm still trying to answer my own question. I have a feeling it has something to do with verse 1, about real certainty only being found through faith in Christ, about how "Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today and forever" (Heb. 13:8) and how that security somehow drives us to walk this path, "the straight and narrow"(which I find to be a deceptively bland description). And then there's all kinds of other driving forces that come into play like unconditional love and grace, etc., etc. But for now it's enough for me to read this passage and simply know that I'm in good company.
Feb 26, 2005
Feb 17, 2005
Home Field Advantage
Funny client story of the week: My favorite client came into the office (surprisingly sober) earlier in the week saying he had lost his keys but thought they may be somewhere in his apartment. When he came back yesterday we asked him if he'd found his keys yet. He said, "Oh yeah I found them in this bag of chicken I had. They must have slipped in there somehow." To which I responded, "I hate it when that happens."
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A couple days ago I was walking to visit a client at his apartment. Selfishly I like going to his place because I get to walk right past Yankee Stadium. "46 Days until Home Opener" the sign reads. And at that moment everything is so very surreal. I have to stop and remind myself that just one year ago I visited New York for the first time and just 6 months ago I was making sandwiches at Blue Baker in College Station, TX and now here I am walking down 161st street in Bronx, NY still wondering how exactly this all came to be.
Probably the most pressing struggle of living here (and believe me there are tons) is defining what exactly "home" is. New York is not my home. In Texas is the house on Burford Place where I spent 18 years of my life and the little league right across the street where I played softball for 7 glorious years and still have my name on a sign for the summer us 10 year olds won district. Texas has my mom, dad, brother, my best friend Kim, my church, elementary school, junior high, high school, college and every friend made along the way...you get the picture.
Yesterday I spotted a South Carolina license plate in the Bronx and asked the woman if she was from there as she was getting out of her car. I told her one of my best friends is from Columbia, and her face lit up because that's her hometown too. Though she's lived in the Bronx 17 years, she was adamant about South Carolina being her real home ("I go back every year"). People at work call her "country" for her accent. I assured her the two of us would spread some Southern lovin' to these parts. Granted she is black and I am white, but I think the two of us parted feeling as though we had just reconnected with old kinfolk.
Most of my clients at work have a very different picture of home, and my job allows me a rare access into their world as I am required to do "home visits" on a regular basis. I have come to identify all the finer details of a typical city-owned housing project: grafitti on the walls with every dirty slang word, gang name or sexual picture imaginable, elevators that smell like urine, doors with missing numbers, blaring rap music coming from nowhere and everywhere in particular, and (on the lighter side) the sweet smells of fried food at most anytime of day. Morning visits are my favorite because I inhale the aroma of bacon, eggs and whatever else happens to be on the menu. Immediately I'm transported back to my grandma's kitchen sitting at the big table w/ the long bench seats catching up with my mom, dad and grandpa....and then I get a little teary because I realize just how far away I really am.
I stand waiting for the elevator doors to open, staring at the graffitti, wondering how people always think to have a black Sharpie with them at just the right time, but mostly how they could have such little respect for themselves, each other, their homes. You would think after volunteering 4 years with inner city youth and working alongside low-income individuals and now being fairly immersed in their lives that I would understand such things. But I don't. And so right then I prayed for understanding--not of the world, but one that goes deeper-- a Godly wisdom that can be acquired through no other means.
************************************
A couple days ago I was walking to visit a client at his apartment. Selfishly I like going to his place because I get to walk right past Yankee Stadium. "46 Days until Home Opener" the sign reads. And at that moment everything is so very surreal. I have to stop and remind myself that just one year ago I visited New York for the first time and just 6 months ago I was making sandwiches at Blue Baker in College Station, TX and now here I am walking down 161st street in Bronx, NY still wondering how exactly this all came to be.
Probably the most pressing struggle of living here (and believe me there are tons) is defining what exactly "home" is. New York is not my home. In Texas is the house on Burford Place where I spent 18 years of my life and the little league right across the street where I played softball for 7 glorious years and still have my name on a sign for the summer us 10 year olds won district. Texas has my mom, dad, brother, my best friend Kim, my church, elementary school, junior high, high school, college and every friend made along the way...you get the picture.
Yesterday I spotted a South Carolina license plate in the Bronx and asked the woman if she was from there as she was getting out of her car. I told her one of my best friends is from Columbia, and her face lit up because that's her hometown too. Though she's lived in the Bronx 17 years, she was adamant about South Carolina being her real home ("I go back every year"). People at work call her "country" for her accent. I assured her the two of us would spread some Southern lovin' to these parts. Granted she is black and I am white, but I think the two of us parted feeling as though we had just reconnected with old kinfolk.
Most of my clients at work have a very different picture of home, and my job allows me a rare access into their world as I am required to do "home visits" on a regular basis. I have come to identify all the finer details of a typical city-owned housing project: grafitti on the walls with every dirty slang word, gang name or sexual picture imaginable, elevators that smell like urine, doors with missing numbers, blaring rap music coming from nowhere and everywhere in particular, and (on the lighter side) the sweet smells of fried food at most anytime of day. Morning visits are my favorite because I inhale the aroma of bacon, eggs and whatever else happens to be on the menu. Immediately I'm transported back to my grandma's kitchen sitting at the big table w/ the long bench seats catching up with my mom, dad and grandpa....and then I get a little teary because I realize just how far away I really am.
I stand waiting for the elevator doors to open, staring at the graffitti, wondering how people always think to have a black Sharpie with them at just the right time, but mostly how they could have such little respect for themselves, each other, their homes. You would think after volunteering 4 years with inner city youth and working alongside low-income individuals and now being fairly immersed in their lives that I would understand such things. But I don't. And so right then I prayed for understanding--not of the world, but one that goes deeper-- a Godly wisdom that can be acquired through no other means.
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