"House Church" by Leigh Tatum

If someone says, “I’m going to church today,” an image of a large rectangular building with a steeple and a preacher at the front comes to mind. But why does that mental image pop up? Are there any alternatives to this picture? Perhaps, the Christ’s followers should realign their expectations of what a church should look like and focus instead on what God desires His Church to be like. First, each of Christ’s followers, each part of the universal Church, has a calling on his life and God outlines it clearly. He asks his disciples to love Him with all their heart, mind, and strength and to love their neighbors. God also firmly instructs his followers to spread the good news of His love and redemption offered through Jesus Christ to the whole world. Although there is no exact formula for living out this high calling, these decrees should motivate and direct everything the local church does.

In Binghampton, a group of believers has chosen to live out this calling in a different way, by forming a house church made up of those from the community. House Church is small by design, and currently supports about fifty people split between two different homes. The small group dynamic pushes the participants to grow both as individuals seeking to know Jesus and as a body of believers endeavoring to further God’s glory and build each other up. Every person is strongly encouraged to use their gifts in a way that serves the whole and honors God, whether that is through teaching, music, prayer, faith, serving food, or adding wisdom to the discussions of Scripture. In this context, no member is relying on a preacher or various programs to provide spiritual growth to him. Instead, he is spurred on to intimacy with God our Father. Additionally, this model is transferable to all cultures and socio-economic groups because people are the only resources needed, fueled by the Holy Spirit and directed by God’s Word.

Most Americans today have compartmentalized lives; the people they know through their church, work, school, social club, and neighborhood do not typically overlap. This compartmentalization leads either to a host of surface relationships with various individuals or a full devotion to one group at the cost of neglecting all others. However, with the house church model, the people worshiping God together are often neighbors, coworkers and friends. This marvelous overlap encourages authentic, deep relationships by allowing interaction with people in multiple contexts. With church being both smaller in number and less separated from other aspects of life, vulnerability and accountability are facilitated and fellow participants can more easily recognize and act when needs arise.

Furthermore, the Church is not limited to what happens on Sundays. Romans 12:1 says worship occurs when people “offer [their bodies] as living sacrifices… to God.” So, Christians worship God and build each other up through a number of activities, not simply when they gather for a service of songs and Bible teaching. When young women host a weekly Girls Club to show love and share the about Jesus with the young girls in the neighborhood, they are being the Church. When some fellowship over dinner and laugh and share life together, they are being the Church. When others meet to discuss biographies of saints that have gone before them, they are being the Church.

Lastly House Church, like any group, is not filled with perfect people and will always have room for improvement. Conflict and growing pains will surface, but the small, open design gives voice to all participants and the authentic relationships among believers foster honest discussion of challenges as they arise. Additionally, the leaders of house church consistently focus on the highest priorities: the call to die to self for Christ’s sake and the need for all nations to hear the Gospel. House Church upholds these priorities by supporting several who are serving God abroad and praying for them and for those who may go soon. In considering the mission of the universal Church, the unique model and components of House Church have proven to build up Christ’s body in distinct and powerful ways.

January, 2007

"Growing Up in the Inner City" by Tasha Houlihan

It doesn’t take living in this neighborhood very long to realize how the culture of the inner city affects everyone, particularly those who have grown up in it. This has been more apparent to me as I have worked with preschoolers and their families that live in and around the Binghampton area. “Freddie” is a four-year-old in my class who comes from a family that is not atypical for the neighborhood: four siblings, dad is rarely if ever present, and mom does not work. Fortunately for him and his first grade brother, there is a school where many of their spiritual and emotional needs are met. It is entirely possible for a child to grow up in the inner city and have the love, encouragement, and support from family to develop in a healthy way. Sadly, this seems to be the exception rather than the rule for many kids who are daily affected by the negative choices of parents, family members, and neighbors.

