Jade

"Please sir ... I won't ask you for money ... but if you could buy me some corn flakes I can eat for five days." She was visibly pregnant and on the street. Thrown out by her family. No prospects. It was a typical story, one that I have encountered in many cities around the world, my own included. Here in Cape Town I am getting accosted daily, by men and women and children. I learned from two significant Johns in my life -- John Stott and John Perkins years ago that giving money is seldom the loving thing to do, and my general policy is to rule it out in most cases. But I could not not respond, so I went to the market with her, bought her groceries and then violated my policy -- I let her keep the change. I told her that I would pray that if she sold the food I just bought her or used the change on drugs or alcohol that she would get really sick. I felt bad about that later. But there you have it. In the end he told me she would get a room with the money. Having heard every story in the book I am pretty sensitive to BS, and I didn't sense any from her. I prayed for her. She asked questions about her salvation, unsure that God would accept her as she was. I tried to tell her that when God looked at her he glowed with love and devotion to his daughter, that he thought the world of her. Her brown eyes got a bit wider but she said nothing. The conversation was as fertile as her three-month profile.

Her name was Jade. I wondered as I walked to my hotel whether she could ever come to believe that, like her namesake, she is precious. Can she ever feel treasured, like a precious stone? Could the Lord carve his image deeply into her frame -- smooth away the rough edges created by the street -- so so that everyone could recognize her infinite value?

Will we ever get to the point where she has somewhere to turn, besides a random white man who happened by in this part of town? I didn't care anymore whether she was lying to me. Tonight I pray a tired and pensive prayer for Jade.

The Table: Loving the Strange and Stranger

Ate a plate of Warthog, Antelope and Crocodile tonight at a restaurant here in Cape Town. Loved every strange bit of it. Worthog, worthog, worthog -- it just rolls off my tongue. Like I've been eating it forever. "I think I'll have the worthog tonight," as if I had ordered it a thousand times. I swear it wasn't just the novelty of it, although that's initially what appealed to me. But I'll remember it because the taste spoke to my senses in a way that made my normal diet feel as if I had been eating sand.

As I prepare to serve at the third ever Lausanne World Congress here in South Africa I am asking the Lord to give me new appetites and tastes. I join more than 4,000 delegates from around the world who gather at "the table" (a metaphor referencing the giant plateau known as Table Mountain in Cape Town) of the Lord as His sends the food of his word to his people for the transformation of the world.

But the new menu at this table is definitely strange. And I am convinced that it is not the strangeness that is attractive. There is an aspect of the interaction with a new food that involves risk, and its a little uncomfortable. But the taste is its own reward.

Last night on the street I was approached by a young woman asking for money. I asked her name, and she said "Donna." But after 30 seconds of conversation it began to dawn on me that Donna was a young man. After having spent a late night last year on the streets of San Jose Costa Rica ministering to transvestites, I began to realize Donna's identity and took a moment to pray for her. It was an unusual conversation -- stood out for it's strangeness. But there on the street corner praying with my hand on her/his shoulder, this felt like a new meal. Risk taken. The reward of the risk, a deep satisfaction.

I am not addicted to strangeness. In some sense I do choose it out of a sense that this is often where I find Jesus. I find myself writing about it often because its taste jolts my dulled senses so much. But more often than not, it seems like it is strangeness that chooses me. Perhaps it is a confrontation that I need.

Because the location of a meeting we attended after my dinner of warthog tonight it was not safe to walk alone, so another male delegate and I accompanied two young female delegates to their hotels for safety. It turns out that one of them was the daughter of a Christian leader in Mexico City that I have partnered with over the years. I have been in her home celebrating their amazing ministry among the urban poor of their city. The strange, miraculous circumstances I often find myself in seem to me to be orchestrated by a heavenly chef. And tonight was like desert.

Signs of Hope in The Lemonade

In Guatemala City we took our students to the largest slum of Central America, called La Limonada (literally, The Lemonade), sitting at the feet of two of the most amazing urban leaders in the city, Tita Evertsz and Pastor Erwin Shorty Luna.

Tita has 15 years experience serving La Limonada through specialized children's programs before and after school. She literally had to escort us into the slum due to its level of danger. The respect the community has for her was our protection. We descended down into a ravine via a path leading around slum shacks cobbled together by rusting corrugated tin, rotten wood and concrete, to one of two schools she has built. The ravine flowed with a river of garbage and sewage, but it could not overwhelm the river of hope that flows in this notorious slum.

Just the week prior Tita had received a death threat from gang members who wanted protection money. Yet even the threat served the kingdom because some young gang members she had been loving and serving, upon seeing how shaken Tita was, dropped to their knees in prayer for her, indignant that someone should threaten her. God allowed them to see the impact of such threats on someone they loved -- significant because some of them had demanded protection money of others. I know this is an overused phrase, but she is truly the Mother Teresa of Guatemala.

Shorty is one of Joel’s gang chaplains, who grew up a street kid on the streets of Guatemala City and then was a major gang member in L.A. A powerfully built man with a quick smile, he is now working hand in hand with Tita doing some church planting work in the heart of La Limonada. He is a mature Christian who flows with a deep knowledge of Scripture and a spirit of joy.

The whole community loves Shorty and Tita as they have built relationships through Tita’s schools, and Shorty’s fearless mentoring of violent youth.

