Show me what a life lived in grace looks like: unfettered, joyous, rampant.

I told someone once that I wanted to have the guts to laugh at myself and loosen up a bit. I think I was born melancholy (and I protested as much when I tested so in a personality test–this much is true about my artist tendencies–but I hated the word. It made me sound depressed). Mainly what I saw and disliked in myself were my perfectionistic tendencies, because it’s easier to deal with knowns and facts and details and my capabilities than to face the chaos of messy-and-human.

Show me how to hold onto life loosely.

Perhaps what C.S. Lewis says is true, that having a grasp of our mortality does us a lot of good. I want to understand that our good moments don’t last forever, and that to savor them slowly is a gift in itself. And maybe the guts I wanted are the insides that I want filled with thick, hearty gratitude, shared and spilled over in the company of friends (I’m using soup imagery because Eric made a frickin good stew the other night. And it’s cold in here.).

Hearty, joyous, wise and gracious. I think that describes the man I’d like to grow into.

This was the year I stopped romanticizing urban ministry.

I honestly came in with the idea that I was going to be really warmhearted and be an amazing rescuer and friend of the poor who could really see peoples’ humanity past their issues. Instead, I found myself bitter at a lot of folks. R, who was doing great in his alcohol recovery, stole from us. We banned M from sleeping on our porch steps because her sharp urine scent was too much. P sleeps in the bushes, but occasionally defecates in the lot. I learned to dread the sound of the doorbell, which meant inconveniencing me to run up and answer the door and heat up some food. I hated being inconvenienced.

I learned that the poor despise the rich with the lens of entitlement, and the rich despise the poor with a lens of laziness and deservedness. I now see the complex web of power structures, decadeslong injustices, and people that give up in the face of overwhelming difficulty. I wrestle a lot with a desire to escape and turn my back. I hesitate to press in. I know now, ever more than ever, that we both need Jesus to humble us and equalize us.

This was a year of community

Take our recent baptism from a couple of months ago. R*, an African-American member who has wrestled with a long history of alcoholism and other issues, was prayed over by P, an older white man, S, a hapa young professional, and Betty, a wheelchair-bound white lady. I looked at the picture and wondered what can explain this except the Gospel?

Or the time that Eric engineered a sled so that we could take Betty, wheelchair and all, down to Ocean Beach for a bonfire. What can explain that?

Or the times that we hit up In-n-Out at random times in the middle of the night, or did a monthly San Tung run, or chowed on Yummy Guide after a Betty dropoff. I’m going to remember running trails with Nate, or swimming with Eric and Justin. And there was that one time that Eric did my chores for me while I worked on some programming project because he saw I was stressed. <3.

This was a year of slowing down

I realized that I live from task to task and thrive on stress. I need to stop this. I know this because I feel really antsy if I go the whole day without knocking anything out from my todo list. I will literally feel like exploding.

We live in a world of to-do lists and Getting Things Done. I am learning to stop, chat, laugh, and listen.

This was a year of humility.

I never liked doing my cleaning chores, or being asked to do something that was really inconvenient to my schedule. But those service times were pretty sweet if I had the right attitude. I will say that I got a lot of sermons knocked out while scrubbing toilets.

This was a year of getting better at people things

…and not be so clueless with friendships and relationships ‘n stuff.

This was a year of recentering

And in the end, I want Jesus’ reality more than ever. I’m learning that God’s a good dad, and I can trust him.

• 94610 prayer walk with church community. Gary shared that doing these walks builds hope in us… helps us remember there’s hope for Oakland. Give us eyes and ears and a heart for the city and our neighborhood. And afterwards I bought a brioche knot + a pizza slice at Arizmendi and 2 peaches from the farmer’s market. Freakin good.
• Did a 35-mile loop from Regen to Lake Chabot and back via Skyline with Eric and a friend. Nothing but godawful fatigue at the end. Came back and passed out for a good while.
• Microwave TJ curry for dinner + a diet Coke someone left in the fridge. Amazing.
• Sent Betty back with Kylan. Today I didn’t mind.
• Cleaned bathrooms and the kitchen, and enjoyed the alone time. Thought a lot about how I’ve changed this year.
• Sat out in the night air for a few minutes and just took it in.

