The Step exhibit was meant to shine a light on the church's involvement in social justice and missions work in Tijuana, Rwanda, and inner-city Detroit. As you walk through the exhibit, you read the stories of individuals affected by members of our church, and our partners at WorldVision. There is a priority on child sponsorship in the Tijuana and Rwanda sections of the exhibit, but because Detroit is so close (and because we partner with Peacemakers in this location rather than WorldVision) the response is much more practical and hands on; they need a lawnmower, extra toothbrushes, a coffee pot, or another pair of hands to help with work.
I visited Peacemakers in July with a troupe of about 40 high school students in tow (Please see the trip blog). I remember it as an exhausting, stressful, emotional time. My personal life was all over the place, and I was burnt out from a strenuous school and work schedule; I was the "Mama Bear" (that is, not the "fun parent")-- a little redhead trying to keep 40 kids safe in one of the most dangerous parts of the city.
I remember a feeling of hopelessness settling over me in the days leading up to the trip.
It is far easier to live in Ann Arbor, attend the University, work and read and make art-- anything to keep our eyes averted from our neighbor in her disarray. We are embarrassed by her. We don't know where to start. Nobody knows. Detroit is a disaster.
I like to call my mom and complain about schoolwork, career aspirations, how I'm too busy to clean my room; "I'm a wreck," I say to her, "An unmitigated catastrophe."
The thing about Peacemakers is that most of the people I met and fell in love with in July were gone when I returned a month later. There were hugs and kisses all around, and such happiness. But the inevitable moment arrived when we all began to sense the lack-- eyes floated around the room but couldn't latch on. Strangers milled about in the vacuum.
I didn't understand the work we did at Peacemakers at first. In the face of severe human need, we chipped mortar off of bricks and tried to reunite estranged pairs of shoes. It was inglorious. It was inconsequential. It lacked the glittering umbra of some manifest Presence; all presumptions of doing spiritual war seemed to dissipate as our "weapons" materialized in our hands-- chisels, rakes, paint brushes. Humiliated by the severity of the need and the precious little we could do, I found myself stepping, unknowing, into the deepest sense of solidarity with the people of Peacemakers.
I always leave Chene St. and Peacemakers with a vivid impression of the Gospel. The Gospel is far more relevant than I ever realize as I live in the city and attend the university and work and read and make art-- as I do anything to keep my eyes averted from my self in its disarray. There is something ringing true in the phrase, "the last shall be first and the first shall be last." It is the humiliation of a Sisyphean endeavor that gives the Gospel any meaning whatsoever. It is the gravity of the need and our utter powerlessness in the face of it that makes Jesus meaningful in the least.
I felt knots tightening themselves in my stomach as I stepped into the "sanctuary" portion of the exhibit this evening. It was nothing but a small atrium swathed in burlap and laid out to imitate the inside of the Peacemakers building, but the memories from Chene St. pushed up against me from all sides, forcing my breath up into my throat. I wanted to weep for bittersweet joy at every photograph. I wanted to walk into Shirlene's kitchen and get yelled at. I wanted to go back and spend an entire day swinging hammers at chisels and bricks. In the consistent doing of one very simple thing, I found such a purifying sense of focus, such a penitential diligence, such meditative, pervasive, redemptive penetration of the Gospel.
When Jesus says, "Blessed are the peacemakers," He may not have been talking about the dear souls in Chene St. but I can see abundant blessing in that place as the small and simple labors are carried out in faith by addicts, prostitutes, abusers, drunkards, thieves, and violent criminals.
In the Christian faith we labor so hard after this idea of "sanctification." It is the progressive work of Christ in us that purifies us, sets us apart, causes us to align all the more closely with the God in whose image we were made. I learned on Chene St. that when unutterable grief and the smallest faith fuel the most menial task, it is a prayer and a meditation; it is the footwork of our sanctification. I long to live a life marked by such simplicity and purity of focus. College degrees, high-powered careers, and well-known ministries do not make us better. Sometimes we need to just sit in the dirt with a drug addict and chip mortar off of some bricks.
So many thoughts.....
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