Below are the two articles I referenced Sunday morning. The first from the USA Today continues the story of the church/government relationship in Portland. The last line in particular caught my eye – intriguing proposition! The second is from the New York Times on the theme of neighborliness. These public voices outside the church offer important insights into the way our culture considers the issues we are discussing in Shalom Richmond.
Please remember to read Generous Justice through Chapter 2, and if you are able, to prayer walk your neighborhood.
For those who missed John Moeser’s presenation on the 2010 Richmond census, would like to hear it again, hear even more or bring a friend, Dr Moeser will be presenting at Northminster Baptist Church from 9:00 AM to noon on March 17. Such luxury – three hours of presentation, discussion and prayer with other believers from around the city! More information can be found here.
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JESUS’ FAVORITE CITY
By Tom Krattenmaker / USA Today, July 20, 2009
PORTLAND, Ore. — This city, it would seem, is the last place where evangelical Christianity would show its brightest colors. The Rose City sports an ultrasecular reputation. The voting tendencies here are as blue as the Columbia River on a clear-sky day. Regional land and transportation planning is so progressive that conservative pundit George Will has likened the Portland ethos to a disease, worrying in a column about it “metastasizing” to other parts of the country. And we have, of course, a gay, liberal mayor.
Yet a pair of City Hall officials and a famed international evangelist had the audacity to stand together at a Baptist church altar earlier this year and declare Portland “Jesus’ favorite city”?
They did, and with their tongues only 90-something percent in cheek.
As was clear from the winks and grins, the Portland leaders were mainly engaging in wry playfulness in tossing out the “Jesus’ favorite city” line when they gathered at Hinson Baptist Church to launch the second annual Season of Service, a church-city partnership to serve the homeless and other suffering people. The characters in this scene – locally based evangelist Luis Palau, Mayor Sam Adams and City Commissioner Nick Fish — are not so foolish as to claim Portland has achieved perfect virtue and enlightenment.
Yet they have a legitimate point in suggesting that Jesus might smile on what’s happening in Portland. What wouldn’t Jesus like about people from supposedly opposing camps tossing aside their differences to do right by the city’s least fortunate?
Although Portland is hardly the only place where evangelical Christianity is evolving (and making new friends in the process), there is little doubt that evangelicals here are on the front end of a deep-change trend that is taking Christianity into its new future. What’s especially interesting is the “why?” — the strong likelihood that Christianity’s best face is showing up here in the unchurched mecca not in spite of the city’s secularism and skepticism, but because of them.
Church winning its soul
As observed by the widely respected religion scholar Rodney Stark and others, history teaches that the church is often at its vibrant best in competitive, pluralistic environments, where it has to be at the top of its game. The age-old dynamic appears to be playing out today in Portland, and in a way that might be consoling to those troubled by signs of evangelicals losing the upper hand in American culture and politics. If this region is any sign, the evangelical church may be losing temporal power but winning something more important: its soul.
In many ways, Kevin Palau is the human symbol of the new-century evangelicalism. Palau is the 46-year-old executive vice president of the Beaverton, Ore.-based Luis Palau Association and the son of the organization’s founder, who for decades has staged mass evangelism festivals around the world.
Unlike his brother Andrew, Kevin Palau does not share his father’s gift for preaching. He has a different project: inventing a model for sharing the gospel — think of it as evangelism 2.0 — that emphasizes serving the needy and forming relationships with citizens of whatever religious (and political) persuasion.
“We evangelicals have been mainly talking to ourselves,” Palau says. “The evangelical community wants to make a difference and show people what we and our faith are about. We recognize that the only way we’re going to do that is by the way we live.”
Out of that realization was born the Season of Service. This year, some 500 area churches — mostly evangelical, but also some Catholic and mainline Protestant — are fanning out across the Portland area to feed and clothe the homeless, provide free medical and dental services, fix up local public schools, and support their low-income students with supplies, mentoring and other resources. All this with “no strings attached,” Palau emphasizes, meaning the service comes without the proselytizing that is often associated with Christian missionary outreach.