I don’t know what it was about today but it just felt good. God’s been good to me.

It’s like the evenings I spent in Central Asia years ago, sprawled on a stiff hotel bed and journaling until darkness fell. In my headphones the refrain would play: in your presence, all fear is gone, in your presence… And it’s all I could cling to, because that month-or-so in that land was one of the loneliest I’ve had.

That first week, as I was climbing onto the bus, a trio of teenage boys rushed off and shoved me to the side as they exited, so close you could feel the heat radiating off their brows. I thought them rude, but then caught myself and reminded myself that they’re just boys. The thought lasted about two seconds; that was the first time I had my wallet stolen.

I still think about the feeling of Sosho and I crammed in the back of the bus, clutching our bags tight (myself, in particular), watching the spires of mosques pass by and watching Muslims pray on the sidewalks during afternoon prayers, their foreheads pressed into the concrete and lips moving in fervent prayer. I remember seeing a diseased boy, his arms both amputated and his face marked with sweat and soot, pleading with his eyes for his throat was parched. Our Muslim friends were generous: they gave alms to the poor, they believed Allah would reward them for their generosity.

The city is one of the most polluted cities in the world; it lies in a dry valley and is reputed as the most landlocked city in the world. Soot and ash from surrounding factories linger over us in a haze. Day by day, thousands of new immigrants arrive by train. The city is exploding; everybody is covered in soot; it is hot; tempers flare, a bus tire explodes and the people begrudgingly walk off the bus and wait for another to come along.

I also remember wandering the parks of that city, and watching the people mill about, their faces blank (as strangers generally are to other strangers), and trying to think about God but constantly being interrupted by the heat and smog, thoughts flitting back and forth from prayer to a red bean popsicle (glory!).

We would hear stories of busloads of South Korean tourists who would come into the city. One of the missionaries told us that they were actually followers of the Way, who would circle the great square in the center of the city and blanket it with prayers. She knew because she would see them walk about, their mouths moving inaudibly and their eyes locked onto the heart of the city and its people. She would see them and her heart would explode and she told us that she would want to shout we’re here! we follow the Way too!

The weather here is impetuous; one day it’ll be 80 degrees and in the evening it’ll be below freezing and snowing. It’s much like the food, bursting with spices and seasonings and cooled with a dollop of frosty yogurt. The food, oh, I still do dream about it, the lagman and lamb kebabs, the feeling of growing dizzier with the sights and smells of the food stalls at the bazaars.

I wasn’t very spiritually-minded on that trip, and I felt that God knew it was okay. I couldn’t shake my homesickness on days when I’d want to run from the oppressive heat, when the blathering of denizens would take its toll on my patience, and my stomach would rebel at the stream of foreign food I kept trying to feed it with. But still, there was that feeling—

It’s like the mornings I’d take a jog out onto the deserted streets, watching the sun rise and hearing the burst of an oven igniting, the flapping of pigeon wings, the distant car horn and the slight hum of towering cranes, unofficial city guardians. And though I couldn’t shake the homesickness, I knew I was in God’s presence. Even today, I look back and know I was with the one they call Allah. I’d have these visions of his grace gathering in storm clouds and falling like rain, clearing the air, turning streets into creeks and sprouting trees on their banks.

Soon the ash would fill my lungs and force me, coughing, to turn around and crawl back into bed.

I don’t know how to give grace to the people who drink on our doorsteps. I get resentful of people who have entitlement attitudes, and sense a creeping sense of dread of answering the doorbell to give food to folks who ask for it. I’m tired of cleaning up human shit from our sidewalks and parking lot. I’ve come to realize that my biggest fear is that I will annihilate myself in service, deeds, good works and on top of that nothing will change.