When I first met Freddie, I had heard that although he was four, he had very little supervision at home and was often seen walking around the neighborhood with his six year old brother, “Trey”. I have worked with older children like him, and I expected him to mirror their difficulties with authority and reluctance to participate in school. To my surprise, he was a sweet, kind, and loving little boy who has thrived in the school environment. He greets me each morning with a hug and smile, and rarely complains or utters an unkind word to his friends. The first day of school I let my students paint as a fun, introductory activity. His delight in the paint and what he had created was immeasurable.

As I have gotten to know Freddie, I have also become acquainted with his family, especially his two older brothers. While in some ways they are like him, I can see how even at six and eight years old they have been affected by the culture in which they were born. Trey can be sweet and loving like his younger brother, but at the first sign of confrontation or conflict, his sweet face becomes dark and hard. He goes into a shell that often seems impenetrable. He will refuse to speak with or acknowledge anyone. He has been caught stealing twice since I have known him, both times spurred on by older friends from the neighborhood.

“Tonio” is the oldest of the three brothers at eight. He attends a local public school and spends every afternoon hanging out in our school gym with Memphis Athletic Ministries. He is given the responsibility of picking up and taking care of his brothers after school, and he is only in second grade. He has been banned from every store within walking distance for stealing. He rarely shows emotion, and hangs out with neighborhood kids playing games like drive-by, where they pretend to be apart of a drive-by shooting.

The gradual differences seen in these boys are remarkable to me. Unfortunately, they do not have the protection and shelter from the dangers of the world like I did growing up. Freddie is an innocent little boy, with little understanding of the threats that the world around him holds. Sadly, he will face gangs, drugs, and unspeakable violence anyway, much sooner than he should, and without having the abilities to resist such influences. Observing the progression in just four years from Freddie to Tonio, I wonder how anyone could expect children to succeed in the inner city. By the time these boys realize the truth of death and pain that their culture hides behind myths of glory, it may be too late.

But even in these discouraging circumstances, God offers glimmers of hope. I cannot redeem this neighborhood, or these boys, but He can, and I believe He is. Freddie and Trey have been put into a Christian school with teachers and staff who are bold to speak against the negative influences of their culture, and to protect and care for them when needed. Tonio spends every afternoon with young men who are like him in many ways, but they are also strong Christian men who are deserving of the respect that he gives them, unlike other leaders in the neighborhood.

Several weeks ago I was at school late, and as I was leaving I noticed several children on our playground (which is fenced and locked). Freddie and his brothers were outside the fence, and I asked the kids inside to leave the playground and the parking lot. I asked the boys if they wanted a ride home, to which they said no. They wanted to hang out with their friends. One of the boys I didn’t know said he wanted to go play drive-by. Trey looked up at me and said “I think I want you to take me home.” It was a moment I will never forget, when a connection is made and all of the sudden what you have been teaching a child becomes real, and he responds in a positive way. I think it was a huge step for Trey to say no to his older friends and come with me.

Another day after school I had all three brothers in my room while I was working. They ended up working on puzzles with each other. In my class, we never say “I can’t”, we say “I need help.” Freddie said he couldn’t do a puzzle, to which I responded ‘We never say I can’t.’ Just a few minutes later, he said the same thing again. Before I could respond, I heard Tonio say, “Yes you can Freddie, you can do it. Don’t say you can’t.” This from a boy who has probably heard the message “You can’t” over and over again from his family, peers, and community. But in my room, when I let them play, he gets to be a kid. He’s not there to watch his brothers, and act tough around his friends. He plays with preschool puzzles and dolls, and he loves it.

The illustration here is probably one of hundreds of similar situations. Many children are falling pray to the dangers of inner-city life. It is easy to blame families, neighborhoods, social programs, or schools. It is easy for me to place blame, and it is easy for me to ignore when it is not my fault. I would rather be home with my husband, or getting my errands done, and I am not the reason they have no one to watch them and no where to go after school. It is even easier for me to think that what little things I do for these kids will never make a difference in the long run. They will still join gangs, and steal, and do drugs, so maybe it’s just not worth my time. Looking into the faces of those I work and live with everyday, I see that there is little hope left here. After generations of difficulty and struggle, many believe they will never get out, never amount to anything, and never succeed. But I’ve only been here for five months, and already I see that God is working. I cannot let myself fall prey to the same hopelessness that plagues this culture. My God is a God of hope, and He has called His people to spread that message to the whole earth. Even in the difficult situation of these brothers, I can see the hope that is there for each of them.

