In Lewis Carroll’s adventurous story about the little girl Alice we are guided through rabbit holes and attend tea parties. The characters are bigger than life placing every reader’s imagination on overload. What if you could travel with Alice and as Morpheous ask Neo “Want to see how far the rabbit hole goes?”

The life we witness weekly often takes us on an adventurous ride through wonderland. I can say our imagination has to catch up quite frequently. The phrase how did we get here is spoken almost daily.

On a recent Thursday night at the pool hall we listened to the story of a friend tumbling down the rabbit hole again. She worried that memories from her young past would repeat themselves bringing total destruction to her fragile well being. The wounded heart she carries bandaged only with temporary fixes that in themselves have long term realities, pounds hard in her chest.

Her hands shake with fear that haunts every moment. Her eyes heavy because she will not close them, for hidden in her eyelids are horrid pictures of abuse. At any moment we expect a rabbit with a clock to run by. If only it was a fairy tell. The wonder land here makes us wonder why?

Why? Why are we here joining God in this adventure at this time and in this place? Should we run? Can we just pat the back of our friend and give her a “God bless you” and see you later? Don’t think it doesn’t cross the mind. We know we could stand up look at our watches and proclaim “I’m late, I’m late, for a very important date.”

No, I think it is times like these that God says to be still and know I am God. We find it is ok to ask why. It is ok to not know what to say. But it is not ok to just walk away. Besides if you hang around you will see God do some of his most amazing works on earth, and when you remain available He will be glad to work right through you.

http://www.drybonesdenver.org/

I spent last week about as far from the ‘hood as you can get. My family and I were at my sister and brother-in-law’s—a place up in the mountains with many more horses than neighbors. I’m fond of my own neighborhood’s noisy style of New Year celebration (firecrackers and firearms in the air), so I missed that. I enjoyed tromping around the pine trees but still found my thoughts drifting to the city.

Josie and Scott “break” and train wild horses. Having failed to stay on top of tame horses several times in my life, I have no inclination for the wild version. I was happy to watch from a distance as Scott climbed into a recently-repaired corral with two mustangs—recently repaired because the horses went crazy and demolished its steel panels a couple weeks ago. I had imagined the horse-breaking process to be something like an extended rodeo event. After all hell comes loose and the dust settles, either the cowboy or the horse ends up broke.

What actually happened was very different. Scott walked into the middle of the corral and held out his hand. The horses backed away and banged into the far rails. For a long time they stood watching, then one took a couple steps toward Scott. Eventually horse and human were nose to nose. “He’s curious,” Josie said.

"Hello Officer Johnson, this is Captain Black. . . . Yeah, we've got a D.O.A. here by the river . . . . Yep, I'm sure he's dead. . . . some kid . .
. . these ministers came and told me that there was a dead guy in the park.
. . . . they led me down there, we searched through the bushes, and we found him."

Tonight was one of the toughest nights on the streets yet for me.
Every Thursday night, for the past four years, we've rented out a pool hall. We invite all of our friends, the street kids, to come inside for free pool and an opportunity to feel normal. Nothing about tonight felt normal for me.

It was one of those "first-ever-experiences" that I would just rather not ever have had.

Three street kids, good friends of ours', came running up to Robbie and me at the pool hall. "We were just down by the Platte River walking on our way over here and we found a dead guy." These kids were scared out of their minds. Scared because they didn't know what to do. Scared because they were afraid that they were somehow going to get in trouble. And scared mostly because, well, it could have been them.

I have a new friend…I think. She’s about the same age as me, and has had many of the same struggles I’ve had, but from a female’s perspective. She doesn’t believe in God the same way I do, and that’s ok. In reality, she believes in God the way most people who live outside the margins do, and this is the problem.

Before I continue, it’s funny that I use the word ‘margins’ because most of you might think I mean the inner-city, but she grew up in the suburban inner-city. A mostly invisible world that lives right next door to suburbanites everywhere.

Nonetheless, she is as hard as they come, and a hard life has made her that way. But she wants more out of life. A lot more....though life isn't very promising right now. When I first met her, I knew I was going to love her. I knew that she was going to teach me something…and that together we were going to learn something new. With her, I know what it means to say that “I love her with the love of Christ”, but not the version she’s always had. And as much as it is perfect for her, and exactly what she needs/wants, everything she’s ever been told about God forces her to reject it. And I don’t blame her.

