Tuesday, July 10, 2018
Friday, July 6, 2018
Tuesday, July 3, 2018
Constructive Connections-Part 2
Constructive Connections is a fiction series. It’s the beginning tale of how each person is formed perfectly by God to enhance the narrative of life. Constructive Connection reflects how each one of us is crafted by God to fulfill a purpose. By contributing unique talents to serve one another, a tower God called you to construct begins to form for His joy.
Constructive Connections: Over Coffee
She sat there next to a black trash can. Someone had already borrowed the opposite chair from her table. Alone, hands folded, stringy grey hair strands flopped in front of one eye. A preppy business man passed without smile or recognition she was even there.
“Mom, what’s that smmmmmmelllll?” Rotten kid looked right at her.
I caught her eye. Have to admit, I looked away. Faked interest in what Doug was drinking. “How much d’you spend on that cocktail?”
“It’s coffee, not alcohol,” Doug said defending his elaborate wordy drink. “I know they might be expensive, but I like the flavor. Here-try it,” He pushed the plastic cup with 75% liquid, 25% whipped cream towards me.
“Tastes like sugar with a splash of coffee,” I told him, even though it was pretty good. We were meeting so he could help me fill out an application for a summer job at Hubert’s “Hoarding” House Storage, where Doug worked. (Doug corrected me, “Willy, it’s Hubert’s Holding House, not Hoarding!”)
“Next question: ‘List skills you performed on your last job,’” Doug asked, getting down to business.
I sat up a straighter. “I’m in charge of choppin’ firewood to sell campers, pickin’ up trash, jumpin’ dead batteries, check-outs, directin’ people to the john; stuff like that.” While liking my job, my pay just secured our trailer space. Dad couldn’t swing an ax and his people skills weren’t so good; chores fell to me. He handled the cash and got paid to sit in his camp chair.
Doug hadn’t been to our trailer before. We knew each other for a long time but had become recent friends at spring youth camp. I was still on a path with a heap of forgiveness stuff to get over and through.
Dad and I lived at the campground for 2 years; the first year in a tent. Dad would do odd jobs around town, but nothing ever stuck. Winter tent camping in Washington is nothing but hard. Rain, wind, frost, more rain…we found several uses for duct-tape, let me tell ya. The abandoned trailer Dad found was a blessing and soon after, he became the park manager.
That’s where I met Dell. She was a regular…Space #32. Living in a motorcycle trailer with her loud brown cat, Liver, she kept to herself. Each morning she’d build a campfire; her blue speckled coffee pot hung from a metal tripod. I’d walk by at 5:15 on weekday mornings on my 2 mile walk to school. Gym was open at 6am to athletes. It was warm-smelled like sweaty teenager-but again-it was warm.
One morning I passed by Dell’s trailer, treading through an inch of snow. She nodded and signaled me to come over. She poured a paper cup full of black coffee.
“For warmth on your journey,” is all she said. She smiled and got back to prodding her fire with a rusty tent pole.
“Honestly man,” Doug brought me back to our conversation, “I don’t see you at Hubert’s. Quite frankly, it’s boring! Just sitting around, waiting to let people in the gates,” Doug said with sincerity, setting down the pen. “What do you think you want to do after graduation?”
I thought about his question. Dial tone. All I knew was…get a job. “Maybe I could work at a gym?” I said thinking the high school gym most likely would be closed to graduates.
“There’s that gym over on 4th; I think I saw a hiring sign the other day,” he said. “Can you work a register? Serve customers?”
“Na, they don’t teach that stuff at the trailer park,” I answered, folding my arms.
Then Doug’s eyes got huge. “Church! They teach that stuff at church!”
I laughed. Our church was cool, and there was a lot going on, but even I knew you didn’t get paid unless you were standing on stage giving a message…and I did not have a message. “Yeah, right. I’m looking for a J.O.B.”
“Yeah, they DO!” he said getting out his phone. “I was just talking to Kay at the church espresso bar. They need people to man the stand.”
“Pff,” I snorted. Coffee; again with the fancy drinks!
