Counting My Days

This past Monday evening I popped a video tape into the VCR and sat down with my brothers and sisters and watched all the old family movies that had been shot with an 8 mm camera and transferred to video tape some years ago. For you youngsters, 8 mm is what we had before video tape. There was no sound, and you actually had to send the film in to get it developed, then feed it into a projector and show it on a portable movie screen or on the wall. Yeah, I know, stone-age.

We watched birthdays and Christmas mornings and family vacations. We saw our family grow from 2 kids to 6, and our family shrink as grandparents disappeared from family gatherings as the years went by. We laughed at clothes and hairstyles and fads as we moved from the fifties through the sixties and into the seventies.

The setting was the family room of my parent’s house in Michigan. We had come from New York and St. Paul and northern Michigan to be together as a family on the night before my dad, who is suffering horribly from advanced dementia, would leave his home for the last time and move into a facility that would be able to provide adequate care. At the dinner table I think it was one of my sisters who suggested we watch the home movies. At first, I thought it was a horrible idea- it was already painful enough. “Yeah, let’s watch old family movies so we can cry some more!!” But she was right. It was a good thing to do. My dad sat in the chair, pretty much unaware of what was going on or even that all the people in the room were his children. But the man on the screen we watched was another thing. He was a twenty-seven year old walking with his two sons. He was a thirty-two year old teaching his kids how to water ski. He was running along side his son as he showed him how to ride a bike. But most of the time, he was not on the screen at all. The movies revealed what he saw as he held the camera and pointed it at his wife and sons and daughters . He was capturing his family on film. We got to see what he saw through those decades.

It was a bittersweet experience- to contrast that young man with the man he is now. I think that evening will help me to remember him not as the man who forgot my name or that I was his son, but as the man who for most of his years was full of life. Somehow, it helped to bring some joy in the midst of our deep sorrow.

Later in the evening, I found myself thinking about how quickly a life goes by. I found myself thinking about the dozens of video tapes I have of my family- each with three hours of family history, and these actually have sound! I realize how often I live as if life will just go on unchanged, but it won’t. And whether my life is being captured on film to be reviewed on some future day or not, it is nevertheless being lived and spent everyday. While this is not a new thought for me- right now there is a lot more urgency attached to it. I will live one time- and I will leave an imprint on those around me and on my world.



Moses asked God (Psalm 90) to teach him to number his days so that he could gain a heart of wisdom. This week I understand that prayer more than I have in the past, and finding myself asking God for the same thing.

Joyful Community

Last Summer twenty of us moved from Michigan to NYC to start a new church. There were actually forty who had been together for the better part of a year getting ready, but some had to stay behind to sell houses and find jobs in New York before they could come. Some are still waiting on God.

In the first few months following our move it was not uncommon for me to receive e-mails and phone calls asking the question "when does Communitas start?" And my reply from the beginning was that the church started as soon as we arrived. We were a community of people committed to Jesus and representing him through our words and actions in New York. We were striving to love God and to love each other and to engage with the people of our new city in friendship and loving service. People on our team were immediately building new friendships and exercising their gifts and their passions on behalf of Jesus, expanding his Kingdom. Sounded like church to me.

Over the past 8 months our community has deepened in our love for each other and we are, I hope, learning to be what our name "Communitas" represents...a community that forms around mission, around a shared ordeal and a common purpose. The ordeal for many has been unemployment, struggling with the cost of living, loneliness as we have adjusted to a new world, noise, masses of people and crowds. But in the middle of it all, a sense of purpose and mission and the joy in doing this together. I cannot now imagine doing this without the amazing people God has brought together, including many I did not know a year ago. We have now become a group of 40+.