Are you kidding? Me starting a women’s ministry? Here I go, but first let me tell a story.

Last summer I finished a year of participation in a group for mothers of preschoolers called MOPS. To be honest, I was relieved to be done. While their program was very encouraging and I am thankful for it, the women in the group lacked some of the life experiences I needed companionship and support for.

All of us in the group shared a need for support, but no one else’s struggles revolved around poverty, oppression, addictions, abuse, abandonment, racism, unemployment, and crime. My life has always been connected to all these issues. Going to women’s groups that did not meet these needs made me feel even more isolated.

In fact, many times when I risked being vulnerable in these settings, the women’s meaningful attempts to comfort me were unavoidably tainted with their inability to relate. They really cared, but their caring often was expressed by the words “you poor thing.”

"Sometimes I sit in my room and pour out everything to God. Questions, anger, confusion. Sometimes love and affection. Everything.”

“A lot of other times I sit in the park, numb. Really I’ve been just isolated, lost.”

It’s been over seven years since my friend was the victim of a violent crime that left her disabled. A few times a year, I see her at church. It’s a big deal for her to make the effort to come. The wheelchair, the bus, and all that. But the main effort is in finding space for her private turmoil in a public worship service. We had a long talk about it after church this past Sunday.

“If I’m going to relate to God I’ve got to bring everything, the good and the bad. I don’t know if people really understand that.”

We’re a “Bible-believing church,” so we should. The Bible not only makes ample space for lament—cries of pain to God—but it elevates it to a high art and a form of public worship. Public worship! Pain in private is one thing, but neither our American culture in general nor our religious culture in particular is set up to handle pain in public.

The other day I spoke to a dear old friend of mine. A friend I grew up with during my youth. He knew me when my life was utterly hopeless. While he somewhat participated in the chaos I excelled in, he always remembered Christ. Amidst the chronic pain of trying to balance our loosely held lives, he always managed to keep faith in perspective, while I blasphemously denounced it.

We keep in contact often and give one another encouragement. When we talk we know we can trust one another. He told me something the other night I was not expecting. It was very painful and I’ve been trying to process it over the last couple of days. I find myself doing more ignoring than processing.

He said, “Sam, I have to tell you something. My brother….well, my little brother has full blown AIDS. He’s had it for 8 years, and we never knew. We only found out because he almost died of pneumonia. This is your area of expertise, and I need your help bro.”

I was blown away by something that I witnessed while working on the streets today. It made me sad.

I was talking with two street kids as I looked across the way at another young guy. "John" was spanging (asking for spare change) on the opposite corner. As John sat there quietly holding his sign with one hand held out palm up, a businessman walked up to him and began a conversation. Soon, John jumped up onto his feet and began yelling at the man. The man quickly ran away with his head down. John was done for the day. He walked across the street to where the three of us were standing.

He then began, "That *&#$#! thinks I'm gay or something. He thinks I'm a prostitute! He was trying to hire me." With a tear in his eye, he looked towards the ground. It was amazing how quickly this man's ignorant and disrespectful actions wrecked John's day. I told him, "You don't deserve to have people talk to you that way. You know that you aren't like that. Don't listen to him. He doesn't know you. That was his problem, not yours'. Etc. . ."

One of the other street kids standing with us spoke up and said, "Well, you know . . . I have a lot of friends out here on the streets that would have taken him up on his offer. When you're desperate for money, you'll do some crazy things. I have a lot of friends that prostitute themselves. He asked you because others have said 'yes' to him before."

John said, "Not me. Never." Then he walked away.

http://www.drybonesdenver.org/

Anybody remember when it started?

Quick break from our usual emc fare to ask, who remembers Barney Chavous? Tom Jackson? Jim Turner?

You either know exactly what I’m talking about, or you’ve got no idea. There has never been a time in Denver like it, before or since. The place was completely off the hinges. You could not glance in any direction without seeing predominantly orange. Bronco flags waved from every car antenna. For weeks, there was one topic of every conversation with friend or stranger. A hundred thousand people were in the streets, in a frenzy before the team had ever even been to a Superbowl.