Then we visited a shack where a severely retarded 16 year old girl lived like a hermit on a rotting mattress in a corner of a dark room. The shack was perched over the ravine. Her mother was overwhelmed, as well as trapped by an abusive husband, who was sexually abusing the three daughters. I felt like throwing him out the window into the ravine, but thankfully Tita is pursuing a wiser approach. During that visit we were able to get the ball rolling to get the girl to a care facility run by an associate. A God-ordained coincidence — a Dios-idence according to Tita — meant the colleague was just a five minute walk from the shack when we called him. He was able to join us right away and get the story. Tita began to ramp up her relationship with the Mom and look for a way out for her and the girls, which are few, given the abject poverty.

Shorty and Tita are signs of hope that the world needs to know about.

We also spent an afternoon and evening in the city of Peronia where a controversial pastor has garnered a peace accord between the two rival gangs in his community. He spent the entire day with us. We met former rival gang members that are now friends. Crime in the whole district has dropped a reported 74%. More hope.

The Scriptures say, "There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God." (Ps 46:5). La Limonada (literally, The Lemonade -- leaves a sour taste) is becoming a city of God. Others see shacks wrapped in misery. Tita and Shorty said they feel that unless you can learn to see joy and beauty in the midst of pain sand suffering you will never last in this call of God. I needed to hear that and see it demonstrated. I see hope and fragrance of sweet lemonade.

Boxes of Bones

You may not want to read this. I promise happier thoughts in the future. But my privilege requires it.

Entering into another country’s open wound – mass murder and genocide – is like standing next to the surgeon as they probe a cancer. It feels personal, and a privilege, though I never met any of the victims. Yet I have heard from their children and grandchildren, have seen their tears, and strangest of all, have touched their very bones. They are stacked in clear bags and cardboard boxes at the Forensic Anthropology Foundation of Guatemala, as they are matched through meticulous DNA testing with the some 50,000 people who were “disappeared” during the Armed Conflict. This is a crucial project for the healing of the nation, not to mention the individual peace of thousands of families. And it is a chance to ask about the role of the church in this healing, about the church’s silence at key points, about the ways the sins of the past reach into the present daily life of Guatemalans. The blood still cries out from the ground.

I’m not sure what to write about this, so can I process my junk for a minute? What relevance could this strange privilege of mine – to glimpse a national agony not my own -- have to my friends? I don’t know the answer to that question; perhaps you can tell me. At least bear with me. At the next table tonight, an American youth group from Michigan is here on a mission project. They are serving Guatemalan kids. Their youth pastor announced to me that Jesus really didn’t call people to end poverty. They are just here to save the street kids of Guatemala City. But I wondered what he would say to the relatives of the victims, or to the custodians of the bones. Did not Zaccheus’ repentance mean justice for those whom he had oppressed in his city? The Youth Pastor’s gospel drives him to acts of compassion, but cannot lead him to imagine, let alone pay the price needed for there to be transformation of evil systems. His message of love, delivered to the grandchildren of the murdered, will be appreciated by them, but does he realize the children on the street are there precisely because generation of Grandfathers was violently removed from their role as provider and model? Did their pain and the agonized cry of the children left to fend for themselves not echo in God’s ears, break God’s heart? As Ray Bakke reminds, did not a political decision by Herod mean that hundreds of kids died for Jesus before he had a chance to die for them? Does the heart of Jesus not long to transform the systems that keep pumping out modern day Herods in every generation? And because our CIA funded the Herods of that generation, do I not bear some responsibility to speak for these bones? Sorry, impolite questions.

I saw it lying on the table at the forensic lab, though I could almost feel as if it saw me. It was the latest skull to be unearthed, found among the murdered. It was slightly larger than my fist. Children have always suffered worst for the sins of adults.

As I passed through rooms stacked to the ceiling with sealed and tagged boxes – the remains of identified victims – my fatigue began to grow. As I listened to our guide, I absent-mindedly leaned against a stack of them, as if a wall. A pillar of bones, some with the unique signatures left by machetes on limbs or gunshots to heads. Thousands of tibia, fibula, clavicles, hip bones, no longer privileged to support their original owners, they now supported me – helped stand me up straight for a little longer. The least I can do is stand up for them. The least I can do is to train leaders to ask the impolite question, imagine a future without need for a place like this, and organize their lives around that quest.

Something Larger than Myself

Standing by the General Grant Tree in Kings Canyon National Park it is easy to feel small -- something that rarely happens to me. I tend to be the tallest thing around, unless my sons are also in the room. The fact that this Giant Sequoia has stood silently since the time of Christ, towering above its companion Lodgepole Pines and Western Red Cedars impresses smallness on everything in its shadow. I love that feeling. I sat, immersed in it, sketching the lower portion and its fire-scar because I was taken by its swirling red and amber texture. But there is no way to sketch the hugeness, the feeling of weight, the dominance, and the soaring height. There is no sketchbook tall enough, no journal with enough pages to explore the contrasts between us.

If there are few living things that can make me feel puny, there are plenty of circumstances that seem to have that power. My work is populated with things larger than myself, and every day the scouts send back reports of giants in the land. It's on days like that when I need go stand in the shadow of real giants. I need the reminder that some things which loom large are large only in my imagination. Being at the foot of something real blows these ghosts away. But there's something else that happens as well, as I crane my neck to take in the top and then let my eye extend past it. I worship the One who made the Sequoia, the One for whom that tallest, heaviest of living things is no more than a matchstick.

That's when smallness becomes a gift.

