This piece was originally printed in the July 2011 issue of The Mennonite. It can be found here.
I came to the Land of Enchantment at roughly three miles over the speed limit. My uncle drove me, my trusty bicycle, an assortment of footwear, clothing, knickknacks and a guitar across the horizontal world of sky and land of Kansas into a land interrupted by rock formations. I now reside at my farthest ever latitude position west relative to the United States.
In at least a superficial way I follow those before me who have gone to a western land, for better or worse. Although I felt at home immediately, welcomed by our unit leaders, Gabe and Bethany, with good food and a waiting bed, I knew that, like Dorothy, I wasn’t in Kansas anymore. Stucco and cactus abounded, green chiles awaited my impending addiction, and the solemn Sandia Mountains looked on.
Vacation-like wonderment in all aspects of my life soon transitioned to a clear picture of the realities awaiting this new adventure. The early honeymoon of unit life was replaced by a more realistic and wholesome lifestyle that included doing dishes, sleeping, responsibilities to others, and adapting to the eccentricities of my housemates.
Working at St. Martin’s Hospitality Center, an organization that provides services for Albuquerque’s many homeless people, opened the door for me into a new world—a world of police brutality, cold nights, complicated bureaucracies and weary faces. I have had a small glimpse into the world of the homeless in Albuquerque. My official job title is shelter assistant. From 7:30 a.m. until 2 p.m. I do a variety of tasks, not limited to helping people find the help they need, running the clothing room, handing out food, cleaning the shelter and using my six-foot-four-inch height to reach high objects. I answer the phone at the front desk many times a day. Often the person on the other end of the line lays out a desperate story, and usually the only help I can offer is to listen. The majority of serious requests I can’t personally help with, either because I’m an ignorant 18-year-old who isn’t acutely in tune with the complexities of how to access services in Albuquerque or because there simply isn’t any help available. I also help run the mail room. Another employee and I sort hundreds of pieces of mail a day. Checks, IDs, letters, bills and packages all pass through our hands. I now have a fondness and respect for names and can alphabetize in my sleep.
One day, as I was unlocking my bike to go home, a man I’ll call Martin spoke to me. The conversation steered to the book he was reading, The Cost of Discipleship by Dietrich Bonhoeffer. He shared how much he had learned from this book and how his journey to live as a Christian—to let his light shine as a homeless man—was both difficult and rewarding. I was inspired.
I saw a mother and her baby come into St. Martin’s, and I choked up. It’s not that seeing moms and kids is an unexpected occurrence; it happens all the time. But I was struck by the realization—and could see—that this baby was indeed God’s beloved child, as was the baby’s mom. When I am able to see God’s touch in others, the true identity of others and in myself, I am astounded, floored, bewildered, moved. I am in awe to comprehend that God in his/her entirety took the form of a refugee baby who grew up to be a homeless man. The All Powerful became what our society would call the epitome of weakness and failure. That gives me hope.
It is limiting to believe that my vocation, and more importantly God’s work, is confined to the organization I clock in and out of every day. My house is also a place of work in a different sense. Here I must clean and cook but also prod and affirm my brothers and sisters in their own journeys and request they do the same for me. As I am young and seeking wisdom, my vocation is also to be a humble learner. I volunteer at a Christian community development organization called East Central Ministries many afternoons. While I help with their urban farm, I have learned fascinating things about chickens, the nature of New Mexico-style roofing, how difficult it is to be ethical and turn a profit, urban gardening and a work ethic.
God’s work also happens when we expand our communities. I was messing around with a soccer ball one Sunday afternoon after playing a pickup game with some folks in a park. Some Hispanic guys had shown up and were kicking the ball around. I went over and introduced myself, hoping to gain some information on the local soccer scene. One of the guys, Jorge, invited me to scrimmage with a team. What followed turned into a friendship with Jorge, invitations to his church and home, and me being able to play on a few different teams, all in Hispanic leagues. I am a tall white guy that barely speaks Spanish and usually plays center defense. The serendipity of these opportunities, and Jorge’s hospitality to me—a stranger—point to God.
My living thus far has not given me a nice, clean-cut philosophy, a lovely little theology but rather inconsistencies that I struggle to force together and often leave separated. Sometimes these tensions are best expressed as questions. How do I go on long weekend trips, driving hundreds of miles, marveling at the beauty of God’s creation, then come back on Monday to people who are desperate for a one-way bus ticket home or a $2 bus pass to the doctor? How do I live with the economic privilege that allows me to choose to do service, a choice that one of my recently immigrated soccer teammates would probably never have the luxury of making? How do I serve the broken out of my own brokenness? What does it look like for me as a young person in a society that values mobility to embody the type of commitment to a place and a people that enables real change to take place (and does my short-term, 10-month service placement undermine that)? How does one serve in a way so both “us” and the “them” come to know that each person’s salvation is bound up with the other?
I came to Albuquerque because I wanted to be shaped. Part of me knew, to quote Richard Rohr, that “we do not think ourselves into new ways of living; we live ourselves into new ways of thinking.” I came to Albuquerque because I wanted to be thrown by the Potter as a lump of clay. I came here because I wanted to grow as a disciple of Jesus. Just because I showed up didn’t mean that my old habits and unhealthy ways simply disappeared. I still can be lazy, apathetic, selfish and easily distracted. I am in a place (not to say I wasn’t in one back home) where I work through such things, where I am repeatedly called to an identity and a purpose higher than my own small, selfish ambitions. When I can feel my housemates and church praying for me, I am comforted and empowered. When I look out from a mountain peak and see grandeur and beauty but also know that down below there is an Air Force base filled with nuclear weapons, homeless people napping on concrete and lonely people trapped in their lives, I am blessed with a fuller vision of reality. When I share food and songs with others, I can hear and taste a glimpse of heaven to come.
I am blessed to serve. I am blessed to catch glimpses of God. Service Adventure has blessed me in the ways of the prayer below, which Albuquerque Mennonite Church used to anoint our unit when we began our service assignments:
May God bless you with discomfort at easy answers, half-truths and superficial relationships so that you will live deep in your heart. May God bless you with anger at injustice, oppression and exploitation of people and the earth so that you will work for justice, equity and peace. May God bless you with tears to shed for those who suffer so you will reach out your hands to comfort them and change their pain into joy. And may God bless you with the foolishness to think that you can make a difference in the world so you will do the things others say cannot be done.