January, 2007

"Reflections: Ana" by Kristin Veach

The first time I met Ana, she was walking into our classroom with an anxious, vulnerable look on her face. As I got to know her over the next days and weeks, I began to realize that my first impression was partially correct. She was anxious because she is so sensitive and unsure of if we would accept her. She is also very vulnerable. Her highly sensitive nature increases her desire to be accepted by everyone, and she desires to do what needs to be done to gain that acceptance. But in getting to know Ana, I also found that she is one of the most sweet, caring little girls you will ever meet. When she knows you care, she greets you with a hug and a smile. If I were allowed to have favorites, she would certainly be one.

Before I ever met Ana, I met her family. Her mother is white, her father is African American, and she has five brothers and sisters. Her mother is good friends with a major local drug dealer who visits her house daily. Her oldest brother belongs to a gang and has been in the hospital multiple times for gunshot wounds related to his gang activity. When Ana was younger, she spent several months with her uncle. She was taken from her mother because of her choice in men. The more I learned about her life experience, the more I began to treasure and appreciate Ana’s sweetness and innocence.

Even knowing all that I did about Ana’s family, I somehow felt that she could not be affected by all that surrounded her. That is until she began coming to school with stories. The one story that sticks out most vividly is one she told when we were talking about what we had done the day before. She raised her hand and I expected an answer about riding her bike or going to the park, but instead she broke into:

“Last night, Big T came over (Big T is my momma’s boyfriend) and he was mad. He threw the TV through the window and broke the TV and he messed up my school clothes and my backpack and he was hitting my momma and so my momma chased him into the road and she was on the porch with a gun and told him she was gonna kill him and then my uncle ran into the road with him and they were fighting and Big T pulled my uncle’s pants down and…”

I was floored. I had no idea how to respond; I just asked her to stop in the middle of the story and tell me about it later. The crazy part was that she had no idea that her story was very different than someone else’s story about going to McDonalds. She was telling it just like she would tell about a trip to the mall.

After a while I realized that these types of stories are somewhat normal for Ana. Sometimes her mother comes in to warn me and tell me her side of the story before Ana shares, because she knows Ana will share. She is so open and so vulnerable.

I drove through a fast-food restaurant the other day and the girl at the window was a bi-racial girl, about 18. She had a face of stone and a dark sadness about her eyes. Her face shape and skin color reminded me of Ana, and I began to wonder when Ana would become this way, hardened by life. It made me long for her to stay six years old forever, or to take her away, away from what she seems destined to become. I wondered what I could do now to preserve her sweet, sensitive personality. Then I realized that there is not much I can do. All I can do is love and treat her as I would any other six year old. I can teach her how to deal with situations and how to distinguish right and wrong. Then all I can do is pray: With all my heart, this is what I hope and pray for Ana: that God will intervene in her life and she will somehow rise above her circumstances and grow up to be a caring, responsible adult.

January, 2007

"Race Stereotypes" by Lisa Pollock

I didn’t grow up in Memphis. In fact, I’m a northerner. The south is new to me. Collared greens, sweet tea, fried okra, porch culture, and summer heat- it’s all new. And like any visitor in an unfamiliar place I am soaking it all in. I’m trying a wealth of new sounds, sights, tastes, and experiences; particularly experiences. And so I write these next observations with the honest confession that I am no expert in southern culture, no seasoned veteran to the happenings of life below the Mason-Dixon Line. In many ways I write as a foreigner planted in a culture far different from her own. But I write them honestly, and I write them hoping that they might serve to explain a little of the struggle we face.

Memphis is still a segregated city. I’m not sure if the greatest dividing line is race or economics, but in many ways you would find that in our city those two go hand-in-hand. Memphis city and Memphis suburb exist within the same 30 miles but they are not the same places. The housing, lawns, storefronts, and perhaps most importantly, the opportunities, are vastly different despite the closeness of proximity. Perhaps the most evident to my outside eyes, however, is the clear racial divide. Memphis suburb is predominantly white. And Memphis city is predominantly black.