This weekend 35 of us "retreated" together about 70 miles out of the city to a quiet place called Mt. Bethel, just across the Pennsylvania border. I just read in Luke this morning that Jesus often went to a lonely place to get some rest. This was definitely a lonely place compared to NYC. "Bethel" is a Hebrew word that means "house of God". The acres of open land, the sounds of birds, grass under our feet- we liked God's house after the concrete and noise of the city. It was an awesome couple of days of relaxing, laughter, late night games, spiritual renewal, worship, and a little ultimate frisbee thrown in. We didn;t get much sleep, but I think we got rest.

As we headed back into the city Sunday evening, I was never more aware of the value of community and friendship in following Jesus and serving him. I honestly felt like the richest man on the planet. I don't know all that God has in mind for Communitas, but I am glad to be able to share the journey with the amazing group of people God has already brought together.

Does God Need Our Help?

This week at a conference I was attending the presenter at one of the sessions was talking about avoiding burnout in ministry by making sure that we stay connected to God in an intimate relationship. The idea was that before we do anything for God we need to know him and be in a relationship so that we minister out of his strength that flows in and through us. Then she said that we all needed to remember that God doesn’t’ need us. He can do a good job of running the world without us.

I turned to my wife Chris and said "Oh yeah? Look at the world? It’s a mess!” I said it out loud, but not loud enough for others to hear. That’s the kind of statement that can get you thrown out of a Christian conference. But before you conclude that my statement was sacrilegious, hear me out.

A couple of questions. First, is God “running the world?” This morning I looked through the newspaper delivered to my hotel room, and a casual scan of the entries showed things like a 7 year old with cancer, a murder, a rape, terrorism, drought in various places creating famine, aids spreading through parts of Africa like wildfire, etc. And that was just in the comic section! (just kidding). Consider now the words of an old hymn composed in 1901:

This is my Father’s world, and to my listening ears

All nature sings, and round me rings the music of the spheres.

This is my Father’s world: I rest me in the thought

Of rocks and trees, of skies and seas;

His hand the wonders wrought.

While I do delight in the wonders of God’s creation, what do I do with the world brought to me every day in the news? Is God “running” this world? It seems that if there is a power behind the suffering and evil we see everyday in every corner of the planet earth, it cannot be God. John wrote that… We know that we are children of God, and that the whole world is under the control of the evil one. (1 Jn 1:19). What would a world look like where Satan was having his way? The one we live in.

Maltbie Babcock wrote the hymn cited above. Here is the third verse:

This is my Father’s world. O let me ne’er forget

That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.

This is my Father’s world: the battle is not done:

Jesus Who died shall be satisfied,

And earth and Heav’n be one.

I would say that not only does the wrong often seem so strong- it is strong. And while I agree that God is the ruler of the universe, he has not chosen to meticulously control events on earth. So freedom expressed by human beings and evil spirits creates a world Babcock decided not to describe in his hymn. But notice he goes on to write that the battle is not done.

Here is my second question. How has God chosen to do battle in this world against all that is wrong and evil? Answer...through us! Consider this sampling of Scripture in light of the statement that “God does not need our help.”

Finally, be strong in the Lord and in his mighty power. 11Put on the full armor of God so that you can take your stand against the devil’s schemes. For our struggle is not against flesh and blood, but against the rulers, against the authorities, against the powers of this dark world and against the spiritual forces of evil in the heavenly realms. Therefore put on the full armor of God, so that when the day of evil comes, you may be able to stand your ground, and after you have done everything, to stand.

Ephesian 6:10-13

The weapons we fight with are not the weapons of the world. On the contrary, they have divine power to demolish strongholds. We demolish arguments and every pretension that sets itself up against the knowledge of God, and we take captive every thought to make it obedient to Christ.

2 Corinthians 10:4-5

For I was hungry and you gave me something to eat, I was thirsty and you gave me something to drink, I was a stranger and you invited me in, I needed clothes and you clothed me, I was sick and you looked after me, I was in prison and you came to visit me.’

Matthew 25:35-36

Jesus taught us that we should pray that his kingdom would come and that his will would be done on earth as it is in heaven. I have to tell you, a great deal of New York City does not look like heaven. As I look around the city, I think I hear God telling me that he does need my help- that is why he called Communitas to New York.