The 1977 Bronco season defined a football franchise, and arguably redefined a city. It was the beginning of Denver’s transformation from a regional outpost to a national metropolitan center.

I spent Sundays that year at my gramma’s tiny house on South Newton Street, and the Orange Crush season of ’77 was the defining time of our relationship. She fried up four quarter-pound hamburgers in her cast-iron skillet, and we parked in front of the tube. The Morton to Moses connection was magic. Joe Collier’s 3-4 defensive scheme was genius. When time expired… when the Raiders collapsed to the Mile High Stadium turf, defeated in the AFC championship game… when announcer Bob Martin screamed “The miracle has happened! The Broncos are going to the Superbowl!”… when the goalposts came down under a swarm of fans, hacksawed into souvenirs on the spot… I could only hope I wouldn’t wake up from the dream.

We’ll be at our friends’ house for a standing-room-only Bronco party Saturday night. The magic is gone, the genius suspect, and the players no longer gods. Mile High Stadium is buried under a complex named after a corporation guilty of securities fraud. But we’ll be yelling like it’s 1977.

Down in the west Texas town of El Paso, there is a school once known as Texas Western College but now called the University of Texas at El Paso. It probably isn’t really better known now than it was back in the day Don Haskins did the unthinkable and won the NCAA Basketball Championship using an all black lineup.

By the time I arrived at the school in the fall of 1982, Don Haskins was much older but still very much the soul of the basketball program. I remember basketball drew the most crowds even though the track team was outstanding as well. I went to as many home games as I could, often standing in long lines for tickets or having friends camp out in line overnight waiting for them to go on sale as the season came to a close and it was clear UTEP was going to the NCAA Tournament. Inside the Special Events Center, now the Don Haskins Center, there were pennants of all the victories over the years. There were many for NCAA Tournaments and NIT Tournaments but one hung alone, the NCAA Tournament Champs of 1966. I always wanted to know more about that story.

Well, last Friday I got to see the story behind that pennant hanging up all those years--through the movie Glory Road. As the story unfolded, and I saw such a nice looking actor play Don Haskins, I smiled. I must say, it would be an impossible job to find any actor who could capture the Don Haskins I saw at those games. His intensity as he rolled and swatted his hand with his programs, the hard scowls he gave his team, and the way he paced the floor and yelled at his team just cannot be matched.

Haskins was not called “The Bear” for nothing. I was amazed to find out it was his first year coaching when he got that title. I didn’t realize the courage it took for Don and the guys on the team to hang in there to get it. But I am grateful for them and all they did to prove, one more time, how truly talented and really glorious Blacks are.

Watching with my own children, ages 4 and 6, I got a new perspective as well. They couldn’t even understand why people would hate others so much. After all, they are “Czechs-Mex” kids (half Mexican and half Czech/European) who attend an inner city school and a black church. Many of their friends are black (although my daughter insists they are not black, they are brown). They still don’t know much about the history of racism or experienced much of it themselves. All they know is how other people treat them and whether or not they are fun to play with. I wish their world could stay that idyllic. But we all know, the problems faced many years ago, the constant “proof” of equality still has not done away with the problem of racism. It is not a problem of complexion but one of the heart. And that is even more difficult to change.

Glory Road is energetic and has a great story to tell. I recommend it for sports enthusiasts, historians, cultural anthropologists and people just seeking good entertainment.

Glory Road is rated PG for racial issues including violence and epithets, and mild language.

No, this isn’t another sports post! A few weeks ago, I set out to be with people who are suffering in our city. I have lived in an urban neighborhood for many years, but wanted a fresh look through the eyes of those living on the edges, in order to gain their insights and perspectives. I was curious to see how Christ is present among the outcast, forgotten, and broken-hearted.

One day I met and hung out with a couple on East Colfax whose street names are “Nebraska” and “Spot.” They both reeked of alcohol and Nebraska was in need of a cigarette, bad. I’ve seen them around my neighborhood on the corner, and asked them if I could buy them lunch. Mostly I wanted to get out of the cold, and I knew they must be freezing too. I also figured I needed to satisfy their hunger before they would have any conversation with me.

