the city is a drunkard

the city is a drunkard
drinking to the dregs
a sluggard and a braggart
with a story spat on passers-by
an angler clutching a fictitious fish
and a smooth finish, far less filling

drinking to the dregs of any drink it finds
it finds a bud light or a boulevard
a blue moon, bass or new belgium
taking a tonic, sipping a triple sec
expanding and elevating

where we are glad we can be ecstatic
where we are mad we can be enraged
where we are sad we can be crushed
and recycled and emptied and filled
and more and more than we'd thought before

the city is a drunkard
a chugging sluggard, tall and wide
where we are human, we can be moreso
not just in numbers, but nature
a destiny of density, of humanity amplified

and ultimately less than the sum of its parts



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San Francisco

OK... I know this trip was almost 2 months ago. But I really wanted to share some photos and thoughts with you about our day in San Francisco.

I'm going to let the pictures do most of the talking for a change. Here goes...

We stopped at the Golden Gate Bridge on our way to meet my parents and brother for lunch at Fisherman's Wharf. A word to the wise: always carry lots of quarters when you drive around San Francisco, because the only places to park are often metered, and only take coins. This was the case with the spot we found at the Bridge. Fortunately, there was 11 minutes left on the meter (and we had to rush anyway in order to meet my family,) so we grabbed the camera and ran up the hill to take a few snapshots. As you can see, I could use a bit more practice with my self-portrait skills.

This may be the coolest candy shop in the world. It's one of the places we stopped at Fisherman's Wharf, after lunch.

After FW, we made the short walk over to Pier 39. There were a lot of neat stores and restaurants there, although it was a little too manufactured for my tastes (think Silver Dollar City meets San Francisco Bay.)






Here's a classic San Francisco shot. That's Coit Tower at the top-right, and the famous Lombard Street running just left of center. We were driving a rented minivan (which was not part of the plan until the wedding party asked me to drive the one they rented the day before,) which isn't necessarily the type of vehicle you'd want when traveling up and down these hills. At least it was an automatic.

I knew San Francisco was hilly, but when you pull up to a stop sign before a street like this, and you pretty much have to look straight up to see where you're going... there's really no preparation for that. I just waited to make sure no other cars were in the street in front of me at the time (thank God it was Sunday,) and gunned it, Christina putting fingernail marks in my forearm the entire way up.

Caption: "I don't really need to use the toilet, but when will I ever see another one this cool?"

This is on the grounds of Coit Tower, pictured in the previous photo. Neat place, but once your car is in the hour-long line to get to the tiny parking lot at the top of this hill, you're going to Coit Tower whether you like it or not. I liked it.





While looking down at the city from Coit Tower, we saw this cathedral, called Saints Peter and Paul Church. Must have been a merger at some point. But we were absolutely stunned by the elegance of this building, and on top of that, we found a (free!) parking space just off the park square in front of it, so we stopped and headed in to see if they give tours.

To our surprise, we walked in and were greeted and handed a song sheet. OK... this is not a tour. This is mass. We were now unwitting attendees to Saints Peter and Paul's 5 pm Sunday Mass. So we sat down to take in the experience.

As you can see, the interior is just as striking as the exterior. It was easy to ignore everything going on and just stare at the walls. And it was a little funny that, despite the glory of our surroundings, the music and the mass in general were pretty anticlimactic. Acoustic guitar instead of organ, priest with a small, throaty voice instead of a soaring or booming one, and only a smattering of parishioners.

Nevertheless, I gleaned something from my moments under this vaulted ceiling: God was big. Everything in this space pointed upward toward his exalted nature, his omnipotent wonder, his eternal existence. God is tremendously big and we are painfully small.

And yet, the genius of an edifice such as this, is that there's more to the story. It's not just that we are sitting beneath a soul-crushing mega-force. Rather, the architecture lifts us up, it raises our souls to mingle with the divine among the stained glass and mosaics and telltale marble inlays. Although we are seated in pews some 90 feet below the ceiling, that distance gives our hearts room to reckon with a God who has lowered himself to be reckoned by us. The Creator of all, who deserves the bend of every knee, has bowed within our reach. And there's something about this space that reminds me once again of the dumbfounding reality of incarnation.

