Particularly the ugly

It’s not for wimps

Tue, 30 Mar 2010 21:25:41 -0700

I’ve had more confrontational situations than I feel like I can handle lately. Rather than bore you with each particular episode, I have to say, this one really stands out to me.

We have a fellow that voluntarily works, say, 16 hours or more each week on the landscaping and maintenance of the property we lease. I’ve probably mentioned previously that we rent our space from a local church that has been generally supportive and absolutely essential to who we are and what we do. He is a good man who is thoroughly modern and not only believes in an objective reality, he believes he is either the author or perhaps sole possessor of said reality.

He has never been shy about his frustration with the homeless. He has felt all along that our commitment to radical hospitality is a waste of time at best and a horrid and dangerous misuse of resources at worst. In his defense, his first experience with our guests was a bi-polar guy going through meth withdrawals that screamed at him and threatened to kill him.

Hell, he did that with me too. How could he know that was merely his standard mode of communication. So far as I know, he hasn’t actually killed anyone yet, but I digress.

But for all intents and purposes, he is understood to be the gardener to the little church. Everyone within the congregation loves and appreciates the work he does as it is fine and meticulous work that saves the church as much as five thousand bucks a year. That is nothing to sniff at.

Sadly, mainly on account of my general reckless disposition, he and I have never really seen eye to eye. To this very moment, I like him. I’m not sure he has ever really liked me but I don’t lose too much sleep over it. We young folks tend not to be nearly so clean or organized as we ought to be and that is, despite scholarly sentiment to the contrary, the unpardonable sin that Jesus spoke of.

Yesterday was my sabbath, and I’ve been trying to guard my sabbath and my family day with a little more ferocity as of late. I’ve made some mistakes pertaining to my busyness and I’m trying to get away from that. It just so happens that Mondays are the main day our gardener likes to work the most hours. It’s probably ten o’clock and I’m blissfully and warmly napping on our couch.

The doorbell rings and there he is. He wants me to know that there is an apparent “homeless camp” behind one of the church buildings. I assure him that I’ve never seen that and I ask him what he intends to do about it. He calmly explains that he is going to destroy what little stability that individual has in the world by tearing up the pallets and cardboard and throwing them in the dumpster. I can’t say that’s a move I can get on board with, but I don’t technically have the authority to stop him so I try to move him along so I can get back to my nap.

He crowbars the conversation further by pointing out that I’d left the garden shed unlocked again. It should be noted that we have, in the past, shared the church tools in the church shed for the work that is to be done on the church property. I have a lousy habit of leaving the door unlocked thinking I’ll be returning for something more and then completely forgetting.

It was worse than just that though. I’d also left the tools I’d used outside where we were working and they’d gotten wet in the rain. Now, I’m sure you’re asking yourself, “Aren’t these outdoor tools, to be used outdoor? Aren’t they designed to withstand some degree of the elements?”

That may be, but that falls far outside the realm of the objective reality that our gardener owns.

I answer his charge with an apology for leaving the tools out but I frankly couldn’t recall being in the shed all too recently (it had been several days for sure). He told me they should go back inside regardless of the situation. Then he leaves.

I go back to my nap for a few minutes but now I can’t get back to sleep. I start waking myself up and thinking through whether there is anything urgent I need to get done that day and finally resign myself to going outside after I get dressed to pick up the tools and put them back in the shed. About that time, what do you think I heard?

That’s right, another knock at my door. It’s little miss sunshine again, and this time, he informs me that he can’t find any other novices and he’d like me to help him destroy the homeless person’s bed and throw the pallets in the dumpster because they’re too heavy for him.

Little did I know that I was about to make a catastrophic mistake. I told him straight forward that today is my sabbath and I can do that for him myself either later today or tomorrow. At that, he sighs in disgust and says, “I guess I’ll just drag ‘em there myself. I can’t trust you Joshua...” and walks away.

I said, “Well, that’s up to you, buddy.” And close the door.

Likely the last conversation he and I will ever have.

Not long afterward, it occurred to me that we’ll never be able to share anything without him feeling some animosity toward us irresponsible kids at the way we handle things. Plucking up some of our meager funding, I head to the hardware store and pick up a whole new set of tools and the most expensive new wheel barrow they carry.