After letting them choose the cuisine, we sat down in Popeye’s--they wanted fried chicken. I sat with them and felt like I didn’t want to eat much, not knowing when they ate last. We sat warming ourselves and mostly I just listened. They both have previous families and grown kids, but seemed especially devoted to each other, addictions and all. I could smell the “homelessness” on their breath and see the swollenness of Nebraska’s hands.

Spot was really interested in talking about the Bible. She mentioned that her brother in Chicago was a deacon in a church, and her grandmother always made them go to church growing up. Nebraska was having a major nicotine fit and wasn’t much interested in talking. I gave him a few bucks to go buy a pack of cigarettes so Spot and I could continue our conversation.

As we talked, I was surprised that she went into a sort of church-jargon spiritualese, including “Hallelujah, Sister,” and the “Amen,” and I wondered if she was in some way trying to impress me or get on my ‘good’ side. She stopped when she sensed that was not my style. I read with her from the book of John, and explained that even when life happens and darkness seems to take over, God is still right there with us in the midst of our suffering and pain. Jesus came to us, loved us, and suffered with and for us. Spot became intrigued, so I read her a little bit of the Christmas story in Luke. She looked right in my eyes and with a seriousness, said, “I’m not ready, because Nebraska isn’t ready,” like she was waiting for me to offer the “Four Spiritual Laws” or something. I told her that right now, all this was really between her and God.

Nebraska returned some minutes later, pretty uptight about getting out his cardboard sign and heading back to the corner to get enough money for a room that night. The unheated garage the restaurant owner was letting them sleep in provided no shelter from the cold temperatures. Nebraska said God was good; it was God who allowed him to keep on going. When he started making references to me as their angel, I assured them I was no angel but I did enjoy spending time with them. I invited them to look for ways in their lives where they could see God at work, perhaps through others.

After I left, I felt a twinge of regret that I did not even think to pray with them. However, there was something about sharing humor and a meal that lifted their spirits. Nebraska gave me the street name “Oklahoma” because he and I share the same real last name, and because I told him that most of our family namesakes that I knew lived in Oklahoma. It did make my day to know that I made them laugh, and they shared they had not laughed for such a long time.

God is enabling me more every day to view those who are visibly broken in our city with an eternal perspective rather than simply the consequences of poor choices, or even worse, as someone else’s problem or ministry. God’s response to us is not one of vindictiveness, but love and reconciliation. Should not this also be our response to others?

Starting a women’s ministry is hard when you’ve never done it before. It’s even more difficult when the goal is to incorporate women like me into the developmental process. Women who’ve never truly felt any other options in life except options that help us survive.

But this is what I am trying to create. An environment that not only supports women like us, but allows us to own, shape, and transform our group and our lives in the process. Last weekend I met with a group of women I hope will commit to being in the process with me. I found this meeting to be a rewarding experience that affirmed God’s presence in this project and His scandalous presence among us all.

We met in the chapel at Joshua Station, which is set up more like a counseling room. Highly appropriate I thought because we’re creating something that will lead us to healing. I recruited these women through various recommendations of people I trust, and up to this point I had met/conversed with each of them somewhat, but they hadn’t all met together yet.

As a result, our meeting began with an awkward silence. Having called this meeting I said “Hi, my name is Tiera and I’m an alcoholic, and totally messed up!” They released a laugh mixed with relief and nervousness, and then our conversation began.

University of Virginia Professor of Religion Charles Marsh is one of my favorite writers. His books on the history and theology of the Civil Rights movement (including The Beloved Community, recently released) offer vivid arguments, wrapped in well-told stories, for why “ideas matter.” For example, in God’s Long Summer: Stories of Faith and Civil Rights, Marsh explores the mystery behind the fact that both civil rights marchers and leaders of the White Knights of the Ku Klux Klan claimed that it was devotion to Jesus Christ that motivated and informed their role in the struggle for (and against) racial justice in America. White, “Bible-believing” churches during the Civil Rights era often taught that the church should not involve itself in such “worldly matters” as race, politics, or social protest. Their silence provided cover for church members to participate in the KKK, believing that they were “purifying” a nation that had lost its way.