Let me be clear. That God needs our help is not a reflection of any weakness or imperfection in God. It is simply how he has designed things. We are his hands, his means, his plan to come against the wrong in this world. He could have done it differently. But as it stands, he is dependent upon us. If we don't, it won't get done.

By the way- I did get the point the teacher at the conference was trying to make, and I agree. No sense trying to be the hands and feet of Jesus in New York City if I am not connected to him. As Jesus put it, without me you can do nothing.

Learning About Compassion

I’ve been thinking about the meaning of “compassion” this past week. It’s a word that shows up a lot in the gospels, describing something Jesus felt or experienced. A passage I read in Mark a few days ago is a great example. Jesus had sent the 12 out to heal and preach and cast out demons. They came back some time later with a report of all that had happened. They must have been pretty tired because after hearing their description, Jesus invited them to a retreat- to get away to a quiet place to get some rest. Mark adds the detail in this account that they had so much going on that they couldn’t even break for lunch. So Jesus leads them to a boat to escape the hectic pace of life and recover. They push off shore heading to a remote destination away from people so they can get refreshed. But things didn’t work out as planned. When they hit the shore, this is the scene that Mark describes:

When Jesus landed and saw a large crowd, he had compassion on them, because they were like sheep without a shepherd. So he began teaching them many things.


Instead of a break from people, the crowd had figured out where he was heading, and they ran ahead and were there waiting for him. Notice what Jesus experienced when he saw the crowd. I know myself well enough to know that I would have been ticked off, frustrated, and would have shoved off shore again looking for a place to anchor out in the lake away from all the needy people. I would have seen the people as a barrier, separating me from my plans. Jesus saw them differently. As much as they all experienced hunger pangs and the need for rest, there was something they, (well at least Jesus,) experienced that was more powerful and compelling…Compassion

I once heard compassion defined as feeling someone else’s pain in my heart. It is perhaps similar to the experience of empathy- the capacity to know at a deep level, an experiential level, what another is going through. Rather than responding to someone’s misery or suffering with the attitude (acknowledged or not) “I am glad I am not you”, I feel as though I am that person.

I am coming to see that compassion is simply another word, actually a really good word, for love. Love is not love unless it encompasses compassion. Jesus taught us that we should love our neighbor as ourselves. When we are hungry, tired, thirsty…whatever we experience, we naturally and automatically take action to meet our needs. To love our neighbor as ourselves, then, means that we do the same when we are not the one in need, but we encounter someone who is. We relate to their need, their suffering, and we embrace it as if it were our own, and take action. Love, as defined and exemplified by Jesus, is an identification with the suffering of others, embracing it to an extent that we are compelled to act. Without compassion, it seems love is a lofty ideal with no power.

This week New York City experienced some uncharacteristic winter weather, especially for March. After 12 inches of snow fell, the temperatures dropped into single digits at night. In a place like New York, you really experience the weather. I no longer own a car. I get around using subways and busses. This means walking a lot (about 5 miles a day) and waiting for busses and trains in the cold. I was glad for my winter coat and gloves and hat and a warm apartment and a hot meal, and the prospect of a good night sleep in my warm bed. I couldn’t imagine what it would be like to be a homeless person in weather like this. But I should. I should try to imagine. It should matter. It should bother me. What if that was my mom, my son or daughter, hungry and out in the cold. What if that was me? Can I push such thoughts out of my mind, or, as the boat hits the shore, will I look at the crowds and feel compassion?

On Tuesday night, 10 of us put together meals and placed them in plastic bags. This was our second Tuesday evening venture to Penn Station this winter. With the bitter cold we figured there would be more homeless men and women wandering the halls of the train station, thankful at least for a break from the biting wind.