In praise of all that reaches high

Of all that towers tall

Which in their redness pierces sky

And dwarfs the false gods all

I praise the mind that dreamed of giants

And planted them for me

And pray that I remain compliant

Then join their company

Ya Man

Well, at least I flew over the famed beaches of Jamaica. Waves rolled to shore in layers, just like the photo-shopped pictures in travel magazines. But then the plane also rolled, and all I saw was cloud. I thought to myself, this is getting ridiculous. It’s so typical for me. I can’t count the times I served in New York City at urban projects and have still not seen the Statue of Liberty. Just the basement of some inner-city church. Same with the famous souk in Amman, and the White House or Smithsonian in DC, and many historic churches and sites in the 30 cities in the US I served in. Too busy to see them. Never any time. Too much fatigue by the time I’m done. And now, I can add the beach in the world’s quintessential vacation spot to the list of things missed.

But, I did see something that many won’t because of it’s location. Ya Man, it was random but I saw Bob Marley’s house. I don’t know much about Marley. Reggae. Weed. Dreads. A legacy of music known around the world. Marley came from the rough streets of a slum called Trench Town, which he sang about. Our students will study Trench Town next April, so I was doing an advance trip to scout it out. It is a poor and violent community that happened to bear one of the most internationally known music superstars. Did I go in the house? No. I passed it on the way to a literacy program for children that was on the same street . But I rolled down the window and heard the familiar beat and guitar tumble in. And I thought to myself, this is ridiculous.

My hosts couldn’t believe I spent only two days in country, and all of that in meetings. Typical American; always onto something else. In my case it was a conference in Memphis the following day. Not to say I didn’t see some cool stuff: an NGO specializing in transformational ministry. A micro-lending ministry and , an early childhood program, a reading program, a church plant, a radio ministry providing national commentary on the social conditions of the country, a spectacular view of Kingston Harbor. I ate some traditional Jamaican food, including Ackee and Salt Fish for breakfast. I met the Chick-fil-A guy of Jamaica. And the president of Caribbean Graduate School of Theology and I essentially raced down a restricted corridor in the Jamaican airport to get to a flight we didn’t have tickets for to grab the last two seats as they were closing the door. The bottom line? I didn’t make the beach, but I made some fabulous memories, as well as plans for next year. But when I take my students there, our toes are going in the sand on one day. And Memphis? Probably won’t do Graceland. Typical. Ridiculous.

Update on "Tampa"

This the way "Tampa" spent his last weekend of freedom, before learning the police wanted him in connection with a home invasion robbery. He said "the ocean is much larger than I ever imagined." We couldn't pull him away. I read him that line from the old hymn that said "... for the wideness of God's mercy is like the wideness of the sea ..." and he was moved. He maintains his innocence, and aspects of the victim's testimony seems to suggest its possible. He is attending daily Bible readings in jail, and his Hope Now for Youth staff tell him he can resume his final two days of program when he gets out, and graduate. We have tried to help him see this setback as "an opportunity. Be like Paul and Silas and get used to telling of God's goodness to your cell mates. And let's see how God expands the walls of that place. What matters most is what is ahead, not what is in your past. You have been set on a new path; God loved you too much to let you continue in the direction you had chosen. What do you want your life to be like when you are out?"

His next court appearance is May 12. Pray for God's plan in "Tampa's" life to be revealed, much larger and more beautiful than he ever imagined, and for justice tempered with the wideness of God's mercy.

I am in Miami, en-route to Kingston, Jamaica where I will lay the groundwork for a course in Transformational Leadership there next year. Yes, there are nice beaches. Perhaps I'll see one as I drive. But there is also some of the worst corruption in the world, which operates in the shadow of the highest number of churches per capita anywhere in the world. And dramatic poverty. Figure that one out. Obviously, something's wrong. Appreciate your prayers.

Of Refuge and Tears

Please pray for our young friend "Tampa." I helped him turn himself into the police today. God provided in Numbers 35 that there be "Cities of Refuge," places where someone who committed a crime could run to avoid revenge. We provided safe haven -- refuge -- for Tampa after he initially provided information to the police about a crime, and because of it, was in danger from the gang he implicated. Though some cautioned us against it, it wasn't hard to take him in. We have known Tampa for more than a decade. He and his siblings grew up in our tutoring program. He used to sit on my lap to read. And there was no warrant for his arrest. He was scared, teachable, dependable, meek.

During this month Tampa went everywhere with us. We took him to church. He accepted Christ on my porch. We got him connected to Hope Now for Youth. He had perfect attendance. He volunteered every day at the Leadership Training Center helping with renovations. We took him to see the ocean, a first in his life. He helped me renovate a bathroom. We introduced him to many former gang members who are now in ministry, leading fruitful and beautiful lives. He told me he wanted to be like them. He went to community meetings with me where he saw Christians trying to improve their neighborhoods. Tampa's eyes were wide open this month, opened to a world that he was unfamiliar with. A gracious world, full of love and good will.

So when we woke this morning to the news that the police were seeking him in connection to the crime, we agonized. And we had to tell him that he should turn himself in. The day began with an appointment with an attorney. This is going to cost a lot of money. It continued with negotiations with police about a place to meet them. They could not say if it would be for an interview or an arrest. There was still no warrant. While we waited to hear from them, Tampa wanted to complete another day at Hope Now. He was to graduate on Thursday. So he went, and I paced. Paced, cried, prayed. I wondered if Tampa would have the courage to go through with it. I wondered if he would bolt.

