Tony Campolo - it's Friday but Sunday's comin'

It's Friday but Sunday's Comin'

Tony Campolo

We wish you all to hell...

by Bonar Crump

We’re after theological perfection. And not you or anyone else that is uncertain of who God is or how God works or how it all started or how it all will end will ever be allowed to stand in our way. We will bully you in the name of “love”. We will scowl at you in the name of “righteousness.” We will demean and ignore and provoke and gossip and twist the very fabric of time into the reality of our liking. We will smugly wish them all to the very hell that they deserve.

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We will fight back in the name of “tolerance.” We will spit at them and shout them down and scoff at their mystical ideas and regulations and prayers. We will hate them as much as they hate us, but we won’t call it “love.” We see ourselves for who we really are…not who someone else thinks that we should be. We live life. We do not chase life. We do not stalk and judge and demean and ignore – ignore – ignore. We will hate them and wish them to the very hell that they profess.

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We will hide in the name of self-preservation. We will squat in our own filth and wait for the battle cries to cease. We will avoid and lurk and tip-toe and avoid detection as long as the others wage war. But secretly we will wonder why a god allows it to occur. We will ask ourselves questions that have only one unanswerable answer. We will smirk and roll our eyes and hate and apathetically buy our whole milk while they pit cartons against jugs. We’ll hear them. We’ll have opinions. We’ll hide those opinions in dark places. They are only looking for opponents. They are not looking for solutions. They are not hoping for reconciliation. We will hope that they experience the hell that they spew on us.

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I will win!—I will win! I am right!—I am right! I know the truth!—I know the truth! I reject you!—I reject you!

I hope you get what you deserve! I hope you all get hell!

{Screwtape smiles.}

Sexual Assault, Cold Nights and God’s Plan

by Hugh Hollowell

via Red Letter Christians

At 23, most people her age are very conscious of their appearance, but Stephanie’s wardrobe consisted of thrift store finds and cast offs, leaning heavily toward stretch pants and sweatshirts that advertised events she had never seen and places she would never visit. She was a heavy girl, perhaps 250 pounds and her greasy, stringy hair only served to accentuate her poor skin. Because of her weight, she more shuffled than walked and her head was always bowed, seeking not to offend, avoiding eye contact.

The first time I met her, she was in line for food in the park. She shuffled along, mumbling thanks, eyes on the ground. Over the following months, I tried to engage her but whether it was my being a male, or her inner demons, it just was not happening. Like a dog that had been struck once too often, she flinched at contact.

When there was an open bed, Stephanie would stay at the woman’s shelter, but more often than not she had to make other arrangements. On cold nights, she would trade sexual favors in exchange for a warm bed. To pick up spending money, she would trade sex for money – very little money.

Because of her weight and mental issues, often the promise of a warm bed was revoked, or the money not paid after the oral sex had been given. Several people later told me Stephanie was often sexually assaulted and raped, unable to resist her attackers.

The last time I saw her was on a Thursday in early November. It was inordinately cold that day, with a sharp, piercing wind. Stephanie shuffled down the sidewalk, huddled down into her jacket, oblivious to my wave, ignoring me when I called.

Stephanie made it into the women’s shelter that night. There she could sleep; secure in the knowledge she was safe. In her sleep, Stephanie died of complications from sleep apnea. At age 23, she was another statistic of life, and death, on the streets.

* * * *

I told Stephanie’s story in a talk I gave at a church luncheon. When I finished, they prayed fervent prayers that Stephanie would be at peace in the loving arms of Jesus. They prayed that those who injure and molest women like Stephanie would be caught and punished. They prayed for God’s kingdom to come and for shalom to rest on our city.

At the end of the talk, a lady came up to me, obviously moved by my story. Then she asked me the question I dread most: “How could God allow this to happen to Stephanie? Was this all part of God’s plan?”

If you spend much time working in the inner-city, you try not to ask yourself that question–not because you don’t know what the answer is, but because you do. And if you tell people the answer to that question, they get mad at you, and they call you names, and they don’t invite you back.

What I wanted to tell that lady, but did not, was God did have a plan to take care of Stephanie; God’s plan was us.

I wanted to tell her that it is not we who are waiting on God to act, but rather it is God who is waiting on us. I wanted to tell her that what Stephanie really had needed was not this lady’s prayers but a safe place to sleep at night. What I wanted to tell that lady, but didn’t, is that it is very obvious that we have the resources to help invisible people just like Stephanie but we simply lack the will to do so.

I did not tell that church lady any of that. But I wish I had.

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Hugh Hollowell is an activist, a speaker and a Mennonite minister. He’s the founder and director of Love Wins Ministries where he pastors a congregation made up largely of people who are homeless