Once Dave and I busted out onto the entranceway where homeless folks sleep on our doorstep because they were making a drunken racket. We yelled at them, hard: pointed at their beer bottles–don’t you ever drink on our doorstep again!–gesticulating angrily, adrenaline flaring–don’t you lie to me! You can’t sleep here anymore. Yes, it was a power trip. No, we couldn’t tolerate the noise and racket they were putting up. Yes, they were annoying the entire neighborhood. No, we weren’t doing it very lovingly. Who’s right? What was the right thing to do? Where was Jesus, and what would he have done?

They returned the next night.

I think we romanticize urban ministry sometimes, serving the poor, but have forgotten to count the cost. I often feel like that rich young ruler who, having heard Jesus’ call to sell his possessions and leave a comfortable life, leaves sad. Because honestly, I do not know if I want to be here.

Lord, help me. Jesus, show me where you are right here, right now. I don’t like dwelling in the tension of the brokenness of my neighborhood and the peace that is far away, already promised but not yet here. I know the answer is somewhere in hearing the inner voice of Love, in simply being a son and being Loved. Right now, I just feel stuck.

Last night I went back home to the quiet streets of Saratoga and I knew I couldn’t go back. It didn’t feel real. But I don’t want to stay here either, swimming through the garbage in my soul and not knowing how to be well. Do I want to be well?, the Healer asks. Yes, but help my unbelief.

A few cloudy Sundays ago I was watching Bruce play with Darren on the steps of our church. Screaming fire trucks were storming our street. Bruce ran down the steps, swept a wide-eyed Darren into his arms and ran down to watch the commotion fade down East 15th.

Darren’s eyes were bright and mouth was agape. “That was a fire twuck!” he exclaimed, jabbing a stubby finger in the direction of the receding lights.

Man, Darren was so taken by that truck.

–

I’ve been thinking lately about how simple we need to become to “get” to the Father heart of God. I’m really tired of overthinking things. I’m tired of trying to push things on my own or intellectualizing you or my purpose here.

I’m thinking about this Imposter that I’ve created, the image in me that I like to put forth as someone competent, artsy, smart, funny, mature. My greatest fear is that someone will discover me in the times when I can’t keep up the ruse and find me unlovable. My Imposter can cover that for me, so I don’t have to face the disappointment of being myself.

I.

I am surrounded by my friends, but this memory is unattached with context. I don’t know where this is or how old I am (how old am I? sixteen?) But there is laughter: pale white walls of laughter, ringing in my ears. They are laughing at me (with me? something I said?) and I’ve got this stupid smile on my face and I don’t get it. All I can do is play along and smile, imagining they’re not laughing at me, they’re laughing because I’m self-deprecating and I’m funny and my cheeks burn, straining under the weight of this two-ton grin. Surely they see it’s not real, but I hope against hope that nobody notices.

II.

I am six, buried in numbers, two by two by six by twelve by what the hell is happening. There is a wall of numbers rushing straight at me, and I can’t think through the tears but all I know how to do is swim to the other side of the numbers. If I can trust my slipping memory, the numbers will fall out before the seconds expire and the waters won’t overwhelm me but alas, the waves are lapping over the edge and my eyes begin to overflow.

III.

A memory of performing, being on stage, drinking the laughter or applause or accolades of friends. I love it here. I feel at home here. I feel powerful here. But the lights turn off and people go home to their families and I am left sitting in my car with the key in the ignition, soon to be turned if not for the weight of an inconsolable loneliness. What do you do when you pour yourself out yet you cannot drink your fill?

–

Jesus, I just want to hang out with you and have you sweep me into your arms and we can run after fire trucks. Or we can do what you wanna do. I don’t care. I just wanna be the kid with a stupid grin on his face watching his Dad do his thing.

This week, the interns and I have been at the Not for Sale Academy receiving training on human trafficking before we head out to the Philippines in April. I’m feeling a lot of heaviness, hearing stories about people held captive under another’s power.