The police set up a neutral ground for the meeting, something they don't normally do. Tampa and I went together. And they were gracious. But they arrested him. He has called me three times from various stages of the process. Just wants to check in, hear my voice as Tina says. He's doing the right thing. He says he feels OK. His mother and sister are in tears. Friends of mine who have surrounded him over these last few weeks have begun to call. Their caring helps. But tonight I end in tears as well. All the hours invested, all the prayers, all the hopes, all the fears we have experienced in these weeks came to a head. Whatever the verdict, I believe Tampa has become a child of God and has a fruitful future. And I think with the right guidance, Tampa will become the Man God intends. But for now, tears, and a sense that I need my own refuge.

We'll Be Right Back After this Message from God

God's country, right?

I don't know where we were. It was pretty. With friends at the wheel, I didn't pay attention. I was distracted by baby-white wildflowers which covered the landscape like a dusting of snow. We got out of the car and started walking a trail that reminded me of Africa -- red earth and green hills. But the horizon was pure Scotland, minus mortarless rock walls or yellow gorse.

Our Friends Chris and Patty provided the guidance and companionship. We hiked to the mesa and looked down at Millerton Lake and the San Joaquin River snaking into it. OK, now with my bearings secured I could imagine myself a Miwok seeing this scene for the first time. This isn't Scotland or Africa -- this is 30 minutes from my house and I have never been here. OK, 30 minutes plus two hours hike up hill.

Tina did really well. Her new hiking shoes worked out, and her sky blue hiking blouse danced up the trails wicking sweat away just as advertised. The afternoon sun illuminated her beauty and she glowed. It started to cool off on our hike back to the car, but the challenge of the trail soon made us stop to rest.

When people say they experience God in the countryside, it often makes us want to scream. God is in the face of an inner-city kid who is learning to read. God is in the alley that has just been cleaned. God is in the house that is being renovated by a hopeful couple. God is in the teacher who prays for her student who has to navigate gang territory to get to school. God is in the tired Dad who still goes to a community meeting because things are being discussed that affect his neighborhood. God is in the Mayor's boardroom, the prostitute's bedroom, the casino's back room. We don't have to go to the countryside, OK? He's in relationships, in suffering, in decision making, in the built environment, not just the created one. OK?

And OK, God is on the Mesa looking down at his handiwork. I needed the reminder. I need to do this more often.

800 Year-Old Words on Grief

Theologian Raymond Brown is famous for saying "All truth is God's Truth." By that he meant that if something is true, it doesn't matter who said it, whether Jesus or someone else. The spirit of Jesus lives in and expresses itself through people who have yet to discover the source of their wisdom. So, while I will always look first to the scriptures for help in dealing with the grief I feel over the untimely and tragic death of my pastor, I also pay attention to those who speak the language of the heart with insight and integrity. Such is the person of Rumi, the 13th century Afghani mystic. He wrote in Persian, often referred to God as his Beloved or Friend, and seemed especially in touch with the human experience. I could share many, many lines from his poetry that have helped me, but for now let me just leave this one short offering, there for any who would say the lines thoughtfully and prayerfully.

My heart, make friends with grief

And if you do, what luck!

Embrace it for your grief

Is the call your Beloved answers.

The Hebrew King David said something similar ...

the Lord is near to the broken-hearted.

So I am grateful for these simple, ancient affirmations, both from eastern cultures. One Inspired and the other Divine. Both consistent with Emmanuel -- God with us, in our time of mourning.

New shoes lead to new destinations

I have never been a backpacker. I did one major trip when I was in high school that nearly killed me, and ended a friendship with one of my buddies when we discovered just how we got on each other's nerves. Of course we were too ambitious -- tried to go too far on the HARDEST trail in Kings Canyon , carrying 65 pound packs.

When we started our family, Tina and I took the boys camping a few times, again in Kings Canyon (got to get back on the horse -- face your fears) but it never took hold as a lifestyle. I did get some good pictures of us frying the tiny fish we caught, and I pull them out occasionally just to remind our sons that I am not just some latte-sipping, art gazing, poetry freak of a dork. I am that, but I can stand by an open fire with the best of them, as long as I have fire-starter.

So when REI had an amazing sale, and after my sons fooled me into going by saying that REI was an art store called Really Expressive Impressionists, I went. OK, OK, it wasn't that bad. But I could not pass up a pair of hiking boots that were originally $200 on sale for $49.83. Which led me to buy another pair for an equally low price, because it was such a good deal. All for a guy who hasn't hiked in a very long time.

So we went hiking -- OK, walking really, but in the foothills by a stream, which makes it hiking in my book.

Which just goes to show that new shoes can lead to new destinations.

Which made me wonder, as I was rewarding myself with a latte, what new shoes does the church in Fresno need, that might lead to some new destinations for the gospel?

Boys Become the Teachers of the Man

As we all have tried to come to terms with the death of Pastor Jamie Evans, I have so often been at a loss for words. This is embarrassing for someone like me -- who lives by words. Embarrassing for a Dad, who would, eons ago, lay his hand on the shoulders of his sons when they were young, praying silently for just the right thing to say.