Now, I do not mean to make it seem as though these two worlds never collide or conflict. Or that they are so distinctly separated that a crossover does not exist. But, I have gathered that a great deal of ignorance has led to a great deal of stereotyping. I have a friend who grew up in the Memphis suburbs whose father handed over her driver’s license at 16 with one admonishment, “Whatever you do, do not ever, ever, drive on Tillman.” Tillman happens to be the “main street” of Binghampton. And in the same respect I have had a student at school ask me, “Miss Pollock- are you rich?” and when I asked him what made him think so he responded, “Well, you are white.” These are stereotypes that exist and I think what I love most about our community in Binghampton is that in its core concept it is stereotype defying. It desires to heal misconceptions, seek understanding, and live in reconciliation. So, my heart is always saddened when I witness events that only further perpetuate the longstanding racial stereotypes that exist in Memphis.

One such example took place when I was out to dinner at Central Barbecue on a mild evening in the beginning of March. Central is a favorite Memphis barbecue location that is situated between the downtown and our neighborhood of Binghampton, in an area called Midtown. Midtown has gone through fairly extensive gentrification and is now home to Memphis’ young, professional, artistic class. We had just ordered our food that evening and were walking out to the patio to await our food being brought to us. No sooner had we sat down then we heard a commotion begin to erupt on the other side of the patio. “You stole my purse. You stole my purse!” I looked up to see a woman pointing at a man standing a few feet from her. As soon as she began to shout those things he turned and started to run. A few gentlemen dining with the woman began to chase the man who had turned to flee. He stumbled slightly and I was pretty sure that they were going to catch him. He got up and continued to run, however. He ran towards a car, jumped in, and then started driving towards his pursuers. He squealed his tires, peeled out, and made a turn for the street nearly running into the oncoming traffic as he merged. All in all, it was a fairly exciting and eventful scene. I had just witnessed a purse snatching.

I sat catching fragments of the conversation as the woman began to retell the story to her friends. She was obviously upset and somewhat enraged by what had happened to her. And rightly so; her purse had been stolen. What I noticed, however, through the bits and pieces I was catching of her re-telling was a distinctive emphasis of particular details. You see, the man who had stolen her purse was black. And the group of victimized diners was white. I sat staring at my barbecue nachos in frustration. I was frustrated because I’m sure that this story would be told to all of these woman’s friends as “the time she had her purse stolen by a black man.” I was frustrated because black men were now my neighbors and I knew many of them to be good, decent, hardworking men, but this particular black man had to go and do something stupid that would only further increase the stereotypes I myself had believed a few years ago about “dangerous black men.” I was frustrated because as I sat pondering the issue I realized that it only takes a few isolated incidences to create a stereotype, but it takes a few thousand incidences to erase it. I was frustrated because I know how the Memphis news portrays my neighborhood; how the gangs, and the violence, and the unpleasantries are the only things seen on the television by those snuggled safely in their suburban homes. I was frustrated because I know how the neighborhood boys that I hang out with hate rich, white people who continue to get more and more and not care about anybody else. I was frustrated by a deep yearning to see the Word of God manifest itself in Memphis; “you are all sons of God through faith in Christ Jesus, for all of you who were baptized into Christ have clothed yourselves with Christ. There is neither Jew nor Greek, slave nor free, male nor female, for you are all one in Christ Jesus.”

It would ease my mind a little if it were only unbelievers living in segregation. I could understand if the Holy Spirit was not present to do the work described in Galatians of making those who are vastly different one in Christ. But I fear this is not the truth. I fear you might find Sunday mornings one of the most segregated times of the week in our city. My frustration then, is not merely because I long to see the end of years of racism and stereotyping and segregation in our city because I know the damaging economic and social repercussions. My frustration exists because I long to know why I do not see my Christian brothers and sisters of all colors living, laboring, and serving our city together.