Not that the Palau organization has abandoned its stock in trade. The evangelism festivals continue around the country and world, including one in Portland where more than 100,000 people thronged to celebrate the completion of the first Season of Service. Nor are the participating evangelicals shy about who they are. As Kevin Palau told Portland’s Willamette Week newspaper, “If you give me the opportunity and you want to hear, I’ll happily tell you about how Jesus Christ changed my life. But I’m not going to shove anything down anybody’s throat.”
In turning his father’s famed ministry in a new direction, the younger Palau has turned a lot of heads, too — including the news media’s. Christianity Today, evangelicalism’s leading chronicler, has published an in-depth feature on the Season of Service under the apt headline “Servant Evangelism.” Local media have devoted copious ink and air time to the story, and Reader’s Digest this month dubbed the Season of Service the nation’s best group service project.
Actions over words
Let’s be clear: America’s evangelicals have long served the needy, and in all parts of the country. What is new and different about the Season of Service, though, is the participants’ emphasis on “preaching” through idealistic action rather than pious words, and their partnership with the progressive politicians who run City Hall. Weren’t evangelicals supposed to condemn liberal politicians rather than work with them?
As it turns out, this Portland story is chock full of stereotype-busting subplots. The most intriguing of all might be the way the Season of Service has thrust the area’s evangelicals into partnership with Sam Adams, who last year became the first openly gay candidate elected mayor of a major American city.
On multiple occasions, Adams has represented city government at Season of Service events held at theologically conservative churches packed with evangelical pastors. Judging from the culture-war rhetoric of recent decades, one might expect the evangelicals to give the mayor the cold shoulder — especially after a well-publicized sex scandal made him an even more tempting target. Yet Adams has never received anything but a warm welcome.
In his religious history book Discovering God, Rodney Stark, a Christian, points out that the church, over the centuries, has often lost its way when it has been in charge of countries and cultures. Think Western Europe at various points in its history, where the church’s dominant status correlated with periods of arrogance and listless participation.
Given the demographics, dominant status is not a “problem” that’s going to afflict Portland’s evangelicals anytime soon. That’s hardly stopping them from doing what has always served Christianity best. Shane Claiborne, a Christian activist based in Philadelphia, described it this way when he came to speak in Portland earlier this year. The best way for Christians to make people know about Jesus, Claiborne declared, is to “do fascinating things.”
That’s clearly what’s happening here in “Jesus’ favorite city.” And more and more of the non-evangelical rest of us are becoming fascinated.
Tom Krattenmaker is a Portland, Ore.-based writer specializing in religion in public life and is a member of the USA TODAY board of contributors. His book Onward Christian Athletes will be published in September.
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WON’T YOU BE MY NEIGHBOR?
By Peter Loveheim / Published: June 23, 2008 / The New York Times
The Alarm on my cell phone rang at 5:50 a.m., and I awoke to find myself in a twin bed in a spare room at my neighbor Lou’s house.
Lou was 81. His six children were grown and scattered around the country, and he lived alone, two doors down from me. His wife, Edie, had died five years earlier. “When people learn you’ve lost your wife,” he told me, “they all ask the same question. ‘How long were you married?’ And when you tell them 52 years, they say, ‘Isn’t that wonderful!’ But I tell them no, it isn’t. I was just getting to know her.”
Lou had said he gets up at six, but after 10 more minutes, I heard nothing from his room down the hall. Had he died? He had a heart ailment, but generally was in good health. With a full head of silver-gray hair, bright hazel-blue eyes and a broad chest, he walked with the confident bearing of a man who had enjoyed a long and satisfying career as a surgeon.
The previous evening, as I’d left home, the last words I heard before I shut the door had been, “Dad, you’re crazy!” from my teenage daughter. Sure, the sight of your 50-year-old father leaving with an overnight bag to sleep at a neighbor’s house would embarrass any teenager, but “crazy”? I didn’t think so.
