Ben Yosua-Davis
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Ben Yosua-Davis

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Sometimes It’s Not About Me

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Sometimes it’s not about me.

A couple years ago, I went to a writing group at the library.

It was the end of a very long day.

I needed it, not in the way that you need those 50% off sales at Kohl’s for those clothes you wear once and then use for closet decoration.

I needed it.

I was exhausted.

I was sick at people looking at me as if I could give them something.

I was sick of people looking at me, period.

I needed just an hour where I could just be another writer working on another writing project.

I opened the door and winced. Sitting in one the library’s demi-indestructible chairs, with suspiciously perfect sight lines to the front door, was Marcia.

Marcia was one of those people who I try very hard to love, generally with little success.

Life had clearly beaten on Marcia a few too many times. She was so fat she just looked like a bunch of cylinders and spheres stacked on top of each other. She had a mouth with teeth that would make a dentist cry. She radiated stench like her own personal fog.

I had met her at a community event and made the mistake of giving her our number.

She had called, almost daily ever since, leaving long, rambling, only slightly coherent voicemails about her troubles.

She waved at me.

I said hi, trying to sound like I was pleased to see her.

I walked by by as quickly as I possibly could.

I was positive that there was no way, at the end of a day like this one, that Jesus would ever expect me to have a conversation with her.

She followed.

She talked at me about her problems.

I disengaged myself with as much trained politeness as I could muster and headed to the library’s front desk.

She followed me to the front desk and talked at me about her problems.

I gave her a good thirty seconds of listening and told her I had to go.

She followed me to the writing group and talked at me about her problems.

The other people in the group started to look up.

I was getting pissed: a little at Marcia, but mostly at God, for not getting rid of this woman who I clearly did not have the energy to deal with.

She continued talking.

Her significant other/boyfriend/fiance/enemy, depending on the day, was back in jail.

She was on the street and she couldn’t sleep, the cops kept finding her spots and waking her up at night.

She told me that her stomach hurt, because she hadn’t eaten for three days.

That’s when, in the middle of swimming through the aimless torrent of woe escaping from her mouth, I realized that God wanted her to eat more than God wanted me to have my hour of peace and quiet.

It’s a good thing I’m well trained.

I took her aside and asked her if I could get her a sandwich.

Yes, she said, a sandwich with ham, cheese, lettuce; and also oil, mayonnaise, and mustard.

This did not sound like a wise dietary choice to me, but it wasn’t my stomach, so I headed over to a nearby shop to get her a sandwich.

The guy at the counter looked at me oddly when I ordered. I explained, multiple times, that it wasn’t for me.

I gave Marcia her sandwich, which looked like a yellowish soup held between two piece of bread, asking her to please eat it outside.

I went back to my writing group, which was nearly over.

She returned a little later, told me that she found someone who would take her in for the night, and shared with me, a little reproachfully, that her stomach hurt.

I was not sympathetic.

This is generally the point in a story like this when I’m supposed to say that I suddenly felt a deep sense of peace and joy at being the hands and feet of Jesus to someone else, when I was glad that Marcia had walked into my life, disrupted my plans, and reminded me how important it is to serve others. This is the point where I should tell you that I smiled, was grateful for this opportunity, and went home refreshed.

That was not what happened.

I packed up my laptop and left, telling her that she could always call and leave me a message, which is pastor-speak for “I’m too nice to say it, but leave me the hell alone.”

I received no emotional satisfaction from the experience.

I was even more tired, more strung out, and more anxious leaving than I had been going in.

But in the end, it’s not all about me.

Sometimes hungry people have to get fed and I have to be the one to do it.

We get this idea sometimes that following Jesus is a road map to joy, happiness, and success.

In the long term, I think that’s probably true.

But often times, it means setting aside our own egos, our own needs, and doing something that just plain hurts, because it’s not about us.

It’s about serving the people that God loves.

I haven’t seen Marcia many times since then.

I can’t say I regret that.

But, wherever she is, I hope God’s finding people to buy her a sandwich, no matter how it inconvenient it might be.

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Prayer Is Like Washing Dishes

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I was talking about prayer with a few friends earlier this week.

“How do you pray?” someone asked the group.