Because of this void during these sad, sad days, I find myself latching onto other people's words to stand in for me. A fellow leader says in times like this "we need to care for each other" and I repeat that to people who look to me for guidance. Another friend shares that depression is like a cancer of the mind and can turn a person into someone else at the end. This seems true, and as good an explanation of the tragic decision Pastor Evans made this week as any, and so I put it forth in candid conversations among people trying to make sense of such awfulness. These and many other words have rolled off my tongue like I knew what I was talking about. But in truth, my own mind is numb with the loss. There are no words. And so, I am grateful for those who are able to summon words of power in the midst of crisis. My son Joseph reflected on John Donne's taunting of death in Death be not Proud - -

for, those whom thou think'st, thou dost overthrow, die not

... and I was encouraged. The poet sometimes has an edge over the preacher in that the goal is not explanation, but consolation. That led me to the poet Dylan Thomas who said

though lovers be lost, love shall not; and death shall have no dominion

... and knowing he was referring to the resurrection passage of Romans 6:9 I was consoled. Death is not the end and will not rule. Then through some means which I don't now remember, my son Jameson reminded me somehow of the terrible hope in the midst of tragedy that sets the gospel apart -- that good can one day grow from this seedbed of pain. The right word at the right time.

So I have no words in this time. I guess I am OK with that. While it is true, as Kieth Webb sings,

I am like a mockingbird

I have no new song to sing

I just tell you what I've heard

I'm like a Mockingbird

... at the same time I realize its not always up to me to provide the right word. The words of others will do. But I'm not at a loss for them. Like colorful and soft gifts, they are dropping like blossoms on my shoulders. They have helped me work through my own grief.

The best of them have come from my sons. The boys have become teachers of the man.

Randy's Newest Book at the Presses

I am excited to announce the publication of my new book

Poetic Intercessions: Artful Prayers for a Friend.

This book took shape over a year’s time when I was praying for a friend who had had a stroke. Each week, I wrote prayers in poetic form and sent them to my friend. He was greatly encouraged by my having labored over these, by their creativity, and their potential usefulness for followers of Jesus as they pray for their friends who are sick. He has since fully recovered.

Artist Tiffany Cable did ten, monochromatic watercolors for the book, corresponding to several of the prayers. They are beautiful.

Then, amazingly, celebrated author and poet Luci Shaw caught a vision for this project and wrote a powerful foreword. I was really humbled by her affirmation.

It will be available at Harmon Press as well as Amazon, or through your local bookstore by order. But for those of you in Fresno, I will have a limited supply of both paperback and hardback at a more than 30% discount.

It’s at the press now and should be available soon. You can see a brief description at the following link: http://harmonpress.com/bookstore/poetic-intercessions-artful-prayers-for-a-friend/

Thanks for your friendship and interest,

Randy White

Poppy & EJ

I'm Poppy, I'm your Daddy's Dad

And you are my Grand Daughter

You make me very, very glad

I feel I could walk on water!

Lizzy Joy, you're so fun

Lizzy Joy, a gift of God the Son

Your Poppy loves you, you should know

He prays for you each day

He loves you when you're high or low

And so he'd like to say ...

Lizzy Joy, you're so fun!

Lizzy Joy, a gift of God the Son!

What I Can Do

I lay awake at midnight on my box-spring-of-a-bed in a Ghana hotel room, wondering whether the experience I had orchestrated was accomplishing its purpose. Because no one can be an expert on all cultures, all cities, all urban strategies for mobilizing God's people for transformational influence, I was overwhelmed with the complexity of the task. The task: leading three non-english-speaking students from China, a student from post civil-war Sierra Leone, a French speaking African from Niger, an Americanized Nigerian, a Tanzanian, a tri-lingual Canadian and five students from the U.S. in a dialogue where they would learn from site visits, from me and each other how to focus their ministries on transforming their cities. They were all so different, all coming from various degrees of ministry experience and theological training. With our Ghanaian hosts I had crafted a daily diet of teaching, dialogue and site visits to NGOs and churches making a difference in the city of Accra. I knew that I had done my best, but the goal seemed elusive at midnight, and sleep deprivation proved detrimental to faith at that moment. There in the quiet of my hotel room I kind of lost it. I wish I had remembered then what I recall now -- that is, the time I tried to have a serious manuscript Bible study on Habakkuk involving a gang member, a college freshman girl, a man convicted of murder but recently released from prison on a technicality, and a gray-haired member of a presbyterian church mission committee. "What the heck am I doing?" I asked myself at the front end. "There's no way this is going to work." But it did. Everyone learned something. In the end, it was also true for the group in Ghana, though it had its own challenges. Students have begun to make plans in their own cities. It's fun to see these emerge, even in their initial stages. It's fun to consider that these emerge from a dialogue I set up, rather than primarily from expertise I pass along. I know that my experience in Urban Ministry and Christian Community Development plays a role. But there's something else that is going on -- something that happens in the dynamic of a dramatic urban environment, the interaction of committed practitioners, and the prayers of saints from around the world that are laying the spiritual foundation for this kind of learning. I just need that perspective when I am staring at the ceiling at midnight. So I do what I can do, and pray that God accepts that offering and makes it more than it is.

He Could Have Been Dead

He could have been dead

But at 40 miles per hour

I couldn’t tell as our class sped past

His shirt the color of dust

Lay draped over his thin frame

In the gully beside the road

The cloud of debris kicked up by our bus

Settled over him

A burial in stages

One thin layer

One disinterested car at a time

But I did notice

His hand formed a pillow

A mat kept him from

Dissolving into the brown African soil

Resting, not dead.

Homeless Lord

You who had nowhere to lay your head

Should he rise tomorrow and

Shake off his earthen blanket

May he roll up his mat with hope

And find a new bed among the loved.

I give myself to a world where he can.

Help! I Cry Help from Ghana.

