The Running Search

jasontheadams asked: Hey man! Sorry if I'm doing this wrong. I have no idea how to use Tumblr. I tumbled upon this from the old address. Pun entirely intended. :) Anyway, my question: When you say "Natural", as in "God is natural", what do you mean? If you're referring to the immediate universe, then wouldn't God need to be supernatural in order to create the natural? On the other hand, if you mean "the whole show", wouldn't the universe become sub-natural? Is there a better way to comment on posts? Hahah!

no man you are fine. What I mean by that is that since G-d is the creator of the universe and the very concept of existence. So by that understanding however he intends to function by the means of what G-d creates would therefore be the natural intention. Supernatural by definition would imply that something superimposes over the natural order or function. So if G-d performs miracles G-d wouldn’t be superimposing over his own intention of creation but man’s. Although, I have to say that you bring up very fun and interesting concepts. 

I am 25 years old and already have had three cancer scares.   The most recent happened the other day; I was flossing my teeth and found a hard bump in the bottom of my mouth. I freaked for about 15 minutes.  My neurotic mind instantly jumped to the worst-case scenario.  My inner-thoughts were forming up images of jaw cancer and pictures of Roger Ebert’s face and the thought of never being able to taste food again. My speaking career would be over. My smile would be forever banished from my face. I would never make out again and live out the rest of my days as a hermit secluded in my efficiency apartment while I will be henceforth known as a millennial version of Joseph Merrick who died alone leaving a pile of books and uneaten canned goods as his lasting legacy.  In the span of 15 minutes my obituary had already been written. It seems kind of overdramatic and ridiculous doesn’t it? Unfortunately, it’s the truth. After my brief dissent in overwhelming despair I got a grip of myself and calmed down. The following Monday morning I scheduled appointment with my doctor and of course it turned out to be nothing; which I knew it would be. well… after I freaked out

  I’m not afraid of dying. I know that I will go to heaven and there will be pearly gates and yada yada yada. What I am afraid of is that I will die before I reach my potential. I am afraid that when I die people will talk about me as the guy who never made it. I worry about being the guy that talked about his dreams but never got to that make them happen. I sometimes wonder if G-d will be disappointed with me. I imagine in heaven meeting G-d and then being shown all my missed opportunities. Nothing would be worse than entering into the presence of G-d as a benchwarmer.

 I was at a neighbor’s apartment the other day having a conversation while we scanned through Netflix.   We were discussing different movies and TV shows and reminiscing about the days when cartoons were good when the cursor on the screen came up to the film “The Passion of the Christ.”

“I hate that movie!” My neighbor said in a tone of defiance.

“How can you hate ‘The Passion of The Christ?’” I asked a little bewildered.  I know my neighbor professes to be a Druid but what is to really hate about the movie? I am aware it’s not really a film you get excited to watch or get enjoyment in an entertainment sense from; but I don’t know anyone who has said they hated the film. I know through prior conversations that he has respect for Christ. As it turned out he had a pretty good answer for my question once I thought about it.

He answered: “I hate it because it focuses too much on his death when we should focus on His life and teachings.” 

I know and understand that the death, burial, and resurrection are basically the hinge point on which the Christian faith balances. However, I think my neighbor brings up an interesting point.  It isn’t always an easy thing to focus on life; for life, has its disappointments.  I have a predisposition to focus on the hallows of death.  I do not intend to be morose. Contrary to many people’s summations I err on the side of optimism most days. It is though a confession of mine that I will dip my toes in a puddle of negativity from time to time and before I realize it I am neck deep in its deceiving boundaries.

Every year I look forward with a great sense of anticipation of the holy season of Lent.  This is the season when one chooses to contemplate their death as it relates to the Savior that carried it upon His shoulders as if death itself was set afire and used as a torch made to lead us the way into new life brought by resurrection.  This year, I really came into the 40 days of Lent with exceeding expectation.  I gave up reading for recreation, which for those closest to me would know that may as well given up breathing for Lent.  I wanted to give up something that cost me something that took up space in my heart. I was in matter of speaking cleaning the clutter out of my mind and heart. I began to follow Liturgy of The Church.  There was no conceivable way in my thinking that this was not going to be a season where I saw the breakthrough that people have been speaking over me for years.

However, in a very inconceivable way the season of Lent, was a terrible one. I can’t exactly for sure know how or why it came about. One day I became very depressed; and I didn’t leave my apartment for a solid week. I seemed to slip into a puddle of negativity. It was as if depression came to my apartment door unannounced and unexpected and it stayed the week.  It was as if one day I woke up as a different person. I no longer saw the point in eating, bathing, or changing clothes. I did not sleep and days had no boundaries from nights.  My home usually smells of sandalwood and patchouli incense. During this week it had the aroma of misery embedded into its fibers. In case you are wondering, misery smells like stagnant air, dirty dishes, and the stinging scent of ammonia accented sweat that burns both your nostrils and your eyes. I wore the scent of misery like cologne for a week.

My mind was besieged by thoughts of entrapment by my new houseguest.  I could not see anything out of my black and white kaleidoscope view of the world.  I found misery in whatever I saw. I was consistently getting updates on the Trayvon Martin case on top of having my facebook news feed filled full of announcements of people starting new jobs, engagements, and pregnancies.  My life had none of these accolades or milestones to post on my timeline.  Somewhere my life went tragically wrong and I didn’t know how to fix it.  So I just soaked in the dead waters of my apathy.  After a week a neighbor asked me to come over to talk with her and her fiancé.  This when we had the conversation about “The Passion of the Christ.” I really began to ponder the idea of focusing not simply on the 33 years that Christ was walking on this earth; but also, the life that Christ has bestowed upon me to walk on this earth. So why should it matter that I don’t have the job I want or a relationship?  Why does that deem my life as well lived? What use is it compare others life as my own? They have not been given the life that has been give to me.   I realized that I have been diagnosed with a sickness called death that lies within us all. Everyone’s prognosis is different and the survival rate varies. All I can tell is that my prognosis is a good one because I am alive even though my future is not known.  I am going to focus on the life I have instead of the death I have been resurrected from.