I sat in the corner, sipping my drink strategically, trying not to say anything.

Naturally, someone said, “Ben, what do you think?”

“I’m not an expert.” I said.

“Well, you learned a lot about the Bible and Christianity. We want to hear what you think.”

I thought about telling them that I wouldn’t be their pastor in about ten days and I needed practice at sitting in the corner while  saying as little as possible.

Instead, I said, “I think prayer is like washing dishes.”

And, if it’s helpful for you, here’s my explanation, (with all the extra umm’s and superfluous words neatly excised.)

When people talk about prayer, it often sounds like something ripped from a movie on Lifetime: someone miraculously healed, someone’s longstanding addiction/anger/bad habit mysteriously taken away, someone saying, “Write a check to this stranger for $401.50 and lo and behold, that person had a child with a serious life illness and they needed exactly $401.50 to do their surgery! A miracle!”

Sometimes, prayer is Lifetime-movie amazing.

However, if you’re like me, prayer is often just like washing the dishes. I don’t get “anything” out of it, but I do it, because I don’t need a leaning tower of plates polluting my sink.

Prayer is about learning to communicate with God. As with all relationships, it takes practice, a lot of practice.  Sometimes that practice is satisfying, even fun, and sometimes it just feels like a waste of time.

I’ve had dry periods of my life, months, even years, where I “felt” absolutely nothing whenever I prayed.

I’ve had other periods of my life where I had incredibly moving experiences almost every time I talked to God.

Now, when I look back at the seasons of my life where God did the deepest work in me, almost all of them coincide with the dry periods, where praying was as inspiring as washing dishes.

When we pray, even if when we don’t feel like we’re “getting” anything out of it, it helps us know how to talk with God, even when we’re too busy, stressed, or overwhelmed to think straight.

The best spiritual writers all speak of prayer in exactly this way. Beware, they say, of seeking the moments of consolation, where you feel the presence of God vividly and powerfully. They are not what prayer is all about. Instead, seek the moments of dryness, when praying feels like nothing more than washing dishes. Rejoice, they say, for in those moments God is working so deeply in you that you can’t even sense it.

So – if praying feels to you like washing dishes, keep at it, God’s probably doing more in you that you would expect.

 

 

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In Quotes

Quote Thursdays

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God spoke to fourteenth-century mystic Catherine of Siena, saying, “I did not intend my creatures to make themselves servants and slaves to the world’s pleasures. They owe their first love to me. Everything else they should love and possess, as I told you, not as if they owned it, but as something lent them.” (Common Prayer: A Liturgy for Ordinary Radicals)

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Endings

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In less than two weeks, the Vine will be ending.

My wife wrote about her experience here. I’ve held off on saying much, wanting to be able to tie this story up in a neat bow (or, if neat bows are not coming, at least some twine and duct tape), before I said much publicly.

However, I’m beginning to realize that, when coming to the end of a journey such as this one, even twine and duct tape may be a long time in coming.

With that in mind, here are a few disconnected thoughts about where I’m at.

1) This was not just a job for me.

Doing this sort of work is not just a way to pay the bills. You hold up everything you cherish about what it means to follow Jesus, to be human, to be community, and then you try to make it reality in the people who you meet. I always wanted the Vine to be a direct, complete expression of my deepest held values and closely held dreams. For a little while, I was even paid to see if I could make those dreams become reality.

The fact that it didn’t take, (even though it bore much fruit,) after five years of good, but often unbelievably backbreaking, heartbreaking work, makes “moving on” a little more complicated than if I had been flipping burgers for the last half-decade.

My wife and I joked that the Vine was our first child. It was the center of our life for six years, sometimes at great relational, financial, and personal cost.  You don’t let things like that go easily, even when their time has come.

2) I’m Grieving.

And it’s a process.

Some days, I’m okay – even excited for what the future might bring.

Some days, I’m angry – at others for not living into the community the way I’d hope they would, or at myself, for all the mistakes and missed opportunities.

Some days, I’m depressed – and wondering if I’ll be condemned to a future spent stocking shelves at a grocery store. (Which is currently plan A. Anyone want some organic pineapples?)

Some days, I’m bargaining – (but not too often anymore), trying to figure out what could have been done differently.