The wheel barrow is it’s own parenthetical statement, but I left the shed wheel barrow out in the rain. When I was gathering in the tools, I saw the bottom of the barrow was beginning to rust and I don’t know that I would have caused that in only a few hours exposure, but I thought I ought to cover my bases. So I figured we’d keep the rusty barrow and buy “he who must not be named” a state of the art, shiny new one as a demonstration of genuine repentance.

In it, I left a simple letter trying to clear the air for our misunderstandings and assuring him that our difference in behavior is on account of different values systems, not just because I’m trying to be exactly like him and I really suck at it. I pointed out a few situations where I’ve defended him without him knowing it and begging him to cut me a little slack in my wonton forgetfulness and my time frame that is often more influenced by people than tasks.

This morning, he was in the pastor’s office bright and early. He has resigned his volunteer post and left the church. There were other issues (apparently, the Lutheran church isn’t “Lutheran enough”), but essentially, he believes I am an unreliable liar who’s greatest weakness is my hopeless compassion for poor people... and that is despicable.

So now I have these brand new tools and this fantastic wheel barrow as a sign of a completely failed reconciliation. I don’t understand how you can live sixty-five years of life here and not learn how to share. Or not learn a little grace, for that matter. Or become so foolishly conceited that you don’t imagine you need anyone else’s grace.

In the end, I still care about the guy and I wish he could see the world beyond himself. I think he would be much happier and far less frustrated if he learned to accept all the rest of us full of sin, and error, and stupidity, and shit. Instead, he is on a crusade, not to make us all compassionate or loving, or generous, but to make us all clean, and proper, and responsible.

Why didn’t Jesus spend more time teaching people to share?

All I know, is:

It isn’t sexy.

I don’t think most hipsters I’ve met would’ve done it.

It doesn’t involve coffee or beer.

And it wouldn’t look good on a tattoo.

This is the dark side.

Of Neighbors and Enemies

Tue, 23 Feb 2010 10:55:22 -0800

You ever do what Jesus might have done without wanting to?

A minor detail I hadn’t mentioned from my post regarding the neighborhood meeting: after the dust settled and it was just Rachel, Steve, and me, I wondered out loud what we ought to do next...

I think it would be fair to say that within a space of twenty minutes, our neighbors set themselves up as our adversaries... or if you’d rather be a bit more dramatic, our neighbors had become our enemies.

Dirty Samaritans...

So in that moment of frustration and in the midst of a building desire for revenge and defiance, the words that fell out of my mouth made me want to puke. I said, “Maybe we should make them all cookies?”

Honestly, I have never said something out loud that I so fully disagreed with. It makes me wonder if, one day in Heaven, the Father and the Son were talking about our relational issues, and Jesus says, “I mean... I guess I could go down there and maybe die in their place?”

And you wonder if the moment the words left His mouth, He felt instant regret the same way I did.

But I’m sure you’re wondering, what really is the difference between Joshua here and the Son of God. I assure you, I won’t leave you hanging with that question.

After saying it, regretting it, and simultaneously being embarrassed by it (what, was I too afraid to fight?), I walked off and completely forgot it. I gladly forgot it. My mind banished it unto the oblivion... the black hole of non-remembrance where most information I encounter meets it’s demise. So I completely and fully forgot it and began plotting my next move to defeat my enemies.

But Rachel didn’t.

No, as it turns out, Rachel remembered it more as a command and an appropriate strategy than an emotion-less, regrettable kind of thing I say when I’m overwhelmed with opposite emotions. And Sunday morning (the idea had only been in the tomb three days), Rachel had in mind to practice resurrection.

Running over her ideas for the art workshop, she informed me that she was making a cookie station. That we were, inevitably, making cookies for the neighbors.

Damn her and her Jesus-y-ness.

My pride came up with a quick consolation plan though. We would take the cookies to the neighbors who didn’t show as a sign that they were missed and maybe provoke greater participation in the future.

Rachel did a masterful job with the cookies, arranged them nicely on plates, and off we went. To the first absent neighbor... argh... no one home.

Well, to the next absent neighbor... still no one home.

No car in the other absent neighbors driveway.