Walk update: So here’s the deal…So far I have raised $0. I am trying to figure out a more effective way to campaign . I may start a separate tumblr.  I am asking anyone who reads this to follow the link here and donate $1 to raise funds for my 75 mile walk to raise money for the non-profit organization Over The Rainbow.(be sure to put my name in the special instructions.) Over The Rainbow builds accessible apartment buildings for the disabled. For more information about my walk check out my blog post entitled For Miles… Also, do me a favor and reblog this and share it on facebook.

Most of my consistent readers know that I am an avid supporter of the African relief organization known as Invisible Children. Recently, this organization has come under heavy scrutiny following the release of their viral documentary entitled “Kony 2012“. As a result of the scrutiny, the founders of Invisible Children were thrown into the national spotlight where they could be seen on every major media outlet trying to bring validation to their cause. About a month after the release of the film one of the founders, Jason Russel, was detained by police in San Diego for allegations of public disturbance and was later taken to the hospital for a mental evaluation. When the news broke of these events some thought this revealed the organization’s insincerity; that one man’s breakdown gave reason to not have trusted them. I am choosing not to weigh in on the argument to validate Invisible Children.  People who are much more eloquent and well informed than I have already said what needed to be said. What I do want to weigh in on is the negative response to Jason’s crisis.

 I feel as though this is an area that I’m well equipped to speak about. About 2 years ago I myself had a breakdown.  I have felt the full weight of my life on my mind, body, and spirit. I felt this weight and I crumbled under it. My breakdown happened a few months after leaving the state of New York and the pastoral job I loved to move back to Illinois to take a potential job working with homeless teens. After one month of being back home the stress started taking its toll on me. The slithering tentacles of fear and the unknown began to take hold.  A stranglehold had begun, and I could feel myself gasping for air. It all started on the way back from my friends wedding. I had not slept in about 2 days. I was exhausted. Throughout the entirety of the wedding I couldn’t help but think how it seemed, from my perspective, that everybody was moving ahead, but I was stuck, stuck on a couch. The idea of moving ahead was rippling through me; I was desperate. So during the car ride back as my friends were laughing and listening to music. The record inside my heart playing beautiful music simply screeched to a halt.  Before I knew it I was crying. I was crying for kids in Africa. I was crying for the world. I was crying for what my life could’ve been. I was taken to the hospital that night.  My blood pressure was taken. I was given a few sleeping pills and I was sent on my way. I was prescribed nothing for my soul. There was no one to give me a brace or a sling for my broken spirit.  A scalpel wasn’t taken to the dark places in my heart.  I was wishing someone would apply salve over my eminent failure. I was left to figure this out. To figure out how to move forward in spite of this mess I know called my life. I wish I could tell you the ones who read this that I got better after that; but it didn’t. The truth is it got much worse; in the 36 hours after leaving the hospital I fractured my skull in three places. In the weeks to come I would be dropped from my insurance, the job would be dissolved, a friend would be murdered, and a woman would break my heart. The thing is some would like to believe that sincere people don’t break; that sincere people don’t fail. I have come to find that that is not true. Even as I write this I battle the same fears and worries. There are days and weeks where I don’t see the point in getting out of bed. However, even as dark things were homesteading in my heart at the core is a man who believes.  Sincere do people break. What defines us as sincere is that we move forward.  I believe this will be the case for Jason. That is why I am praying for Jason Russel.

Walk Update:Ladies and gentlemen, I am getting excited. I am ready to walk 75 miles come August. I participated in the annual 5k for Tom’s Shoes in Rockford, IL last week.  I used my wheelchair and crutches as I plan to in August. My body held up great. I guess the training has been paying off.  I am now ready to start raising funds.  If you haven’t read this blog before and have no clue what I am referencing check out my post entitled “For Miles…” http://cjcampbell.tumblr.com/post/12896016183/for-miles I will be walking 75 miles from Rockford, IL to Evanston, IL this August to raise money for an organization that provides housing for the disabled called Over The Rainbow. I am making a plea to anyone who reads this to donate at least one dollar. Once you donate please reblog this or share it on facebook. If everyone one of your followers or friends donates this project could really do a great thing for an organization that really is in some need of help. Thank you all in advance for your help. If you are willing to make a donation to Over The Rainbow follow this link. http://www.otrassn.org/donate-now and in the special instructions put C.J. Campbell I will keep you updated on the fundraising.

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Writer’s Note- This is a recent article I wrote for Over The Rainbow.  It is the organization that I will be raising money for this summer when I walk 75 miles to Evanston, IL. For more information on my story check out my post entitled For Miles…

Sometimes it is hard to believe where I end up. I is what I thought to myself as a man was giving me a tour of a homeless shelter that very well may become my new home. Seeing what seems like endless rows of bunk beds before me and I realizing that can barely manage navigating in between them with my Canadian crutches.  I wonder to myself how on earth I’m going to manage this with my wheelchair. I am 25 years old; although young I am, naive I am not. Rockford, Illinois has been my home most of my life. Up until 9 months ago I honestly didn’t ever see myself living in the city again. I lost my job as a pastor and food pantry coordinator where I worked in the poorest county in the state of New York. As these months have worn on I have felt my dreams of becoming a published author and renowned speaker slip out of my grasp. I never thought I’d find myself on the verge of homelessness living on my mother’s couch in a state with the least amount of social programs in the country to help me.  I was told by social workers that becoming homeless might be my only option to get help in finding a place to live because the waiting list for the state may take 2 to 5 years to open up. In my experience with working with people in poverty I knew that as man that lives with Cerebral Palsy that the chances of me ever rising out of homelessness was slim.