May, 2006

"First Impressions" by Brian Purdy

Pulling up to a white house that matched the address of my map, I got out of the van and approached the gate fixed to the wooden fence that encircled the small corner lot. It was the first of three summers that I had worked at SOS, Service Over Self, Inc., and I was charged with the task of leading groups of high school students in re-roofing the house at which we had just arrived while at the same time challenging them spiritually. Relatively new to the community, I was somewhat unsure of myself in approaching the gate without any warning to the residents of the house beyond. Nevertheless, I distinctly remember a feeling of confidence that had blossomed from a pronounced ignorance to how things worked in Binghamton.

I pushed through the gate and approached the front door. I knocked loudly several times before a young black man answered the door. He struck me as an accommodating individual and re-entered the house to summon the rest of its residents. As he and several others poured through the front door, I noticed that he was the only one that looked “urban” according to American standards. His large t-shirt hid the fact that his dark, baggy jeans hung low on his waist, and his untied sneakers looked new and matched his large fitted baseball cap that still bore several flashy price tags.

The rest of the family, dressed in t-shirts and shorts, had no shoes, except for the mother, whose feet were covered by an old pair of leather sandals. In the ensuing time of greetings and introductions, I learned that the residents were refugees from Sierra Leone, a small country on the West African coast known for its diamond exports, and that they had been living in the United States for approximately five years. A little anxious and somewhat preoccupied with the unfamiliar task of roofing a house, I moved to proceed with taking tool inventory and began work for the day. Things seemed to run smoothly, and I was glad that we were finally underway.

In the weeks that followed, I learned that the young man who had answered the door, Musa, was a cousin of the Sillah family who had moved to Memphis after immigrating to Philadelphia with his mother. Though he had been immersed in the culture of urban America for some time, he did not seem altogether hardened by it, and the rough image that I had perceived upon meeting him faded a little with every toothy African smile that crossed his countenance. I remember several times that summer when we juggled a soccer ball together in the front yard. I was amazed at how well he could perform with both shoelaces untied and the tongues of his sneakers flapping wildly in contrast to his own controlled movements. I remember, also, playing one-on-one with him in the street a few times. I do not, however, remember winning. Needless to say, Musa was a natural athlete. On occasion, when I would see him leave the yard, I would ask where he was going.

“ I’m going to the park to make some money,” he would say with a matter of fact tone, and he would return later having won or lost various amounts of money on the basketball court. Whatever the result, he seemed content and continued to smile.

One day, about two weeks into the three week roofing process, Musa caught me off guard by asking some pointed questions. He had seemed disengaged from our lunchtime devotionals up to this point, and he would often leave whenever we held discussion. The questions that he asked, though, were all the right ones when comes to opportunities for sharing the Gospel. So, I answered them as best I could, and inquired as to the origin of his sudden interest in gaining biblical perspective on life and death. I was surprised to hear that he had been poring over becoming a Christian for some time as a result of meeting with Eric on a regular basis. He was merely inquiring of me in order to compare my answers with those that he had discussed in great detail with Eric. I was glad to hear that he had discovered a mutual consistency in our responses.

It is funny to me to remember when I first encountered Musa, especially in light of how things are now. His story is one of persecution and grace, with many parallels to the Gospel, and I am often left without words when I think of how God has worked in his life through Eric and Shelly.

May, 2006

"Hollins Avenue Basketball" by Blair Perry

If there is one thing about inner city boys that I have learned, it is that they love basketball. Of all of the twenty or so guys I know that live in Binghampton, every single one of them loves to play basketball. Whether its knockout, 21, one on one, three on three… they love it!

For most of the year, the only goal that I knew of was outside of Dr. Rick’s house. From what I could tell, it created much traffic and stress. Constant games and competitions, boys yelling, fighting, fouling…. Needless to say, I’m sure it can be quite stressful for Laurie and Rick. A constant flow of sweaty and smelly boys asking for the car to be backed down the driveway, a basketball, and some water to go with it. Could there be a better way to attract the kids we had hoped to share the gospel with?

During the fall and spring, Brian began coaching a team for some of the boys. It has been such an amazing journey watching them develop. The Binghampton Bulls have been such a testimony of how when time is spent investing in kids, things can change.