So help me, if we weren’t going to end up delivering cookies to the bastards that stabbed us in the back! They were the only ones left, and thanks to God’s great sense of humor (note the sarcasm), THEY WERE THE ONLY ONES HOME!

At the home of our first enemy/neighbor, she came to the door and the first thing she said was, “So you’re not mad at us? I felt so badly about the meeting. Here we went and broke your heart. I told my granddaughter, ‘I think we broke Joshua’s heart.’”

What am I supposed to say to that?

“Um... yep... and I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if Rachel hadn’t taken my accidental idea seriously.”

I choked out a polite deference and offered an unconditional truce on the grounds of being neighbors. She quickly invited us all in and began showing us her artwork. She seems more grateful for the olive branch than she was the cookies, though she was very gracious.

We probably spent twenty minutes at her place and then went to the other enemy/neighbor. She also, immediately apologized for the way the meeting had gone and mentioned they had all remarked about their regret walking home together.

They agreed that cleaning up the trash on the lot and spreading some gravel along the path couldn’t be all bad. It indeed could be an improvement that wouldn’t subject the neighborhood to the mindless jihad of homeless people.

That was good to hear.

A happy ending?

I don’t know. I guess. You’ve maybe heard my rants about ideals and the fall of their utility for defining expectations. I am as much convinced of this as I am the day I typed those words. My idealism has been replaced by a quiet contentment that survives the dysfunction of reality... the falleness of neighbors who attend meetings as if preparing for battle, or the brashness of a kid dreaming that he could save their world.

Maybe the hope offered here squeaks humbly from the life of an often overwhelmed college kid and someone who is something less than the employee of the month at Baskin-Robbins. Maybe it is the faint yellow of the dandelion that still stands after the mushroom cloud has dissipated.

That hope isn’t so noble without the nuclear explosion, and the light not nearly so brilliant without the surrounding darkness that threatens it.

Thank you for your willingness to treat the wounds of the Samaritan, Rachel.

One thing I know for sure:

It isn’t sexy.

I don’t think most hipsters I’ve met would’ve done it.

It doesn’t involve coffee or beer.

And it wouldn’t look good on a tattoo.

It is the dim bright side standing against the dark side.

I’ll Shoot Your LIghts Out!

Fri, 19 Feb 2010 21:24:52 -0800

Oh what a day... honestly, there is too much in today to fill a meager dark side post. I mean... holy hell it was a vicious day. Shouldn’t monasticism lead to peace and tranquility? Either it doesn’t, or we don’t even pretend we’re monastic very well.

So the first part of my day involved losing a relationship because it was decided that we really couldn’t be friends if there were any disagreements between us. For the record, I didn’t decide this. I have long-standing disagreements with all my friends. That could be another post for another time.

In the interest of pursuing a Lenten creative project that would set our focus toward resurrection and new life, I had been thinking long and hard about the vacant lot that serves as the eye sore for our little block. I had imagined we might plant some flowers and make the paths that run through it nice gravel paths lined with daffodils. I saw serene benches and beautiful shade trees. I heard birds singing and neighbors exchanging friendly banter about the weather and all sorts of non-consequential things.

I was able to secure board approval for the funding and I asked one of our board members if he might draw up a plan so we could obtain permission from the property owner. After doing so, I submitted the plan to the management company and further idealized help and input from the neighbors. My ideals do not serve me well.

A meeting was set for this evening, something brief, where I would introduce the idea, listen to any feedback, and try to recruit labor and creativity for the park. About 730, we saw a group of four wandering around the property and realized we hadn’t put out a sign. I hadn’t really expected there’d be much interest. They were very cordial as I invited them in around our table in our living room. I opened the plan to pass around (it should have been a clue to me when no one would touch the plan as if perhaps it would bite them).

I had gotten no further than two sentences than people took right off. There were “concerns.” I know what “concerns” are by now. I’ve heard plenty of them from church folks and I think I get it. It usually is a nice way of say we hate the idea and we’re going to raise hell if you dare suggest it one more time.

I mean, neighbor kids (and their parents) jump our fences! We have people that walk across that old lot. It might attract... don’t make me say it... PEOPLE! What would this neighborhood come to if there were people around? You think it’s bad now, you just plant some flowers and you’ll see... this is on a path to become the seventh Hell!