At nearly the point where my hope was the lowest, when it seemed that this violent storm of trials would never end a rainbow broke through the clouds. My caseworker with an organization known as RAMP told me about Over The Rainbow it turned out that the had built a new building in Rockford a couple of years ago. The idea of living in barrier-free housing seemed like a dream come true. I had never had the opportunity to live in a place accessible to me.  The notion that I wouldn’t be putting most of my mental capacity towards navigating around my surroundings and trying to accomplish basic tasks for living seemed like my own personal emancipation. Since I have moved into my apartment the chase for my dreams is one that I know that I have to courageously continue to sprint towards; but I know that the goal is attainable once again. Because of Over The Rainbow the barriers that I face, in other words, the storms that surround have not silenced my voice.

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Writer’s note- God is written in the Hebrew tradition of omitting the “o” and appears as G-d.

I remember recently I had a conversation about G-d with a friend of mine.   He shared with me that one of the reasons he just can’t bring himself to believe in G-d is the idea that G-d is supernatural.  The idea that an omnipotent and an omnipresent being has to break into this realm to impose its will on us and our world seems implausible for many; this is not easy to swallow as truth.  I empathize; it is a hard conclusion to accept on the basis of logic alone. In our conversation I stated to my friend that I don’t believe G-d is supernatural. 

It’s not that I don’t believe that G-d is all-powerful or ever- present because I will tell you I most certainly believe in these things.   Where I differ in the understanding of supernatural and its relation to G-d is that for G-d to be supernatural it would mean that G-d superimposes over the natural world. The problem I have with this logic is that G-d created the natural world, therefore, if G-d is required to superimpose over the world he created (being the natural one) then this would assume that creation is intrinsically flawed; which therefore, would also imply that the creation that reflects G-d’s nature leaves G-d intrinsically flawed. The problem with this thinking is that it presents a false dichotomy between G-d and His creation, as well as His Creation (humanity) and His Creation (the natural world.)This is bigger than mere scientific reasoning and faiths’ relationship with it. This is also about understanding our place in this world and the people around us.

 If we believe that this world, that creation, is flawed in an irrevocable way then you don’t understand the nature and purpose of the coming of Christ the Messiah.  Yes, I will not deny that since the fall of Man that both humanity and the natural world have become greatly damage. However, is not Christ known as the Redeemer?  Does not the Son reflect the Father? Does He not do his Father’s will? Therefore, Could He be about bringing the natural way.?  Not superimposing a new way but bringing back the original way. Some of you reading this may be asking: what about Jesus’ miracles?

 The closer I look at the miracles Christ the more I see His redemption in this world.  These acts weren’t simply to display power  but to right wrong. I have a couple examples that are shown in Scripture. Mark 6: 30–44 records Christ’s feeding a gathering of 5000 people At 1^st glance this may be seen as a simple act of good charity; However, when bringing the cultural and social environment into context the reader of the text will also see an act of advocacy.   Israel at this time was under the occupation and rule of the Roman Empire. The Roman Empire is a historically renowned conquering force. One of the keys to maintaining an occupation of foreign lands is to suppress indigenous uprisings. A tried and tested strategy in this area was to keep the male population feeble and weak.  They carry this out by rationing the amounts of proteins and carbohydrates the subjugated were allowed.  So when Jesus was surrounded by a hungry congregation and was offered the lunch of dried fish and bread by a child he met the need of the people while righting the oppression around Him.

 The gospel of Matthew records a paralyzed man was brought before Jesus. The physical needs of this man were blatant staring everyone in the face; his physical needs were evident. Jesus on the other hand, saw the deeper need so you forgave him of his sins. Which freed him from the prison of his affliction brought on by those around him. You see, in this in this 1^st century Jewish culture those with infirmed bodies were seen as sinful, and unworthy to worship G-d. When Jesus reinstated the paralyzed man into community worship it caused quite the stir in the status quo. Jesus did not hide from the reality of the sickness.  He did not disregard this as an inevitable result of living in a sinful world but instead, brought the natural world back into our reality.

 In the same chapter of Matthew Jesus laments to His disciples: Matthew 9:36-38

New International Version (NIV)

36 When he saw the crowds, he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd. 37 Then he said to his disciples, “The harvest is plentiful but the workers are few. 38 Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.”

 Here it is clear that the rhetoric often spewed from church pulpits calling for the disciples of the Redeemer to retreat and escape this depraved world is just as depraved as the world they wish to escape.  Jesus didn’t simply accept oppression as inevitability. He taught us not simply about living good lives but warned us against the great oppressor that is our apathy. If we are called to be like Christ then I think we should be vessels of redemption instead of retreating phalanxes of self-righteousness who are at war with our surroundings. I personally am thankful to be created and called by an all-powerful, ever-present, and natural G-d.

I have been reading a book of the writings and speeches of Martin Luther King Jr.  It is certainly inspirational, but also incredibly relevant, especially when it comes to my city.  I live in Rockford, Illinois; a large city about 90 minutes outside of Chicago.  It is the third largest city in the state and has a number of claims to fame including: the birthplace of sock monkeys, the female baseball team known as the Peaches, and the band Cheap Trick. It is kind of a strange city to live in. It has one foot in the industrial sector while still having a townie stigma placed upon its borders caste upon it by the Windy City.

Before I continue into the current state of affairs I want to share some of the history of the my city. Primarily Western European settlers first settled Rockford in 1835. The city soon had a major boom due to its furniture industry. Coming into the mid 20^th century Rockford continued to see major growth despite of The Great Depression due to the strong manufacturing presence.  The city was such a hub of our country that it was speculated to be a target for bombings during World War II.  Coming into the 1970’s Rockford’s notoriety continued its progression. The city had become the tool and dye industry capital of world. Famous businessman and philanthropist Warren Buffet was once quoted in saying that Rockford had more potential than other city in the U.S. 