Some days, you’re going to ask me how I’m doing, and I’m going to be way more honest than you really wanted me to be.

Some days, you’re really going to want to know how I’m doing, and all I’ll be able to do is give you a list of stock answers from my Bag of Appropriate Responses.

This is all okay. More than that, it’s healthy. It should be difficult to say goodbye to something like this.

So please, don’t worry too much about us. (Unless that worrying includes dropping pizza and/or chinese food and/or Ben & Jerry’s at our door. If that’s case, please, by all means, worry all you like.)

3) No, I don’t know what I’m going to do next

For the first time since I was ten years old, I don’t know what I want to be when I grow up.

At this juncture, I can’t visualize pastoring a traditional church.

At this juncture, I can’t imagine jumping back into the blast furnace known as church planting.

At this juncture, I have no idea what marketable skills an out-of-work ex-pastor could bring to the general public.

In short, I have no idea what I’m going to do next (although if you have any good ideas, please let me know.)

4) It’s all okay. Really.

I’m not panicking (at least not most of the time), because I believe very strongly that God is working through all of this.

No, I’m not just saying that either.

I may want the timeline to be a little faster, I may want to be able to see more than a few steps down the road, but in the end, I truly believe that God is working this whole thing together for good.

So – be gentle with us, be supportive, understand if we don’t respond to your wonderfully sympathetic messages right away (we still read them and definitely appreciate them), and if we don’t have all the answers yet. We trust it will all come together in time, even if God never gift wraps it for us.

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Poetry Mondays – Vines

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Vines wait.
Kernels of pregnant possibility.
Peeking into life
Like children around the corner of a door.

Vines blossom.
Bright colors on concrete
Splashing goodness
Like God’s fingerpaints.

Vines grow.
And pray they do not grow too old
Gnarled branches and thorns of stone
That bite or grasp an open hand.
But pray that in their season,
Boughs stretched out like arms
Love cast like seeds to the wind
That they exhale
The precious breath
Now meant for someone else.

Vines die.
So gather round
And sing your goodbyes.
Tears watering.
Joy rooting.
Gentleness embracing.
So that new green can
Shout like fireworks
From the dark earth.

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You Call This Church?

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jesus_saves_kkk

During Annual Conference (the yearly gathering of my denomination where we celebrate our excitement about following Jesus by sitting in day-long meetings), generally during the debate of some social issue, someone takes the floor and says, “The church has to say something about this.”

This statement bothers me for several reasons.

First, it presumes that someone (other than people like us) care what we “say” about anything.

Second, it presumes that we should congratulate ourselves on “saying” something about a given social issue, thereby letting ourselves off the hook when it comes to actually doing something about it. (And yes, while I know you can do both at the same time, the almost tangible air of complacent self-congratulation after we pass one of these statements suggests that this is frequently not the case.)

Third, the statement: “The church has to say something about this” presumes that we are the church.

Are we really?

Are we really the church, even though it is nearly impossible for most of our churches to actually give something away without trying to get a “suggested donation” or hear a religious pitch in return?

Are we really the church, even though we spend the vast majority of our money on professional clergy, building maintenance, and programs to benefit our members, so much so that a community that donates a mere ten percent of their income to the poor and needy is considered generous?

Are we really the church, even though our most pressing statistical priorities involve butts in seats and dollars in a budget, priorities that any halfway-honest reading of scripture indicates that Jesus didn’t share?

Are we really the church, even though many of our most committed members consider the whole of their Christianity to be attending church, giving money, sitting on a committee, and going to a Bible Study?

Are we really the church church, even though the three adjectives that most 20-30 somethings would use to describe us are anti-homosexual, hypocritical, and judgmental? (Yes, really.)

Are we really the church, even though the collective life of our denomination looks almost nothing like the Jesus we claim to follow?

In our denominational ecclesiology, a group of people can get together, have a worship service in a building and otherwise live completely un-Christian lives and we have to call that “church”.

Stop and think about that for a second.

If being church is a 24/7 lifestyle in community, being the body of Christ to the world (a rather uncreative statement most would agree is a solid theology), then, how is a group of people who say that they are following Jesus but whose collective lives look nothing like Jesus, really “the church”?

