A friend invited me to listen to and reflect upon Jay-Z’s “Empire State of Mind” where, in the third verse, he rhymes:

“Jesus can’t save you;
Life won’t begin ’til the Church ends.”

An observation, a question, and a challenge…

An observation:
Jay-Z, rightly, links Jesus and the Church.

A question:
What kind of Church, and therefore, what kind of Jesus has Jay-Z encountered? If it’s anything like the irrelevant, locally and globally ignorant and indifferent Church in the West that my friends in SF with a soul craving for Jesus are experiencing, then sadly, he has a point.

A challenge:
To the Church: wake up! This is what the world thinks of us. It’s time to live a different, true Story. It’s time to live the saving Story of Jesus in a language that our world can understand.

If and when we do, I wonder how the lyrics will change…

Sunday night, Open Door engaged in a unique fusion of worship and justice. We believe that the two go together, but are longing to find ways to experience them both in the practice of our weekly gatherings. The partnership was with World Vision’s HIV/AIDS Caregiver Kit initiative.

Here is what the evening looked like:

We began, as usual, embracing the sound of God’s people gathering. In those moments, I’m training myself to stop and listen to the sound of people gathering, reconnecting, storytelling, introducing, laughing…

Music began which serves to help focus fifty different conversations into one. After we had sung, one of us, a medical professional, began to teach us about HIV/AIDS from a biological/medical perspective. We learned about cell structure and how this virus enacts terrorism on our T-cells in an effort to reproduce itself. We learned the difference between HIV and AIDS through the story of a little boy named Simon whom our friend had watched make the deadly transition of no return in Uganda just a few short months ago.

Next, our friend from World Vision invited us to consider HIV/AIDS in all of its global magnitude. We imagined the tens of children orphaned within the time-span of his 10-minute storytelling. We heard about care-givers around the world who give themselves away to those infected with HIV and AIDS. We re-discovered our call to bring hope to hopeless situations.

It was time to respond. Our response took the shape of putting together Kits of supplies (petroleum jelly, latex gloves, cotton swabs, water purifiers, etc.) that would be sent to care-givers in Uganda. A part of the experience was writing notes of encouragement and prayer to the care-givers such that they would remember that they are not alone (vertically nor horizontally). We decided that we would also include pictures of ourselves so that the care-givers could put a face with a letter.

Once all of the kits were put together, I looked around our gathering space and saw our community pouring over those encouragement cards; an experience that was supposed to take 30 minutes took well over 45.

We were supposed to sing again. Instead of singing we listened. We listened to and were surprised by the sound of worship:

the sound of tape being applied to cardboard boxes;
the sound of cardboard boxes scraping wooden crates as they were being stacked;
the sound of chairs sliding across the floor as people repositioned themselves to write;
the sound of murmured community and individual prayers;
the sound of silence.

The foreign sounds of the worship/justice fusion must become familiar!

A few days ago, I took the train into downtown Oakland to meet a friend for coffee. Usually, I’m running just on time or, too often, five minutes late. On this particular day, I happened to arrive 45 minutes early.

Having arrived, my natural disposition was to find the nearest coffee shop, plug in my computer and get some work done. However, on this beautiful Bay Area afternoon, I felt like what I needed most was to simply stand still for a while.

Here’s what happened…

As I was finishing up a sausage from Top Dog, I was spotted by one of the most emaciated, beautiful little Asian men I have ever seen. When he started to walk toward me, I thought to myself, “Of course! He comes to the only person standing still in the entire area.” As he continued to stumble toward me, I heard what I had just thought and took a look around. I was, indeed, the only person out of the hundreds within eye-shot that was standing still.

Decision time, do I avert eye contact so that I can stand still somewhere else or do I continue to stand still and let what will happen, happen?

I stood still.

He was just taller than my belly button, covered in soiled clothes, and wearing a whispy beard. I read both desperation and relief in his eyes as he gathered the courage to speak to the only person who wasn’t walking away from him.

“I’m hungry,” he wheezed with what I thought to be the last ounce of energy available in his 90 pound body.

I paused, waiting for him to ask for money but the question never came. The silence of the brief moments that followed impressed on me the privilege I had to do something about his hunger.

“What are you hungry for?” I asked.

“How about something from over there?” he responded, nodding beyond me to a soup and salad bar.

“Let’s go.” I said, gesturing with my head and neck in much the same way.

In we walked, a healthy 6’1” young man and his…what was he? Was he my friend, a stranger…? It seemed that everyone in the restaurant was asking the same question: “What is he?” What’s more, I read the staff of the restaurant wondering, “Who is he with?” and “He’d better not steal anything from us!”

I just stood by him, fascinated by what he did…

Rather than taking the biggest “to-go” container that he could, he reached out his crooked little hands and took the smallest one available. Then, meticulously, he selected the tiniest portions of what, I’m sure, were his favorite delicacies: watermelon, strawberries, pasta salad, avocado, cucumber…

Satisfied with his selections, he closed the clear, plastic box up and looked into my eyes. I saw gratitude and hope. He didn’t say anything…he just stood by me waiting for me to make the next move.

“Something to drink?” I asked knowing that he had missed the four massive refrigerators boasting a broad selection of flavored beverages.

Slowly, he walked over and was instantly dwarfed by coolers. He seemed a bit overwhelmed. Perhaps that was due to the burden of choice or perhaps it was because he had a choice…

He chose an orange one and cautiously returned to my side. Together, we approached the cashier who I had noticed as being most suspicious of the goings-on.