Although Rockford was growing economically the hints of social distress were already beginning to take root in the late 1960’s.  In 1968 Congress passed the Fair Housing Act. Which made it illegal to discriminate against anyone looking for a place to live based on an individual’s race, religion, or national origin.  Rockford’s social geography has always been quite segregated but the dividing lines could not go unnoticed in the 1960’s.  The affluent Scandinavians dwelled on the Eastside of the city while the poor Irish, Italians, and African-Americans settled west of the Rock River.  Among the working class it became even more divided as the African-American population was pushed into a few congested city blocks prior to the passing of The Fair Housing Act.  Following the passing of the legislation African-Americans began to move into the vastly better areas of the city that were deemed as the neighborhoods for the Irish and Italians.  Even though the passing of this new legislation was a tremendous step forward in the right direction it did little to combat racism in local communities.  As a result, this lead to a mass exodus out of the Westside by the working class whites.  Whites were not only moving their families but their businesses as well. 

Over the next few decades the Westside continued to crumble.  An economic one-two punch was given to this half of the city as manufacturing was either pushed out by competition of the cheap labor of foreign countries.  At the same time as big business lost its presence on the Westside white small business owners moved to the Eastside. Poverty and racism in my city have a direct connection.  Parts of the Westside resemble a desert.  When one travels to the Westside you will see people seemingly wandering up and down the streets.  Wandering sojourners they are searching for an oasis while the words of Dr. King’s dream echo throughout the vacant concrete.

  It seems that people often have conflict with the places where they grew up. I can say that I am no different. Rockford always seemed to be the place I needed to escape from.  I loathed the scent, I loathed the structures, and I loathed the people. After a brief season away I developed an appreciation and a longing for the city of Rockford.  In recent years, Rockford has plummeted even further into dismay.  Recent studies have shown that the unemployment rate has risen to 13%.   The city has also been listed number 9 in the top most violent cities in America. The New York Times has listed Rockford as the worst place to live in America. As a boy, these would’ve been reasons to escape; but now, as a man, these are reasons for me to get involved.

Since returning I spend most of my time volunteering working with young people and the homeless. I have seen the direct connections between racism and the lack of family as it regards to poverty.  I see the lack of fathers in addicts’ eyes. As the Occupy Wall Street movement surfaced some of the young citizens of Rockford formed its own occupy movement. The Occupy Rockford movement gained some media attention when they showed up to a dedication of a courthouse with a phallic like sculpture regarding its connection to our congressional representation Mr. Don Manzullo and Mr. Dick Durbin. This evidently ruffled a few feathers. A few weeks later, a number of police officers showed up to a house called “Disastr House”, a communal living house where many homeless or what some would call troubled youth lived together. Most of the occupy movement of Rockford claims this house as their home. The police came with a legitimate bench warrant proceeded to search the house. A building code violation was discovered upon the search of the house regarding the water heater.  Subsequently, Disastr House was hereby condemned. Prior to the search of the house a concert was being planned to support Occupy Rockford. In spite of this adversity, Occupy Rockford still planned to have the show at Disastr House as an act of civil disobedience. News traveled via social media websites stating that the show would go on but spectators be advised that attending the show could lead to trouble with the law.

An hour before the show started, it was made known that multiple police vehicles will be stationed outside of the house. Anyone seen the property would be arrested on sight. Personally, I found this a bit odd for a city that had been labeled so violent.  As a backup plan the concert moved locations to a different house. When I arrived to the house and saw one solitary police car I could already sense tension in the air accompanied by the hum and buzz of high-volume amplifiers.

The gathering was being held in an old limestone basement. As I entered into the basement I was met by a heavy cloud of nicotine-laden smoke and the smell of cheap beer wafting throughout the air.  Almost as if it was ushering me into a holy temple, although I’m sure that holy temples are supposed to smell better than this. After I entered the room and received a few handshakes and hugs from my friends, I began to move about the room. It was tight quarters for the show. There were very few places to sit, which is always bad news for crippled man. As the next band tuned up I did my best to crutch through the crowd of crusty gutter punks. I couldn’t find any available seats, so I found a nook along the wall with a spray-painted anarchy symbol on it. I may not have been physically comfortable, but I certainly felt at home in this environment.  It reminded me of the days when I was in my own punk band. Even though it had been about 8 years since I was in a band or played a show for that matter this still felt like a place I belonged. The band that was tuning up started playing their set and a circle pit ensued spraying beer in all directions. I got knocked into multiple times I still felt I was in no danger. To the average outsider, this may have seemed just another group of misfits, but if you look in their eyes and heard their conversations you would see a bit of a different story.

In between the songs these conversations would spring up across the room. Very few people talked to me personally. In fact, I can only think of one, it was a girl probably a few years younger than me told me I should sodomize someone with my crutch. Most of these conversations I was just a fly on the wall, almost a literal sense I would hear young kids saying things like: “Disastr House is the only home I have. I can’t go home, I have nowhere else to go.” Similar stories were repeated throughout the room all night. My heart broke as I heard the stories being murmured in between the smoking of hand rolled cigarettes. The air was thick and heavy, so congested with smoke that when you exhale your lungs let out a puff of smoke back out. This wasn’t all I sensed in the room. I also felt the furious longing of God in that basement. It was in this realization that a quote from the book of James came to mind.

James 1:27–“pure religion that honors God is to visit orphans and widows in their distress and to be unstained by this world.”

My friends’ band, Do It Yourself Methlab Explosion, was about to play and joy overwhelmed my heart. It was a nice change; it was a nice relief from the distress I sensed in everyone.  It was good just to see my friends just enjoying what they love, to see them engrossed in what they’re passionate about. I feel as though music is a weapon for the oppressed. These oppressed orphans don’t take up conventional arms. In lieu of a sword or gun they take up a guitar and microphone. For these are not simple misfits, these are the forgotten. These are the collateral damage of the latchkey kid generation. So as my friends offered me the mic to scream for the last song, I felt there was only one appropriate response. And that response, I screamed out of prayer over that room and over my city. For this basement had become my Wailing Wall and its inhabitants my temple to be re-built.  

