For the past twenty years, I have been on a journey with some close friends in ministry to high-risk young people in very hard places. We have been trying to figure out what it means to be legitimate, sincere, compassionate and transformational about what we do.
We began coming together regularly to think about and reflect on what we have learned and experienced with others on the journey. We tried to ask questions that would unlock some answers for us in the pursuit of a theology that would effectively sustain our work with difficult kids in hard places. We asked our questions with fear and trembling because we were not sure what the answers would be. We had a hunch of what they should be and had been told what they ought to be, but quite frankly we were not convinced that we really had a clear idea for ourselves even of what questions to ask.
The Psalmist asks a beautiful question in Psalm 137:4, “How do we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?”
The phrase “grace is like water, it flows downhill and pools up in the lowest places” works in my community, Mathare. Mathare lies in the Eastlands of Nairobi which is topographically lower. The sound of its name is received with mixed reactions both locally and internationally. The population of more than 400,000 people is composed of Kikuyus, Luhyas, Luos, Kisiis, and Kambaas, along with several other small tribes. Many people are deprived of the basic needs such as water, food and shelter. Living in a 9 by 9 feet room that is made of wood and old iron sheet, life here is almost unbearable. But since people have no choice (sometimes it is the only heaven they have), traits and tactics for survival come in handy. If I may mention just a few: prostitution, mugging, gangs, drugs and alcohol form the economic power for my community. I told you earlier that Mathare is a name that raises eyebrows.
I wrote a series of eight poems over a year and a half period when I worked with at-risk young fathers as a home visitation case manager and parent educator. The first (“Linea”) is published today, and others will follow.
Eight weeks prior to starting this job I become a young father myself, and I found what is referred to in clinical circles as “counter-transference” to be a powerful dynamic between my and my clients. In other words, the powerful personal connections between what the young men were struggling with and my own experiences as a father were constant themes needing exposition.
For years I’ve visited men in prison seeking to bring Christ’s light, love, and forgiveness to them, and in the midst of this discipleship I have heard some hard things. One conversation haunts me.
Allan was, and remains, the “least” and most “lost” person I’ve met. Pale, unkempt, 115 pounds, obvious learning disability, no social skills, pronounced attention deficit disorder, loathed, oppressed, mocked, reduced, shamed, and forced to shave his legs to better suit the inmate who claimed him as ‘bitch.’ God chose him for me to share an Incarnational moment with.
This video clip shows the disturbing conditions of children caught in the Philippine jail system. This is part of the reason that my family and I are moving to the Philippines this summer--to do restorative justice and health care work in some of the poorest communities there.
If you want to know what happens when left-of-center Social Prophetic spirituality meets right-of-center Charismatic spirituality at the crossroads of power and pain, Bob Ekblad’s newest book, A New Christian Manifesto – Pledging Allegiance to the Kingdom Of God, is the book for you. In this provocative book, Bob shares his encounter of how these two spiritual streams collided in his own life to form what he describes as the “whole ministry of Jesus.” He shares his own radically disorienting, transformative journey and what it means for those he serves.
“Jimmy died. He overdosed in the bathroom of the public library.”
Claire’s words sent needles of fire from my gut to my head. I sat, stunned for a few moments, as if I was paralyzed. As her footsteps echoed down the hall, I began to cry. Thoughts raced through my mind of the last time I saw Jimmy.
He was so high on morphine that he hardly recognized me when we ran into each other on the street. It was the only time I ever felt like not being around him. It would be the last time I would ever see him. I wondered if I loved Jimmy, as Christ would have me love him.
I was in Romania last week, with members our summer camp team visiting with abandoned children we have known for the past dozen years. Over the years we have grown to be like a large extended family, with our times together resembling “family reunions” more than typical “mission trips.”
For me, the aftermath of my trips to this hard place—a large government child warehouse marked by deprivation and exploitation—is typically deep grief mixed with a little gratitude and brave hope. This time, the proportion was reversed. I find myself overwhelmed with thanks, and anticipation for the future. Our teen and young adult loved ones are going to make it.
I’m not sure what the tipping point has been. Conditions aren’t much better for these guys.