Help! I cry HELP from Ghana. If you can read this, HELP me celebrate an amazing day. I don’t want to let it be lost or just reflect on it alone. We took our 16 doctoral students from China, Europe, Africa and the U.S. to visit a micro lending institution in Accra that is taking lending to the poor to a new level. They provide loans to the very poor by taking the banking process to them, often in their shanty towns and mega slums. Mobile bankers establish daily visits to individuals to help them save in a very liquid, informal economy. Though savings amounts are small, they accumulate and provide a base for getting micro loans – enough for a sewing machine or a storage unit or a small stall in a market. Portable deposit machines record their savings and issues receipts. These loans, like most micro loans in the world, are made mostly to women, and the mobile bankers are mostly women. The repayment rate is 95%. Lives are being improved physically, and meanwhile, the staff of the bank has daily prayers with each other and their customers. Next week we will meet with a similar organization, this one more of a ministry, and spend time with one of the recipients of a loan. Our students are getting all sorts of ideas for their contexts.

But that’s not all. The morning began with Stephan de Beer of the Tshwane Leadership Foundation (TLF) in Pretoria, South Africa, who walked us through the essential disciplines of becoming Reflective Practitioners of Transformational Leadership. I can’t possibly do it justice! Stephan helped us become “imagineers” – those who can envision characteristics of a new reality for each of our cities around the world, and outline initial steps to fostering some of those components. Stephan called us to cry more for and shout less at our cities, and then called us to laugh with those among the poor who laugh – laugh, in the words of Cox, as the “last weapon of hope.” He helped us deconstruct the narratives that are told about our cities – Fresno is an armpit, Fresno will always be uneducated, Fresno is a nothing town, Fresno is dangerous – and construct an alternative godly vision that can give us practical guidance as to how we apply ourselves. Then he demonstrated what he had said by sharing what is happening in Pretoria through TLF.

There is so much more, but for now, just celebrate with me, won’t you? God has done something very fine today. And cities around the world will be different in the future because of it.

Randy's Twilight Zone

This is just too strange. Something in the Universe has shifted. Tina is reading and I am cleaning. OK I lied about the cleaning, but I needed that image to show you how the universe has shifted. Because Tina is sitting there where I normally sit, doing what I normally do. Except that she's added a nice twist by having popcorn at her side and is now making all sorts of annoying crunching sounds as she soils the pages of Mortenson's Three Cups of Tea with salty, buttery fingers. Makes me want to have four shots of whiskey.

Meanwhile all I can do is think of my little E.J. White, all 7+ lbs of her. I think that with initials like that she will eventually be writing children's books like Five, Fully Loaded Diapers or, what's sure to be a hit in Canada, No, Don't Take Me Ice Climbing.

Today I trimmed trees and vines (Tina tells me this is what normal people do on weekends), attended a funeral, bought some shoes for me and a frame for a picture of Elizabeth imitating Joseph's "yes, I swallowed the canary" look, re-polyurethaned my fireplace and mantle, took my first wife to dinner, ate cake at a neighbor's, watched another man trim a much larger tree, called my Dad on his 92 birthday, heard my 89 year old Mother tell me she loves me, bought a hat for my trip to Ghana next Friday, and listened to my first wife crunch. I don't get that many weekends home, so I packed a lot in. This was a good one, even if the universe has shifted. I could use a few more of these.

To Elizabeth Joy White - 7 pounds, 3 ounces, Dec 26, 2009

Elizabeth Joy, a beautiful name

E.J. White, an author? a poet on her way to fame?

Consecrated by God, a comfort in pain

Bringer of sunshine to a world of rain.

Born early this morning to Heidi and Joe. Mother, Daughter and Dad doing fine. Grandparents ecstatic.

Flight North

Its warmer above the blanket,

That cottony cover that shrouds the

Still sleepy coastline, over which I fly.

Below it, dawn’s breaking remains unknown,

It’s signal flare not seen.

But we have sliced a tear,

Shown it to be nothing as we rise toward the

Automatic cheer of the day’s beginning.

And now, as we leapfrog the blue-haired chain of

Seven Sisters, who stretch and reach for the

Reality above, I watch their timeless peaks pierce the shade,

Their craters catching the first amber rays,

Surrounding cinder cones appear as

Innocent dimples on the smiling face of a

Rested Earth.

Leaving hurts, but

This helps.

RWW 2009

When I am Gone

When I am gone

It is as if drought has struck

The creamy Buttercups that once blanketed the

Rolling contours of a

Softened soul

Give way to endless prairie

With only sage to pluck

A sad bouquet

Un-given

Each journey exacts a

Nameless toll

There’s life in the thirsty plain

Its true

But coming home to you

Is the hope of rain

Chesterton's Reminders

I found thee two quotes from G.K. Chesterton, my favorite English thinker from the last century (along with Lewis and Tolkien and Sayers and -- Oh well, I guess there are a few ...) on the subject of GRATITUDE — a good thing to think about during Thanksgiving:

When we were children we were grateful to those who filled our stockings at Christmas time. Why are we not grateful to God for filling our stockings with legs? ~G.K. Chesterton

I would maintain that thanks are the highest form of thought; and that gratitude is happiness doubled by wonder. ~G.K. Chesterton


The first one is just clever, and reminds us to get our priorities right during these holiday seasons. On that last one, I just love the idea that gratitude is “happiness doubled by wonder.” It works well for followers of Jesus, since we look to God in wonder over his indescribable gift, and are thankful for all his bounty.

But Chesterton also makes me grateful for those who use their minds in creative ways. He was amazing -- a journalist, playwrite, theologian, novelist, debater and overeater (he weighed 300 pounds).

Thank you, God, for your image embedded in humankind -- the swirl of your fingerprints are all over us.

