The Christmas I Stopped Singing a Lullaby

When my children were babies, I loved singing lullabys to them as I rocked them to sleep. They were mostly songs I learned from my mother and grandmother before me—“Hush little baby, don’t say a word, Mommy’s gonna buy you a mockingbird” and “Go to sleepy little baby ʼfore the Boogie Man gets you” were two of our favorites. Another favorite was one in the hymnal used in most of the churches where I grew up:

Can you count the stars of evening
That are shining in the sky?
Can you count the clouds that daily
Over all the world go by?
God the Lord, who doth not slumber,
Keepeth all the boundless number;
But He careth more for thee,
But He careth more for thee.

It was a sweet song expressing the faith that God would individually care for each little child. Holding my sleeping infant and softly singing these words was both a parent’s prayer, but also an expression of comfort and security.

Our second child was born in August of 1984—the year a terrible famine struck Ethiopia. That fall the news was full of stories about the hundreds of thousands of people dying of starvation. I sat down to our annual Thanksgiving Feast of turkey and dressing haunted by images of starving children with emaciated faces and bloated bellies. I tried to forget the images while I ate and avoid feelings of guilt for my gluttony while others were starving, but that just made me feel more guilty for trying to forget.

Then one night I began to sing that lullaby to Zack as I rocked him to sleep. I came to the third verse and the words choked in my throat—I just couldn’t get them out:

Can you count the many children
In their little beds at night,
Who without a thought of sorrow
Rise again at morning light?
God the Lord, who dwells in heaven,
Loving care to each has given;
He has not forgotten thee,
He has not forgotten thee.

I have never sung the song again. I can’t. I don’t believe it any more. It was a song of a faith that only made sense in a life of privilege and plenty. The words were not true for starving children in Ethiopia.

A few days after Thanksgiving a group of British and Irish pop and rock stars recorded a new song to raise money for famine relief.  The song was written by Bob Geldoff (of Boomtown Rats) and Midge Ure (of Ultravox). Some of the biggest names of the day participated—Sting, Phil Collins, George Michael, Duran Duran, Bananarama, and more. “Do they Know It’s Christmas?” became a huge hit in both England and America.

I first heard it riding in the car in Chicago in the middle of the bustle of the Christmas season. The lyrics were piercing, disturbing, and inspiring.

But say a prayer, Pray for the other ones
At Christmas time it's hard, but when you're having fun
There's a world outside your window
And it's a world of dread and fear
Where the only water flowing is the bitter sting of tears
And the Christmas bells that ring there are the clanging chimes of doom
Well tonight thank God it's them instead of you

Do they know it's Christmastime at all?
Feed the world
Feed the world

I lost a song that season. But I learned a better one.

Something Has Changed

The other day I went to a run-down motel to pick up the belongings of a homeless man named Dwayne who has been part of our Reunion community. He had been sharing a room there with a man who was living on meager disability checks. Dwayne paid him about $15 a day to share a room, money he earned selling The Contributor on street corners. Dwayne has been in the hospital for weeks and is now in the respite care program at Room In The Inn. The roommate is moving back to his home state, and Dwayne asked me to go get his belongings for him.

I took some boxes and plastic bags and gathered his stuff. Two small boxes of books and papers. A few large bags of clothes. An electric blanket. Some personal items. I carried it all down to my car and packed it tightly into my trunk. As I closed the lid, it suddenly occurred to me…I just loaded a man’s entire earthly belongings into the trunk of my car. The trunk of my car.

And this was not a nameless homeless person we might stop to help or serve in line at a mission. This was my friend Dwayne. I see him every week in our home. Most Wednesdays we grab a burger and talk about life. I had everything my friend owned in my trunk.

Something has changed in my ministry these last few years. I’ve been involved in some way in ministry to the poor in the city for many years—whether starting a tutoring program for inner city kids in Milwaukee, or serving on the advisory board of a Houston charity, or preaching for a church with a food and clothing pantry in Nashville. I have considered myself a compassionate person with some level of understanding of the issues faced by the poor. I guess I would have considered myself a friend to the poor.

But something has changed these last three years. It all seems more personal—which might be expected since I now work for an inner city ministry—but it’s more than just my job. And it seems more complicated—I’ve learned so much more, and realize how little I still know (my father always said that the value of an education is not what you know, but what you know that you don’t know)—but that’s not what I mean either. The change is something more than greater knowledge or deeper involvement.

What has changed is that I used to serve the poor—now they are my friends. I don’t mean I am friendly to them (I think I always was). I don’t mean that I know them by name. No, I mean we are actually friends.

They have been in our home, and Judy and I have been in theirs. We were invited to her son’s wedding. He has slept in our guest room. Her little girls call us Miss Judy and Papa. I was up in the middle of the night talking him out of suicide.  He came to our home for Thanksgiving Dinner. We’re friends.