Well, such “worldly matters” have been dealt with and settled, haven’t they? Haven’t they? Then we read in today’s Rocky Mountain News about the re-segregation of Denver’s schools since the end of court-mandated busing, and are reminded once again that we’ve still got plenty of homework to do on the issue of race. But that’s for another discussion...

Marsh has an editorial in yesterday’s (January 20, 2006) New York Times called "Wayward Christian Soldiers." (The full article can be found here.) This time, however, Marsh has shifted his focus from civil rights to war in Iraq.

Marsh, who identifies himself as an evangelical, wonders how much the witness and integrity of the evangelical church have been damaged by our coziness with the highest levels of political power in the US generally, and by evangelical support for the war in Iraq in particular (87% support in 2003, and a still-high 68% today).
Marsh has been reading the sermons of well-known evangelical pastors in the days leading up to the Iraq war. Charles Stanley’s argument that "We should offer to serve the war effort in any way possible," was typical of what Marsh found in his study. It seems these pastors saw the war as opening up new opportunities for evangelism among Muslims, as well as a possible focal point for end-times events. As a professor of religion, Marsh was dismayed by how little theological reflection was demonstrated in these pro-war sermons. “The single common theme among the war sermons appeared to be this: our president is a real brother in Christ, and because he has discerned that God's will is for our nation to be at war against Iraq, we shall gloriously comply.” One exception to the rule is well-known British author, theologian and pastor John Stott, who believes that going to war without UN sanction was a moral error.

Full disclosure: I was, and remain, torn about the war. I’m frustrated by my own indecisiveness on the issue, which is not for any lack of effort or study. I’ve felt cursed by an ability to appreciate both sides of the issue, while being offended by the extreme views of both left and right – and by the dearth of meaningful theological reflection on the reasons Christians chose one side or the other. Yet all my own reflection has left me hovering somewhere in the middle. Truthfully, I tilt toward opposition to the war, but recognize that a very grave situation existed that demanded some sort of action.

Marsh’s final words in today’s NYT certainly are challenging me to end my neutrality, however belatedly; “What will it take for evangelicals in the United States to recognize our mistaken loyalty? We have increasingly isolated ourselves from the shared faith of the global Church, and there is no denying that our Faustian bargain for access and power has undermined the credibility of our moral and evangelistic witness in the world. The Hebrew prophets might call us to repentance, but repentance is a tough demand for a people utterly convinced of their righteousness.”

One of my favorite films last year was the political thriller The Constant Gardener, based on the novel by John Le Carré. In addition to a taut storyline, the film provokes viewers with images of a deeply impoverished slum in the Kenya’s capital city, Nairobi.

That slum is called Kibera, and it is the largest in Africa. Something like 800,000 people live on 600 acres of steeply sloped land, with a stream of black water trickling at the bottom. Most of the homes are made from some combination of corrugated tin, mud, or cardboard. There are no city services for this community larger than the city of Denver – no water, sewer, or electricity. One small police station, with a half dozen officers who know better than to try to actually police the community, provide the only formal government presence.

I just returned from a trip to Nairobi, during which we visited Kibera twice. We joined some friends for a church service in the waiting room of a faith-based health clinic, and took a long walking tour led by two women who live there and dozens of children anxious to have their pictures taken by the muzungu (white) visitors. Kibera isn’t a normal stop for tourists in Kenya, to say the least. But we were guests, invited by my friend Gideon Ochieng, who lived in Kibera until recently and who still works with homeless children from the slums.

What if I really set out to see God in our city? Many people see things in black and white, but not so with God. God is imaginative and bold in the context of culture, if we seek to find Him there. With camera in hand and eyes eager to see in new ways, I went to find God in my own city. Some of the images I found downtown I had passed over hundreds of times.

Here are some reflections on nine snapshots from Denver:

1) Isaiah 54:17 – “No weapon forged against you will prevail, and you will refute every tongue that accuses you. This is the heritage of the servants of the LORD, and this is their vindication from me declares the Lord." I just liked the church name, but when I looked up the scripture reference, I thought it was fitting. The marginalized in society are raging battle against spiritual forces and government powers every day.