The Tondo Trinity: Bat People, Drainage Dwellers, and the soon to be displaced

Visited the Tondo slum where millions of people are trying to cling to a life so precarious that any piece of infrastructure, no matter how crumbling, provides a piece of their survival strategy. There for we have what are being called "Bat People", those who piece together shacks that hang suspended from freeway overpasses. They cannot stand up in them, yet some have been there so long they've raised their kids. Having no land rights or access to land, they claim the air above it, baking from the heat of the cement and being rattled by constant traffic overhead. Some 150,000 per year come from the country to the city in Manila and and about 50,000 end up here. Or they end up here:

This is a drainage pipe under a road. We crawled inside and met a family of four who are living there, along with three other families have made that wet, dark space their home for the last two years. Crouching over as we listened to their story I could not stand up straight as the sweat dripped off my nose. The father had seasonal work, the mother had her hands full, the oldest daughter had just dropped out of high school because she didn't have the extra money needed for school projects -- amounting to about $1.50. Her future is turning on such a small hinge.

As I travel to observe these dramatic situations and help my students formulate strategies, it seems like there is a fine line between voyeurism and gathering the information, personal experience and perspectives necessary to be an advocate. I pray that my glimpses into humanity may lead to God's bringing of peace for this family and others in the cities of the world.

Have I become so strange?

In the Botocan community (slum) in Manila I visited Aaron and Emma Smith (he an American and she a Filipina that grew up in the Balik Balik slum that nancy Donat ministered in -- she as a little girl knew Nancy). They are Servant Partners staff who are living there incarnationally. I walked with them down a labyrinth of alleyways, over an open sewer ditch, past dogs and roosters, by dozens of children playing between rusting tin siding, sprouting in the slums like daisys in the cracks of the concrete. I sat in their two-room space where they live with their 2 year old son Zach who sleeps with them on the floor. They have running water and electricity which makes them slightly better off than their neighbors but it means a greater chance of them being able to sustain their efforts at planting a church over the long haul. The kids on their alley love them and kept peeing in out of curiosity.

Had my first ride in a Jeepnee yesterday, and also my first ride in twhat they call a Tricycle here, a motorcycle with a side car. I sat sidesaddle on the back and held on for dear life as my friend got the side car. It reminded me of the question Ray Bakke always asks: "what is better, a bicycle or a jet airplane? Answer: depends on where you want to go and who is with you. The same is true of ministry models and churches. No one size fits all needs and goals."

We also visited a house church in the Welfareville Slum, Block 37.1. This area was flooded in the recent typhoon. What a mess. What chaos. What amazing beauty in the lives of those we met. It was the worst labrynthine slum I have ever been in. Worse than Calcutta, worse than San Jose - CR, worse than Mexico City, worse than China. Trash burning, the black acrid smoke clogging the lungs. Shacks cobbled together -- housing made of trash. Thousands of illegal electrical connections.

We sat under a tarp covered area next to a shanty -- a space for the church gathered. At one point a woman shared her testimony in Tagalog. She and her son had been separated in the flood from the typhoon, and was missing for three weeks. He had just been returned to her. She herself was nearly drowned as she tried to cross a street to get to work. The raging waters carried her away. Because she missed work, she lost her seamstress job, and the $4/day wages. She was in tears with gratitude for her life and the life of her son, but in need of a solution.

That night I ate dinner alone, exhausted from the exposure, the issues, the discussions. I signed my bill for the dinner and realized what had just spent could have fed her for five days. As I travel to the slums of the world, I am more troubled, not less.

As we ended the service with songs and prayers I told the women gathered that our students had come from around the world to visit them because we heard that Jesus (Hesus) was in their midst, in Block 37.1, and if they loved one another they would see him. I aid they are not alone, that people all over the world are praying for them. Their warm smiles and attention told me that they felt encouraged, but I continued to be troubled. Had I over-spoken? Did I promise too much? Weren't these words easy for me to say? Nevertheless, I felt it was right.

From there we went to a mega church that meets in a mall. They are reaching young, affluent youth. Thirteen services, the latest media, lots of energy. It might be said that they are reaching a constituency that no one else is through their methods. But I left with the question, "what does reaching mean?" I hope their vision of the church includes the poor I had left earlier that morning.

I felt empty. I wondered, "have I become so strange that I cannot enjoy worship among the comfortable? " God help me if I am becoming judgmental. God renew your church to include justice for the poor.

My Search for Sex Workers in Manila

So we walked along Quezon street in Manila tonight, horns blaring, sewer vents stinking, nervously picking our way across crumbled concrete hoping to run into young women selling themselves. Our Samaritana guides rehearsed what we would do. They would make the contact, we would step back and pray. Before long we came upon a group of people gathered on a storefront porch out of the rain, some sleeping on cardboard mats, others preparing for the evening ahead where they would trade sex for money, where little pieces of them will die one customer at a time. Only, our guides introduced the girls to us directly and asked us to pray for them directly. The group of leaders from Myanmar that I was helping to lead were deeply moved, and began to tell me that they had never seen this kind of ministry before, one like Samaritana that reached out in friendship with these young women, invited them into relationship, provided job counseling and assistance, medical care. They prayed with fervor, and began talking about what it would take to start such an outreach in their cities. In the end we prayed for seven women, Jenny, Janette, Nancy, Vanessa (who started taking drugs recently), Sherry, Carasita, and Camille. We prayed for a 15 year old girl. And we prayed for the committed women who led us. Oh God, have mercy on your children.