While working in the shop during SOS spring break camps, Eric and I stumbled upon an old basketball goal. Not expecting the answer I received, I half-heartedly joked about bringing the goal home to Hollins—his response has made a major difference in our experiences with the neighborhood boys. That afternoon, Eric and I loaded it up and brought it home. After a quick duct-tape and Liquid Nails job, the goal proudly stood on our curb—creating the Hollins Avenue basketball court.

Within a matter of hours, kids were outside playing. It has been, without a doubt, the greatest ‘neighborhood boys’ magnet I’ve experienced. Since that goal has been in front of our house, I have met and began relationships with numerous kids from our neighborhood. Every week I seem to find someone new outside playing—young and old alike. It really has been great.

The area where there seems to be the greatest impact is with what I refer to as the ‘regulars’—a group of around six guys who seem to be on our street curb as often as the sun rises. Having those boys at or near our house everyday has created a great opportunity to get to know them. We have since taken them to a Grizzlies game, dinner, Putt—Putt, as well as making them dinner, snacks, water, etc. In many ways, I feel like they are becoming part of my family. What do I find when I come home from a long day of work??—the guys, sitting on my porch, waiting to get a ball and a cup of water. But, on some levels, I pray it goes deeper. I hope they see the way that I treat the girls next door. How we are not at home during the day because we’re out at work—everyday until five. Or perhaps they notice that we sometimes have to tell them they can’t play right now—or that it’s okay to lose games. I hope they see how I react when I get fouled hard or miss seven out of eight shots.

To cut to the heart of the matter, it’s about much more than basketball. It’s about using something like basketball—something the guys are genuinely interested in—to honestly live out the message of the gospel. Many days it can be discouraging; moreover, it’s frustrating to see how easy it is to just give up and walk away. When life comes at you hard, how the obvious choice is to quit! On many days, I fail miserably. I come home in a bad mood, and the last thing I want is a fourteen year old with an attitude talking trash to me on a basketball court. But those are the times when I am reminded all the more of the importance of literally falling to my knees to pray that God would not only restore my heart, but that of the guys as well. That I would be granted patience, integrity, and hope—all in true faith that Christ can overcome any obstacle whatsoever. Would I, could I, just be simply convicted daily that life is about more than petty games and breakdowns, but that life is about the glorification of the great Risen Savior—and that without his redemption, I will always fall completely short of his glory.

May, 2006

"Academic Shortsightedness Meets Spiritual Myopia" by Peter VanWylen

Everybody wants vision. A business owner needs a plan for future success. Parents want to see their children have good lives and want to help their children see this vision. Young adults desire a plan for finding worthwhile employment and long-term companionship. Most people seem to have goals, but not everybody actually achieves them. Living and working this year in an area poorer than where I grew up, I have seen more dashed hopes and unrealized dreams than I would like. I wonder if shortsightedness isn’t one of the greatest root causes of poverty.

I was thinking about this today as I met with the mother of one of my students. He is one of those good-natured but not-so-disciplined students who comes to class, gets out paper and a pencil, and feigns interest for about seven minutes. He cannot, however, be persuaded to focus or do anything productive for the rest of class. Somehow those papers he scribbles on never seem to get turned in with the weekly homework packet; instead they get jammed hastily in a locker on the way to lunch and are lost forever in a jumble of clothes, paper and books.

The sad thing about this situation is that the young man of whom I speak has big plans. He has been in the drum corps of the marching band all four years of high school, became drum major as a senior, and is very excited about continuing on with band in college. Never mind the fact that he is failing too many classes to graduate and enter college – even if he takes summer school to try to catch up. The problem is that for the last two or three months he has been skipping several classes a day – apparently so that he can go hang out in the band room to practice, improve his skills, or chat with the band director.

