“Coloring outside the lines that you DO NOT -
cross-cultural experience the heat of the -
DAY-DREAM believer who walks down the street,
under the overpass-
passover the EMPTY TOMB and find in Him the
Love-in’-convenient” -Katelyn Bobbitt, the definition of “missionary” from a collection of beat poetry
Ministry Week
Over the week of April 14 to the 18, the students here at BCOM were sent to live in downtown Minneapolis for a very practical “class.” We broke from our classroom agendas and were placed with a local, inner-city church. My team was placed in a black gospel church called Evangelist Crusaders Church. Daily we were given projects to serve the community and the church. We did everything from raking leaves to moving cinder-blocks to praying with little old ladies. Henrietta, a beautiful woman of ninety-two years at whose door I knocked invited me into her home to talk. Upon asking her how I could pray for her, she replied in her feisty, lovely African-American jargon, “Honey-child, just you listen to the Spirit. An’ pray as He lead.” She could barely speak, as her voice cut in and out. She shuffled very slowly, bent over and mostly blind. But she loves Jesus in a way that I hope to someday: Faithfully.
The Side of a South-Minneapolis Church
He was about seven feet tall. We passed each other on the street downtown on a cold, cloudy day. Hood pulled up over his bald head, Shame and grief and loneliness also covered him. His skin was so thin and pale that every vein showed through. His arms were curled up to his chest, hands without fingers. He stood on one side of the crosswalk, I on the other. And when the light turned and the army on the far side began to cross toward the now advancing troop on my side, cultures collided quietly to the tune of automobiles and the light-rail bell. His anguished eyes met mine. I smiled, hoping that the love in me would somehow splash over the edge of me and get him wet with unadulterated l-o-v-e. I have met Love. As a result, I cannot help but introduce the people I meet to Him. His name is Jesus Christ.
I wanted anything to happen. Willing, ready, asking, I asked if Tiffany would like to go into the Market.
He was sitting in the Herbs booth inside. Skinny, mid-forties, and a salesman on a mission, he called to us to come in. Challenge. We waved and said we were fine, continuing to walk. But again he called, asking us to come see the booth. Our conversation began with the usual, casual, and meaningless obligatory pleasantries. I will call him Jon, a chemist form Somalia. First he told us he was from Egypt, then from Ethiopia. However, we learned form his cousin that they are Somali. He claimed to be going for his Master’s degree at the U of M. Showing me his ID, he then showed me an email from a major electrical power company, setting up a job interview for him. So eager was he to impress that at one point in our second visit with him, that he actually claimed to have played piano for Marvin Gaye and Tina Turner.
The conversation turned to religion when he asked where we went to school. Missions college? He “respected” that and proceeded to attempt an argument. Islam, Sufism, Christianity, and it all wound up, in his mind, in the form of Post-modern thought: “We all go to heaven if we are good people.”
The confusion, indecision, and all-inclusiveness if this philosopher/Muslim man is characteristic of the thought of today’s culture.
Me, my new friend Jon, and Tiffany at the Global Market
The Team and our Pastor for Ministry Week, "Pastor Dave"
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