A few things I’ve been chewing on:

• The perversion of masculinity, a fascination (and insecurity) with power, control & ego versus the created Ideal: protective, disciplined, self-sacrificing, Christlike.
• I’m nervous about entering darkness; the thought of walking a red-light district scares me. Can I handle it? Also: thoughts on continual prayer as we walk through the shadows. We need to pray to survive.
• I’m glad I’m going with this group of guys.
• It’s okay to feel pain. I’m wondering if I even want to be identified with this movement because of the heaviness surrounding it. I’m realizing that maybe the pain of the world is what God wants us to feel–to grieve alongside the broken and the powerless and to be saddened by the injustice in the world.
• On the other side, I’m thankful that our God is a God of vengeance and justice. He promises to repay for evil. That is very. comforting. Honestly, I’m not sure how I would deal with the brokenness without an Absolute, a Good framework.
• But honestly, I mostly want to turn and go back to life as usual and pretend like I haven’t looked into the void.
• “Don’t you see?” (I’m imagining the voice of Tim Keller here). “Jesus Christ suffered the ultimate injustice so that we can be justified–and so that the world can know Justice.” The Gospel is that the justice that was to be exacted on the murderer, the pimp, the politician, the single mother, the CEO, the checkout clerk and me… was placed on Jesus. Augh. Grace. Bitterness-melting, soul-lifting, hope-restoring Grace.
• This is a sexy movement. Call+Response was about rock stars. The t-shirts are fashionable. We talk about entrepreneurial ventures and new business paradigms. People I meet are well-put together. But would I still be out here if this were a movement to end homelessness? How about adoption?  I wrestle with the question about whether it’s about me wanting to be identified as a hip, socially-aware Christian, or if I’m actually loving people and moving out from there.

Tonight my small group simply picked up trash around our Lake Merritt neighborhood. But I was talking with Tammie and Justin about how it should be the case that a neighborhood should be better off because Christians live there.

It is uncomfortable and we are getting nervous with the onset of darkness. We say hello to a woman at a street corner who merely mumbles back. Lazily, a police helicopter hovers in the skies.

An infographic for Freedom Sunday at Regeneration. Download as PDF.

I’ve been thinking about human dignity, suffering, humanity, real-ness… a lot of swirling thoughts in my head. What does it mean that we live in the suffering of the “not-yet” and the reality of the “already“ness of the kingdom? I’m headed to the Philippines in less than three months preparing myself to face the realities of the sex trade and… I sense some fear in myself I’m trying to stuff away. What if I can’t handle the darkness?

Suffering has a contagious quality about it, and that’s why we avoid it. I fear being drawn in to people’s pain. I can easily wear a mask that displays a concern about justice with a capital J, as if I were noble and proud and compassionate. But between you and me, I fear compassion. I fear empathy and much rather prefer self-preservation.

Looking back, a lot of my life has been played in a role, idolizing perfection, a good outward image, wearing a mask, and covering my weaknesses. Personal pain, thank God, smashed a lot of my masks and is helping me recover from my notions of being likable, competent, powerful, attractive.

In Isaiah 61, we hear about God’s promise to redeem the brokenness of the world through Jesus and his eventual coming. The Gospel moves to bring “good news to the poor”, “bind up the brokenhearted”, and provide “beauty for ashes.” But embedded deeper into the passage is a promise of the “day of vengeance of our God”–that makes us squirm a little bit. But the more I think about this, I realize I am happy that our God is just, fierce, vengeful, Good. “Our God is capable to redeem suffering,” Dr. Langberg said. And even more than that, our God himself suffered at the hands of men like me and you.

What do we speak to the unfathomable horrors of a girl who is sold into sex slavery, the despair of a woman who is abused by her husband, the self-hatred of the boy molested by his uncle, the loneliness of the middle-aged man still feeling the rejection of middle-school? We as compassionate humans are called into the strangely attractive, “divine vocation of suffering.” What does that mean? I want to know.