A Food You Don’t Know About

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While chatting with a friend the other day, the subject turned to how things were going in our respective churches. As we spoke, it gradually became clear that my friend wasn’t entirely happy with his church life. A number of complex, overlapping issues had made his involvement in this church challenging- so challenging that he believed going elsewhere might be what’s best for him and his family. For at least half-an-hour I listened, acknowledging that many of the issues he had with his church were indeed understandable. Towards the end of our conversation, though, he said the phrase that I have heard a number of times before, usually from the lips of churchgoers of an evangelical bend who have grown dissatisfied with their Sunday morning experience. He said, “I’m not being fed.”
When people say, “I’m not being fed” in the context of their church involvement, they usually mean that the preaching isn’t quite satisfactory. Speaking more broadly, however, the phrase could also mean that the churchgoer just doesn’t find that her needs (or the needs of her family) are being properly met in her place of worship. There could be any number of reasons for this: a sloppily run youth program, music that is either too traditional or too contemporary or liturgy that seems bland and irrelevant. “I’m not being fed,” is often code for “My church isn’t delivering what me and my family need right now.”
By now, you may have figured out that this phrase troubles me. It troubles me, firstly because of the spiritual immaturity and passivity that it not only reflects but engenders. Indeed, the phrase is passive even in a grammatical sense, written, as it is, in the passive voice- “I’m not BEING fed.” At least when we go to a restaurant we go TO FEED. We go TO EAT. These words imply that, even though we’re not actually cooking the meal, we’re at least taking the fork and knife into our own hands and actively putting the food into our mouths. When we go to church, however, we somehow expect to “BE fed”- words which conjure up the image of a parent spoon feeding a small child.
Furthermore, the phrase “I’m not being fed” suggests that the church is an institution that simply exists to meet the needs of its members- a church that is, in the words of Pope Francis, “in itself, of itself and for itself.” It suggests that the church exists merely because there is something that we, the members, can get out of it. Depending on our needs, that could be a quality Christian education program for our children, a rich, emotionally rewarding experience of worship, a sense of belonging or good, biblical preaching. And, when that institution fails to deliver what we expect (that is, if we’re “not being fed”) then we have every right to move on to another church.
Naturally, we see the opposite of such an attitude at work in the heart of Christ. On one occasion, the Lord seems to have become so engrossed in his labour of preaching and teaching that he skipped a meal (or two or three). Noticing this, a couple of his disciples start pushing food into his hands: “Rabbi,” they say, “Eat something!” To which Jesus enigmatically replies, “I have food to eat that you do not know about.” Knowing that the disciples would probably drive themselves crazy trying to decipher what he was saying, Jesus tells them plainly, “My food is to do the will of him who sent me and to complete his work.” What Jesus is saying here is that his life and his vitality- his sustenance and strength- has nothing to do with what he passively consumes but what he actively gives out in obedience to His Father’s will. Indeed, for Jesus it is his Father and his Father’s will that is at the centre- certainly not his own self. All that Jesus says and does is anchored in Him.
If our experience in a particular church community seems utterly empty and unfulfilling then it may very well mean that its time to move on. However, before doing that, we need to wrestle with a question that is far more valuable and relevant than, “Am I being fed?” That question is, “Is there work for me within this church that feeds others and, as an indirect consequence of this, feeds me?” In other words, “Is the Father calling me to a kind of life-giving ministry here in this place?” If so, then our food will be the very same food that sustained our Lord, day-after-day in his ministry’; namely, to do the will of Him who has sent us. It is this food that will truly satisfy us- far more than the music of the world’s greatest praise band or the sermons of an outstanding preacher.

 

By Terence Chandra

Elitist Veggies

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It isn’t easy to have a well balanced diet when you live in the South End of Saint John. It’s not impossible, just not easy. Since I have the luxury of owning a car, I usually drive to get groceries. But last Saturday I decided to do what many of my neighbours do every week – I walked to Giant Tiger.

