A friend, who happens to be the techie midwife of this blog, asks some very earnest and basic questions, which you can read here. In short he’s asking, “How can an ordinary guy like me, not a Mother Teresa, take seriously Christ’s words about helping the poor?”

This appeared on his blog several weeks ago, and though I haven’t commented either on his site or this one, it’s not for failure to give it thought. I’ve almost missed my kids’ carpool thinking about it in the shower, then driven past their school thinking about it in the car, etc which they will tell you is hardly unusual when I’ve got something cooking in the brain.

Though Jesus seemed to spend most of his time with the poor and dispossessed, and oriented his ministry toward them, I am struck by his manner toward wealthy individuals who came to him with a sincere heart. I’m thinking of people like Nicodemus, Zaccheus, the “rich young ruler,” and presumably Joseph of Arimathea. He didn’t dismiss them with stereotypes, but neither did he ignore the fact that wealth and power might be a core issue for these guys. (Democrats reading my friend’s blog might not read far before dismissing him for his politics, just as Republicans reading some recent posts below have dismissed writers for theirs. Hmmm, not that Michelle Warren has experienced anything like that!!) He engaged them seriously and lovingly, knowing that their souls were at stake.

As an ordinary American middle-class guy, my friend probably doesn’t spend much time consciously thinking of himself as rich and powerful. A lot of the time he sits in his office cubicle, feeling small and thinking geez there’s got to be more to life than this. But he passes homeless people on the street, and watches the news, and takes an overseas mission trip, and reads the Bible, and now he’s got some major conflicts in his heart and mind.

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I heard the shots, but couldn’t tell if it was firecrackers or gunfire. The next morning, I discovered it wasn’t firecrackers.

The victim turned out to be a twenty-six year old man who his friends called Tre.

In the evening our block typically has a bunch of kids running around and people hanging out on their porches, but suddenly it became quiet. No kids. Empty porches. The only folks out were Tre’s friends, members of the Crips, who were hanging blue bandanas and flowers and stuffed animals on the chain link fence around the basketball court. They were mourning. They had lost a good friend.

Finally I swallowed my pride and walked over. I introduced myself and pointed to our house and said I lived there. I asked them if it was their friend who had been shot.

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Where is God for the abandoned?

I got a call before dawn yesterday from a friend in my neighborhood. Under her apartment door she had found a note from her husband saying he won’t be back, but she’ll be hearing from his lawyer about a divorce. Anguish quivered in the voice from my cell phone. “This time, I know… he’s gone. I thought at least he would sit down and talk to me about it.” I could hear her two preschoolers in the background.

Last Monday afternoon I sat in Burger King on Colfax with a man who recounted his own story of being abandoned by his father at an early age. It was the central devastating fact of his life. His mother was ill-prepared for parenthood at all, let alone single parenthood. He learned to cope by pretty much raising himself, and making it through life as a solitary soul. He longs for love and significance, but has never been able to find it. Not even in his marriage, or in his beautiful children. For years, he and I have talked and prayed about this struggle. He wonders why it’s worth praying, since God has probably given up on him altogether. Finally, he was done even talking about it. He gathered his Whopper and french fry wrappers onto his tray, and got up and left. Three days later he slipped the letter under his wife’s door.

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This past December my husband David and I went to Washington D.C. You could say it was an early Christmas present to ourselves. We boarded our flight from Denver to D.C. excited to be getting out of town together, ready to experience something new.

We joined many other Christian Community Development Association leaders from across the country to use our collective voice against the 2006 budget. We participated in a peaceful act of civil disobedience. Along with 113 other people, we were arrested for “incommoding” (blocking an entrance).

I have never been pulled over and given a ticket for speeding, much less planned to have a police officer tell me three times over a loud speaker to “leave or be arrested” and choose to disregard the request. So, why did I do it? I could have chosen to be arrested for incommoding in a much warmer environment, maybe California or Hawaii. I could have stayed here in Denver, held some signs, blocked some random entrance and given myself the opportunity to say I have been arrested – that would have been a whole lot cheaper!

I did it, because the arrest was for a cause—a cause I have been growing into. I come from a family of Republicans who believe that in a free, capitalist society all the wrongs in economics will be made right if left alone. It’s a generous family who believes charity will make up for those who lose in a society like ours. Except for calling myself a Republican, I used to think that was right. So, what happened? Let me share just a few things…

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Throughout our history, immigrant waves have been met by hostility and prejudice. The Irish, Italians, Germans, and Polish faced oppression… and now it’s Mexicans and other Latinos from South America.