Our experience was identical to what I reported in a previous blog- in minutes the fifty meals we had prepared were given out. As I walked the corridors carrying my last bag looking for someone who might be hiding from the cold, Dave, who was with me, spotted a woman tucked away in a corner. She was dark-skinned wearing dark clothing, hiding in the dark shadows. As we approached her, she became fearful. I do not think that she understood much English and I know she did not understand what we wanted with her. When she understood we meant no harm but were offering her food, she received it. She told us her name was Yvonne. I know nothing about her except that unlike me, she has no warm apartment to go to, no warm bed or warm supper waiting for her.

A few minutes later as we stood in the cold on 34th Street waiting for the bus, I kept picturing Yvonne. What if that was my mom, or my daughter? What would I feel? What would I do? I had to admit that what I had felt was much less that what I would have if the woman had turned to be my mom or daughter. She would be waiting for the bus with me heading for the warmth of my apartment.

I don’t honestly know if I have much of a clue yet about true compassion. In the account in Mark 6 cited above, at the end of the day when they all would have been even more tired and more hungry than they were when they got in the boat to take a break that never came, there was still more compassion needed. Jesus knew the people were hungry and he was concerned about them. Rather than sending the people away to get supper (I would have been the one of the 12 making that suggestion to Jesus), he asked the 12 to bring them their food to feed the thousands. As the disciples did what Jesus asked, taking inventory of their few loaves of bread and fish, and bringing it to him, I am sure they imagined that they were not going to get anything. Instead, they became a part of a miracle.

It seems against the tremendous need in this city, what we did Tuesday was not enough. But I have to trust that Jesus can still do something with a few loaves of bread offered to him.

Hating My Life

This blog is going to be bit on the personal side. I have debated with myself about whether or not to blog it, or just keep it in my personal journal. But since this is connected to church-planting in a roundabout way, here goes.

This week has been the toughest since I moved to New York. Last year my dad was officially diagnosed with Pick’s Disease, which is a progressive dementia of the Frontal Lobe of the brain. I say “officially” because as we look back at his behavior, it seems apparent that he has probably had the disease for at least 6 years For some time we suspected Alzheimer’s. The past 12 months we have watched his mental capacity diminish rapidly. All of this coincided with my getting ready to leave for New York to start Communitas.

My dad has lived all of his life very active and was always sharp mentally. It has been painful to watch the decline. But I was not prepared for how quickly it has accelerated. Since moving to New York I have had reason to return to Michigan a few times, and each time his deterioration was astonishing- to the point where he no longer knows who I am. Last weekend while in Michigan, I happened to be with him when he was undergoing an evaluation in his home by a psychiatric nurse. When I walked into the room, he said to the nurse “That’s Craig.” I was surprised that he knew my name. When she asked if I was his son, he laughed and said “No.”

This is especially difficult for my mom. She is a strong women- even at 5’ 1”! But on this visit I could see the toll this is taking on her. He does not know who she is (in the evaluation he also stated that she was not his wife) and she has to deal with his frustration, anger, repetitive and compulsive behaviors and everything else that goes along with severe dementia. However, over a half a century ago she made a commitment to stay with her husband for better or for worse, and she is honoring that promise.

Over Christmas when all the family was together we started the difficult discussion about knowing when we have reached the point where dad will need full time care- I don’t even like using the words “nursing home.” It has only been two months since that conversation, but now it seems imminent. My mom and I talked about this quite a bit last weekend. Then on Sunday morning, I had to catch a ride to the airport to get back to my new life in New York. Everything seemed unresolved. It is such a horrible time for me to be away from the family, unable to do much or to be helpful. It felt horribly wrong to leave my mom in that house with all the stress and anxiety. I have lived all my life near my parents, and now when perhaps I am needed most, I am unavailable.

All week long I have had this picture in my mind of my mom, standing in her bathroom in the cold garage of their home, holding their dog, and crying as we pulled out of the driveway. My mom loves Jesus and has other family around. She is not suffering alone, and truth is, she doesn’t really need me. I am the one who feels the need, the need to be physically present, to be a part of this critical transition in our family’s life, to help with the decisions and to find comfort in our relationships. New York has never felt so far away.

