Read this today;
“I’ve spent my whole life trying to get over having had Nikki for a mother, and I have to say that from day one after she died, I liked having a dead mother more then an impossible one. I prayed to forgive her but I didn’t – for staying in a fever dream of a marriage, for fanatically pushing her children to achieve, for letting herself go from great beauty to hugely overweight women in dowdy clothes and a gloppy mask of make up. It wasn’t black and white: I really loved her, and took great care of her, and was proud of some of the heroic things she had done with her life. She had put herself through law school, fought the great good fights for justice and civil rights, marched against the war in Vietnam. But she was like someone who had broken my leg, and my leg had healed badly, and I would limp forever.”
I couldn’t pretend she hadn’t done extensive damage- that’s called denial. But I wanted to dance anyway, even with a limp. – Anne Lamont: Plan B Further Thoughts On Faith.
This story reminds me of Willie, from Watts Power House Church. I remember one day Willie stopped me on my walk through the Imperial Courts housing projects, the community where all of the drama of his life had played out over the last 60 years (or so). And, almost as if he couldn’t help himself he began describing those pictures that he carried with him, one drama after another, of what it was like to grow up a young black man in the 70’s and 80’s on Grape Street and 112th. as his community enveloped him in a lifestyle that ended up making it one of the most notorious gang communities in the recent history of the United States.
My storyteller inhabited a thin and bony frame, with visible muscle strains all over his neck and arms from living with multiple sclerosis for the last ten years. And, even though it was clear that the twinge he experienced when he spoke was paining him, it was clear he loved speaking every strained word, entrusting me with his biography, as if I was some kind of living will.
I especially loved the tale of the first time he got arrested. “I was too stupid to be a good criminal when I was young,” he said smiling, “ every one of my friends was selling drugs, all the time, and when I decided to go ahead and try it for myself, I was such a fresh daisy, the first person I tried to sell it to was some-kinda rookie undercover cop. Shoot, I bet he got a promotion too.” Where I was from, no one had a funny story about how they went to jail for selling crack, needless to say I was in stiches. I realize now, he was inviting me into his wonderful world by showing me his wounds. Tale after tale of lost loved ones, all revolving around the planet sized grief that he wore so openly, steaming from growing up in a violent neighborhood and having to make difficult decisions to survive. Stories that did not seem to need any verification from an outside source, because they were not told for his benefit but for mine.
Willie wasn’t just my unofficial greeter to the neighborhood. After his conversion four years earlier, he made it his mission to be a grandfather to all who would let him. And, who better. His spirit was so gentle, so disarming. You just simply could not walk past him without being enveloped in his spirit of “we shall overcome” that reverberated from his every gesture, as if the spirit of his ancestors were speaking through every belabored motion and word. Upon his request, I saw some of the most intimidating men I have ever laid eyes on bend over and hug his fragile body. He knew, better then most, that for just that moment, there was no better man then he, to temporarily fill the void left by the absence of a loving male figure in their lives.
No one could argue with his attitude, for many it was one of the clearest examples of what the transformative work of the Holy Sprit can do in a person’s life. As a man, he was literally the walking wounded, and yet he woke up every Sunday mourning ready to dance. A few triumphant hand-claps from Willie in a worship service and no matter how bad the music was- you knew that God was close.
He couldn’t cover up his wounds, even if he wanted to, and during the times when the pain was so great he couldn’t take care of himself, people in the community considered it a privilege to give back to him in a small way, what he gave in such large helpings.
For me, Willie became a picture of what Christians look like at their best. Wounded priests; people with scars and scrapes from a life lived trying to love in dark places. Risky folks who are willing to unwrap their bandages and expose the places on their body that still nag and cripple them, in order to say with all earnestness, two of the most healing words that can be spoken in the English language; “me too.” One of the reasons I believe Willie is still on this earth today, is that even with all that muscle dystrophy, he is still not tired of dancing with Jesus. Each mourning he puts out his hand, and they are on their way, Willie and Jesus dancing through the projects unafraid to look silly, and for anyone whose paying attention, it becomes impossible to not be swept away in it.
May we, as leaders, risking that we will look ridiculous, knowing that we might limp forever, never grow weary of extending our hand, and in so doing say once again, many I have this dance, knowing that nothing would delight God more then to let others watch us, as we step all over His toes trying to follow His lead.