Last week, I realized that his name was on the list of students needing to make up two Gateway exams, which are required for graduation. His name had been on the list all week, but he had skipped the test days earlier in the week to practice for a band performance. So on the last day to make up the exams, I tracked him down and ordered him to get into the testing room and take them. He told me he would worry about the exams later: there was an important band field trip and performance for the local elementary school, and the bus was leaving within the hour. When the band director told him that required exams come before field trips, he was off like a flash. He ran to the exam room, impatiently requested his exam materials and within a half hour was finished filling in random bubbles on both 3-hour exams… just in time to make the bus for the band trip. He did not, needless to say, pass either exam!

One of my more common mini-sermons to students is on vision versus shortsightedness. “Every class you skip,” I say, “is $120 of future income down the drain. Every class you work hard in is worth $120 in future opportunities and income.” I wilt (and rant) whenever I hear that a student is regularly having his mother come to check him out of school an hour early so that he can make an extra $7.25 working at the grocery store instead of investing in his mind. I have come to believe that often it is not the poor who become shortsighted but rather the shortsighted that become poor.

This morning as I got ready for school I was lamenting several shortsighted behaviors that are very common among my students. I was quite preoccupied pondering why these foolish students can’t see more than 24 hours in front of them when I realized that shortsightedness is present in most all of the sin that I struggle with in my own life. The internal battle going on inside of me between “the flesh” and “the spirit” is related to the conflict between the long-term vision given me by the Holy Spirit and the short-term satisfaction and happiness that consumes me by my sinful nature.
My half-hearted pursuit of God and my preference for temporary relationships with friends and peers is shortsighted. I am shortsighted when I spend more time thinking about and seeking a potential mate then I spend walking with my eternal lover, God and King. My preference for human praise over pleasing God is shortsighted. I am shortsighted (perhaps even blind) when I avoid ministry to friends who are skeptical of spiritual things simply because I want to avoid disagreement and ridicule. When I do this, I am shortsighted in forgetting the fact that they were made to spend eternity with their Creator. Who am I to groan over a student who can’t look past the next few days and see his whole life, when I can’t look past my life and see God’s eternal kingdom and my eternal dwelling with Him?

My prayer for growth is simple. I have to see past the schoolwork and paperwork, past the next social event, past the praise that I get when I do something well. I must see further. I must see all the way into God’s eternal kingdom and my dwelling with Him.

May, 2008

"Eyes Wide Open" by Liska Shilling

I am absolutely certain that God placed me in Memphis for this period of my life. There can be no logical explanation for the circumstances that brought me here. With that knowledge, I approached this year in the Academy with cautious optimism that God was about to do something significant in my life. In order to “prepare” myself for the urban jungle that is the Memphis City Schools, I talked my way into a student teaching placement in one of the largest city school systems in Indiana. Now, I’d like to think that I’m not as naïve as my upbringing and demographic profile might suggest. I’ve spent time walking around in major cities of the world and worked two summers in this very neighborhood with SOS. I knew that part of the purpose of the Academy is continued exposure to the inner-city with a focus on living and working in the area. Despite all of my preparation, God has used this year to break me down and show me a completely different world than anything I’ve ever known.

I accepted my current teaching position, in buyer’s terms, sight unseen. I knew nothing about the school or community. According to education protocol, this is not typically the way things are supposed to be done. I soon realized that I’d accepted a job at a school more known for making the five o’clock news than its quality of education. On the third day of school, a large, gang-related fight broke out and almost took me along with it. My first lesson of the school year: when the fight is big, get out of the way and call for help. As the school year progressed, my vocabulary and understanding of the students’ vernacular both expanded to an amazing degree. With a little assistance from a colleague’s research on UrbanDictionary.com, I have learned more than I ever wanted to know about the things my students are saying. I have prayed that my pregnant students would not deliver in class. I have broken up near-fights in the hallway and in my classroom. My phone has been stolen twice. All of these things I expected to a certain degree. It is perhaps the fact that I have become accustomed to being cursed out and now struggle not to return the favor rather than be offended which surprises me.

