I’ve decided to stop writing
with the hope of saying insightful things in creative ways—there are plenty of
people who are better at that than I am—and begin writing merely to process. I
have things to say, but I am insufferably tired of reading the blogs of young
twentysomethings steeped either in Christian culture or the backlash against
it. I find culture and subculture fascinating, and have been lost in my mind
examining which one I have found myself a part of. I used the singular of those words because I
have realized that I live in essentially a singular culture…or more accurately
subculture. And it’s keeping me awake at
night.
I am sitting in the Drip peering
out the old glass windows and notice road bikes, semi-new VW wagons, Jeeps, and
lots of Yakima roof racks. A young couple chatters softly behind me, the lovely
woman nursing an infant with a cloth draped over her shoulder. The very
attractive baristas make shop talk, and the older hippies that never grew up
study the local outdoor magazines, free for the taking in racks by the door.
The racks are almost empty.
I love this place. It is small,
local, friendly, and I nearly always see someone I know. I loved walking around
Lake Tomahawk earlier, surrounded by families and an oddly high number of pure
breed dogs. Both places are comforting, safe. Both places help me feel anchored
here, like I am a part of a community and like I am connected to a bigger
picture. I realized today coming home
from church in downtown Asheville, as I drove through the winding city streets
overflowing with pedestrians and culinary delights, that I live in a town
driven by tourism and the outdoor recreation industry. That combined with the
number of resorts and B&Bs in a smallish radius essentially makes Asheville
and Black Mountain resort towns.
Not all parts of either place
are overwhelmingly affluent. I live on
the outskirts of the ghetto, or what might be a ghetto if Asheville had one. I
guess what makes it nearly a ghetto is the proximity of public housing and the
number of bus stops and “food stores” dotting the corners. But even the public
housing is nicely maintained, and though it is small, is very “Asheville” in
construction: corrugated aluminum roofs, wood siding and large trim around the
windows, both painted in earth tones. Which is why I can’t say it is a
ghetto…because regardless of the races represented there, it is still nicer
than most public housing places where I’m from, where I went to school, or just
about any city bigger than 200,000 people.
As I wandered around the ‘Boro
with Jordan over Christmas, we both commented that it seems like the amount of
people begging has increased. Rarely do I see beggars in Asheville. Happy, who sits outside of Doc Chey’s nearly
every day, and has for years now, almost doesn’t count. He has a roof to go
home to and a network of support through the VA and ABCCM. I have tried to be more observant, taking
note of the places where I have seen people.
I do not see the tent cities like there were under the bridges in
Greenville, or the droves of falling down houses that comprise the south side
of Greensboro. Nor do I see herds of women, children, and older people hanging
out around the rescue mission, or ABCCM, like I did at Urban Ministry, Triune,
or Labor Finders.
The landscape is different here,
with the solid middle class dominating the horizon. Our nook in the
neighborhood seems to me to be what my mom calls “Chapel Hill” style: older
homes, some restored but most not, with mangy yards, some turned into gardens or
chicken pens (or my favorite, which is a garden, hen house, and goat pasture
all in one), with nicer cars like Subarus, older Audis, or Saabs occupying the
dirt driveways. Mostly a mix of academics, retirees, and people with joby-jobs
to pay the rent. And a few of us young guns to keep things interesting. And yet over and over people refer to my area
as “a place with colorful people”, “the ghetto”, or “a place you wouldn’t want to walk through
alone”. I have a good friend who is a cop. He routinely tells me he worries
about me.
So where are they? Where are the
people I have been conditioned to be wary of? Where are the big, scary black
men? Where are the Latinos? Where are the migrant families that I know do much
of the physical labor here, because I hear of their stories from McKay? I don’t
see them. Why don’t I see them? Because I live in a bubble. A bubble that I am
realizing is not a representation of the way that the Kingdom works.
