Having three small children keeps me from being on the streets too much, but I have been blessed with opportunities to serve in my own way. My kids and I attend pool night once or twice a month. We’ve helped collect sleeping bags and blankets to keep our friends warm at night, brought pizza to the park for the Thursday night meal, and we have celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas with some of our street friends. All three of our children love hanging out downtown.

Children don’t have all the pretenses that adults do, and when they look at our friends from the streets they just see a person. They aren’t fearful of weird hair, multiple piercings, or tattoos. The cussing doesn’t throw them
off guard. They love the street kids because we do. They learn by watching the example set for them by their parents. When Benny and I are friendly with a street kid, so are they. When we find a way to bless one of them individually, our kids are there to bless them too. It’s a family thing.

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As I walk through the recovery process with those kids who are ready to make a change in their lives, my faith grows. I have a deeper understanding of what it means to “turn it over.”

This phrase is used a lot among the Alcoholics Anonymous 12-step goers. The third step of AA says “We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him.” Christ-centered 12-step programs’ third step reads, “We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God. Therefore, I urge you brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God – this is your spiritual act of worship.” (Romans 12:1)

Lately, I have been worshipping and praising God often while I walk with my friend through her recovery process. She is ready. She desires relationship with God. She is trying her best every day to do the right thing as she leaves the street life and continues in her secular rehabilitation program. She then looks forward to the time she chooses to spend around other Christians at the 12-step, Christ centered program she and I go to at the end of each week.

There have been so many times that I was tempted to try and fix my friend. This is out of desperation, really. I was afraid she would end up dead.

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This weekend I had an amazing reunion with a girl I have known since she was five years old. Reunions aren’t that uncommon in my line of work – but this one was unique and very special. Eight years ago I remember a little girl getting off the van. It was her first day ever at Bible club and her mom had let her come with a neighbor friend. She was a little tiny thing with pig-tails and bows. As I watched her play in our dirt side-lot years ago I had no idea that our paths would become so entwined. I hadn’t the slightest clue that this girl would become nothing less than family.

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The room itself was not impressive. It had simple décor that was somewhat outdated. The crowd seemed to fit the décor as well. No suits or ties worn here, just a blue jean crowd. We assembled in the designated places with eager anticipation of the big event.

The big event? Well, it had been two weeks of hard work, and each student had dealt with a number of hard subjects. But, why the big event? Why make such a fuss over a two-week program?

I had these questions and more as I prepared to watch the graduation ceremony of a two-week drug rehab program. I have to tell you I learned enough in that hour I should probably hold my own commencement ceremony.

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“The Gospels are full of lost, isolated, alienated and fragmented people: people without an awareness of the glory of being human. To such people Jesus brings his story of atonement—as we are charged to do.”
Alan Mann

A few weeks ago while I was sitting in church, I noticed a young man slide out of his seat, put his hand to his face, and rush out the side door. My first thought was “nosebleed.” Ok, they happen in awkward places. But I know this person pretty well, and something prompted me to slip out after him. Checked the bathroom, no luck. Out the door. I finally found him in his car, hands over his face, slumped against the dashboard.

I tapped on the window, and he pushed the door ajar. He let out a groan. Somewhat to my relief, I figured out it wasn’t from physical pain. Through his hands he exclaimed, “I can’t get away from it. I’m dirty! I’m ugly! I’m so sick inside. I can’t even be pure in church. Brother Scott, you have no idea what a mess I am.”

I think I fumbled out something about God knowing, which wasn’t exactly the healing word for the moment. Another groan. “That’s what scares me… I just want to hide.”

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Today is Holy Saturday, that day-between-days that we’re never quite sure what to do with. On Good Friday we remember the cross of Christ. On Easter Sunday we’ll celebrate the resurrection. But what about Holy Saturday?

For Jesus’ friends and followers, it was a day of emptiness, loss, fear. The one who brought them so much hope and life was gone, dead.

I’ve been told that some church traditions have commemorated Holy Saturday with fasting and reflection upon one’s sins – getting in touch with our need for the events of Good Friday and Easter Sunday. It’s a day to “lift up the rock” of our lives and face some of the nasty things growing underneath.