During “my performance” I twisted my body and my appendages like an old time Pentecostal. Coupled with my lack of leg strength and the thin layer of the beer that coated the floor I eventually dropped down prostrate. I made a splash in more ways than one that night. As the feedback started to die down and I was left there on the floor, of the limestone basement breathing smoke, like a slain dragon baptized in cheap beer, I felt that, in the city with over 331 churches, this is where they needed to be most of all. You see, I have a dream for my city. A dream that it will no longer be known for its violence, its racism, or its poverty. I dream for the day when it is known as a place for the widowed and orphaned to find refuge.

                                      …

Walk Update:  Not too much update you all on. I am in the middle of working out the logistical stuff. I have mapped out my route.  I am currently segmenting the route in 7 mile increments and contacting churches that might be willing to let me stay at their facilities at night and possibly provide a meal or two.  If you attend a church on the way between Rockford and Evanston, IL and think your congregation may be willing to help fill some of these needs feel free to email at cjcampbell7@gmail.com

Outside of holidays or being at a restaurant I never remember sitting at the same table and sharing a meal as family.  Even before my parents divorced and my family never sat at the table to share a meal.  While my brothers and I were at the table quickly eating and making fart jokes before we got back to playing video games I remember my parents eating in front of the TV watching episodes of Cops.  I always wanted to have family dinnertime like I saw on all of the sitcoms I watched growing up.  I wanted to be the rambunctious charming son who tells the inappropriate and distasteful story about how his best friend threw up at lunch.  I wanted the canned laughter. I wanted the attention.

Unfortunately, being a latchkey kid that smelled bad and had a dumb haircut I had little chance of getting on a sitcom or having time to eat dinner as a collective family.  As the years went on my mom’s workload increased in response to the growing needs of her three sons.  So in return a meal was a rushed event before going to work. As a teenager,  I spent most meals in a car eating fast food with friends listening to punk records and causing mischief before going to youth group or sitting alone in front of the TV.  At church I would hear of the act of and participate  in communion or what some call “The Holy Supper; and I would be very confused.  I had no connection to what was being modeled or what I experienced. I could not see how this could be a sacred event.  The piece of bread and the tiny cup of grape juice, I couldn’t see any difference between my TV mealtime ritual and this sacred act of Communion.  It was so solitary; and confined.

When I moved to a small rural community in Upstate New York years later I lived with my pastor and his family for about a year.  This was not your typical household.  On top of my pastor, his wife, their 13 year-old daughter, and their two twenty-something sons they had opened their home to about three other young men fresh out of college.  That makes a house of eight and the kicker is we the twenty-somethings rarely had jobs.  It was at that house from my pastor and his wife I learned the spiritual act of hospitality.   Leslie, my pastor’s wife would come home after work and clearly being tired would without a doubt would head to the kitchen.  She would begin preparing the meal.  When I wasn’t too enthralled in my own oblivion and selfishness I would offer my help, which I am sure more often than not I was in the way and made the task harder but I was mesmerized by her love by which she did things.   You could see by the way she prepared dough that she loved us.  She made dough with careful hands, because when her husband Bob came home and we sat at the table, there a sacred space created. 

I loved sharing a meal with them at the table.  We would laugh and share stories; and yes, there was laughter.  It wasn’t the canned kind. This was fresh authentic real laughter. It filled the sacred room we had made.

Now I have moved back to the city I grew up in Illinois and live in an apartment on my own and for the first week I loved the solitude.  I could wake up do yoga naked; take a shower and choose not to get dressed. I could do whatever my heart desired, but when to came to dinnertime I would find myself eating a TV dinner over the sink while listening to NPR.   This seemed vulgar; it felt profane after experiencing a meal shared within sacred space.  This went on for a week, and then Ron ruined it.  Ron is my one of my neighbors that lives in my building.  He is 29 years old and has a much more severe case of Cerebral Palsy than I do.  He has to use a power wheelchair and has difficulty doing every day tasks with his hands.  I met him the day I moved into the building.  He was sitting in the lobby his wheelchair back and forth on his chair so the sensor on the automatic door would be tripped, to make easier as I brought in my stuff. I introduced myself and he said hello and let a big smile crack about his face. He has a great warm smile; with  his two front teeth that have a pronounced gap almost as if his mouth is opening up for a hug.  The thing I first noticed was his eyes though, he has eyes that hunger. Ron has eyes that hunger for life.   

Over the next days I would see him sitting in the lobby when I went to get my mail.  I started inviting him up to my apartment to hangout.  Just like I learned from the Kendalls I try to feed everyone that comes into my home.  The first couple times I would offer him food he would refuse.  In my mind I figured he was embarrassed about having me feed him because I couldn’t see how he would be able to do it on his own.  

One day we were sitting in my apartment discussing Buddhist philosophy as I ate some carrots and dressing.  When there was a brief pause in the conversation Ron asked:

“C.J., can I have a carrot?” 

“Sure, is it alright if I feed you them?” I replied,

He agreed, and this moment now became sacred. As he crunched those carrots it seemed that the walls between us came down. They came down with those resounding crunches of a carrot.  Over the next few weeks Ron and I began spending more time together. We would eat Doritos while watching pro wrestling and swearing at the guys we don’t like.   After his third root beer Ron turned to me and said:

 “I have to use the bathroom.” He said with a sense of hesitance. 

Without a thought about it I just helped him.  I don’t really understand why but I think it’s because my love for Ron left no room for awkwardness in that sacred space that he and I share.  I think I would be amiss if I didn’t also tell you that Ron feeds me too; maybe not physically but certainly spiritually.  When I am down he makes me laugh and keeps me grounded.  Even though we don’t have a table to share I know that the space we share is sacred and I now know the meaning of Holy Supper.

Walk Update: For those of you that didn’t read my last post I am walking to Chicago for charity in August of this year.  I want to take this time to announce that I will be raising money for an organization called Over The Rainbow.  This organization builds apartment buildings for the disabled.  They built the building that Ron and I live in. They own a building in the Suburb of Evanston so that will be my ending point of my journey. I just think it makes more sense.  It actually ends being a bit longer of a walk. If you are interested learning my about Over The Rainbow you can check them out at http://www.otrassn.org/about-over-the-rainbow

Well, I will update you all soon. Thank you for reading and subscribing I deeply appreciate it.