“You could learn how to cashier, serve community, and you could learn how to make my favorite “Mocha Why Bother”: Caffeine-free, sugar-free chocolate, and non-fat steamed milk with a dash of cinnamon!” He scrolled down his contacts, “I’m sending her number, you’ll remember her from youth group. She’s been serving there for the past month and really likes it. She said they need people to learn the register and asked if I knew anybody who’d like to learn some job skills.” He looked real proud of himself and then added while shaking the ice in his cup, “And they have an espresso bar at the gym on 4th!”
Smiling back at his smug expression, I considered his advice; grateful for his friendship.
I looked over at Dell. There she sat, three tables away, without a cup in front of her. People passed by, judging dirty clothing, avoiding eye contact. Doug gave me a 3X5 few months prior with these words on it:
“Because judgement without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment.” James 2:13
I don’t know what was in Dell”s coffee that cold morning, but I had never tasted anything as rich. I don’t think it was grounds that made the impression. It was that she shared, she served me.
Returning to the counter after Doug left, I bought another cup of coffee. A tall, straight-up black cup of jo and set it in front of Dell. Bending low to give her a hug, she whispered, “Thank you Willard, for warming my journey.”
Written by Jennifer Love
Wednesday, June 20, 2018
AC3 VB179 I Can't Even
Thursday, June 14, 2018
Constructive Connections-Part 1
Constructive Connections is a fiction series. It’s the beginning tale of how each person is formed perfectly by God to enhance the narrative of life. Constructive Connection reflects how each one of us is crafted by God to fulfill a purpose. By contributing unique talents to serve one another, a tower God called you to construct begins to form for His joy.
Red and blue wooden blocks are hurled through the air. BAM! They ricochet off the plastic bin and knock his juice to the carpet. At least he didn’t hit the cat this time.
Choosing not to engage in my son’s tantrum, I pick up a block and roll it between my fingertips. The scent of old wood, the feel of chipped paint; interesting where scent memory can take you. I was hurled into the middle of Sunday school when I was 7.
My folks dropped me off upstairs of our community church, as they did every Sunday. Upon entering the classroom, I zipped over to the blocks. Dumping the wooden contents, I began creating my world, my dream building; creating something out of nothing.
“God blessed you with a good imagination,” Miss Kim had said. It was the first time I heard something in my being, marking my heart with pride and ownership of “making”.
Soon another memory came into view with sharp contrast. Miss Kim asked me to work with Willy, only there was no working with that kid. He was mean. He was ornery. He was Willy my arch nemesis. “Doug, pick out blocks you want to use, then Willy can pick out the ones he needs. Make a plan, then begin to build,” she pointed to scripture scrawled on the whiteboard:
“For which of you, desiring to build a tower, doth not first sit down and count the cost, whether he have wherewith to complete it?” Luke 14:28.
Being a kid, scripture was just words. But this day, they were inspiration! I was going to build a tower! And it would take ALL the blocks. Unfortunately, Willy had similar blueprints.
Picking through, he was careful to sort the green blocks into a pile. Then he did the same with the yellow. The large tooth grin on his freckled face taunted me.
“Hey!” I yelled with indignation. “I was going to use those!”
“I’m building my house! I Neeeeeeed these!” He pleaded.
We ended up rolling each other over those blocks, regardless of color, shape or size. By the time volunteers pried us apart, a raised welt erupted on my cheek and Willy suffered a blue goose egg to the temple where I clocked him with a wooden wedge.
Years later at high school youth camp, we were paired again during a team-building exercise. The task was to scavenge items, then build shelter with nothing but an umbrella, bubblegum, blue tarp, 10 Starbucks straws, and pink duct tape.
Willy and I wandered in silence through the underbrush looking for additional found items to construct with. He swung his arm, hitting every leaf, every branch along his path. I witnessed him at school performing the same action; only freshmen and students of short stature were his low hanging branches.
“This is stupid. No one can do this dumb challenge,” he complained.
