Do You Love Your City??

In the introduction to their book To Transform a City, authors Eric Swanson and Sam Williams ask this very simple question: "Do you love your city?"

It was one of those moments when time stops and the words jump from the page. I considered the ramifications of the various responses and shuddered to think of how (as a relative newcomer to my city) I can't honestly respond with "yes" (at least not yet).

And then I thought of all the pastors, missionaries and other leaders who toil in the fields of the Lord. If we're brutally honest with ourselves, can we honestly say we love our city, our community, our church family, the people in our ministry context? How many pastors and/or their spouses begin to see their congregation as a bunch of ungrateful, demanding, Pharisaical knuckleheads who just don't "get it"? How many missionaries have become so tired of the cultural challenges they face that they withdraw from contact and real fellowship? How often have I looked at crowds as blobs of humanity rather than seeking to reflect Jesus' compassion for the individuals?

"Love your neighbor as yourself" is the second greatest commandment, according to Jesus, following only "Love the Lord your God with all your heart, soul, and strength" (Matt. 22:37-38). So how are we doing? Does love characterize our attitude toward those to whom God has sent us? Does love empower our ministry, giving us the wherewithal to put up with the failings of others and ourselves?

Community in the Face of Death

Both my children are acquainted with tragic death because of their college experience. Back in February we took our son to see Houghton College, and during the Chapel service we heard an unusual speaker -- a student -- describe the aftermath of his room-mate's suicide a year earlier. I was surprised at the subject, given that we were among many other parents and prospective students that weekend. And indeed, later we heard from the college chaplain, who described the difficult decision to highlight such a sorrowful event when so many visitors were there. He and others in the decision-making process believed it was appropriate to demonstrate how they as a community responded to tragedy, and how God worked through grief to bring healing. I agree with their decision, as did my son. He plans to begin his freshman year there this August.

My daughter just graduated from Seattle-Pacific University. A week before graduation, a troubled young man entered a campus building and shot 3 students, killing one of them in the latest episode of school shootings. We knew this tragedy would have to be addressed during the graduation events, and it was. In each of the three official graduation traditions ("Ivy Cutting," Baccalaureate, and Commencement), speakers walked the fine line of acknowledging the tragedy and the response of the community, along with the celebration of graduation. They wanted to share both the grief as well as the joy, and they succeeded.

Houghton and Seattle-Pacific are very different schools, both in size and in context (rural and urban), but they share the identity of Christ-based communities. I'm thankful my children have received and are receiving the benefit of more than just excellent academics: they have the privilege of being part of communities that genuinely care for the students who make up their respective populations.

Tragedy is unavoidable, and so the way in which our community -- whether it's a school, a congregation, or a neighborhood -- responds demonstrates the quality of our faith AND our relationships. "Weeping may remain for a night, but joy comes in the morning" (Ps. 30:5) -- especially when we are surrounded by those who will weep with us.

The Varied Echo

I'm reading C.S. Lewis' Reflections on the Psalms, a book I've owned for a long time but never read. He has an interesting perspective as a literary critic, although he claims (with false modesty) that he is an amateur writing to and for other amateurs. In his introduction, Lewis praises God for employing parallelism as the chief characteristic of the Psalms' poetry, and he describes it as "saying the same thing twice in different words." What really struck me, however, was the idea of how parallelism conveys a "varied echo," in that the second phrase doesn't add anything new per se, but it does "beef up" the idea being conveyed.

What got me thinking is something I remember from seminary, when a professor warned us budding preachers against too much originality in scripture interpretation. In short, he said, "If no one else has ever said it, it's probably wrong." Intellectually and theologically, there really is nothing new under the sun; it's all been said before (a bit of parallelism there). But this doesn't have to make us feel defeated, as though we're just parrots saying the same thing over and over again. Instead, we are providing the "varied echo" of poetic parallelism, restating the truth of God in different words for different audiences at different times. There are as many ways of restating and repeating Truth as there are different types of snowflakes. The basic form and content doesn't change because Truth doesn't change. But I can provide the "varied echo" that people need in order to hear and understand.