Years ago a friend of mine, torn and tattered, stood in the middle of a church service at Sanctuary (the place I worked at pre-Cate and still in many ways consider a home), threw back his head and cried out to God,

“Oh, F$%@”.

It was one of the most profound moments of prayer I have ever been a part of.

Now I know, some of you will be thinking or even saying out loud, “did Erinn just call that ugly four letter word a prayer?” Yes, I did, because when that little word is not over-used, and depending on the context, it actually carries significant weight. In this situation it was the only word that my friend could think of that summed up the overwhelming agony of a life marked with abuse at the hands of others and his own. It was a guttural cry for help and completely heart wrenching to hear.

There were a lot of people at that service, including those who might consider themselves fairly conservative in their approach to living and use of language. What I recall though is that no one batted an eye. People’s heads were bowed and bodies swayed in recognition as the prayer was uttered. It made sense. When most words would have failed in that moment, this one didn’t.

As we approach Easter, we first must experience the darkness of what the Christian world calls “Holy Week”. On Maundy Thursday people will gather to remember the last Passover feast that Jesus shared with his friends before Good Friday, the day he was killed. Then there is the quiet, solemn lull of the weekend when Jesus lay in the tomb, very much dead. I can imagine that it would have been a time, especially not knowing the rest of the story, that people may have been at a loss for words. They had to wait.

Our waiting is different from those who lived that first week. We are anticipating Easter, except we still live in a world that isn’t as it should be.

I, like my friend, want to cry out.

On March 20th, 2012 I started this blog. That was one year ago today. I can’t believe it.

At this time last year I had just made the decision to assume a new role at PNC. I was feeling hopeful, determined, inadequate and downright terrified. I knew I needed to create a means to connect well with people who were eager to support the work. I admit I liked the idea of putting my stuff out there in such a way that people could choose to read or not. I thought it possible some people would drop by; I never imagined that it would take on the life that it has. This blog has enabled me to interact with people from all over the world. I have made new friends and reconnected with old ones. The wild world of social media has often helped me to feel less alone during the downright challenging times. I am humbled and grateful.

So here I am on March 20th, 2013. My friends, you have been through much with me. Thank you for reading. Thank you for encouraging, celebrating, challenging and weeping with me. Thank you for graciously receiving my confessions and rants. Thank you for choosing to support PNC either from a distance or up-close.

As I sit and write I have been listening to a song called “Beautiful Things”. I’ll close with the lyrics. Sometimes the words of another better describe this journey I’m on. As much as I like words, sometimes they fail me.

All this pain
I wonder if I’ll ever find my way
I wonder if my life could really change at all
All this earth
Could all that is lost ever be found
Could a garden come up from this ground at all

You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of the dust
You make beautiful things
You make beautiful things out of us

All around
Hope is springing up from this old ground
Out of chaos life is being found in You

You make me new, You are making me new
You make me new, You are making me new

 

I have been reading a book about writing by Ann Lamott where she encourages authentically writing about your experience, whatever it may be. I don’t know if she would consider it wise to write (for the public) when one is feeling low. I should ask her. Or maybe I should really go hide in a corner. Instead, here I am.

Someone told me this week they wonder if I should consider “throwing in the towel” at PNC. They didn’t mean I should step aside for someone else to do the job. They meant close the doors. If it is possible for tears to well up in your stomach, then that is what happened to me. They started to slosh around, rise up and finally escape out my eyes. There were few words at first.

Then the words started to pour out of me, so fast they overtook the tears. I talked about how unique it is to have a community whose core is made up of people who are not traditional leaders. I talked about being a church without our own walls and how we do so much with the little that we have. We don’t spend money that isn’t there. We rely on partners, and they in turn on us. We love being together. I wanted to scream, “listen to our story!”.

PNC is a motley crew of people: we have different skin colours, cultural backgrounds and life experiences. We are a beautiful tapestry, woven together not by our differences, but the ways we are alike- our common humanity. I cannot imagine disbanding our group. Not for a single moment.

I can understand, on some level, why someone would suggest that stopping might make sense. We don’t have a building; our funding isn’t secure; my “office” is the street. Those, and I truly mean this, are just the surface things. Would it be nice to have those things? Absolutely. Can we rely on them? Absolutely not.

And so I am feeling weary and raw and quite defensive of my community. A community that doesn’t have a “church”, we are just trying to be one. I am not going to throw in the towel.

I have been thinking a lot about the disparity of wealth in this world. It’s really messed up. I can barely stomach listening to what one sports figure will get paid in their 3 year contract, or what another mogul is estimated to be “worth”. I hear people complain about the temperature of their bottled water while some drink out of filthy streams. I turn the gaze at myself and know that I have more than the majority of the world: I live in a comfortable house, have a closet of clothes and a refrigerator full of food. I am writing this as I sit on a plane having been able to visit Florida in March. I just got served a free drink.

In the big scheme of things, I would rank on the negative scale in Forbe’s magazine. I fundraise the money for my own salary- a salary that some people in the urban ministry field balk at. I have learned A LOT this past year about running an organization on next to nothing. Having said this I do not live under the poverty line. I know that I cannot shrug the truth that I am part of the problem.

The notion of “Jubilee” deeply resonates with me. Jubilee has roots in many religions, including Judaism and Christianity. In Biblical times every fiftieth year was considered the year of jubilee: debt was cancelled, slaves and prisoners were freed and property was returned to its original owners. We don’t live in a world where this happens on a grand scale anymore (though give http://rollingjubilee.org/ a read!). I wonder though what could happen if we began offering such pardon to people in our direct communities? Maybe even better, what might happen if we became brave enough to let our communities in on how we need help, and in return our communities became brave enough to respond, before spiralling into debt?

I am constantly challenged by my friends who have very little. When PNC was first facing our deep financial crisis a community member presented me with a garbage bag. Inside I discovered a pile of change. This person, this friend who lives rough outside, gave me all of his pennies, nickels, dimes and quarters, because PNC needed it more than him. Yes, I wept. It was a little taste of Jubilee.

I want to taste it more.