Timothy and Mary, part 2

Timothy and Mary live under the bicycle underpass five minutes from my house. A little-used bike path that runs alongside Escondido’s drainage canal suddenly dips down under a somewhat-more-used highway, and there in the shade, with the concrete of the canal yawning to one side, the couple has set up camp.

“It cost the city millions of dollars to build this underpass,” Timothy tells me, then laughs, “We were the first ones in.”

I laugh too. Its a quick moment of shared acknowledgment. There’s some sad irony here.

We have been accidentally generous to the broken people on our streets, have acted out an unintended grace. How sad that it was an accident, that it was not meant.

We, the outwardly clean, respectable world of Escondido, like to forget the broken people are around, hiding the night away somewhere ‘out there’, somewhere beyond the automatic lights and locks that mutely proclaim unwelcome at every door.
When sunlight returns, we would prefer and would insist if we could that they remain in those distantly close shadows and not follow the sun out to wait inconveniently with their cardboard signs at impatient intersections.
Perhaps we fear them like we fear the grit that spoils the delicate smoothness of the well-oiled machine. You see, we respectable people have a cardinal rule that keeps everything running on. It’s the very oil that slicks the mechanisms of our word.
The rule is this: “Like proper Victorian children, all problems must be kept hidden and under control.”

Scandalously, these people cannot hide their problems. They have committed the unforgivable crime of blatantly being needy for grace- because the one thing we cannot bear is to be reminded of the human brokenness that in pride we refuse to admit in ourselves, and that in fear we refuse to confront with trust in a God greater than ourselves.

We are not broken. We do not need.
(Smooth oil of pretending, greasing the death of souls…
Repelling against the sincere transparency of water, its cleansing honesty.)

Nonetheless, in direct violation of the unspoken rules Escondido has unwittingly provided a shelter for these people. Again, accidental generosity, unintended grace.

“It’s cool here all day,” Timothy explains, “Never gets above 80 degrees.”

Of course, the city is repentant for such a slip in judgment, and makes stern-faced atonement in the form of 4 AM evictions and laws banning bikes in the park.

But here I will end this self-implicating rant, such as it is, and attempt once again to start from the beginning, such as it is.

As I explained in part one, it had been my plan all summer to step out from my outwardly clean and respectable world into the shadows, to see what Christ might teach me there. As I also explained, my confidence in my own resolve to do so was more than it should of been.

And so it wasn’t until my last week in Escondido that anything happened.
On that morning, my friend Riley and I woke early, having resolved to make the best breakfast sandwiches we could and then head out into the streets to find people to give them to.
We made our way sluggishly to my kitchen, and with our rudimentary cooking skills set to work, hoping that good flavor would be an emergent property of the various elements we had assembled: a hefty loaf of bread, butter, eggs fried in an oiled skillet, salsa, brussel sprouts (for vitamins).

Half an hour later, sandwiches now made and wrapped, we approach the couple in the underpass with a bit of nervousness. The woman in the sleeping bag struggles to sit up, rubs her eyes. We say hello, apologize for waking her up, introduce ourselves, shake hands. Her name is Mary.

I say, “We’ve made sandwiches. Would you like one?”

This is the awkward moment. Here we are, with our desire to in some way be generous and loving to “those in need.” And, of all things, this desire has become incarnate in the form of an egg sandwich.

The Blank Canvas

This week I started my first job for this summer, which is working as a summer student intern for my church. Today we were in charge of the whole service. This included the sermon, and the six of us decided to collaborate and do a “State of the Youth” address (like the State of the Union), trying to sketch out various aspects of where we’re at as the younger generation in the church. So Adam made a movie, Michael did artwork up front, Riley talked about taking a humble approach when trying to evangelize, Thomas wrote a poem, Ashley talked about being the body of Christ (young and old both need each other), and I talked about how being young is like being an artist in front of a blank canvas.

So I thought I’d post my talk here on the blog.

Without further ado, here it is:

Today I’m going to talk about what it’s like to be young and seeking God. Which may be redundant, I realize, because most of you have already experienced this yourselves. Once upon a time, you were young and seeking God too. Nevertheless, I do think its beneficial to talk about some of the pressures and needs that young people commonly face, for me because it will be good to think through where I’m at, and for you because it will be good to remember what it was like to be at the same place. And hopefully that remembering will help you in what you are already trying to do, which is supporting us as we go through this difficult journey of growing up.

Questions: Freedom, Meaning, and Facing Failure

I want to live life well.

And my hope is in the living God, whose will is to teach me how to live well.

Yet, still, it is so difficult.

At college I’m able to just go with the program. There are classes, events, and clubs already established, scheduled, in motion. And so, while I did have some “free time” to figure out what to do with, for the most part my life there is a matter of participating in the larger life of the campus.

Then summer began, I came home, and found myself waiting for my job to start, with weeks and weeks free. There is emptiness, open space. And it is in this emptiness that I can no longer avoid the fundamental life questions I’ve been shoving in drawers and under the bed all year. “What do you want to do with your life?” becomes not a question for the distant future but rather one that is quite explicitly needing to be answered today.

“What do I want to do with my life?