Typhoon's impact increased by human sin

The vision from my hotel room includes this building that has collapsed from the recent Typhoon Ketsana in Manila. This is but a tiny example of the devastation that residents are still dealing with in the aftermath. Now, even two weeks later, the waters are still creating a glut of piled up trash, and sludge. Typhoon Parma followed Ketsana and is still parked over the north of Luzon dumping meters of rain on a fatigued population. But here's my question: Is this an act of God, as they say? Well, of course. It's a natural disaster, right? Rain is God's territory.

OK. I'll give you that. But there's more to the story of the 250 people who lost their lives in the flooding. Rain is an act of God, but not the choices that city planners made about how to handle the rains in historic flood basins. That corruption, greed, and lack of moral leadership that led to those deaths is man's specialty. Government abandoned the role of stewarding the commonwealth of the people, caved into commercial interests, cut costs of projects that could have led to better draining even thought the engineering was there. And worse yet, God's people who are in key positions in government have been taught that their faith is best expressed in praying over their meals and sponsoring office prayer meetings, rather than shaping more just policies in local government. In fact, many of them have been taught to separate religious belief from political involvement.

But we are called to seek the well-being of our cities (Jer 29:7), to invest ourselves in them. That's what I have been doing here in Manila. My students are learning about the relationship between Christian ministry and city planning -- learning about how to help the church contribute to more just policies, the alleviation of suffering, and the stewardship of God's creation that we were meant to tend. Pictured below are students from Myanmar, Brazil, the Philippines and Nigeria working together on a plan for shalom in their cities.

May God use our time in Manila to create cities of God across the globe.

Profile in Courage

Ray Bakke has said that some things in history have been just too difficult or too dangerous to do, so God has called a woman to do it. Such is the case of one of my DMin students, Po Ming of Hong Kong. She lives in the Kowloon City district, a space with thousands of poor that many in Hong Kong stigmatize and avoid. Here in Costa Rica where she is studying in the program I am teaching, you see her reaching out instinctively to children in the Los Tables slum of San Jose. It is an extremely dangerous area we visited and served in, and you see her loving children on the spot where there had just been a murder last month. Po Ming came from a difficult family situation growing up, but broke free and came to Christ, who has now called her back to the very kind of environment she had left. She planted a church for the urban poor of Hong Kong, and now is part of an NGO that reaches out there. I don't know whether I am teaching the class, or she is. I know that I am humbled by her courage, and so sad that most what she does is invisible to most of the world. But there is One other who sees, and I know that there are tears of joy in his eyes tonight too.

Red Light Prayers - Part 2

After having spent this night with my students on deserted Costa Rican street corners in conversation with young transvestite men who were selling themselves, the haunting words of Octavio Paz pulled at me.

I am a man: Little do I last

And the night is enormous.

But I look up:

the stars write.

Unknowing I understand:

I too am written,

at at this very moment

someone spells me out.

They were men but their names were 

Nicole and Jasamina,

Alejandra,

Stephania and Erica. 

I will not forget them.

The bondage they are in, like the city corner they inhabit, is a

Dark and cavernous abyss,

An empty anonymity.

But I knew that God knew who they really were, knew their stories, felt their pain and alienation, was loving them even as they were.

I knew he was tracing the letters of their real names in stardust,

In the tail of some comet,

Was longing that they come to know their true identity in Christ, longing to free them to be loved with a pure love, as he intended. 

It's 1am but I wonder if I will sleep tonight

Knowing that they are still under the night sky, 

Praying that they will look up.

Red light prayers

Your prayers are appreciated tonight as I take a group of Bakke students to support a ministry that reaches out to women who are practicing prostitution as well as transvestites, all of whom hang out in the parks in downtown San Jose, Costa Rica from 7pm to midnight. Obviously, because of language barriers and lack of expertise, our participation is via prayer and whatever interaction we can foster through translation. We want to communicate hope and grace. Our prayers will rise through the glare of neon red tonight, heard by a God who is not scandalized by the poor choices of his children, nor passive toward a system that often forces such choices. Senor Jesus, nececitamos su ayuda.

Transformation Tracker

Many times we don’t get the privilege of seeing the immediate fruit of our work. But when we do, it is so encouraging. Perhaps you remember that I spoke into the lives of some African leaders in Ghana in January. They came from six different nations, including Sierra Leone, which has just emerged from a decade of civil war. One of those students was Warren Fornah (pictured here), a pastor and Christian leader in Freetown, a city of 5 million in Sierra Leone. As a result of our time together he feels called to use his position and influence over about 200 churches to help his nation and city repair the social fabric that unraveled during the war, leaving many physical, psychological and spiritual scars. He feels the church has a special role to play.  I just received word from him today that he has introduced some of the material I designed to help leaders in a city understand its identity (from chapter 20 of my book Encounter God in the City: Onramps to Personal and Community Transformation (IVP 2006)) to the main council of churches in the city – the one that helped to negotiate the truce between the government and the rebels. Warren reports that this material has, in his words, “immensely helped the council even as the process is on. The findings are gradually coming up. The exercise is quite exciting and helping to create a new paradigm for the entire council of churches in Sierra Leone.” I ask you to share my amazement and joy as some feeble effort I have made is producing a human harvest out of proportion to and beyond any skill I have – glory to God. I pray that thousands recovering from that civil war will benefit by a church newly equipped to understand and address the needs of the city of Freetown. And I pray for Warren as he presses ahead on the long road to recovery in Sierra Leone, for his perseverance and struggle.