Supposing I might rely on my knack in conflict resolution, I began to attempt a clear identification of the problems involved. Without warning, the only man of the four jumped in. He said it can’t be done. It would destroy the privacy of the area! I suggested maybe we could pull the benches or put some park lighting there. Then he said, and I quote, “If you put lights in there, I’ll get a gun and shoot em out! If people walk through there, I’ll shoot them too!”

It was at this point that everything took a real surreal turn. I took a deep breath and realized how I responded to this was going to have a lot to do with whether or not I’d ever have any kind of relationship with my neighbors.

My instincts drove me to fight. I thought to mention jail time if he destroyed the property of others. I thought to threaten him or remind him that he doesn’t own that lot and we don’t owe him this audience. I thought of telling him we’d obtained permission from the landowner and he could go **** himself. What I did next still surprises me.

I backed off the idea, and then began deconstructing the absurdity behind their privacy and security nonsense. I knew it wouldn’t make any difference, but I could give them this gift (of acquiescing) without validating their anti-community sentiments.

They said that anything that is beautiful would attract trouble.

I suggest we all go shit on everything so we wouldn’t attract the wrong kinds of people.

You know, the kind that shit on everything.

I told them that this was meant to be a gift for them. It was like offering someone a present only to have them throw it up in your face. The women turned slightly sympathetic but the guy wasn’t going to budge. He wasn’t sorry for his nastiness and he wasn’t going to be.

After I put an end to the tenuous conversation by putting the idea out to pasture, lighthearted chit chat ensued. Now, I don’t think you can imagine how contrived lighthearted chit chat seems after you’ve had the same people threaten to shoot your lights out.

So pro-privacy, pro-security equals anti-community?

You ever try small talk with a mob of pissy neighbors?

It wasn’t sexy.

I don’t think most hipsters I’ve met would’ve done that.

It didn’t involve coffee or beer.

And it wouldn’t look good on a tattoo.

This is the dark side...

Theology Salons are not for everyone

Wed, 10 Feb 2010 09:10:20 -0800

One of my many laments regarding the emergent/emerging movement bastardizing the hipster culture seems to have evolved from beatnik coffee shops and poetry readings. I guess emergents haven’t initially assumed they are poets and I think it took some time to build up the activist mindset. So rather than use what wasn’t native, I suppose we reached for what we already had:

Theology.

Now that’s all fine and good for the children of clergy who have their “daddy issues” all wrapped up in ancient texts and the proper interpretation of Hebrew nouns (like me), but for normal folks who didn’t grow up with the awareness that Scripture was composed in languages other than Victorian English, this is a cross-cultural activity.

I’m open to the argument that we’re really just doing the same kind of textual interpretation we’d be doing with a great poem. I imagine there could be some truth to that depending on how it’s handled. But I think for the most part, one of the hallmarks of the kind of people who belong to intentional communities these days is this insatiable urge to read heady books and have an open joust over these ideas we hold hypothetically.

That right there, that point is the rub. People who aren’t interested in that kind of extended discourse won’t show up, and that is terrific. There is another type of person and this is the kind that is acutely interested but not from a hypothetical stance.

Enter my friend Steve.

Steve is one of our novices here and he has been with us, probably four or five months now. He is a good man and one of the highest compliments I can pay Steve is he is indeed a servant of all. He is fifty, thoroughly modern, and has lived on the streets intermittently for large parts of his life.

After having “The Other Bible” loaned to him under the guise that he needed to read this to broaden his horizons (if you’re not familiar, “The Other Bible” is a collection of heretical texts from the first several centuries), Steve was having a difficult time understanding whether or not this was actually a sacred text within our community.

It, of course, is not, and I would have preferred him not be exposed to that without a great deal of explanation and I’ll tell you why. Without daily interaction with other novices on what he was reading, he began to build an enormous tension and frustration with all the things he was reading that he couldn’t accept. But he wasn’t able to articulate this to anyone... so we were all in for it.

One Friday night, around our communal meal, I managed to light that powder keg. Whoa buddy did that thing ever take off. We were lectured on the precise method the Bible insists for stoning. And he didn’t want to hear anyone’s other opinions from other readings. There is no more “other!” It is the Bible or nothing!

Friends, it was ugly.