“Might be dumb, but we gotta get it done if we want dinner,” I reasoned. The youth leaders learned how to use food as currency; leveraging it to overcome teenage propensity to not play along with their creative challenges.
He picked up a log and looked back at me, “Hey Pug, is this a birch branch?” Pug, Puggy Pugster; all pet names he had given me over the years.
Whether it was the stillness of the woods or the absence of adults, or maybe it was God giving me the thumbs up, I gathered my courage. “My name…My REAL name is Doug. If you want to talk to me, USE it!” I yelled louder than expected.
Willy squared up to me. Standing a good 5 inches taller, drained was the courage I previously held. “Really? Doug is your name? It’s not Stupid, Nerd, Brain-Drain?”
Brain-Drain. His father’s nickname for Willy. Something inside broke. Washed in this weird feeling, I said something that did not sound like me at all. “How’s…how’s your dad doing?”
Willy took in a deep breath, eyes widened, face contorted, expletives unleashed, then turned with hands-on his hips. He looked around as if in a panic, yet he stood still. His eyes filled, nostrils flared; my “nemesis” then let his brick wall crumble. With each sob, my heart lurched within me. It was as if he couldn’t hold pain any longer.
After a while, Willy opened his life and told me everything that day. Youth leaders called us for dinner, but we said we’d join them for s’mores later. Just listening to him, being that ear to hear his struggle, brought me closer to understanding him but also to understanding how God had put us into each other’s lives for just such a reason.
When we eventually got up to go he said, “Remember that day I beat you up in Sunday School?”
Obviously, he had remembered it wrong, but I didn’t correct him. “Yeah,” I said with a slight grin.
“Dad and I lived in a tent that year. It was so cold. I was gonna build a house with those stupid blocks. Dumb, huh?” he said looking down, kicking at an exposed root.
“Guess you needed all those blocks after all,” was all I could say.
Watching my son, he only sees what is in front of him, not counting the cost; the cost of anger, the consequences of impulsivity. How can I help guide him? How could I have helped that 7-year-old kid who held a grudge for so many years against a boy who just wanted to provide shelter for him and his father?
I’ve thought a lot about serving my community, but where? My wife serves in kid’s programs. Teaching isn’t my thing, but she says it’s more about mentoring than teaching. What if I could be there to recognize the one who needed to be noticed, needed to be helped? They are there; hiding, or sometimes screaming, to be noticed. I think God’s divine gift is pairing us in each other’s lives to not just make a difference, but to point us to the One who makes ALL THE DIFFERENCE.
Red and blue wooden blocks are hurled through the air. BAM! They ricochet off the plastic bin and knock his juice to the carpet. At least he didn’t hit the cat this time.
Choosing not to engage in my son’s tantrum, I pick up a block and roll it between my fingertips. The scent of old wood, the feel of chipped paint; interesting where scent memory can take you. I was hurled into the middle of Sunday school when I was 7.
My folks dropped me off upstairs of our community church, as they did every Sunday. Upon entering the classroom, I zipped over to the blocks. Dumping the wooden contents, I began creating my world, my dream building; creating something out of nothing.
“God blessed you with a good imagination,” Miss Kim had said. It was the first time I heard something in my being, marking my heart with pride and ownership of “making”.
Soon another memory came into view with sharp contrast. Miss Kim asked me to work with Willy, only there was no working with that kid. He was mean. He was ornery. He was Willy my arch nemesis. “Doug, pick out blocks you want to use, then Willy can pick out the ones he needs. Make a plan, then begin to build,” she pointed to scripture scrawled on the whiteboard:
“For which of you, desiring to build a tower, doth not first sit down and count the cost, whether he have wherewith to complete it?” Luke 14:28.
Being a kid, scripture was just words. But this day, they were inspiration! I was going to build a tower! And it would take ALL the blocks. Unfortunately, Willy had similar blueprints.
Picking through, he was careful to sort the green blocks into a pile. Then he did the same with the yellow. The large tooth grin on his freckled face taunted me.
“Hey!” I yelled with indignation. “I was going to use those!”
“I’m building my house! I Neeeeeeed these!” He pleaded.