Other things that I have seen are more tragic than anything else. I watched a fight begin to break out in front of my house between the 9-13 year old kids that hang out around the basketball hoop. That day I almost stood in the street and wept because these tiny, sweet children already possess the lethal combination of anger and lack of reason that puts my students in jail. There is such a twisted honor system that makes it somehow necessary for you and your boys to jump so-and-so because he said something about your girl. One of the students that I’m closer to is highly motivated but I’m afraid of what may happen to her. She is one of my projects because she has a baby and is still attached to the currently less-than-stellar “baby daddy”.

God has broken me again and again because I am powerless to do anything on my own. In my mind, I have been pursuing a social gospel to battle against the problems of the city; educate them and they’ll be better people. More and more, he convicts me that this is not what he asks or blesses. We are to take care of the poor and marginalized; however, we are not to act as if feeding or clothing is enough to solve the real problems. I want to be the hero in the teacher movies that the American people love to watch. We all applaud Erin Gruwell for her Freedom Writer’s success, but at the same time millions of kids are still not being reached. Without God, it is impossible to maintain any sense of hope as I struggle to make any measurable difference in my students’ lives.

My students’ lives are so precious to me and yet so ridiculously messed up in many ways. Many will struggle to finish high school in four years. Few will successfully complete university degrees. Yet for now I feel God has placed me here for a purpose. I want to help my students achieve success in life. I truly look forward to next year and the possible impact that I can have on their lives as I am guided by Christ. My struggle is to find ways to help them see the need to pursue a genuine relationship with Christ as part of this. It has been necessary for God to break me of this “make God’s new kingdom on this earth” attitude. My heart cries out to God for the teenagers of Memphis, but I must confess that most of the time it has merely been that they would stop fighting, stop lying, etc. I have been learning the need to recognize the true source of the problems of the world. God has used Memphis in a very powerful way to teach me these lessons. The devil exists and has power in the world; his lies have proved appealing to many, including my students. Yet the promise of the Bible says that Christ and his gospel are victorious in the end and that we are to run the race hard while it is still today. Therefore, I run on.

May, 2008

"Micro Lending" by Doug Vignes

I recently read an update letter from Robert Lupton discussing the potential limitations of micro lending. While it has been a very successful tool to be used in underserved areas around the world, the life changing effects of these small loans is coming into question. Perhaps a small loan can help a struggling widow purchase some needed equipment in order to make food to sell in front of her house. The only problem is that with this small loan she will never be able to drastically improve her situation. Lupton states that she would need a significantly more substantial loan in order to create a store with more equipment, in order to be able to serve more people with a product. He suggests that there should be a coalition of widows with similar skills, who come together with this bigger loan in order to be able to make an amount of money that could really change their lives.

Part of the theory is that large-scale lending depends on a person doing a type of market research that surveys a community and decides what resources are available for use in order to create a company worth investing in. It requires one resource that it seems like all ministry opportunities are built on: TIME. Without time invested, money will not have the desired effect. However, time will show where money can most effectively be utilized, producing a great need for people with economic backgrounds to serve in these places. What a great call this could be: to live among the poor, trying to map out and discover the economic needs of an area. Not only that, but this could be an opportunity to reach the ends of the earth with the good news of the gospel. Everyone needs food, water, and basic services. If you can help find a way to meet people’s earthly needs, then you might get the opportunity to help them with their spiritual emptiness as well.

I have been able to see firsthand how a collaborative effort can lead to a successful business model. When I was in Rwanda this past summer (2007), my group had the opportunity to meet a collection of women who had formed a company that makes soap to support their families. These women, who are widowed because of the genocide in 1993, needed a way to provide for their families. They also saw that there was a need for soap in the area, so they created a process that allowed them to make and box style soap for general washing and cleaning purposes. While not a multi-million dollar industry, this soap factory makes enough soap to provide a good income for all of the women who work there. They are even beginning to diversify their business model; they have recently been able to build a giant banquet hall in order to host weddings as well as other events.

So, while a micro lending loan may help someone increase their production by 100%, a much larger macro lending loan could help boost several widows earning power by ten times that number. This can change lives for the better, stimulating an economy with a marketable product that people both need and want. Not only this, but it gives you and me one more reason to go among the nations, using every opportunity to take the gospel to the very ends of the earth.

May 2008