Giant Tiger is many people’s answer to issues of food security. After all they sell frozen meat, dairy, fresh fruit & vegetables, dry goods, as well as clothes and toys and giant packs of batteries. Giant Tiger is the closest thing we have to a grocery store in the downtown area of Saint John (Uptown for the locals). The city market is wonderful, but not always affordable and our vast array of convenience stores just don’t have the produce or the pricing to make them viable options (though they are many people’s main food source).

So I grabbed my reusable grocery bags, tied my 5 year old’s shoes, and off we went. It took about 10 minutes to get there. After walking through the clothes and being distracted by some toys, we finally make it to the groceries. The fresh produce was very reasonably priced ($2.79 for 4 red and orange peppers, 88 cents for a cucumber) but there really wasn’t much variety. Eggs were more expensive than other stores and the dry goods were priced about the same. The fruit was on its way out. Only the grapes would last more than a day and I just couldn’t trust the meat which was in big open deep freezers. People tell me they’ve grown up on meat from Giant Tiger and never gotten sick, so maybe I’m just being over sensitive. There was no fresh meat available.

I got out the door, meatless, but having only spent $41. But then there was the walk home. With my backpack filled and my reusable grocery bag slung over my shoulder, things quickly got heavy. It would be a struggle to make the trek with younger children or if I wasn’t healthy or if I lived further away.

The reality is that getting food without owning a car is not an easy task. It takes more time and energy and would require more frequent visits. There are those who take the bus to a bigger grocery store (costing $2.75) then take a taxi home (costing a minimum of $9). This reduces the amount of money that can be spent on food. Other options are  to rely on friends with cars, access the food bank, or just go without fresh produce.

The Food Basket which is our local Food Bank serves about 600 individuals and families a month. When they changed locations (they are now close to Giant Tiger and up the hill from many South End residents) they recognized the need for easier ways of transporting groceries. They now sell grocery caddies for $3 (they’re $20 at Giant Tiger). It’s a help, but not a solution.

Another help is the monthly Food Purchasing Club offered through the Community Health Centre. The Food Purchasing Club offers one reusable bag full of fresh produce for $15 or 2 bags for $25. You don’t know ahead of time what will come in the order, but there is always a good variety. These orders have to be paid for a week ahead, but they can be delivered right to your door if you are unable to pick them up.

This week I drove to the brand new Sobeys that opened up on the East side of the city. The store is huge (at least 4 times the size of Giant Tiger). The selection seems endless. My heart warmed at the availability of locally grown produce. I bought some fresh lean meat. I saw friends there. I even passed a nutrition course with people sitting at nicely set tables as they listened to 2 chefs instruct them. I felt so very elite, so middle class and I kept thinking how nice it would be if everyone had access to this. But for those without transportation the new Sobeys may as well have a $12 entrance fee.

By Jasmine Chandra

 

A Church Without Masks

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I first met my friend Gary (not his real name) sometime during the initial year of my ministry here in central Saint John- not through any particular church program- but simply through our frequent encounters on the street. Gary might fall under the category of what many would call “the working poor”- those who toil away at multiple, low paying, part time or seasonal jobs, hustling to scratch out a living in an economy that is far from burgeoning. Currently, Gary is between jobs- spending his days circulating resumes and not-so-patiently waiting for interviews that never seem to come his way. This might explain why I found Gary in such a state during a recent chance meeting at the Saint John City Market.

 
A word about my friend: Gary has the air of one who always has his life together. The wry grin that plays permanently upon his flushed, clean-shaven face reflects a default emotional setting that is seemingly one of cheerful amusement. One would think that that he has a perpetual arsenal of funny anecdotes and amusing observations all stockpiled in his head, ready to be deployed upon a moments notice at whatever familiar face he happens to bump into on the street. The way he dresses, the way he presents himself, his tone and his inflection all seem to scream, “Everything’s cool! I’m okay!”