People tell me I am an inspiration.  Strangers will tell me things like: “I don’t know how you continue on in your life.  If I were you I would have quit a long time ago.”  It seems every time I am walking down a flight of stairs using my crutches someone will comment to me that I am amazing.  As I was when I was younger, I started to believe it. 

In recent years, I have begun to doubt these conclusions’ validity.  The previous statement doesn’t come out a place of self-deprecation, but more of humility.  In many instances I have encountered being humbled because I started to believe my own hype.  Eventually I simply grew tired of looking foolish because of pride and I had begun to see that my acts were ordinary acts. Walking up stairs even if I am not naturally inclined to do it does not it make extraordinary.  I have realized that simply because I am crippled it does not allow me to live in mediocrity and let it be called great because it feeds my ego.

When I decided to leave New York I truly believed that I was going to do great things.  Two dissolved jobs, an anxiety attack, a fractured skull, a murdered friend, an insurance drop, and a cancer scare forced me to look at this notion with a bit of doubt.  My life was shoved into a corner of my mother’s living room.  I had no job and no car, most of my friends had either moved away or had married since I had moved away and had little time to rekindle old friendships.

My day had been relegated to killing time. A life built around killing time is not a life but mere a holding pen that one waits for death; and death is not what I am called to.

I had never in my life felt more crippled than I have over the last few years. It seemed that I was never expected to do anything and that that is what I would accomplish in life.  So you may understand my surprise when one of my best friends from high school, Chris called and asked if I would consider doing a 5k to benefit Tom’s Shoes.  I surely can tell you no one in my twenty-four years on this planet has ever asked me to walk 3.1 miles before.  I was in terrible shape; I had been to the hospital five times in the last six months. So I did what anyone in my situation would do: I said yes.  The 5k was in a few days and I had no time to train.  I was in trouble; I was in deep trouble.  Even in my best shape the most I had ever walked was about a mile and a half.

About two days before the 5K I was called by a woman named Teri who is a property manager for an organization called Over The Rainbow.  Over The Rainbow is a non-profit that builds apartment buildings that solely has barrier free, fully accessible units.  She called to let me know after nearly a year my application had been processed; and I was offered a brand new one-bedroom apartment.  I wish I could give you a poetic line to convey the emotions that spilled out; all of the battling and frustration over the last 10 months. But that would make me a liar. For the next 10 minutes after I hung up an odd mixture of praising God and profanity spewed out of my mouth.

The morning of the 5K I woke up and began to think about why I was doing this.  Yes, obviously it was to raise awareness and get shoes for impoverished children all over the world.  I also know when I search the deepest and most honest part of my heart I was doing this for my own ego.  I felt that I needed to be able to complete this.  I had to see that my life wasn’t invalid, that I wasn’t weak.  I needed to know that I was going to be okay. 

As I got dressed I prayed to God to let me make it, to not let me fail.  Chris’s car started making its way down the street.  I grabbed my crutches and said one more quick prayer.  Chris as usual was running behind.  As always as long as I have known him, he was trying to remain cool, calm, and personable.  He needed to go back to his house to pick up his wife and some other supplies.  About 15 minutes later we pulled into a middle-class subdivision and met a driveway that was connected to me what seemed like a palace. 

“Wow, man how on Earth can you afford a place like this?” I asked Chris.

“Oh my dad won it in a raffle and gave it to us as a wedding gift.” Chris answered.

If you knew Chris this situation would make sense to you.  It has been a long running joke that Chris has the Midas touch.  He has always found a way to succeed or win.   Which I think was one of the most interesting things about our friendships: We are so different.  We didn’t become friends until late into high school when started going to the same Bible study.  The hardworking and motivated president of the student council became friends with the aloof, abrasive, insecure, and rebellious iconoclast.  It was as if Wally Cleaver and Sid Vicious became friends.

Chris scurried inside and got the things he needed as I sat in the car waiting.  Soon after Chris’s wife Katie, came out carrying their Yorkshire terrier named Mario.  Katie asked me if I would mind having Mario ride on my lap. I said I didn’t and soon we were off to the5K.  We spent the ride joking and laughing as Mario whined and whimpered on my lap trying to get to the backseat to be with Katie.  We arrived started to get out of the car when Katie picked Mario up to discovered a small puddle of urine on the crotch of my pants.  I think it isn’t a surprise we headed back to their place so I could change clothes.  I was laughing about it but deep down inside it seemed to me like this circumstance fit my life like a tailored suit.  It seemed like so often when I started getting back on my feet I would get pissed on; this time literally. 

We doubled back and pulled into the driveway. I nearly ran out of the car and into the house. Chris led me to the master bathroom. He tossed me a pair of expensive jeans to change into.

‘You can keep these.” He said.

“These are brand new though.” I replied.

“It’s okay, I got them for free. He said as he shut the door.

“Of course you did.” I muttered to myself.

I struggled to get dressed as fast as I could.  It was a vast contrast to the first time getting dressed that day. I wasn’t praying, in fact, I was trying to ignore God.  As I finished broke the awkward silence between us by asking:

“Why can’t you love me like you love Chris?”

We finally made our way back and Chris and I started walking while Chris pushed this rickety wheelchair he borrowed from his church in case I needed to sit and rest.

I looked at the chair and imagined how pathetic I would look while sitting in it.  I spoke to God one last time asking him to not let me fail.   One of the draws of this particular 5k is the participants walk it barefoot to gain understanding of what it is like for many around the world who cannot afford shoes.  I however am unable to walk without my leg braces. So I would be keeping my shoes on.  I figured that Cerebral Palsy would be a fair trade of disadvantage though. 