I began to wonder if I, and most of the people I knew, were missing something important in our worship experiences. Even the loudest and most fervent song services can't convey God's power in this way. And certainly not our humble little community venue, with our sorry chandelier, our little prayer groups, and stumblingly conversational sermons.

But maybe that really is part of the wonder. Not every gathering of believers must convey every facet of the body. In other words, maybe we need to get out more; that every time we meet a new group of Christ-followers, we discover a new facet of the face of God. And never, ever should we doubt that God has made us peculiar for a reason; to be ourselves, and not envy the unique divinities that he has impressed upon those who gather elsewhere.

When the service was over, Christina and I got up to look around some more, and came upon the candle room (although I'm sure there's a better name for it.) At the time we were worried about our Dwarf Rabbit, Steamer, whom we'd owned for 6 years, and had to put through surgery recently. We weren't sure if he would recover, so we lit a candle and prayed for his healing. Whether or not the candle made any difference, you'll be glad to know that Steamer recovered beautifully, and is chomping away at his kibble as I write these words.

As we left the church, we walked up the street, past dozens of colorful restaurants, bars, coffee shops, boutiques and the like. We found one that looked worthwhile, and stopped in for a cappuccino. We drank it as we sat out on the sidewalk, listening to an impromptu accordion performance.

That was our day in San Francisco. I'd say it was a good one.




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Oh, the Humanity!

Last night, my wife and I re-watched the movie "You've Got Mail". Between us, I'm sure we've seen this movie a dozen times, but it doesn't really matter. It's one of those "comfort films" that often star Tom Hanks ("Big" is an even better example.)

In case you haven't seen it, the movie takes place in Manhattan. I personally would like to know what percentage of all movies set in urban America this is true of. I wouldn't be surprised if it's over 1/3. I couldn't help but wonder why.

First, there's a few obvious reasons. 1) New York is the largest metropolitan area, and the commercial capital of the United States. Thus, it is our "defining" city, even though it really bears no resemblance to the rest of the country. 2) It's vibrant and active and beautiful and gritty and adventurous and scary and charming... a ready-made backdrop for almost any emotive setting. But I also think there's a very important third reason.

Most stories are about relationships, for good or for ill. Consequently, the best setting for a good story is a place where relationships are always imminent, where people are always bouncing off each other, surrounded by an influx of culture and heritage. Stories thrive off of ironic juxtaposition and strange bedfellows. How many movies can you name in fifteen seconds that feature an unlikely pair or group of people forced to work together?

This the fabric of community... the building blocks of a city. I think so many stories take place in New York because we as humans innately recognize the humanness of such a place.

Yeah, I said it. New York (or at least the historic portion of it) is a supremely human place. Although many of its buildings far surpass human height, and no one can really fathom the immensity of its population, it does allow its people the opportunity to live their lives on a human scale. You could live in a town of 15,000 people and not experience this... rambling around in a 3,000 square foot house, pulling your SUV out of your 3-car garage, onto a six-lane highway and up to a grocery store with its own zip code. Whereas the average person living in Manhattan has a small apartment, no car, travels on a sidewalk or a track, and shops in quaint, independently-owned stores. And the most human thing about it is that there are humans everywhere.

Contrary to what Hollywood might suggest, these traits are not completely unique to the Big Apple. A few other American cities have exhibited them all along, and many, many more are just starting to understand the appeal of urbanity.

Please don't conclude that I am judgmental of those who live in the country or the suburbs, or who own a big house or an SUV. I don't know you well enough to judge you. But I would love the opportunity to challenge you into re-thinking the importance of the physical context of community.

Most people think of community as a metaphysical thing... it's something that "just happens" between people... you know, we'll "bump into" each other. I think this is the attitude that brought about the cul-de-sac, the strip mall, and the subdivision. The developers expected community to continue, because they thought it was indestructible, and not at all tied to the design of one's environment. But because these suburban anomalies were invented for the convenience of the motorist, not the pedestrian, the "bumping into" all of a sudden became much more dangerous, and much more likely to create enemies than friends.

I guess this is just a long way of saying that I love the city. I love how the inconveniences of it force people to relate, to work together, to get along or else. I love how the historic neighborhoods give us perspective, and help us to think about how the decisions we make today will affect people 100 years from now.