We ended up rolling each other over those blocks, regardless of color, shape or size. By the time volunteers pried us apart, a raised welt erupted on my cheek and Willy suffered a blue goose egg to the temple where I clocked him with a wooden wedge.
Years later at high school youth camp, we were paired again during a team-building exercise. The task was to scavenge items, then build shelter with nothing but an umbrella, bubblegum, blue tarp, 10 Starbucks straws, and pink duct tape.
Willy and I wandered in silence through the underbrush looking for additional found items to construct with. He swung his arm, hitting every leaf, every branch along his path. I witnessed him at school performing the same action; only freshmen and students of short stature were his low hanging branches.
“This is stupid. No one can do this dumb challenge,” he complained.
“Might be dumb, but we gotta get it done if we want dinner,” I reasoned. The youth leaders learned how to use food as currency; leveraging it to overcome teenage propensity to not play along with their creative challenges.
He picked up a log and looked back at me, “Hey Pug, is this a birch branch?” Pug, Puggy Pugster; all pet names he had given me over the years.
Whether it was the stillness of the woods or the absence of adults, or maybe it was God giving me the thumbs up, I gathered my courage. “My name…My REAL name is Doug. If you want to talk to me, USE it!” I yelled louder than expected.
Willy squared up to me. Standing a good 5 inches taller, drained was the courage I previously held. “Really? Doug is your name? It’s not Stupid, Nerd, Brain-Drain?”
Brain-Drain. His father’s nickname for Willy. Something inside broke. Washed in this weird feeling, I said something that did not sound like me at all. “How’s…how’s your dad doing?”
Willy took in a deep breath, eyes widened, face contorted, expletives unleashed, then turned with hands-on his hips. He looked around as if in a panic, yet he stood still. His eyes filled, nostrils flared; my “nemesis” then let his brick wall crumble. With each sob, my heart lurched within me. It was as if he couldn’t hold pain any longer.
After a while, Willy opened his life and told me everything that day. Youth leaders called us for dinner, but we said we’d join them for s’mores later. Just listening to him, being that ear to hear his struggle, brought me closer to understanding him but also to understanding how God had put us into each other’s lives for just such a reason.
When we eventually got up to go he said, “Remember that day I beat you up in Sunday School?”
Obviously, he had remembered it wrong, but I didn’t correct him. “Yeah,” I said with a slight grin.
“Dad and I lived in a tent that year. It was so cold. I was gonna build a house with those stupid blocks. Dumb, huh?” he said looking down, kicking at an exposed root.
“Guess you needed all those blocks after all,” was all I could say.
Watching my son, he only sees what is in front of him, not counting the cost; the cost of anger, the consequences of impulsivity. How can I help guide him? How could I have helped that 7-year-old kid who held a grudge for so many years against a boy who just wanted to provide shelter for him and his father?
I’ve thought a lot about serving my community, but where? My wife serves in kid’s programs. Teaching isn’t my thing, but she says it’s more about mentoring than teaching. What if I could be there to recognize the one who needed to be noticed, needed to be helped? They are there; hiding, or sometimes screaming, to be noticed. I think God’s divine gift is pairing us in each other’s lives to not just make a difference, but to point us to the One who makes ALL THE DIFFERENCE.
~Written by Jennifer Love
Friday, June 1, 2018
Wednesday, May 30, 2018
Should AC3 Pull Out Of The WCA Leadership Summit?
As you know, AC3 hosts the Willow Creek Association
Leadership Summit every August. And if
you haven't heard by now, the whole WCA (of which AC3 is a
part) has been reeling since Bill Hybels was accused of sexually inappropriate
gestures and overtures during his tenure as pastor and leader of the WCA. He has denied the accusations, but has
resigned from his all his roles at Willow.
This week, we received a couple of appeals for AC3 to
suspend hosting the Summit in order to stand in solidarity with the
victims of sexual abuse and the #metoo movement. In case you have been wondering about that
yourself, I thought I should show you one exchange I had which reveals our
reasons for continuing to host the Summit this year, despite the scandal
surrounding Bill Hybels.