The experience that I was having for the first two miles of this journey was quite freeing.  I had quickly forgiven God and had begun to ponder the wonder of the present moment.  It was the beginning of the Lent season and I couldn’t help but feel the redemptive qualities of walking. With every step I took I felt as though I was walking into new life. I had realized that my life over the last five years had been in a state of mourning over what my life could have been.  Now here I was about ready to move into a brand new apartment. I was also reacquainted with one of my best friends who were right by my side as I moved forward. 

For the first two miles I felt like Lazarus emerging from his tomb or the Israelites leaving the slavery of Egypt.  Then the last mile came and it seemed that Lazarus had died of old age and the Israelites began needing to cross the rushing Jordan River.  I had hit my wall and I didn’t know if I was going to make this last mile. I kept looking at the wheelchair Chris was pushing and simply refused to quit now. My ego had once again kicked in enough to motivate me another half-mile.

During the last half-mile I lost feeling in my legs and then my shoulder began to dislocate.  I was just dragging my legs while grunting prayers up to a god that at times I didn’t know if His intentions could be trusted. 

Then I all at once I began to have vivid visions. I had been transported into first century Jerusalem.  I was in the middle of a boisterous crowd all yelling some out of sorrow most out of malice.  Then I saw Him, Jesus; there He was carrying a heavy beam across His shoulders. I push past the crowd and got a good look at Him. He was gasping for air; with His feet dragging. There He was with the weight of the world on His shoulders. The bystanders engulfed me. I fought again to get to a place to see Him. I broke into the front and fell to my knees; and he fell right next to me covered in tears of crimson across his body. His eyes met mine and I saw love. I couldn’t speak. I wanted to say something. I wanted to say I was sorry. But I couldn’t utter a word. He locked eyes with me and as he pushed his body back upright He said:

“Behold, I make all things new.”

I came back to “reality” and was near the end of the 5k. There was no giving up now I was submerged up to my neck in the river and the Promised Land was near. I made it to the finish and was the last one of course. Everyone began clapping and congratulating me; but they didn’t see the man that started for he was once dead but now lives resurrected.

Epilogue:  I have been in my apartment for about 7 months and my life had hit a stalemate.  I had become what I loathed; I realized I lived a life that primarily served myself.  I spent weeks never leaving my apartment and had stopped pushing myself to go after my dreams because they had lost value. It didn’t make a difference if I got out of bed or not. I didn’t deserve this apartment I was blessed with.  Something Chris and Katie have shown me is use your blessings well.  They always are willing to open up their home whether it’s for a board game and a couple of beers or a friend who needs a place to stay.  I wasn’t doing anything with my blessing.  I had failed. So one day back in September I decided to change that. I am taking this time to announce that I will be walking to Chicago from my home in Rockford in August 2012. A journey of about 75 miles that I am planning on raising money for charity along the way. I will be raising money for organization that owns my apartment building. For more information you can check out their website here

There are times in my life where I have felt utterly invisible.  Not to say it doesn’t have its advantages.  I can go through life observing things that go unnoticed.  I think there comes a time though where you need to know where you belong. You need to know that you are missed.  I found this out for myself during my last year of pastoral school.

I had just spent the last two weeks in bed because of severe back spasms due to a fall.  Although I still was not feeling well and I had developed a bacteria infection in the last few days and was feeling very weak, I went into school anyway.  I was getting too far behind in my classes. Besides that I was very lonely and in a very deep way just craved to feel a part things. I needed to be a part of lives and to have meaning and a place in people’s lives.

I made it halfway through the day I was still systemically stiff, sore, and broken. Fortunately, I haven’t had an episode of spasms yet.  I needed to get some work done online so I was heading to the café of the church.  I began to cut across the courtyard when someone called my name.  It was one of my classmates.

“C.J., I feel like I haven’t seen you in weeks for some reason.”

“That’s because you haven’t.  I have been in bed the last two weeks.”  I replied.

“Oh…that’s not good.” She replied awkwardly.

“Nope, it sure isn’t.” I said as I continued on my way. 

I know I probably came of like a jerk just then. I know it’s an awkward kind of a situation but I felt that it isn’t too much to just be more open and look past the awkwardness.  As childish as it sounds I just wanted someone to notice me.  I strained down the corridor of the church while carrying my messenger bag. I probably could have asked my classmate to carry it for me but my pride wouldn’t allow me.  Although with a good amount of struggle I eventually made it to the café and sat a table only to find that the router for that part of the building was down.  I had no choice but to walk to the other side of the building to the offices that my school was administrated through.

It was my own version of a trail of tears but I made it down into the basement offices. I entered the reception area and was startled by a loud greeting:

“Hi, Dad!”  The bright-eyed girl behind the desk exclaimed.

  It was Stacie, one of the girls that were a part of the small group of students I lead that met twice a week. They were somewhat known as surrogate families that were led by both a male and a female 3^rd year student.  I really love being called Dad.  Most of girls in our “family” called me that and I really cherished the notion, especially today of all days.

“Daughter of mine, daughter of mine!” I exclaimed back to her.  This was my standard greeting for all of my “daughters.”

I took a seat and before I could even get to work I was approached by Amy who was on staff as an advisor for the 3^rd year academic program.  She wanted to talk to me about some tests that I had missed.  Before she got midway through her first sentence my world had already gone mute.  Every muscle in my back had begun to scream and pain had begun to leak from my tear ducts. I made it through Amy’s talk barely. I knew this was going to be a bad batch of spasms; I was about to faint. I didn’t want to scare Stacie so I decided to leave the office.  I am not sure how but I was somehow able to drag myself into a bathroom and soon collapsed in a stall. 

I tried to breathe but the air in my lungs had only been replaced with pain.  A shockwave was going through my body. With every spasm my body convulsed so violently that it literally caused the whole set of stalls to shake.  I cannot catch my breath; I am struggling to not drown in this river of misery.  This river is in its flood stages and the current is too strong for me to keep my head above its water.

I desperately needed some intervention. I managed to type out a text message to my friend, Camby but I hesitated to hit the send button. I didn’t want to be seen as weak anymore.  At the same time there was a sincere part of me albeit irrational that thought I might die.  So I sent out my distress call to a friend that has never let me down.  He came running, and after bringing in the director of our school I was carted out of the building in a wheelchair.  I spent the next few months bedridden and feeling invisible.