 
The day I saw him, however, he did not seem okay. Approaching me from out of nowhere, the first words out of his mouth were, “Pray for me.” Even if he hadn’t vocalized the request, I still would have somehow heard his plea. His shirt and hair were drenched in sweat, a three-day beard adding to his exhausted and disheveled appearance. As he began to unburden himself, his whole body seemed to vibrate with desperation and anxiety like an overworked machine on the fritz, about to shake itself to pieces. I got the impression that he was trying, with all his might to hold back from either exploding in a rage or breaking down in a fit of weeping.

 
He managed to hold it together long enough to get his story out: For the past five days, Gary had been on a massive drinking binge. Small setbacks had triggered something in him- a suppressed woundedness, an inner vulnerability- and he spent the next couple of days in a fog of depression. Finally, he wandered down to the liquor store, bought a couple bottles of wine, and spent the next few days holed-up in his bachelor pad, drinking glass after glass and binge watching TV. Based on his appearance, I doubt he had showered or shaved in all that time. I’m guess that he barely ate. Whatever sleep he got was likely of poor quality- neither rich nor restorative. The only time he left the apartment was to stumble to the liquor store to purchase another bottle of wine, further draining a bank account that would soon be as empty as the bottle itself.

 
Naturally, I encouraged him to reach out to somebody- anybody- who could give him help. Professional help, ideally, but any help, for now, would do. Were there guys from his church that he could talk to? No, he explained: They all have their lives sorted out. They’re happily married and capable of raising their kids. They can hold down a job, manage their rent, pay their taxes and keep the electricity flowing. In short, they have their act together. Gary didn’t. How could they possibly understand what he was going through?

 
“But,” I insisted, “How do you know that they’re not hiding anything? Are you positive that they’re not playing the same game as you are- trying to put on a front of respectability when inside they’re falling apart? What if they’ve been through what you’re going through and could possibly offer some help?” I’m not sure if he had an answer to this question and I didn’t want to press the matter. He was obviously in an extremely fragile state and I didn’t want to make things any worse than they already were. But what about his pastor- a wise man whom Gary deeply respected. Could he talk to him? No. His response here was even more vague: “I just can’t imagine sitting in his office, across from his desk, telling him this stuff,” he explained with his eyes downcast.

 
At the end of our conversation, I did pray with him. I also checked in on him a couple of times over the course of the next few days- worried about whether his body was capable of enduring what he was putting it through. Eventually, he stopped binging, resumed his job hunt and adopted the same, cheerful demeanour that I described earlier. As far as I know, he never did seek any kind of help.

 
Gary’s reluctance to share his struggles with the members of is own church- even with those with whom he was the closest- betrays something about his understanding of what Christian community is all about. To him (and, indeed, to many of us) the church is not a place where we can be open about our brokenness or our struggles. It is not a place where we can be fully honest about our need for help. Quite the opposite: It is the one place where we must hide our true selves at all costs. “Nobody here must know that we’re having so much trouble in our marriage” or “nobody here must ever find out that I’m having serious doubts about my faith.” Or, as some pastors might think, “Nobody here must know that I’m depressed and that I detest my job.” It’s as if we assume that the Christian community to which we belong is the Club of the Perfect Ones and if any one were to find out that the fact that we wake up at two o’clock each morning, crying and sweating over a recurring dream of drowning, we’d be kicked out. And so we dawn the mask, put on the phoney smile and pray that nobody finds out about who we really are.

 
I don’t think that this is something that only people with substance abuse issues do. Nor do I think this kind of behaviour is limited strictly to the religious. It’s human nature to want to hide the parts of ourselves that we assume would be ugly to the rest of the world. This is why Jesus spent much of his time in what I call “a ministry of unmasking.” Like the time he met the Samaritan woman at the well- a woman who may have been seeking to fill the terrible emptiness of her soul with men.
“Go and call your husband,” Jesus invites her midway through their conversation.
“I have no husband,” she answers.

 
To which Jesus replies: “You are right in saying, ‘I have no husband’; for you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband.”
She has been unmasked. Only now that her true self has been revealed- in all of its loneliness and emptiness and need- can she receive the gift Jesus has to offer her: the life-giving waters of his Spirit.

