away in a ghetto

This is the time of year I tumble into bouts of reflection. Most of the world seems to be looking forward. Some years, this practice proves a welcome bookend to a disastrous year. All I can do is look forward. Other years deliver a sense of accomplishment and I soak in the art of the rearview mirror.

No doubt, the last 365 clicks have been memorable. Reconciliation, transition, disappointment, growth. In the birds-eye view, it was a sort of garden. Brilliant tomato plants in one corner, so-so squash in another, and rotten pumpkins in another. Typical year.

But at some point during the contest that was 2011, Kimberly and I walked up to a modest white building on Grant Road. I’ve passed it hundreds of times without really passing it at all. It’s a bit hidden, tucked amid smaller ranch houses, a senior living center, an equipment rental place.

Beyond any reasonable prediction, we found a home in that little white building. And, as I tick back over the 365 clicks, I find some of the more meaningful moments came inside, around and through that little white building.

To understand how we came to arrive at the little white building, understand that we — wife, kids, me — hit an inflection point in 2011 that crested on an innocent ride home from a different church, a church where we’d lulled ourselves into the exercise of perpetual spectating. I think each of us in this clan, even the youngest, were eager to jump out onto the spiritual playing field with the same gusto we had jumped onto other playing fields in our life…but there was a big roadblock named “us.”

See, there are people who pull a jersey over their head, strap on the knee pads, plop a helmet on their melon and run out on the field as fast as they can. They play the entire game. They sweat. They score. They fail. They hurt.

And then there are people who watch them. Televisions are made for spectators, real life requires laundry detergent. We somehow rounded the corner into our mid 30s with a spiritual big screen but very little Tide. Serious players – no. Serious spectators – yes.

On Christmas, we’d spectate. On Easter, we’d spectate. Sunday after Sunday, we’d spectate. Or we’d skip. Sometimes, we’d edge our way onto the playing field, but soon enough realize that the playing field was too large or the coach was an ass or we just didn’t find the game worth playing.

Jack, all of four years old at the time, changed that.

It began when he started pontificating in the back seat. The church that Kimberly and I were attending was boring, he said. And he said it a lot.

Boring? How could that be? We had come to this church because it was anything but boring. The music rocked, the messages were simple and applicable, the experience was modern. We had been married in this church, worked in this church, met our best of friends in this church, recruited people to this church, led in this church.

No doubt, despite the pint-sized punditry coming from my back seat, this church was a spectacular place. Thousands were finding meaning and eternity there. We were just part of this church’s welfare state, content to let the players play while we sat on the couch watching soaps and playing Wii.

We looked around and saw people promoted as giants, but when we looked in the mirror, we were seeing a stunted dwarf who looked more suited for The Wizard of Oz than for Gladiator. We were dressing for battle in a bathing suit and ballerina slippers. We had left the helmet, sword, slingshot and lion heart in a closet that we had not opened in many years. We were good people but pretty mediocre disciples.

So we listened to Jack and hit our knees. We prayed. Not to God, but to a friend who told us to try a place we probably wouldn’t like all that much and probably wouldn’t return to. But he knew the pastor and the pastor evidently knew Jesus and it seemed that we, as a family, were struggling in that category. I took his advice and my life changed. And so did Jack’s, and so did Kimberly’s. And, in some ways, even our little Bina’s life changed. At nearly a year old, she was just getting off the blocks in life. This little white building has lent her a hefty tailwind for her tiny tailend.

For seven or eight months, we’ve been attending this little white building on Grant Road. It’s not really our cup of tea. The decor could be accused of being outdated; the people aren’t as swank-a-fied as the lot at your typical spiritual watering hole. And the modern music, three-point-messages and kick-ass multimedia of our former routine has been swapped for hymns, liturgy, communion, needy people and a pastor who has spotty hearing, a passion for U2 and a healthy appreciation for The Book of Common Prayer.

Come to find out — This. Is. Thy. Kingdom. Come. An ever-present awareness of the subject of our worship. An acknowledgement that we are equal as brothers. An unpleasant reality that, really, this is not a glorified extension of our home entertainment console…not a cozy crash pad.

We are but sheep in a ghetto, seeking meaning from a wooden manger. I like that better than being somebodies in a shopping mall, seeking meaning from a telephone with a television screen.

This brings me back to this period of reflection I am currently in.

The importance of our new reality found some amplification last weekend, as we packed into this little white building on Grant Road for Christmas Eve.  Sometime after 11 pm, after the Padre’s message — after a round of hymns, after scripture readings, after confession — that little catalyst named Jack walked to the front of the church and sat down at a piano. Five years old and ten fingers. And off he went, playing a pretty solid round of Away in a Manger as a couple of hundred people sat in silence. My son — the guy who little more than a half year earlier thought our Sunday gig was boring — was leading men, women and their kids in worship of the lamb of God, born in a ghetto to save us from our sins.

A little white building, a little man named Jack. A meaningful 365 clicks.