Ferguson broke my heart. Broke my heart in pieces ….a trail of crumbs leading to a rose lined road. I left a piece of my soul on the pavement in Ferguson. And not because I wanted to. God ripped a piece of it as a remnant. A reminder of the work that still needs to be done. In Ferguson. In me.
“F…the police! F… the police!” Boom boxes blared. Men, women and children stood around doing – nothing. They protested with presence. Maybe that’s all they had left. Their stance, their eyes and the music that screamed “we’re fed up”. And half way down a double yellow-lined street, a makeshift memorial of stuffed toys and cards; a shrine to the boy who’d baptized the spot with his blood. Passersby stopped to take selfies, and a cocoa-skinned grandmother prophesied the destruction of Ferguson if a trial didn’t lead to conviction. And it just might. Because the people in this rally didn’t seem to care anymore and they think the world doesn’t either. I couldn’t resolve my compulsion to yell “wake up” with a soul-weary feeling of “Been there, done that. Here we go again.”
But that doesn’t mean you should all look and speak and act the same. Out of the generosity of Christ, each of us is given his own gift. The text for this is,
He climbed the high mountain, He captured the enemy and seized the booty, He handed it all out in gifts to the people.
Is it not true that the One who climbed up also climbed down, down to the valley of earth? And the One who climbed down is the One who climbed back up, up to highest heaven. He handed out gifts above and below, filled heaven with his gifts, filled earth with his gifts. He handed out gifts of apostle, prophet, evangelist, and pastor-teacher to train Christ’s followers in skilled servant work, working within Christ’s body, the church, until we’re all moving rhythmically and easily with each other, efficient and graceful in response to God’s Son, fully mature adults, fully developed within and without, fully alive like Christ. Ephesians 4:11 The Message
He sent five. I don’t doubt it as divine providence. His perfect plan. To equip the vision with the gifts of a five fold ministry. We are a gathering of grace saved sinners. Pooling our spiritual resources as an offering. We are earthen vessels. Sent as apostles, prophets, evangelists, pastors and teachers. Each a unique expression of His creativity, His great pleasure. Each called for such a time as this. And we said yes.
We are the broken but willing these, ministering to the least of these. Saying yes has meant wrestling with difficult questions, sifting through uncomfortable conversations…watching a community grieve. It’s also meant allowing Christ to have his way. We’re learning to listen for His voice in the wilderness of our own lives. Because there’s that too. He equips and sends and wrapped in the mission is a message. And it’s personal. It’s hard and healing and if we do this right…maybe, we can be gifts to each other. Maybe we’ll hear.
When I found Deidra Riggs online I froze. Silenced in the stillness of joy, I caught my breath – in awe of her gift. It’s a gift you know, to gracefully challenge people towards change. Without saying a word, she encouraged me to write about racism. She left room for my words and a safe space to “go there” in discussions surrounding diversity and reconciliation.
God’s called me to the conversation surrounding race and the church. I’m sure of it. And so I write. I engage. I listen. And now, I go.
On Friday I’ll leave the Lovelies and Big Daddy to board a flight bound for Ferguson, Missouri. I’ll have the opportunity to serve a community by listening to and prayerfully, telling their stories.
I’m not a reporter. Or popular blogger. I’m a wife and mother, daughter of a king answering a call to serve. And in saying yes, I’ve never felt more inadequate to fulfill a task and powerless to bring about change. Never felt more like I’m stepping into a pair of shoes two sizes too big.
So I withdrew. The enormity of the task, the life legacy of a family – make this thinker quiet. I withdraw to grow small. Because we spend our days online thinking about numbers and influence and how to grow bigger and now, right now, my words are but illegible markings in the sand. I can’t decipher their meaning and know the tide will soon wash them away. Those words wouldn’t matter anyway. What remains will be His. I’ll grow quiet knowing every scratch of it is linked to the only story that matters. Spirit washed and carved on tablets of stone, that story must be told. That truth transforms. That truth heals. I will tell it.
I’m going there. I’m taking my mother heart, a prayer for peace, my passion for justice…my faith in God and I’m going. In Ferguson I’ll join Deidra, Jennifer, Preston and Nish – believing God we’ll form a five fold ministry of grace, of whatever’s needed for such a time as this. We want to hear.
We’ll follow His lead.
Pray that I listen for His heart and words as I offer my vessel. Pray He pours words of meaning and hope…and grace. That I hear. Pray His riches and glory, that my feet spiritually fill the shoes before me. That the stories held are freely shared and that most of all, the words point back to Him. Pray for change.
Give Me Grace to #gothere
In love of course
But just the same
Give me grace to uncompromisingly walk my faith
Call me out when I use it as a crutch to support my biases.
I don’t want a truth unless it’s wrapped in you.
Give Me grace to hear another side
Because all stories belong to you.
The original writer and poet
creator and collector of all things lovely.
Give me grace to express how I feel and not let the onslaught of information dull my senses.
I want to feel.
Please Lord
Give me grace to feel.
Because you’re in the middle of it all. Between the gentrified hi-rise and the poor folks pantry, the aids ridden grandma and the juiced out junkie. The downtown diva and the power-hungry terrorist. You’re there.
Give me grace to see them . To feel.
Because we hear these stories and still rattle off posts about crème brûlée and create platforms with You as pillar
Pall bearing a casket of glory – Going. No. Where.
It’s got to be 100% about you. Or not at all.
photo : flickr cc / leland francisco
Give me grace to listen. To engage my senses for the cause of Christ. To discern your truth, Taste and see that You are good – lend and lift my voice to speak when called.
Give me grace to wield my sword and go to war. Prayer helps. And right now it’s the only weapon in my arsenal. Give me grace to fight.
Give me grace to mind my mission, in my family and community without forgetting my humanity makes my garden global.
Give me grace to know water is water. Is water. And all people deserve to have it. From Detroit to Dakar. From Brooklyn to Babylon. Give Me grace to help share the water that promises eternal life.
Give me grace to see my neighbor. Yes. The one who sells drugs, or smokes pot all day, the single mama with 5 kids she won’t/can’t take care of properly. Stop judging and get down to the business of serving. For the least of these. Not just the pretty these. Not the far ways these. The least of these just down the hall or across the street. The least of these on my job, in my dance class, on the bus … in cyberspace.
Give me grace to fight for justice. I want to live your peace. But I know the wrath of God is real. When all the love had been poured and the beautiful words espoused…You came into the tents knocking things over. Jesus raised a holy hell when necessary.
Give me grace to be tender and pliable. To sit silently when directed. To remain humble. Be love. To know when my words should float softly adrift a heaven bound cloud and too, when to send them aflame. Teach me Lord, how to fight.
Give Me Grace to pray for a holy righteous cleansing. A physical outpouring of your
spirit to mix things up. Pour down, bleed the beautiful on this crazy concoction of sin and death, of tears and trauma, bandits and beasts. Jesus wash it away. Jesus make it rain.
And after all this, when my heart can’t hold the price of freedom, and my flesh fails (because it will) – After I’ve done all I can and all you’ve asked, Let me offer myself to you, lay my burden down