 
I certainly don’t want Christian community to be a place where people feel forced to share the most fragile and intimate parts of their souls with absolutely everyone they see on Sunday morning. Much less do I wish to see the church become a place where people are “outed” without their consent- not so much “unmasked” but “stripped” in a way that can be cruel and humiliating. I do, however, wish that Christian communities were places where it was truly recognized that everyone is, in some way, crippled and needy. In a community such as this, people might feel free to unmask themselves- setting aside the tiresome work of faking it and simply allowing themselves to be. Only then can people like my friend, Gary (and you and me) find true healing in Christ.

 

By Terence Chandra

Coming to a Street Corner Near You…

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She’s standing on the corner of Coburg and Paddock street in Waterloo Village. Her back to the traffic. Her long shinny hair noticeable from a block away. As we get close, I can tell that although her expression is one of resignation, her eyes are full of fear. She doesn’t speak, she doesn’t utter a sound.

Everyone knows why she’s there. Her black knee-high boots hiked up like poster boards. There is no makeup on her face, the bruise over her eye hasn’t even been concealed. She clutches her purse like a security blanket. It’s beginning to wear out at the seams.

The person I’m doing street outreach with knows her and tells her to come by. A little nod, they hug, but still no sound comes those cracked lips.

Across the street two young men – lean with their shirts off, prancing like the stallions they think they are – start hurling abuse. They call out her name. They want a response, a reaction. They joke about hitting her around. She shifts, disguises slight trembling, and keeps looking down the street.

It’s 2pm. 10 minutes later, when we loop back around that corner, she is gone. I’m told that it never takes long for a girl to get picked up. I’m scared for her.

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2 months ago the some organizations in the Waterloo Village area of the city came together to begin a street outreach program. They realized that there were people on the streets that could be in need of their services, but who never make it to their doors. So they got yellow vests and organized 2 weekly shifts to tour the neighbourhood. We go out 2 by 2 and as we walk around talking to people on the street we share the kind of services that are offered and make referrals when necessary. It’s also a great opportunity for us service-providers to get to know each other better and draw on each other’s resources. This “observation” shows us a picture of the hurt and the need in our city, but also highlights why we need to be doing this.

 

By Jasmine Chandra

Roots in the Port City

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It’s a Monday evening in mid-July- an unusually balmy summer evening for a coastal city perpetually air-conditioned by the chill sea breeze blowing in off the Bay of Fundy. Jasmine and I are sitting around the diner table with our son, Sam, and a newlywed couple who are themselves about to embark on their own pioneer ministry here in Saint John. We’re explaining to them the benefits of living in an apartment building situated in the heart of the very same inner-city neighbourhood where we are ministering. As we chat about this, our five year old son grows increasingly restless. So, at his request, we set him lose to play in the courtyard of our building- a courtyard that we can survey from the windows of our second floor unit. As we finish our coffee and desert, we watch him play fighting with the eleven year-old-boy from the apartment immediately below ours- a boy who has become a kind of big-brother to my son. From time-to-time, the two of them will try to make a toddler laugh while her mother watches from her picnic bench nearby. These people are our neighbours and friends- people whom we have come, over the last couple of years, to know and to trust. Indeed, the scene unfolding beneath us, just outside our kitchen window, is a living illustration of the very thing that we are talking about; namely, the importance of living, incarnationally, with the people whom we have been called to serve.

The doctrine of the incarnation is, as most of our readers will know, at the heart of the Christian faith. It is the teaching that the Eternal Word of God himself- the one through whom all creation came into being- became one of us- coming to live with the very ones whom he came to serve. In coming and living with us, he set an example of what Christian ministry ought to look like- an example that has been followed by the great Saints whose lives have spanned the two millennia since our Lord’s life, death and resurrection. Take Saint Patrick who, despite being forever associated with green beer and four-leaf clovers, wasn’t Irish at all. He was a Briton who, as a young man, was captured by pirates and enslaved by Irish masters for six years. It was only years after his escape that he returned to Ireland- this time not as a slave to men but as a slave to Christ- wishing to live among the very people to whom he had been called to preach the gospel. Indeed, his incarnational ministry was so effective that Saint Patrick became more Irish than the Irish themselves- turning into an iconic symbol of their nation!