Western American history and culture derives itself from Native American and Spanish heritage going back to the early 1600′s when Spanish peoples first came to this region. Over the past 70 years, through the migrant worker visa program, the U.S. has benefited enormously from the contribution that migrant workers have made to building our economy and middle class. We have also benefited from tremendous social and cultural contributions as well. Over time many have come to the U.S in search of a better life and stayed here to provide that quality of life for their children.

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Last night I watched “Invisible Children.” It is a documentary that three young American guys made about the kids who live in Northern Uganda and in constant fear. They tell the story of the thousands of children that travel to the city every night to seek shelter and safety from the rebel army comprised mostly of other children. The children hide for fear of being abducted/kidnapped and forced to become child soldiers in this rebel army themselves.

The Lord’s Resistance Army (LRA) are the kidnappers. Their goal is to build power and of course eventually overthrow the government. They have found that the easiest way to build a strong army is to kidnap kids from age 5 to 10 and brainwash them. Many of the kids have lost their parents to AIDS, the Sudanese war, and various other attacks on their villages. The documentary is moving, disturbing, and just what I needed to see.

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Until Easter I will be reflecting in this space on the meaning of the cross in our city context, and invite your interaction. When the Apostle Paul came to the city of Corinth, he “resolved to know nothing while I was with you except Jesus Christ and him crucified.” I don’t know if this was his approach in every city, but I’d like to explore what this might mean. Nothing except the crucified Christ? Certainly he must have known many things in Corinth, but he resolved to know them only through the lens of the crucified Lord.

I can think of no better way to begin than with the very provocative image above. It is a watercolor titled “I AM,” done by a close friend of mine, Sarah Brown, who is a high school senior. Sarah wrote me these notes on her piece:

Lately I’ve had a lot jumbled up in my head about Christianity. I’ve been wondering why our lives, as Christians, contradict the way Jesus lived his life. Why don’t we hang out with the prostitutes and tax collectors? Why is it ok for a lawyer in the congregation to get divorced, but not the pastor? Why is it unacceptable for a couple to have premarital sex, but acceptable for people to gossip about them?

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Back in 1999 the infamous Dr. Dre dropped a hard hitting album called Dre 2001. Let me tell you, I loved this album then, and still do now. For me, a California homeboy, it’s still an example of West Coast hip hop at its best!

One of my favorite tracks on this album is called “What’s the difference?” On this track Dre invites his apprentice Eminem and long time friend X-Zibit to help with some lyrics. The goal of this track is to explore and define the key differences between Dre’s crew and every other rapper out there. Dre and his team do this by telling everyone that in comparison to them, no one is up the to their standards. More simply put, the “difference” between Dre’s crew and everyone else he is talking trash about is that everyone else doesn’t have what Dr. Dre and his crew have. And for Dre this is something that gives them the permission to feel better about themselves, which is also the foundation for believing that they are above everyone else that is not them.

All throughout this track they constantly hollar the chorus line of, “What’s the difference between me and you?” And as I listen to this song I find that the reason I love this it isn’t because of the message Dr. Dre is trying to convey, but rather the message that I feel that Christ is imposing upon me through this song. A message that is something I am not sure all of us are ready for, including myself.

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It’s a normal thing to do when you are in love…Get married. Two of our street kids got married yesterday. It looked and sounded like any other wedding you might go to…except for the fact that they got married in a “warehouse-looking” drop-in-center for homeless youth. A place where there where a couple of homeless teens sleeping on a couch nearby. Those are at least two ways this wasn’t a “normal” wedding. It struck me that they were extremely happy, like any other couple. However, it bothered me that after their ceremony that instead of going on a honeymoon, they went back to their ten. A tent hidden amid some bushes near downtown Denver…

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I am not sure how long this term has been use to describe people but it is a term I have heard several times lately. It seems to be used when describing a group with in a social group. Like gays or the poor in a community somehow it seems less judgmental I guess. I did not know I had friends that were marginalized, what does that make me? As I see it we all walk the same streets and breathe the same air have choices and consequences.

Could marginalizing be a form of self defense or denial? I better watch my questions or some could start to place me on some shelf with a label. I am not trying to get on some social agenda in this update I promise, I simply wonder how long it will be until we see we are all in the same life boat and it is getting hard to figure out which group to sit with.

While talking with one of my friends this week she brought up a fear she carries around. Her fear it seems came from feeling like a project for programs. What she means is while working with groups in the past that helped her get off the street; was a great thing for her, it is still a scary memory for her. Her fear comes because very soon after she was off the street she lost all contact with them and felt they “must have finished their part with her.”

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