It reminds me of a picture I saw once. It was clearly taken in a church sanctuary, pulpit and pews clearly displayed and on the back wall, the words boldly engraved: “Jesus Saves.”

And in the rest of the picture? A group of white, hooded Klu-Klux Klansmen.

If you read the liturgy of the Klan, (or, indeed of many groups of their ilk), it’s hard to doubt that they sincerely believe they are church, and yet, I can’t imagine Jesus doing anything but getting crucified by them.

You want to tell me that’s a church?

John Alexander, in his book, Being the Church, explains it this way.

Fans of the Chicago Cubs don’t seem to mind too much that their team plays badly and drops the ball from time to time. But what if in the middle of a close game, the Cubs sat down in the infield and started playing tiddlywinks? Or eating lunch?

No doubt, the illustration will prompt all kinds of supposedly entertaining remarks about the Cubs, but when the people of God forget what they’re about, it’s not entertaining. Dropping the ball is one thing. We all do that. I certainly do. And the most casual reading of 1 Corinthians or of Revelation 2-3 prepares us for church that drop the ball. Often and badly, even. But I’m not sure it prepares us for churches playing the wrong game….

What’s troubling isn’t that churches fail…The New Testament gives us little reason to expect heroics of ourselves or of others with regularity.

My problem isn’t that we fail. Nor that we do church badly. It’s that we’re doing something else. [my italics]

When our so-called churches don’t really look like Jesus, even when they have some positive benefit for those who participate in them, that’s the Rotary Club, not the church.

Maybe it’s time for us to stop discussing whether we’re doing church well and discuss whether we’re doing church at all.

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Fear

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Many of us struggle with fear.

There’s that voice inside of us, saying, “Can you really do that?” or “What will happen if you fail?”

If that’s you, (and it’s definitely me), I’m here to tell you:

Sometimes, you should listen to it.

Fight your fear.  Overcome your fear. Fear nothing. This is the advice that happily populate our cultural psyches (and our motivational posters). Fear is the enemy; and, if you’re strong enough, determined enough, courageous enough, you can beat the crap out of it and live the life you’re supposed to live.

This advice has never worked for me.

I’ve thrown myself off the cliffs of life with fearless abandon, only to discover that sometimes you crash before you can fly.

I’ve tried telling myself “It will be all right” and promptly found out that it, in fact, won’t be.

I’ve thrown caution to the winds shortly before discovering that a little caution can be a very helpful thing.

Asking “What will happen if I fail?” (because I will, at least sometimes), or “Am I really capable of doing this?” (because I have real limitations, like all mere mortals) is good. (At least sometimes.)

Fear teaches me important lessons, ones that I often paper over with platitudes and wishful thinking.

Here’s my advice:

When confronted by fear, don’t turn away from it, silence it, or explain it.

Head straight into it and see what it has to tell you.

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A Christian Response to the Black Mass at Harvard

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There recently has been controversy over the Extension School Cultural Studies Club at Harvard sponsoring a Satanic black mass that mocks Christian worship. Outraged people, spearheaded by the Catholic Archdiocese of Boston, protested vociferously and demanded that Harvard stop the mass. (This is CNN”s story about it.)

They were successful. The event was postponed until an undetermined date in the fall, with the Extension Club dropping its sponsorship.

Another victory for the Jesus people, yes?

Yes?

I’m not sure.

Because, try as I might, I can’t imagine Jesus joining those protests.

I simply can’t square the outraged, overbearing defensiveness of these protesters with the Jesus who say,  “ Love your enemies, do good to those who hate you,  bless those who curse you, pray for those who abuse you. If anyone strikes you on the cheek, offer the other also; and from anyone who takes away your coat do not withhold even your shirt. Give to everyone who begs from you; and if anyone takes away your goods, do not ask for them again. Do to others as you would have them do to you.” (Luke 6:27-31)

It’s easy for those of us who follow Jesus to forget that whenever we encounter scorn, anger, or even abuse from those around us, our first response is not to angrily defend our religious territory.

It’s to confess:  remembering that far worse than a bunch of college students mocking Christianity is a bunch of professed Christians who mock Christ through the ways they live their lives.

It’s also to rejoice: because events like this give us a chance to show the humility and unconditional love that are the very heart of God.