There’s talk today about how as a society we’ve become fragmented by ethnicity, income, city versus suburb, red state versus blue. But we also divide ourselves with invisible dotted lines. I’m talking about the property lines that isolate us from the people we are physically closest to: our neighbors.
It was a calamity on my street, in a middle-class suburb of Rochester, several years ago that got me thinking about this. One night, a neighbor shot and killed his wife and then himself; their two middle-
school-age children ran screaming into the night. Though the couple had lived on our street for seven years, my wife and I hardly knew them. We’d see them jogging together. Sometimes our children would carpool.
Some of the neighbors attended the funerals and called on relatives. Someone laid a single bunch of yellow flowers at the family’s front door, but nothing else was done to mark the loss. Within weeks, the children had moved with their grandparents to another part of town. The only indication that anything had changed was the “For Sale” sign on the lawn.
A family had vanished, yet the impact on our neighborhood was slight. How could that be? Did I live in a community or just in a house on a street surrounded by people whose lives were entirely separate? Few of my neighbors, I later learned, knew others on the street more than casually; many didn’t know even the names of those a few doors down.
According to social scientists, from 1974 to 1998, the frequency with which Americans spent a social evening with neighbors fell by about one-third. Robert Putnam, the author of “Bowling Alone,” a groundbreaking study of the disintegration of the American social fabric, suggests that the decline actually began 20 years earlier, so that neighborhood ties today are less than half as strong as they were in the 1950s.
Why is it that in an age of cheap long-distance rates, discount airlines and the Internet, when we can create community anywhere, we often don’t know the people who live next door?
Maybe my neighbors didn’t mind living this way, but I did. I wanted to get to know the people whose houses I passed each day — not just what they do for a living and how many children they have, but the depth of their experience and what kind of people they are.
What would it take, I wondered, to penetrate the barriers between us? I thought about childhood sleepovers and the insight I used to get from waking up inside a friend’s home. Would my neighbors let me sleep over and write about their lives from inside their own houses?
A little more than a year after the murder-suicide, I began to telephone my neighbors and send e-mail messages; in some cases, I just walked up to the door and rang the bell. The first one turned me down, but then I called Lou. “You can write about me, but it will be boring,” he warned. “I have nothing going on in my life — nothing. My life is zero. I don’t do anything.”
That turned out not to be true. When Lou finally awoke that morning at 6:18, he and I shared breakfast.
Then he lay on a couch in his study and, skipping his morning nap, told me about his grandparents’ immigration, his Catholic upbringing, his admission to medical school despite anti-Italian quotas, and how he met and courted his wife, built a career and raised a family.
Later, we went to the Y.M.C.A. for his regular workout; he mostly just kibitzed with friends. We ate lunch. He took a nap. We watched the business news. That evening, he made us dinner and talked of friends he’d lost, his concerns for his children’s futures and his own mortality.
Before I left, Lou told me how to get into his house in case of an emergency, and I told him where I hide my spare key. That evening, as I carried my bag home, I felt that in my neighbor’s house lived a person I actually knew.
I was privileged to be his friend until he died, just this past spring.
Remarkably, of the 18 or so neighbors I eventually approached about sleeping over, more than half said yes. There was the recently married young couple, both working in business; the real estate agent and her two small children; the pathologist married to a pediatrician who specializes in autism.
Eventually, I met a woman living three doors away, the opposite direction from Lou, who was seriously ill with breast cancer and in need of help. My goal shifted: could we build a supportive community around her — in effect, patch together a real neighborhood? Lou and I and some of the other neighbors ended up taking turns driving her to doctors’ appointments and watching her children.
Our political leaders speak of crossing party lines to achieve greater unity. Maybe we should all cross the invisible lines between our homes and achieve greater unity in the places we live. Probably we don’t need to sleep over; all it might take is to make a phone call, send a note, or ring a bell. Why not try it today?
Peter Lovenheim, the author of “Portrait of a Burger as a Young Calf,” is writing a book about neighborhoods.
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