Far be it from me to compare the ministry of Jasmine and I to the ministry of Saint Patrick (let alone to the ministry of Christ!) But, our ministry is a small, admittedly imperfect example of what incarnational ministry looks like. My humble definition of incarnational ministry is simply this: living life alongside the people whom we have been called to serve. Its that simple. For us, incarnational ministry has meant moving into the Abbey apartments in Uptown Saint John- a 98 unit apartment complex, 55 of which are reserved for tenants whose rent is subsidized. Living in the Abbey means being neighbours to the people in our “mission field.” It means having our son playing with their kids. It means chatting with the bachelor from the unit down the hall as we wait around in the common laundry room for our clothes to dry. In short, it means integrating the daily rhythm of our lives with the rhythm of the neighbourhood.

It is through our living at the Abbey that we have gotten to know the single mother in the apartment unit directly below ours- an outgoing and lively woman raising a teenaged girl and preteen boy on her own. This is the boy whom I mentioned at the beginning of this post- a boy whom my son idolizes as a kind of surrogate big brother. This afternoon, he and I are headed off to the library together where I’ll be helping him with a summer research project- a project that had been assigned to him by an older couple from his Vineyard Church. Among other things, he has been tasked with writing about what he wants to be when he grows up and why. (Physicist and marine biologist are on the top of his list but, given his recent obsession with Youtube Vloggers, his attention has now shifted to Videography). This is a mentoring relationship that my wife and I highly value- a mentoring relationship that we simply would never have developed had we not chosen to “incarnate” in the Abbey.

It is through our living at the Abbey Apartments that we met a wonderful woman whom we now know as “Nana Jen”- a woman who has adopted us as her children and our son as her grandchild! When Jasmine and I are exhausted from our ministry and in desperate need for a date night, it is Nana Jen whom we call to come over and look after our son. Sam, naturally, is thrilled about having her over as Nana Jen is, for him, a kind of third grandmother.

On one occasion, Jasmine helped Nana Jen resolve some problems with her computer that were preventing her from accessing her Facebook account- a very small act of service that she greatly appreciated. When Jasmine explained that her “tech support” was effortless- nothing worth even thanking her for- Nana Jen quickly corrected her: “This is the anniversary of my husband’s death,” she explained. “Instead of spending the night in tears, I can distract myself by chatting with my family. You don’t realize how important this is to me.”
This, for us, is incarnational ministry- living our lives with the very people whom we have been called to serve. Indeed, over the course of the last few years, we’ve found that our neighbours have come to serve us as much as we have come to serve them, making the relationship reciprocal. The technical word for this, by the way, is “friendship”- the fruit, it seems, of ministry that is truly incarnational.

As his days in this world were coming to a close, our Lord said to his disciples in a moment of great intimacy, “No one has greater love than this, to lay down one’s life for one’s friends. You are my friends if you do what I command you.” We, the friends of Christ, have been commanded to love as Christ loved; to walk with others as he walked with us. By the grace of God, Jasmine and I are striving to do this through our little incarnational ministry. The blessings that we have received from this are enormous!

 

By Terence Chandra

The Amazing Fabiola Martinez!

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Fabiola Martinez is the artist behind our watercolour painting of Saint John that we’ve posted on our blog and that we use on our business cards. The painting was a gift from one of our mutual friends for my birthday. It was this same friend who urged me to get to know Fabiola. The first time I met her was at her home in Quispamsis. At the time I was very pregnant with my son. We had a wonderful time chatting in the living room while her 2 boys (2 and 4 at the time) played and drew nearby. We talked about her moves from Mexico to Canada and more recently from St. James Street in the South End of Saint John to the Suburbs. We talked about raising kids and of course her bright paintings. When it was time for me to go, her four year old presented me with a pencil portrait he had drawn of me clearly displaying the baby in my tummy. Five years later, his picture still hangs on my son’s bedroom wall.