I’d feel better about that, but I keep wondering why I was near the poor for so long, but not close to them. Is it just that we moved into a transitional neighborhood? That’s surely a part of it. But I know it’s more than that. We’ve chosen to make friends with people who happen to be poor—not because they are poor, but also not because we have a lot in common (isn’t that the usual basis for choosing friends?). We have chosen to make friends with people in our neighborhood, and our neighborhood is diverse. We’ve chosen to make friends with people we are meeting in our ministry—and we’re ministering to people from more diverse backgrounds than ever before. We’ve chosen to make friends—not just to be friendly.

And I see poverty differently now. It’s not just about political issues or social causes. It’s not just about theological positions on social justice. It’s not just about feeling compassion or showing mercy.

No, now it’s about our friends.

Charleston “From Below”

A number of years ago my brother David introduced me to the idea of seeing the world "from below." I sometimes don't know whether to thank him or curse him for it.

The phrase comes from the writings of Dietrich Bonhoeffer, a minister who opposed Hitler during World War II and died for it. The phrase refers to seeing the events of world history—and the world around us—from the perspective of the oppressed, the outcasts, the suffering, the mistreated, the powerless. History is almost always written from the perspective of the powerful and the victorious. It is most often the story of the rich, the educated, the successful, and the privileged. This is probably unavoidable, to some extent, since they are the ones who write it.

Not only do we see history from the perspective of the privileged, we generally see life from that perspective. The very fact that you are reading a blog on the internet is probably an indication that you belong to the American middle or upper class. You are, as am I, part of the privileged minority in this world. And our viewpoint on life cannot help but be shaped by that reality—we see the world "from above." The challenge is to learn to see the same events, the same realities, the same relationships, the same policies, and the same society from the viewpoint of those who experience them from below rather than from above.*

As my brother explained the concept to me, and as I later continued to reflect on it, I realized that I had already been learning to see the world from below—a little at a time to be sure, but nonetheless in life-changing ways. The first time I can remember seeing "from below" was at an event in high school, sitting with African-American friends when the band struck up Dixie—and everyone stood. The next time was when my American history teacher in college made us read Bury My Heart at Wounded Knee and forever changed the way I would think about cowboys and Indians. The journey has continued, and in recent years has changed the way I see the struggle between Israelis and Palestinians—again with my brother's insightful and disturbing help.

On our recent vacation, Judy and I visited the city of Charleston, SC—a city filled with beautiful homes and historic sites. We visited the home of Thomas Heyward, a signer of the Declaration of Independence. George Washington rented this house for a week on a presidential visit to Charleston. We also toured the antebellum home of William Aiken, governor of South Carolina in the 1840s. We saw lavish homes decorated with striking architecture, beautiful antique furniture, lovely gardens, and fine art. But as I strolled through the buildings, I really didn't see all that.

Everywhere I looked I saw luxury enjoyed at the expense of human suffering. What I saw were not beautiful mansions, but small slave quarters above the kitchen where slaves burned themselves preparing the sumptuous meals of their masters. I saw a huge dining room where slaves scurried to wait on the waiting wealthy. I saw the laundry where sweating slaves labored to clean the expensive fabrics worn by those who owned both the clothing and the cleaners. I saw the back stairs used by the slaves so they wouldn't "disturb the family."

I saw rows of beautiful homes just around the corner from the slave market. I saw canons and fortifications used to defend the right of the rich to own the enslaved. I saw churches built by slaves, who then had to worship in the balcony. I saw one church that slaves built for themselves, but which was then closed in 1834 when South Carolina outlawed all-black churches along with education for slaves.

From below, Charleston did not look so pretty.

I sometimes think I'd like not to see this way. But it seems as though some sort of surgery was done to correct my eyesight. And even if it were possible, who would want to have surgery done to take away your eyesight?

I think I am seeing a lot more clearly these days. You just may not want me as your tour guide in Charleston.

 

*For more on Bonhoeffer's "view from below," check out this blog from my friend, Larry James: http://larryjamesurbandaily.blogspot.com/2008/06/bonhoeffer-on-racism.html

Amos: The Annoying Prophet

"Hear this word, you cows of Bashan on Mount Samaria,
you women who oppress the poor and crush the needy
and say to your husbands, "Bring us some drinks!" (Amos 4:1)

"Cows of Bashan"! Can you imagine any preacher in his right mind getting up and calling the ladies of the church, "cows of Bashan"?
No wonder Amos wasn't very popular.

In a recent sermon in our series on the Mighty Acts of God, we talked about Amos and other prophets who preached about the Exile. Since that lesson, I've been thinking now and then about what Amos would say today. And, to be honest, it makes me pretty uncomfortable. I doubt he'd be very popular today either.

