This is our city, people.

9/14/2009

This afternoon, I traipsed over to the little park at the end of my block with a big blanket, my Bible, and a cup of icey orange juice.  I partially wanted to enjoy sunshine, partially wanted to hang out with the kids that always end up at the park, and partially wanted to vent to the Lord.  

I hate the tension between the races that lingers over this city like a thick, wet blanket.  I hate the unspoken animosity, the heaviness that saturates life here.  I hate the fear that cripples men from acknowledging the existence of each other.  I hate the undue panic that creeps up inside and thrusts people into irrational reactions.  I hate that I get on the city bus grinning and get off the city bus depressed.  I hate that often people are so afraid to look me in the eye.  I hate that often I am so afraid to look people in the eye.  I hate that my idealistic notions of being a white girl in a black neighborhood are frequently shattered.  I hate that no matter how determined anyone ever is to live courageously and take this history of animosity between different colors of people head on, every last person ends up giving into fear somewhere along the road.  

 It’s like completely separate worlds all trying to co-exist in the same five-square-mile patch of earth here in Midtown, Kansas City.  It’s like they’re all trying to pretend the other world isn’t there, but to do that you’ve got to walk around with your eyes closed, and when you walk with your eyes closed, you’re bound to run smack into whatever it is you’re trying to avoid. 

In the middle of this conversation with the Lord, I find myself tying the shoe of little KJ so he can skip around the playground with his brothers and sisters.  His family is Samoan and just moved into the neighborhood a few weeks ago.  I say family, but what I mean is a single mom with seven kids.  l also find myself talking to Nick, a16-year-old black kid who goes to Westport High, which probably means he won’t graduate with a legitimate degree.  The schools in our district are notorious across the nation for being positively terrible - so bad that they are not even accredited, and anyone graduating from them still has to get a GED to get into college.  Westport is the worst of them all, with horrifying statistics that should only belong to third world countries.  The sickening part is that not only is our school district among the worst in the nation, it also ranks among the highest in terms of funding that it receives.  Corruption amongst the higher-ups in the system have left the schools of the urban core in literal shambles.

After an hour at the park, I wander over to the house of a neighbor family I’ve befriended in the last month.  15-year-old Ashley plops down on the chair on the porch.  “I’m glad you came over, because today was awful.”  Her friend committed suicide a few days ago on September 11 because apparently he felt he had no one to talk to.  Because of the horrible state of the schools in our district, Ashley’s parents have been driving her clear up to North Kansas City to go to a school - which she hates of course.  She got into a fight there today and was warranted a three-day suspension.  

16-year-old Chase struts out of the house with his usual I’m-too-cool-for-school swagger, but his busted lip tells the story of the last 24-hours of his life.  He took a beating in an argument with his dad last night.  He took another beating after school today, when he was jumped by two guys who had a crowd of another 26 guys backing them up.  

In Ashley’s words, “We’re the only white kids at an all-black school.”  She makes the statement matter-of-factly.  She’s not racist; her and Chase’s best friends are J’Ron & LuLu, two black teenagers from our neighborhood.  In all reality she could’ve said “We’re the only black kids at an all-white school.” or “We’re the only Mexicans” or whatever.  My point is not which color is on which side - this stuff happens at all kinds of schools with all kinds of people.  Everybody’s afraid of everybody else.  White people afraid of black people, black people afraid of white people.  Ashley is just stating the obvious - the two worlds are colliding and the defenseless are bearing the brunt of the reaming. 

Ashley’s bags are all packed up.  Her dad is on his way, but he’s apparently infuriated and has already determined to kick both kids out the house.  She hollers over to their next door neighbor coming out of his house.  He’s a Hispanic fellow with two adorable daughters all dressed for soccer practice.  “Me and Chase are getting kicked out,” she tells him.  He shakes his head as she relays their all-too-familiar story.  He’s tasted the racial brokenness in this city too, I guarantee it by the knowing look that crosses his face.  

Tonight the kids are headed to a town an hour away to stay with their 85-year-old grandma.  The longer I stay to talk, the more nervous Ashley becomes, because her dad could be home any minute now, and there’s likely a beating in store for her.  She eventually asks me to leave, saying she doesn’t want me to see him hitting her.  As I leave, I can hear Ashley’s step-mom screaming on the phone inside, arguing with their dad about letting the kids stay.  She witnessed Chase getting jumped after school today- she and Ashley both were actually threatened by a large group of girls when they got out of the car to try to help Chase.

This is our city, people.  I’ve been pacing in my house just now, indignantly crying out to God for some answers to the darkness that threatens to consume us.  This is not some made-up tear-jerker of a story.  I promise you.  This happened today.  On my street.  With real people who have real names and get real bruises when you hit them and feel real pain when you hurt them.  The statistics about the state of affairs aren’t for some faraway land that you get in an airplane to fly to on missions trips.  They’re for the school a block away from the Boiler Room.  They’re for tomorrow’s adults and family builders. 

I’m sitting here in a daze, a bit overwhelmed by the sin that has so thoroughly invaded our world.  A flood of memories from the last year comes to me - a dozen different occasions when I’ve been forced to face the ugliness of sin head on.  Yet there is one thing I can always count on in the torrent of such ghastliness:

  

The Beauty of the Man Jesus surfing that flood with such astonishing victory...   

the Beauty of the Man Jesus SHOUTING its glory in contrast to such bitter devastation.  

 Adam Cox, beloved teacher at the Kansas City Boiler Room, gave a rousing message last night about the incarnation of the Incredible, Undeniable, Unforgettable God-Man Jesus who will save us from our sins.  In Adam’s words, He will rescue us from “the great imposter that makes us less than human.”  Sin leads to death, you don’t have to convince me of that.  I smell the death everywhere around here.  But there is the Man JESUS Christ, stunning, with an aura of life surrounding every truthful word that’s ever been written about Him.  

I don’t think we can know how truly good the Good News is until we’ve looked the Bad News square in the face.  Tonight Bad News is mocking me in all of its putrid blackness.  But the Good News - the GOOD News - how it shines!  

God, I need to see Your Man Jesus sweep in and save us from our sins here in Kansas City.  I need to see Your Man Jesus bring us from death to life.  If You are not our hope, then there is no hope. Everyone other answer is a fraud, every other option will fail.  There is nothing else to believe.  Every system is corrupt, every mortal man is for himself.  You, Jesus Christ, are our only hope.  How very, very shiny You are tonight!

*To hear the podcast of Adam’s latest teachings, visit www.kcboilerroom.com.