That was over three years ago and I still haven’t recovered fully from that period of my life on a physical, emotional, or spiritual level.  At times I still find myself feeling as a specter of the man the man I was.  This is not to say that I haven’t progressed or that I am not all like myself; but there are pieces of me that are still disconnected and broken.  One of the things that I still hold dearly as one of my core values is m passion and desire to see justice be brought to society through acts of compassion and mercy.  I often find that the thought that breaks light in my mind when I wake is: How Many people died needlessly due to poverty; and did do anything to stop it?         One night recently I was watching a BBC newscast about the ongoing conflict in Libya.  I became both appalled and entranced with images of children with amputated limbs and wailing for their missing mothers.  These images were burned into my thoughts all night and into the next morning as I get dressed to go to a church service.

They say that the baptism of John was one of water; and Christ’s was a baptism of the Spirit.  I think that the baptism of today’s’ church is a baptism of sound.  I become submersed in it’s bath of auditory waves. The salutations of the greeting team hit first with trendy Christian contemporary music soon follows.  On every screen is the announcement message with the attractive twenty-something reminding you that this is the only place to be.  There is the sound of commerce, the ringing up of registers; there is being money changed between hands here. 

Before you can get your bearings and begin to get used to the temperature of the water of this Sunday morning; the service begins. It lasts about an hour and is well produced with music and video. You sing some songs that speak most often of I, me, and how you think and feel; or how God feels about us. I have found our idea of worship is more the worship of ourselves rather than our Creator.

This Sunday I just couldn’t go about this way.  I didn’t need God to connect with my emotions. I needed my emotions to connect with God.

Humans have a strange connection to sound, music in particular.  Scientists have theorized that in the essence of our being is a sound wave.  To me, this makes sense if you read the creation story in Genesis in the Hebrew language.  In the creation story it says that God would bring about existence through saying them into existence.  In Hebrew the word said reads `amar, which is also can be switched with the same meaning of the word known as qal.  So quite literally It speaks of how God sang us all into existence and there is a piece of God’s Creation song at the essence of our being.

This is what I believe is truly missing from the sound of our Sunday morning.  We have forgot the harmony that we make as a symphony together.  We are missing the connections between us. We have become singular rogue notes.  We are so focused on our own experience that we forget what was said in Acts:

Acts 2:42-47

New International Version (NIV)

The Fellowship of the Believers

 “42 They devoted themselves to the apostles’ teaching and to fellowship, to the breaking of bread and to prayer. 43 Everyone was filled with awe at the many wonders and signs performed by the apostles. 44 All the believers were together and had everything in common. 45 They sold property and possessions to give to anyone who had need. 46 Every day they continued to meet together in the temple courts. They broke bread in their homes and ate together with glad and sincere hearts, 47 praising God and enjoying the favor of all the people. And the Lord added to their number daily those who were being saved.” 

I couldn’t do this, not this morning. I didn’t long to have God connect with my emotions. I longed to have my emotions connect to God. I wanted my heart to be formed like His.  I needed to be connected to the suffering that is going on with the brothers and sisters throughout the world. 

I began to walk while I prayed.  I started trying to tune into the frequency of “the creation song.”  I continued up and down the concourse of the mall that the church owned simply intent on not doing church but being The Church.  I was praying; but I was on a mission it felt like. Halfway up the concourse I noticed that the relief group Invisible Children was there to give a presentation.  This has been an organization that I have been passionate about and following since my senior year of high school. 

I strolled by their promo booth and was approached by a woman around my age.  She introduced herself as Lauren and asked about a band shirt I was wearing and if I knew about Invisible Children.  I told her I had and that I like to give them some money because I didn’t want to want to buy any merchandise and just wanted to give support.  She thanked me but asked if I were really willing to help it would be great to buy their new documentary.  I was reluctant o make the purchase because like I said I didn’t want any merchandise but I happened to have the exact amount needed in my wallet.  I made the purchase because the currency of paper has seemed to lose its value in my life; or it could be simply that I find it very difficult to say no to charming women. Either way my wallet was again empty but my heart was full. I felt like a rich man.  Lauren and I continued with some small talk and introduced me to the rest of her team. She then said good-bye before she had to go into the service to talk about the presentation that was set for this evening. I wouldn’t be at the presentation that evening because of a speaking engagement but I had already felt so connected to that team that it didn’t matter to me.  I was devoted to serving them in prayer and in it I found freedom from my own pain.  My muted world had been shaken up by the presence of God’s image around me.  As I prayed for the ones around me, my issues, worries, and fears had lost their power to rule in my life.  Eden’s splendor had been restored in my heart even if it was only for the morning. 

After the service Lauren caught up with me to give me my copy of the documentary.  I share with her about the strife in Libya and other war-torn countries had affected me and how I wanted to help the injured and the displaced.  As I spoke with Lauren I became overwhelmed with the reality and emotion of the not just the moment I was experiencing, but also the state of this moment in the world.

I have heard that people would be brought to tears while the composer Beethoven would perform his symphonies.  The idea of this always puzzled me to be honest. I have been moved lyrics and content in a song; but I can’t recall ever being moved by the playing of a song.  I think I finally am beginning to understand it.  When we take ourselves out of the focus of our lives and begin to focus on othesr we can hear the “music” that is in others.  Although, opening up and receiving and sharing with people around you can be a place where fear dwells. As I have found while huddled in a bathroom stall that sometimes sending out a message to someone else takes a lot of strength. I have made the mistake in my life of making my life one focused on sending the message of myself.   When I sent out the text to Camby it was a way to get help. The fact that I sent out the message didn’t bring me healing. To be healthy, we must both give and receive.   I now know that devoting myself to teaching and fellowship; to the heartbreak and triumph of my brothers and sisters is the only way I can hear the symphony in a broken and muted world.