For example, he castigates the Israelites because "they sell the poor for a pair of sandals" (2:6; 8:6). Those are harsh words, and at first glance I'm just glad that I would never do such thing. . . . Or would I?

We American consumers are noted for caring only about getting the lowest possible price for the things we want. The consequence of that market pressure is that companies are always looking for ways to provide products at a lower cost than their competitors. Inevitably, some companies will find they can do that by purchasing goods from foreign suppliers who pay pitifully low wages for extremely long hours, do little or nothing to provide for the safety and health of their employees, and even use child labor. Is it possible that my shopping choices contribute to the selling of the poor for a cheaper pair of sandals?

And then there is that annoying sermon in the first few verses of chapter 6. Our small group spent a little time one evening imagining how Amos' words might translate into our culture. It's easy to read words about "ivory beds" and "choice lambs" and "strumming harps" and distance myself from the message. Those don't sound like my life. But what if Amos preached this in contemporary images?
I wonder if he might have said something like this:

Woe to you who are complacent in America,
and to you who feel secure in your cities,
you successful citizens of the foremost nation!
You think the day of consequences is far off,
but bring near a reign of oppression.
You lie on your king-size beds with satin sheets,
and lounge on your couches and recliners.
You dine on fine steaks and grill your extra large burgers.
You watch your widescreen plasma TVs,
and listen to your surround sound home theater systems.
You fill your frig with all your favorite drinks.
You smooth your skin with luxurious lotions.

But you do not grieve over the ruin of your people.

Therefore you will be among the first to face
the coming calamity;
your feasting and lounging will end.

I don't know about you, but I don't think I'd want to go to Amos' church.

Christians, Americans, and “English-Only”

As an American citizen, I share the concern of many citizens over the issue of illegal immigration. The flood of undocumented people into our country presents a number of disturbing problems. How can our economy absorb all the people looking for work? How will our health care and education institutions meet the needs of these individuals and their children? Will our welfare system be able to manage the demands placed on it? How does the lack of border security affect safety and security in an age of terrorism? These are troubling questions and I claim to have no answers.

On the other hand, I am also increasingly concerned about the tensions, prejudices, and even hostility I see in our community over immigration issues. Sometimes the language used to discuss these problems sounds like racial prejudice in thin disguise. America has always been a nation that claimed to welcome immigrants (“give me your tired, your poor, your huddled masses yearning to breathe free”). But in reality, immigrants quite often have faced much prejudice and hatred—whether the Chinese working on the railroads, the Polish in Chicago, the Vietnamese boat people in Texas, and on and on.

The city of Nashville is about to vote on an “English-Only” amendment. The law would prohibit the city government from publishing official documents in any other language or from hiring translators to communicate with citizens, except to protect public health or safety. The proponents have some good points to make about the importance of immigrants in any country learning the official language so they can function and prosper (http://www.nashvilleenglishfirst.com/). But the opposition raises some very troubling points about the impact this legislation will have on the poor, on recent immigrants who have not yet had time to learn the language, and on the image of our city in a global economy (http://www.nashvilleforallofus.org/).

Sorting out all the social, political, and economic implications of this amendment is beyond my pay grade. For me, though, there is one question that seems pretty clear: What would Jesus do?

Jesus seems to have been little concerned with the politics of his day. For example, he swept aside the debate over Roman taxation with the simple exhortation to “give Caesar what is Caesar’s, and God what is God’s”—which didn’t answer the questions about whether the Romans had any right to be there or whether their tax system was just. Throughout his ministry Jesus made it abundantly clear that he was more concerned about the kingdom of God than worldly kingdoms—and that meant he was very concerned about the poor, the outcast, and the foreigners, even the hated Samaritans. I think Jesus would be less concerned about the cost to the city of providing translations than he would be about the impact on poor immigrants of refusing to do so.

Jesus said one of the two greatest commands is to “love your neighbor as yourself,” quoting Leviticus 19:18. Just a few verses later, God commanded the same thing regarding foreigners:

“‘When foreigners reside among you in your land, do not mistreat them. The foreigners residing among you must be treated as your native-born. Love them as yourself, for you were foreigners in Egypt. I am the Lord your God.” (Leviticus 19:33-34)

According to Moses, God loves the foreigners residing among his people, and they must do the same (Deuteronomy 10:18-19).

If I were an immigrant in another country, I would want to learn the language as quickly as I could. But I wonder how welcome I would feel if the citizens said their city would offer me no help until I could master their language well enough to navigate my way through the system. (Well, actually I don’t wonder that at all. I think I know exactly how I would feel.)

And I wonder what Jesus would say to us as we head for the polls. I can’t say for sure, but I think it might be something like: “Treat others the way you would want to be treated.”