As I struggled this week, I found myself thinking about these words of Jesus in Luke 15: If anyone comes to me and does not hate his father and mother, his wife and children, his brothers and sisters—yes, even his own life—he cannot be my disciple.
I have read those words many, many times, and I know preached more than a few sermons on them. They have never meant that much to me personally as they have this week. I know that Jesus was not encouraging us to hate anyone. But there can be only one Lord, one to whom I give my complete devotion. Anything or anyone I love enough to not follow Jesus becomes my Lord, my object of worship.

So in my sadness and depression this week, I have had to recall why I am in New York. If I came here for personal reasons, for fame and fortune, then it would be unbearable to leave my mom standing in that garage. But if Jesus has really asked me to move to New York, then I must learn experientially what is means to hate my own life. I have to be honest and say it is not easy.

Bottom line. I love Jesus, and I love my mom and my dad. And that’s good. It’s just that sometimes it’s painful.

Using My Imagination

Yesterday, my daughter Megan, who is 19, returned from a 10 day trip to India. This was her 5th trip, but her first without me. Our journeys to India began in December 2001, when she was just 11 years old. Since that time, I have made 12 trips, always with other family members. This year I made the difficult decision to stay behind in order to focus on our work in New York City. It was very painful to leave Megan at the airport knowing she was going to a place that God has used over the past decade to shape my heart. On our first visit I was moved beyond description by the poverty I witnessed, and particularly the orphaned and abandoned children who walked the streets. I could not believe what I was seeing, and felt like something had to be done. At the time, Jaya, our friend in India had taken in about 35 children. They were living in a building which provided shelter and food, but I found the conditions totally inadequate. I felt that this perhaps was why I was on earth…my purpose, to devote myself to helping the suffering children and the poor of this community.

In spite of major jet lag, Megan came to our Sunday evening Communitas gathering to share something that she believed God had shown her in India- something that she felt had a bearing on our work in New York. Before we returned to the states on that first trip we stood on a vacant piece of property and began to imagine how it could be put to use. Below is a picture I took as Megan along with Steve Andrews (lead pastor of Kensington Church) and his daughters Nancy and Helen walked the property. The only problem was that it had a hefty price tag and we had no money.




So yesterday, Megan shared with us the story from Exodus about God providing manna and quail as food for the Israelites after he had led them out of Egypt. There were a lot of hungry months to feed and absolutely no resources in the desert by which to feed them. But since God had led them, he would provide- and he did miraculously. She has read this passage one morning in India and related how she had reflected on this truth as she looked out over what now exists on that piece of property. The picture below was taken from the same vantage point just 3 years later.



What you see here are a dorm that houses over 200 orphans, a school with 150+ kids in attendance, a sewing school for women, a school for training young adults to plant new churches in the surrounding villages, and a medical clinic. It has been truly miraculous to see something spring up out of nothing. How did this happen? Simply put, God called us to step into this impossible situation, and he provided. And it is still growing as last week we laid the foundation for what will be a hospital offering free services for the poor.

For Megan, who has witnessed this transformation over the years, she saw concrete evidence that when God calls us to respond to an opportunity or a need, he will be faithful to provide. She related this to our current impossible task…planting a church in New York City. It is expensive to live here. It would require more resources than we could imagine. How could it be done? This is something I must confess I worry about. Can this really be done? The answer, Megan shared, was right before her eyes- a field once filled with nothing but garbage and animal refuse is now a place of life and hope in this needy community. So is it too difficult to imagine what God might have in store for Communitas in New York if we have the courage to obey and trust him? As Paul wrote:

Now to him who is able to do immeasurably more than all we ask or imagine, according to his power that is at work within us, (Eph 3:20).

I think its time for me to put my imagination to use.