“We’ll settle up!” I said, pulling my wallet from my back pocket.

“Is this all?” she asked, no doubt with a series of questions running through her mind.

“This is all.” I returned as I gazed at the tiny meal in the weathered hands of a friend I may never see again.

“$4.50.” she said after a longer than normal pause. I knew she had given us a deal.

I handed over my Visa to pay the tab, signed the receipt, and handed it back to the cashier. A new softness replaced the suspicion that had previously permeated our interaction. “Thank you.” she said, not so much thanking us for our business but, seemingly, for something much more.

“Thank you.” I responded, moved by what was happening in that moment.

“Thank you.” said this dear little man to no one in particular. In those two meaning-saturated words, I felt that, in humility, he was expressing his gratitude to someone or something far beyond those who were standing in line.

He walked for the door and I followed, longing to learn more but knowing that our time together had come to an end. He held the door for me, and I walked through expecting to turn around and see him shuffling away. Instead, I saw him standing by the door with his head cocked ever so slightly in one direction and looking at me. The gentlest smile cracked his face as he nodded one time, turned, and walked away.

As I watched him merge into the sea of human motion, I glanced up at the clock tower. That whole encounter had taken twelve minutes…I had 33 minutes left…

…so I stood still.

Sometimes, things happen that carry so much significance that I can hardly breathe…

I was in my backyard with my daughter and my dog on Good Friday when I noticed something in my daughter’s hand. As she always has something in her hand (rocks, grass, books…) I didn’t think anything of it.

Just a little while later, I looked and saw that she still had something grasped in her little, innocent hand. She wasn’t messing with it, she was just holding onto it.

I figured I’d better take a closer look.

When I asked her to open her hand to “Show Daddy.” she unclenched her fist to reveal a nail.

Now…how she got a nail, I’ll never know; but the fact that, on Good Friday, my little girl had a nail in her hand was almost more than I could handle.

Here is this beautiful, nearly perfect little girl who held a nail on Good Friday.

Jesus has just endured betrayal, arrest, a myriad of six trials, and senseless beatings.

He now stands on one side of Pontius Pilate while the notorious criminal Barabbas stands on the other.

The Roman custom during the Passover Feast in Jerusalem is the release of a prisoner to be chosen by the people. Pilate wants nothing to do with this Jesus. I believe that he sees Jesus as a harmlessly charismatic, innocent man. Surely the crowd would see the unrecognizable state Jesus was in. Surely they would respond with mercy and beg for His release.

“Jesus or Barabbas. One of these belongs here, the other doesn’t. One has been found guilty of gross atrocities against you, the other has been found guilty of nothing. One exists to take everything from you, the other has existed in generosity and for your all-dimensional benefit.”

“Jesus or Barabbas. Which one would you like to walk your streets again?”

In one voice, they cry out for the release of Barabbas.

Imagine Barabbas’ response. Imagine his surprise. Imagine the glance shared between he and Jesus.

Imagine Pilate’s dismay.

“What shall I do, then, with Jesus who is called Christ?”

In one voice, they cry out for his murder.

When I place myself in this story, I usually find myself in the crowd, stirred by the goings on. I associate myself with the crowd screaming for Jesus’ death.

I wonder if this is misplaced association.

If I’m honest, a better association is with Barabbas–the criminal set free…the criminal who’s punishment was deferred to and satisfied by Jesus.

I was just at an Israeli/Palestinian symposium. Most of my experience is not speech-ripe yet, however I will share one insight from the evening.

There were two simultaneous ideas floating around in terms of getting to solution.
1. A Palestinian professor of law at Berkeley, Dr. Hatem Bazian suggested partnerships between the institutions of higher education in the United States and the three universities in the Gaza Strip. He also suggests similar partnerships between K-12 schools here and there.

2. A rabbi, disicpled by the mentors of Dr. MLK Jr. suggested that we need to find ways of constructing peace.

I can’t help but to wonder if a combination of the two ideas is the part of the only real solution that exists. What I mean is this…

I happen to disagree with the notion that further diplomacy is going to lead to any kind of a feasible soltion to the Israeli/Palestinian conflict. The United States is so tied up in our own economic crisis that it will be years before we are able to give the attention to that crisis that it needs. Also–I think our world may be living in what Einstein called insanity already as it is: we keep doing the same stuff expecting different results.

As I listened to Dr. Bazian and Rabbi Lynn talk, I was struck with the notion that the very kind of peace construction that is needed is for the emerging generations of Americans, our elementary kids to live in pro-people relationships. In stating that this is for the emerging generation of Americans, I’m not underestimating the urgency of the situation over there. I am suggesting, though, that the only solution to what is happening is not diplomacy and it is not partnership…it is relationship.

I wonder what would happen if, in households all around America, children began coming home telling stories of real friendships that they developing with real children in Gaza. I wonder how that would begin to change the perspective of generations of families who have blindly supported injustice with our political disposition as well as our tax dollars for years. I wonder what kind of peace would begin to be created if, when children hear of bombing and aid being cut off for the Gaza, they plead with their parents to do something about it.

I wonder if, when America, moved by relationship instead of greed and politics, would move with such force that our government would have to dig their heads out of the sands of arrogance and respond.

I can’t help but to offer the simplex notion that Jesus (the incarnational God) is the solution.