Bridges and Communities

Earlier this week I took a solo day away.  I intended to walk from our house to Forest Park, a very large park in N/NW Portland with many hiking trails.  It's about 2.5 miles' walk just to get to the park, including crossing the St Johns Bridge (http://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/St._Johns_Bridge), a tall suspension bridge over the Willamette River.

As I walked through the neighborhoods on my way to the bridge, it occurred to me that I didn't know the people who lived in most of the housing units.  Over the past year plus I've been heavily involved in doing community organizing work, yet I still don't know most of the people in my community.  This sparked several reflections:

• I noted the size of most of the homes I was passing. Recently it has been bothering me that we all live in such large houses, and I've been attributing quite a bit of it to our attachment to stuff.  We can't think of moving to someplace smaller because we can't bear the thought of parting with our big-screen TVs, couches, and other furniture and gadgets and toys.  (Been recognizing my own attachments in slowly moving toward 100 personal possessions.)  This time, though, something deeper occurred to me.  We hold on to our big houses and possessions because by them we believe we can be independent. We have everything we need unto ourselves.  I get to choose with whom I interact ... which means I choose what they see and know about me ... which means I can hide from real relationship and even from being forced to confront my own self and its issues
• How can we pretend to help a community if we don't really know that community, and know it honestly?  I think most programs and individuals fail in their endeavors because they don't truly know the community -- the people, the culture, the customs, needs, and wants -- in which they are operating.  This could be because they keep too much distance (bullet #1) or because they are too close and unable to see what the truth is.  In my local context, there are a lot of people who have been in the community so long that when they want to "make the community better" they usually mean take it back to the way it used to be.  We need to recognize the warts and challenge the community to be all it really can be.  And if the makeup of the community changes, then our definition of who we are needs to change rather than just trying to make the new pieces fit into "our" community
• This becomes exponentially more important -- and difficult -- when you're talking about bridging (yep, the bridge got in there) between cultures.  That's what I typically end up doing: serving as a bridge between generations, races, nationalities, income levels, genders.  But to speak with credibility and sense the connection that can be made between those distinct groups, do I spend enough time listening to each that I understand?  Or do I simply "do the work" that I or others want to accomplish?  Do I skimp on the listening and relationship to get 'er done, or do I recognize that the real "work" is the relationship? Does the world really need another policy, process, structure, or similar?  When will we realize that those things don't heal the world; they simply provide us with the illusion that we are "solving" things, which mainly just serves to insulate us from what is really happening.

Next blog post will cover what happened when I reached the bridge.  (teaser alert)

Leading by Lessening

A couple of months ago, I saw a book at the library called The 100 Thing Challenge.  It sounded interesting so I picked it up.  Essentially, the author was overcome at his own consumerism (as I often am) and worked out a plan to get himself down to 100 personal possessions or less and stay that way for at least a year.

I've been thinking about this a lot, and finally this past week I decided I'm going to do it.  So you can follow along on my journey through this.  First, a few rules I know I'll use to make this clearer for me:

1. This is my challenge, not anyone else's.  I learned this from the author, who shared that just because he decided to take the challenge didn't mean he needed to go through his wife's or kids' possessions and do the same thing.  This will be key for me, along with not judging others who have more, even many more.
2. This can only be about my personal possessions, not shared possessions.  While in some ways I suppose this is cheating, if I counted all of our furniture, games, and the like, I'd be left without clothes.  Maybe eventually as a family we'll have this conversation about winnowing our family possessions, but for now those things don't count against my total
3. Only permanent possessions will count.  I wasn't sure how to word this, but essentially what I mean is that I'm not going to count things like toothpaste, deodorant, or food and drink.  While I certainly possess them and can be a consumer about them, things related to sustenance and daily necessities are not my primary concern related to stockpiling them
4. Some things will only count as one even though there are more than one of them.  The most obvious examples here are going to be underwear and socks and (more controversial, I know) books, music, and movies.  Each of those latter things will count as "1 collection" or "1 library."  Hear me out before you accuse too strongly, though :)  Some of those possessions are family possessions, but recognizing my own ability to cop out in these areas, I have put limits on my personal items in these areas: 100 books (believe me, that's going to involve some serious winnowing), 20 DVDs, 8 board games.  Music is hard because it's all electronic now; needs more reflection
5. I'll still be able to buy things.  As the author pointed out, the goal wasn't to avoid buying (though that will have to be part of it) but to reduce possessions and live more simply.  So as long as I'm below the 100 items, I can purchase.  If I'm at 100, I will have to give away one thing before purchasing another, making my purchases much more thoughtful

I've started with my closet.  The author of the book only ended with about 25 clothing items ... but he didn't have a job where he had to be in meetings or presenting, and he lived in San Diego.  I will often be meeting with local pastors, or with denominational leaders here and abroad, and I live in Portland, Oregon, so my clothing is already up to about 40 items and may climb a little more.

I'm curious about your feedback about this idea and about my rules. Are there other things I should consider?  I'll post my initial list in the next week and keep you updated as I continue to think it through.

The Assumptions of David

I've found it to be a truism that good leadership and followership both avoid assumptions.  Except when they're appropriate, of course.

We've likely all heard about the dangers of assuming: it makes an A-- out of U and ME (spells assume).  And yet the paradox is that we have to build our lives on assumptions.  Evangelist Cliffe Knechtle always used to talk about how our daily lives were based completely on faith: the faith that cars would stop at a red light so we could cross the street and the like.

I live my life assuming that I'll wake up tomorrow, that my car and house will still be here, that I'll have electricity and Internet and fresh water and enough food or money to buy food.  We take out 10- to 30-year mortgages and 3- to 6-year car loans.  We lay out 5-year personal and professional development plans.  Our lives are built on assumptions that we don't even think about.

Recently my senior pastor spent a month in Malawi and blogged about this idea.  Here is what he said that struck me: "We in the U.S. take a whole lot of stuff for granted - hot showers every morning, the ability to flush the toilet every time you use it, the ability to jump on a computer and have internet access.  Or the fact that your children are not reading and doing their schoolwork by candle light because the power is out.  It sounds romantic, but it really is not.  I hope to return even more grateful for all these daily things and not take them so for granted.  I also pray for the ongoing development of nations like Malawi, who enjoy the comforts as much as we do, but have also learned how to live without them much of the time."

"Comforts" is a great word choice here.  We so often assume that God wants to bless us materially.  By materially here I don't simply mean physical stuff, but things in the material realm.  This would include all those non-essentials which we think of as "essentials" to the good life.  I currently have the luxury of choosing to leave my high-paying job and am now trying to reorient my eyes, my brain, and my calendar and checkbook around this new, more obviously dependent reality.

There are many in the world who do not have this luxury, for whom there is no choice but simply the daily reality of living with less.  And, curiously, they are often living more full, more satisfied lives.  What is this paradox?  How can this be?  Could it be that the abundance of our lives is not just disconnected from, but potentially inverse with, our earthly comforts?  Could this be the foundation of the beatitudes from Matthew 5: Blessed are the poor, for theirs is the kingdom of heaven?  Could it be that when we have the kingdom of earth, we don't desire the kingdom of God enough?

And, therefore, maybe we won't inherit it after all?  Sobering thought, is it not?