 

Fortunately for me, there have been many other conversations since our first meeting. As I have gotten to know Fabi and her family, I have begun to realize how rare they are. They all have a gift of hospitality and openness that makes you relaxed and comfortable no matter what is whirling around in your daily life. And what is striking about Fabiola is her passion and her heart. She has such a desire to make things better, to help the world in whatever way she can. Her art is a big part of that.

DSC_0177 The Youth’s original sketches

DSC_0106.JPG The finished product.
Fabiola has gifted her art to many different causes and to many individuals (including me). When the kids in one of my youth groups wanted to paint a mural in the church, she helped turn their rough sketches and designs into a coherent piece of art. When a private school put on a singer songwriter concert to fundraise for Safe Harbour (a youth transitional home), Fabiola designed the poster and donated art to auction off. And when I received her watercolour of Saint John for my birthday, I knew it represented the dream of this city one day standing in light and clarity. Thanks to Fabiola’s gracious heart, we have been using this painting as a representation of what our ministry is all about.

Thank you Fabi!

By jasmine Chandra

To find out more about Fabiola Martinez please visit her Website at: http://www.fahrfineart.com

 

Or Check out Created Here’s Article on her by Marie-Hélène Morell: http://www.createdhere.ca/listings/fabiola-martinez-visual-artist/

An Inconvenient God

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So a homeless man barges into your church after hours and starts talking in circles and making demands. What do you do?

On most days I would say that I would invite him in and offer him a seat and a coffee and see how I can help.

But the day this gentleman walked in, was not most days. It was a crazy day, a very intense day. I was in the middle of a confidential meeting with a family. The Church door was suppose to be locked. We were at a crucial point in the meeting. The homeless man’s requests were not ones that I could address easily or quickly. It was late in the day and this was not a good time.

I know this guy. He’s verbose, incoherent, relentless in his demands. But I also know that he is not mean spirited or rude or harmful in any way. At times he can be a great conversationalist (as long as you’re not in a hurry). So I tried explaining the situation and why I couldn’t help and why he had to go, but as I got to the end of my explaining, I got angry and frustrated. I didn’t want to deal with him. I told him to leave. I kicked him out.

As I held the door open for him to go, he told me off. He called me a few names that I won’t repeat (because my parents read this blog) and said that I was rude. He took a few steps then turned back and told me again that I was rude and mean and that I needed to hear the truth. And then he was gone down the street. Some of the family members who had witnessed this scene, gave me knowing looks and smiles as if to say “what would you expect from a guy like that”.

But he was right: I was rude. I pushed him into a lower level of importance than the family I was with at the moment. I decided not to help him, not to seek out a solution that may have worked. I devalued him.

Half an hour later he was still in the neighbourhood, so I went to apologize. He was gracious, pretended nothing really happened. And as it began to rain, I decided to stay and listen. He told me his latest struggles at the shelter, complained of people, then went into a series of reflections and Bible quotes on the Church and Christianity that were quite deep and relevant.

I felt God telling me to pay attention.

So when he said that many Christians do good things for other people, not for God, but so that they can feel good about themselves, I knew that it was meant for me.

Doing good for others doesn’t necessarily always feel good at the time, but it gives us a sense of purpose and, upon later reflection, we can say to ourselves “Nice work!”. Sometimes other people notice what we do and they also say “Nice work!”. And that feels good.

But if we are doing things so that we can say “Nice work!” to ourselves and perhaps have others say “Nice Work!” to us as well, then we may feel that we can cut some corners. Sometimes it is really hard to help others. Most of the time it is a huge inconvenience. It almost always distracts from that other really important thing we were about to do.

But if we are conscious that we are doing these things for God then we tend to step up our game. We also tend to think less of ourselves, our situations, our inconveniences, as we do what we can to build bridges and connections. And incredible as it may seem to some of us long-suffering servants, we end up feeling joy and freedom in what we do.

So Jesus barges into your church after hours and starts talking in circles and making demands. What do you do?