Obviously, cities have more than their share of problems. That's what happens when good people (like you?) leave them behind. So let me issue a challenge to all the creative, hard-working, clear-thinking people out there to find a city near you, and do your part to turn a mere neighborhood into a vibrant community.

Welcome to the Neighborhood

“You’re not going to preach on the sidewalk, are you?”

I was huffing and sweating to move four cinder blocks from the back of our empty-shell-of-a-dream-come-true out to the curb when my new next-door neighbor to the north hit me point blank. What was, to me, a makeshift seat and table for an outdoor lunch, looked to her like a soapbox. When you decide to plant a storefront church, you are simultaneously deciding to be very cozy with your neighbors. This one was a staple of the downtown community… in a real estate sense. She and her husband run an antique store; one of only a handful of businesses to have survived the dark and vacant days of downtown Springfield. Now they are barely given a second glance by the neighborhood’s primary demographic. She is likely in her 60s, and although this may be an unfair generalization, a faithful church-goer. I can hardly imagine that she isn’t. She followed up her confrontation by informing me that sidewalk preachers are bad for business. I would share her concern… anybody deciding to climb four cinder blocks and preach in front of our place might get a quick (although undoubtedly less blunt) confrontation. But the disturbing fact is, all our neighbor knew is that we were starting a church next door. Other than that, we were still perfect strangers. Her first question to get to know us better? You’ve just read it.

“My girlfriend will be there every day.”

Only once have I personally set foot in what’s likely the most popular venue in downtown Springfield… and it was closed at the time. Our neighbor to the south shares little in common with our neighbor to the north. He runs a dualing-piano comedy bar, well-known for filling the sidewalk with lines of partiers waiting to stumble out hours later to catch a cab (hopefully.) What happens in-between, from most reports, is a profanity-fest of two comedic musicians sitting at keyboards thinly disguised as grand pianos. Despite its reputation, I had been planning to check it out sometime. But here I was, early in the afternoon, chatting casually with the club owner. The place was quiet and classy. The hard liquor was resting patiently on the shelves as a flooring contractor worked quietly behind me. I had stopped by briefly to introduce myself, and said we were starting an alternative church next door that would be open pretty much every day for all types of people to just come and build friendships. He asked me to sit down. After hearing a little more, he assured me that his girlfriend’s interest was inevitable. When I told him about the website, he invited me up to his office to show it to him. As I said, our neighbor to the south shares little in common with our neighbor to the north.

“How do we know you won’t turn the whole thing Charismatic?”

Over the course of the last year, we have made significant attempts to affiliate ourselves with a major Christian denomination. We wouldn’t dream of doing such a thing unless we felt confident that our freedom to work as the Spirit directed would not be inhibited, and were certain of a mutual understanding that church-as-usual had no place in reaching out to downtown Springfield. But it is due to roadblocks represented by the above quote that the aforementioned course has been year-long. Our confidence is beginning to erode in our prospects of affiliating because, no matter how open-minded a denomination, there are certain to be remnants of territoriality contaminating the waters. Granted, the question in question was not uttered by a single person. It is rather a composite of concerns and complaints uttered by those who couldn’t seem to grasp the concept of simple kingdom work, of cultural relevance or relational mission. They wanted to know how on earth our new converts would be funneled into the membership of the “mother” church. They wanted to know if we would hold the party line. And they wanted to know, next time I talked to them, if I could give them some numbers. Allow me to introduce you to our philosophical neighbors to the north.

“I just don’t want you to turn conservative.”

A comforting phrase at the end of a stinging rebuke, I took the word “conservative” at its most literal meaning. The friend who uttered this admonition was not concerned about politics or fashion. He was worried that I might recoil from the extravagant call of Christ to leave everything behind and follow Him. He didn’t want me to conserve my life. He views almost every church he know as just that… a wildlife conservation (although the “wild” part is absent and the “life” part is questionable.) Churches to him had become nothing more than a place to protect the light from the gathering darkness. A refuge. It is hard not to notice the physical distance between the walls of our churches and the walls of their nearest neighbors, not to mention the thousands of municipal ordinances brought about by church lawsuits to keep the “worst” sinners far away. My friend’s words were a comfort to me because I knew that, after spending several weeks with our fellowship, if he wanted to lump us in with the conservationists, he wouldn’t have said another word to me. But apparently, despite our warts, he sees something different.

I can only hope so.