Peanut Butter and Toothpaste

I knew when God called us to live in New York City that many new and stretching experiences were ahead for me. And indeed, I often find myself in brand new circumstances in which I can find nothing in my past to draw from to help me know what to do or how to respond.

Tonight our small group got together and assembled food bags to share with the homeless later in the evening. We made peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, added some fruit, cookies, juice, etc, We ended up with 30 such modest meals in total. At about 10:00 PM we jumped on the M34 cross town bus heading for Penn Station. A few weeks ago I was at Penn at about 4 AM. Penn is normally one of the busiest places in Manhattan as all the trains from New Jersey and Long Island feed into the station. At 4 AM, however, there were very few people, with the exception of the many homeless sleeping on the floors and in the chairs in the waiting areas. So with Matthew 25 in mind, we decided to go to Penn and feed Jesus (“When I was hungry, you gave me something to eat…when you did it to the least of these, you did it to me”).

On our arrival, we split into groups and fanned out to different parts of the station. Since it was early in the night I wasn’t sure if we would find many needing help. But within 20 minutes, all of the food had been given away. We could have easily given away 100.

This was a unique experience. I learned some new things, watching the homeless care for each other. Several times as we handed food to one person, they asked if a friend could also have one, and then took us to where he or she was hanging out. There is a community of homeless people who look out for each other and care for each other. But there was more for me to learn this night.

As we were waiting at the rendezvous point for everyone to show up, I noticed a blind man walking through the corridor, using his cane to avoid obstacles. He literally bumped into us, and made a 90 degree turn into a drug store. As soon as he was in the store, he turned right again into a narrow dead end where an ATM was located. Thinking he was lost and confused, I followed him into the store to see if I could get him back on track. I approached him and asked if I could help him. He did not respond. I asked again. He ignored me. Then he began to rummage through his back pack. It was then that I noticed a sign hanging around his neck that said “I am deaf and blind.” He could not see me, he could not hear me! As I pondered this conundrum, my complete inability to communicate with him, he pulled out of his backpack an empty toothpaste box, and a coupon for $1.00 off a toothbrush. He handed them toward me. I took them and asked him if he was trying to buy these items. Oops, he can’t hear me. What do I do? I stood there with these items in my hands and did nothing, looking around for some kind of help. Then he pulled out a stack of paper and a pen and began to write to me. “Am I a store employee?” He handed the paper to me. I wrote “no”, wondering how that would help since he could not see. I handed him the paper back to him and he held it right up to his eyes, the paper literally pressed against his face. He took him a long time to decipher the writing. He wrote “Are you volunteering to help?” “Yes”, I replied. He wrote about the toothbrush and the toothpaste he needed. As he handed the paper back to me, it fell to the floor and as it scattered, I saw that many pages were filled with writing- conversations he had had all day as he had navigated in a world he could not see, could not hear, and could not speak into. That realization hit me so hard that my eyes began to fill up with tears. What a way to have to live! I don’t think I would even try.

After a few more written exchanges, I headed off to find the toothpaste and toothbrush. When I returned, we exchanged a few more messages about the items. At the end, I asked him his name. When he pressed the paper to his eyes to read my question, he broke into this beautiful smile and wrote “Artiz”. I wrote my name and he smiled again when he read it. He wrote “Thanks, and God bless you.”

God did bless me tonight by allowing me to spend time with Artiz. I’ll admit when I first realized he was blind and deaf and mute, I wanted to just walk out the door. It was awkward and I felt inadequate to help. But I will never forget his beautiful smile, and more importantly, his courage to live with such challenges. When I left him, I easily navigated the stairs, through the crowd on 34th Street, on to the bus, and home to my apartment. I do these things every day without much thought Sometimes I complain about the bus being late, or crowded, or the weather being bad, which means most of the time I lack gratitude for what I do have- like sight, hearing, speech.

God, help me to live with the resolve and courage and resourcefulness, and the attitude I discovered in a man who is living with challenges that I really cannot imagine. And please keep Artiz from harm.