Dear Pastor Rick,
I am the personal friend of one of the victims of sexual harassment by Bill Hybels at Willow Creek Community Church. I would gently request that you might consider pausing on hosting the Willow Creek Global Leadership Summit at Allen Creek Community Church later this summer, to show solidarity with the multiple victims at Willow Creek Community Church.
Christ Church of Oakbrook https://www.cc-ob.org/glsupdateand
Grace Church Indiana: https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=jNQLNs-6RS0have set a really beautiful example, as the leadership at both these megachurches have already withdrawn from hosting the Global Leadership Summit in solidarity with the victims.
Thank you so much for taking the time to consider my request
My reply:
Thanks for the email and for voicing your request in this
way. I really appreciate the spirit of
your appeal.
I have viewed both the sermon you posted below from Grace
Church and the PSA from Christ Church.
There were very touching in places and I understand why those churches
are deciding to Pause the Summit at their locations this year. We’ve considered doing the same. However, to this point, the elders have
decided to continue to host the Summit.
We talk about what happened at Willow and our decision here:
and here:
The question before us, is whether a pause is required to
advance the cause against sexual harassment in the world and in the church, or
needed to express solidarity with the victims of sexual abuse overall, or those
specifically involved with Bill. I’m not
certain there’s a direct correlation. In
fact, as I’ll mention below, I’m not sure all the victims would want us to make
this boycott for their sake and the #metoo cause.
Of course, the Summit is deeply connected with Hybels. Because of that deep connection between one
man and the Event, any participation in the event will be seen by some as some
kind of endorsement of that man and his alleged bad behavior. To me, to suspend our participation on these
grounds gives credence to a fallacy.
Namely, that the Summit and the movement that Willow spawned and the
leadership passion and vision they’ve inspired is tied to that single man.
It’s not. We never
believed this, and to cancel our participation now, would seem to put the lie
what we said we believed (the Summit isn’t about Hybels). And it would be implicit agreement with the idea
that if his name is besmirched then the Summit itself carries a black
mark. And finally it would suggest that
all Christians of good conscience and who care for the sexually abused must now
defect to look better in the eyes of those who are making what is essentially a false
equivocation.
I’d rather live a little less pragmatically, for the sake of
the optics of a thing, and more for the ideals of a thing. And in this case the Summit ideal is about
Leadership, and about the Local Church thriving and persevering and being well
led. The Summit ideal is also about
inspiring this kind of passion, vision and leadership in women as well as
men. If we all pull out, that vision
takes a huge hit.
I suspect the real effect of a defection from Summit
sponsorship now will be twofold: one, it
will make those who pull out look like they really care about women and the
#metoo movement, which I’m certain they do.
Two, it will serve to punish the WCA for what Bill did.
Regarding those two outcomes: First, I’m not interested in punishing
anyone, that’s not my business or my job, that’s God’s job. Secondly, about showing people what we care
about: if people don’t already know that
we, at AC3, care about women, and give them an equal seat at the table, and
think that sexual abuse is bad, by anyone, but most especially by those in
Christian leadership, then they simply don’t know us.
If our reputation goes down in the world or in the church
because we continue to host the Summit, an event that has nothing to do with
endorsement of sexual abuse… that’s a hit I guess we’ll have to endure. Our reputation as a church has been built by
what we’ve been about over a long run, and will not be radically affected by
soundbites and guilt by association. To
those who would allow themselves to be so affected, we’ll be sorry about that,
but they’re not thinking very deeply.
We have members at our church who also were close friends of
one of the accusers in the Hybels scandal.
They are certain of her character and obviously are heartbroken for both
their friend, and their former church (Willow) and for Hybels who affected them
so positively for the many years they lived in Chicago. And their friend, while wanting truth to out,
and Hybels to be held accountable, would not wish for Willow or the mission of
the WCA be devastated because of his sin.
I hope, as you implore churches to consider pausing the
Summit to make a statement, you also consider that those not joining you are
not necessarily disagreeing with the statement you want churches to make.
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