“There are some things within our social order to which I am proud to be maladjusted.”
- Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr.

"If we see increasing segregation and dropping student achievement, then the question is: How can you continue to let this happen? And, what can you do to keep it from continuing to happen?"
- Alan Gottlieb of the Piton Foundation, referring to a recent Harvard study of Denver Public Schools (more here)

Last week my son Ben and I attended the annual Martin Luther King “Marade” in downtown Denver. Denver’s march/parade is one of the largest King celebrations in the nation—even a snowy forecast didn’t stop 30,000 of us this time. The day turned out pleasant enough, and after scouting around for friends during the many long, windy opening speeches at the King statue in City Park, we stepped off toward Colfax Avenue.

Our family has been doing the Marade for years, and I couldn’t help enjoying the contrast with 1992, when the KKK joined the rally and the festivities ended with tear gas. No worries this time as our multicolored gang hollered jokes, teased each other’s kids, and caught up on each other’s lives on our brisk walk past the state Capitol and on to Civic Center Park. It was a vivid and lively celebration of Dr. King’s dream.

Today, I had one of the most amazing experiences of my life. Seriously.

I am a true fan of good movies, but had never been to any sort of 3D movie until today. Nikki, Benny, and I took 8 street kids to see The Polar Express in IMAX 3D. Not only did we look totally rad in our 3D glasses, but the experience was unreal.

I liked the movie. It was good. But I had a hard time paying attention to the words, themes, characters, blah, blah, blah because I was so amazed at the objects jumping out at me. If you've been to a 3D movie, you know what I'm talking about. At the end of the movie, my neck was a little sore from constantly looking left, right, up, down, and occasionally ducking. I loved every minute of it even though my stomach did get a bit queezy whenever the train sped out of control - which was most of the movie.

Nearly two months have passed since I traveled from Denver to Washington D.C. to take part in civil disobedience for a moral budget. I still have not gathered my thoughts, my emotions, at least not enough to write of my experience. The trip held too much emotion for me. I did not simply go to protest a budget bill. I went to chart yet another path that runs counter-culture to the life David and I left over 13 years ago.

This life we left was not one we would have even thought to abandon. We were content with our culture and in many ways had been “groomed” to become the next generation of leaders within it. David and I are from that beautiful, educated part of America where there seemed to be answers to questions and solutions to problems. We didn’t personally know anyone who was homeless, marginalized, or poor. All of our friends were just like us, and we surrounded ourselves in our “sameness”. Words like justice, welfare and common good were not a part of our vocabulary, much less understood.

"Over the next several months, on issue after issue, let us do what Americans have always done, and build a better world for our children and grandchildren."
- President George W. Bush, State of the Union address, February 2, 2005

"But seek the welfare of the city where I have sent you… and pray to the Lord on its behalf, for in its welfare you will find your welfare" (Jeremiah 29:7).

A friend passed this along from Caleb Seeling, who is organizing a State of the Union watch party on Tuesday, January 31 from 6 - 9 p.m. at The Master's Church at 1477 Columbine St. in Denver. I can't go. If you can and do, I'd love to hear your comments on this site.

A few posts ago I mentioned that I had a new friend, and I’m continuously blown away by how much is coming from that friendship. God is shattering the image we both have of Him, and in place He is giving us a new one. To be completely honest, this new one is both inviting and frightening. I am starting to truly believe that God is the great iconoclast ("image smasher"), but I am not sure I entirely like that, because it can often make Him unpredictable.

For my friend and I there is an uncomfortable beauty through our painful lives that defines this relationship. The ceaseless reminders of our distorted realities and unhealthy perceptions about life, faith, and love fuel the passion to search for something more.

However, we each experienced in our lives the frustration of taking steps closer to faith and feeling like it just took us further away from what it was we were searching for. Last Friday, as we talked about this challenge I could tell she wanted to break down crying, but she is too strong for that.

My heart was convicted when she said, “I went to church Sam. I did. And it was cool and sh*t. They could wear jeans, dress down, whatever…but it didn’t do anything for me. I’m searching Sam. I really am. Though I don’t know what I’m looking for sometimes.”