My whole life has been a bubble
in some sense. I cannot help that I have white skin, was born to parents who
pursued and still value education, that I was born in an area of the country and
world that affords me opportunities, that I was raised in a culture that values
networking and social skills and etiquette and advancement. I grew up solidly
middle class, with parents who sacrificed (ahem, are still sacrificing?) to
make things happen. I grew up hearing “no” more often than not. I was only
allowed to shop at Kohl’s for most of my middle school years. My mom was and
still is a single mom. My broken family was always on the outside of the
perceived private school in-crowd, and we never belonged to a country club. We
never drove an SUV until my senior year of high school when my mom’s 14
year-old car gave out, and the SUV was used. So, relatively speaking, I did not
experience the standard upper crust privileges. But I went on from an entirely
private-schooled growing up to a private university, noted for being highly
selective, with fairly high expectations of what was the social norm. Oh yeah,
and an insanely high price tag. I can never tell if the clear physical reaction
people have when I tell them where I went to school is because they respect the
academics or because they judge the price tag. I had scholarships, I usually
qualify when I get The Look.
My longest-standing association
outside of those things is with an organization that has created what we half-affectionately,
half-sarcastically refer to as the Billy Bubble. Squeaky clean in reputation, neat in appearance,
no dirt available for the public eye, socially acceptable and well-respected, a
sort of International Standards Committee for the world of Protestant ministry.
I am tired of the bubble. The bubble is isolating and keeps me longing to know
what it is like to live among and not above the rest of the world.
I believe that camp is good,
that it has a place in the work God is doing, that it can be life-altering. I
believe it is an effective way to communicate the love of Christ to kids. But I
don’t believe that camp is for the squeaky clean, the socially acceptable, the
well respected. I believe that when Jesus said, “Let the little children come
unto me”, he meant all of them, not simply the ones that were presentable. In
fact, looking at Jesus’ track record, he was probably gathering into his arms
the messy child that reeked and was hopelessly incapable of passing the test of
social acceptability.
I am increasingly struck by the
words of Scripture, found in the prophet Isaiah’s book:
“Is this not the fast I choose:
to loose the bonds of wickedness, to undo the straps of the yoke, to let the
oppressed go free, and to break every yoke? Is it not to share your bread with
the hungry and bring the poor into your house; when you see the naked, to cover
him, and not to hide yourself from your own flesh? Then shall your light break
forth like the dawn, and your healing shall spring up speedily’ your
righteousness shall go before you, and the glory of the Lord shall be your rear
guard. Then you shall call, and the Lord will answer; you shall cry, and he
will say, ‘Here I am’. If you take away the yoke from your midst, the pointing
of the finger, and speaking wickedness, and satisfy the desire of the
afflicted, then shall your light rise in the darkness, and your gloom be as the
noonday. And the Lord will guide you continually and satisfy your desire in
scorched places and make your bones strong; and you shall be like a watered
garden, like a spring of water, whose waters do not fail. And your ancient
ruins shall be rebuilt; you shall raise up the foundations of many generations;
you shall be called the repairer of the breach, the restorer of streets to
dwell in.” 58:6-12
This passage is full of actual
physical acts, of instructions for physical freedom, as well as spiritual. At
the time of Isaiah’s prophecy, the kingdoms of Israel and Judah were physically
suffering. God’s divided people were stuck in cycles of physical and spiritual
sin, were physically oppressed, or would be at some not-far-off point. Isaiah was
not suggesting the care of the oppressed, he commanded it.
I read the words of the prophets
and the word of Jesus when he says things like, “the Spirit of the Lord is upon
me, because he has anointed me to proclaim good news to the poor. He has sent me
to proclaim liberty to the captives and recovering of sight to the blind, to
set at liberty those who are oppressed, to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor”,
quoting the prophet Isaiah in Luke 4. He did indeed come to bring a kingdom not
of this world, but while he was walking through the world he healed blind men, associated
with the poor, and freed captives (remember the slave girl, the demon possessed
man?). The whole fully God, fully man
thing didn’t allow him to overlook his fellow friends with skin on. I look at that precedent, that standard, and I
look at my life. I look at who and what I associate myself with. I look at what
I do in the bigger picture of the Kingdom, and I wonder if we’ve missed
something up there in the Billy Bubble.
Jesus loved rich people too,
people with connections and status and influence.
Mary, Martha, and Lazarus were wealthy. Joseph
who buried him was wealthy and probably well respected. But the ones he called
to follow him, that he hand-selected, that were in his most intimate circle
(from what we know of Scripture, at least) were not chosen because they were
squeaky clean in reputation, neat in appearance, they probably had some dirt
available for the public eye, weren’t necessarily socially acceptable or well-respected. They were most likely the opposite of those
things, fishermen and troublemakers, artisans and tax collectors. I think it is
a mistake when our ministries skip over these details.
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