A black mass held on one of the prominent colleges in the country deserves a response.

This is what I think it looks like:

As students and curious onlookers walk to the black mass on the Harvard campus, they are greeted by people offering them free coffee and water. They see people holding signs asking for forgiveness for their shortcomings as Christians and for the shortcomings of the church. They go inside and the place is swept spotless, the floors gleam: apparently a group of strangers had come in before to make sure that the space would be clean and comfortable. When they leave, there are another group of people, who invite them to a big community potluck on a nearby lawn and an invitation for conversation about what they experienced and about their disappointments with the people who say they follow Jesus.

We don’t respond with outrage, defensiveness, or judgment when someone mocks or questions us.

We respond with humility.

We respond with love.

Jesus doesn’t give us any other options.

 

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For the Next Month, I Will Be Doing This

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Posting may be a little bit light around here for the next month.  After all, it’s November, also known as Nanowrimo month.

I’ll be happily playing around with a novel that I’m tentatively calling, “Kill the Puppy, Save the Planet”, which, I promise, is not as evil as it sounds.

In the Haverhill area, we also happen to have an amazing group of writers that organize write-ins almost daily, have parties at the beginning and end, and even give our emergency rations to aspiring novel writers.

If you’re looking for something ridiculously fun to do this month, I highly recommend it.

See you all one month and fifty thousand words later!

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Small Acts of Kindness Are Sometimes Just Small Acts of Kindness

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A couple Sundays ago we did a small thing out in the Mount Washington neighborhood.

For those of you who don’t know, the neighborhood is one of the darkest in my city, and it recently has been hit by a rash of violent incidents, especially highlighted by a stabbing death on one of its most traveled streets last year.

A small group of us went into the neighborhood to hand out free water, free Halloween candy, and talk to residents about what would make the neighborhood a better place to live.

It was fun. We had several good interactions with passersby. One child kept coming by with her dog, Milo, and wrote a few encouraging words on the sidewalk very seriously in pink chalk. Other people looked at us suspciously when we offered them free water and candy (I think they thought we were probably up to something.)

Nothing profound. Nothing earth shattering. Just a little good in a hurting neighborhood.

As part of my job, I’ve become an expert at wringing profundity out of the most mundane events. I can make a failed bake bean supper fundraiser sound like the second coming, if you give me a couple minutes. But, truth be told, sometimes free candy is just free candy, sometimes a couple decent conversations are just a couple decent conversations, and a few slogans written in chalk on the sidewalk are just, only, simply that.

These, of course, aren’t the stories that get passed around. We generally hear only the remarkable ones. Someone comes across a brilliant idea, and, like magic, it instantly changes a whole neighborhood. Someone does a good act that they think is anonymous, but soon it spreads like wildfire across the city. Someone goes out on the street to do something odd and beautiful and saves several lives in the process.

We like these stories. I like these stories. They’re beautiful, they’re inspiring, they make great reads.

However, they are not normal. And, if we expect them every time we serve others, we will be disapointed.

Most of the time, nothing groundbreaking, earthshattering, newsworthy happens.

Trash gets picked up. Flower beds get weeded. Candy gets handed out. Conversations get had.

All of them, on their own, pretty normal, simple, everyday things. Nothing to write a story about.

Truly great things do end up happening, but generally that’s because they’re just a lot of small things piled on top of each other, year after year after year, until they can amount to something noticeable.

Most of the time, doing good is much like anything else; sometimes you succeed, sometimes you fail, sometimes you make an outsized difference in someone’s life, and sometimes a free bottle of water is really only just that.

I try to keep that in mind. I hope for the big successes. Sometimes I make the mistake of even expecting them.

But significance only comes through hard, long, persistent, often horribly mundane efforts – and just because I didn’t change the neighborhood through a small bag of skittles didn’t mean that my time was poorly spent.

I consider our time spent in that neighborhood on a Sunday afternoon to be well spent. After all, we’re not expecting to swoop in like Superman and change the neighborhood in time for dinner. We’ll just keeping serving, keep loving, keep blessing. We’ll count our time there in years, not in days or in months.

And who knows? Maybe, someday, all those accumulated acts of kindness will turn into something great.

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