I’ve heard that some churches even lock the doors on Holy Saturday, as a way of symbolizing the emptiness of this in-between time when Christ has died, but not yet been resurrected.

I am writing these words on Holy Saturday, on retreat in the Rocky Mountains with members of the Issachar Community – a dozen young leaders from inner city churches in Denver. We’re not quite sure what to do with this Holy Saturday, either. We spent the morning reflecting in somber tones upon the meaning of the cross. Then we went swimming and soaked in the hot tub. Now we’re preparing to have a Passover meal. (There’s a real lamb roasting in the oven.) Appropriately ambiguous for Holy Saturday.

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We all know stories. My kids love bedtime stories. My grandparents listened to Paul Harvey and Garrison Keillor. My wife and I enjoy stories in the form of movies. My friend, Matt, is into songs…another form of story. It seems our lives are filled with and given significance through story.

The Bible recounts one story where Jesus is on his way to heal an “important” person’s daughter. He is side tracked by a desperate woman who has been bleeding for 12 years. In a society where blood made you unclean and being unclean separates you from God, she was a social and spiritual outcast. She has been rejected, ignored, and looked down on by thousands of people. But because of what she has heard about Jesus, she gathers up the last bit of her hope and goes to Him.

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“Now that I have eyes to see it, shame is everywhere.”
–James Fowler

In 2004 Frank Warren printed up a postcard inviting people to share a secret with him anonymously. He passed them out in public spaces like bus stops and left them behind in library books. People mailed postcards back with their secrets, and he organized the responses into a public art project, a book, and a website. (Note before you click: as you might expect, some responses involve sexuality.)

The website, which now only shows a few responses at a time from the past week, gets 2 million visitors a month (surpassing even eMergingCity). What’s up with that?

Granted, in a world where Paris Hilton can get a million clicks before I finish typing this (not that she’s got any secrets left), you could chalk this up to simple voyeurism. But I’m wondering if Warren’s “PostSecret” project has tapped into something much deeper in our Western postmodern psyche.

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The N.A.N.* women’s group I’m leading at Joshua Station officially started the first Saturday of April. What an awesome thing!

The week before it started was not so awesome, but very nerve-wracking. In fact, downright freaky. Trying to get the final arrangements taken care of was NOT an easy task. Nonetheless, God stepped in and did his thing, like so many other times. Crazy God! The week seemed to fly by, and there we were on Saturday! On my way to Joshua Station I said a few prayers, asking God to calm my nervousness and help me to stop sweating. I kept telling myself that’s due to being pregnant! The van was quite noisy on the way there as all my five kids seemed to be just a little EXTRA crazy that morning, but through all the “be quiets” and “stop fighting” God seemed to give me a moment of calm. I felt this almost melodic ambiance of peace sweep over me–it was cool. Some might wonder, “What was this girl so afraid of?” But to me it’s a big deal. It’s putting my life out there to share with people just like me, and finally finding that place where I can do exactly that.

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In an earlier post I began reflecting on some of the biases I bring, both genetically and culturally, to my reading of scripture. In that post, I talked about how being a Westerner — a card-carrying member of enlightened Western Civilization – shapes the way I interact with the Bible. Here’s another part of the puzzle for me:

Not only am I a Westerner, I’m western-Westerner: I was raised in ranch country. My schoolmates in a tiny rural school were mostly the children of ranchers and coal miners. My Dad owned a saddle shop and a country-western dance hall. Mom worked at a coal mine. I grew up watching the Lone Ranger during breakfast, listening to Gene Autry and the Sons of the Pioneers on the way to school, and reading myself to sleep with Louis Lamoure novels. Weekends still occasionally find me dressed in shirts with pearl snaps and a big hat (not quite 10 gallons), singing Marty Robbins gunfighter songs for eager groups of Coloradoans who cherish the nostalgia of the Old West.

I still love the cowboy lore of the old west. And truthfully, I believe those songs and stories have helped me “cowboy-up” and tough-it-out through some rough scrapes, and I’m grateful for the strength I derived from them.

But I have to wonder how the stories of my youth still influence the way I read and experience the Bible today?

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