Steve needed a big time-out that spanned several days and included himself, his room, and the actual Bible... you know, the good old-fashioned one. After all of the clarification and decompression that needed to take place, Steve was able to mentally and spiritually rest.

The point I’m illustrating, is that the theological meanderings in a pub with a bunch of twenty-somethings may be something of a hobby for some folks. I’m not so sure you can do that with everyone.

I have a theory that goes like this:

Some people actually believe this shit.

Can you imagine? I have another member of our community who is constantly frustrated because I speak of my convictions and ideals in such loose terms and with so little passion. I can remove the insistence from my expressions because I am a postmodern semi-pluralist, semi-relativist.

And do you know that some people still aren’t? I have to be reminded of that almost daily. What we kids throw around with virtually no emotion (because, Hell, tomorrow, we might think or believe something entirely different... depending on which Claiborne book we’re reading), may be the foundation and bedrock for the hopes and dreams that drive the soul of another.

We’re treating the fine China of others like the paper plates we’re accustomed to.

Theology... of course, it ought to be a clever hobby and a trendy pastime, but lookout if you ever run into anyone that believes all that stuff. Ironically, you may not find them so cordial.

Memories from a previous guest

Thu, 4 Feb 2010 14:54:26 -0800

We had a very colorful guest stay with us just a couple of weeks ago. It should be noted that we genuinely believe in radical hospitality and we welcome it so long as it serves as a reminder that we are all guests and travelers here... citizens of another place.

Now that’s all fine and good, but we do try and be shrewd about the pain and baggage we take on that comes with all of our guests. Some we may be equipped to handle, but some may be far out of our realm of competency. We do require a background check as much of that information is not often volunteered.

Cindy had called the congregation a few days previous looking for transitional housing. She was moving out of her current apartment (citing lawlessness in her neighborhood) and needed somewhere to be while she lined up a new place. I talked to her a little and then arranged a time to meet her.

She seemed very nice initially. In fact, she reminded me a little of the truck driver/ghost character from Pee Wee’s Big Adventure, “Large Marge.” Do you remember her? Don’t lie... you saw that movie... at least twice...

Yeah, she was very warm though she told a few troubling stories about people being out to get her. That is usually a sign of the very psychologically damaging victim mentality. I told her if she kept her head down, she could have two weeks here as transitional time to nail down a new arrangement for herself. I promised her that if she kept busy and didn’t cause any trouble, she’d be welcome here throughout her stay.

After running her background check, a few things came back a little shady. There wasn’t anything violent, but a few restraining orders and a couple of harassment claims. I assumed these were things that probably took some time to develop. Given her short two weeks, I gambled on the assumption that she wouldn’t have enough real time to bring that kind of disturbance.

By the end of the first week, she had already called the cops on me. That’s right... she called the cops on me. According to the officer who contacted me over the phone, she told him that she was missing her check book and her wallet and that I was the only other person with a key to her room. I confirmed that the key access was indeed true, but I assured him I hadn’t been in her room since I helped her move in.

“Theres one more thing,” he said. “You need to know all of what is going in my report. She also claims that you psychically manipulated her blue tooth headset from across the street employing it as a bug in her room. You were listening in on her conversations by controlling her cell device with your mind. I can’t say much more than that, but anyone that comes through this file and reads this report will have to make some sense out of those statements as well. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Price. Have a nice day.”

In a brief statement to her, I explained that by calling the cops rather than confronting me directly, she had broken the trust that had been freely extended to her. She wouldn’t look me in the eye anymore. I offered her a few days to put something else together, but she was too paranoid here to be comfortable.

I offered to help her move a few things but she politely declined. She left a note with her key on it. It said, “A sacred secret unfolds over time... Genesis 3:15... WHO’S YOUR DADDY?”

I think the appropriate interpretation there is something like, “I am of the good seed and you have bruised my heel, but you are children of the serpent and I will crush your head in the end.”

To put an exclamation point on her experience, she allowed her previously unmentioned little puffy dog to pee on the floor in our bathroom.

Have you ever cleaned dog pee out of a public restroom?

It wasn’t sexy.

I don’t think most hipsters I’ve met would’ve done that.

It didn’t involve coffee or beer.

And it wouldn’t look good on a tattoo.

This is the dark side...