I was about to preach at an evening service in a small church in a remote village in rural Honduras. I could barely see my notes, because the church was lit by only a few candles – all the congregation could afford, after their village was devastated by Hurricane Mitch a year earlier. Without wishing to be too graphic, the truth is that I was also fighting the worst case of diarrhea of my life! To top it off, I had just finished a bitter argument with one of my students, who refused to eat the food offered to us – because (very understandably) he didn’t want to end up getting sick like me.

In short, I was miserable! So I said to my friend and translator, “Miguel, I’m not sure I have a good message for these people tonight. So if I’m preaching badly, you just go ahead and say whatever you want to say.” Without missing a beat, Miguel responded, “Jeff, that’s what I always do when you preach.”

What power a translator has! The Italians have a saying, “traduttore traditore” – “the translator is a traitor.” I don’t know about that, but I do know that a translator has the potential to dramatically alter the meaning of the words she is using.

With that in mind, translating the words of the Bible must be a dangerous undertaking! I was thinking about the danger of translating today, after reading a comment about the book of Matthew, in David Bosch’s masterful book, “Transforming Mission: Paradigm Shifts in Theology of Mission.” Bosch focuses our attention on one of Matthew’s favorite Greek words “dikaiosyne,” which shows up in some of Jesus’ most famous sayings. For example, “…seek first the kingdom of God and his dikaiosyne, and all these things will be added to you.” (6:33)

According to Bosch, dikaiosyne can be translated as righteousness (a distinctly religious concept, suggesting a spiritual/moral quality to which we can aspire and receive from God), justification (God’s merciful act of declaring us just), or justice (our right conduct toward others, and especially those who are oppressed). All three concepts are contained in the one word, dikaiosyne. What a rich word it is!

I've caught myself not wanting to update because I haven't had anything profound to say. I've also been procrastinating because it seems like there is so much to tell. So I decided to just share some of the stories I'm picking up on as I learn to love these gutter punks, oogles, and "disposable" members of Denver.

The names and images in these stories have been changed to protect the anonimity of the people in this post.

Over the course of my life, many people have asked me this question. I honestly cannot understand what they see as being so radical. It seems to me that what I do is very simple, and really the only way I know how to live for God. Thinking about the why however leads me to my parents. I guess it was when my mom and dad came up with this crazy family idea where we would prepare a meal, then all go downtown and serve it to the homeless young people on the streets.

I am constantly asking myself the question…Am I a servant, or a friend? Earlier this evening a resident from Joshua Station, the residential transitional housing facility for homeless families, called my wife in an excited state and said, “I’m moving close to you!” As my wife talked to her and shared in the excitement of a new friend moving into our neighborhood, I thought about the environment we work in where the question of servanthood and friendship lie in delicate balance for us.

On the one hand, we serve a population of impoverished adults in transition from homelessness to housing while on the other hand the line between professional and clientele are often blurred due to our love for their families, but more due to our shared need for love and support in this life.

I do not think there has ever been a prayer over a chicken nugget dinner like the one I heard today.

Ever so often I am able to spend extended periods of time with just one of our many street kids. We will usually walk a lot while we talk. The setting is the same most times where we circle the two mile Sixteenth Street Mall route. As I think about it now, I will never cease to be amazed at how the hundreds of other people seem to disappear all around us as we walk and talk.

During one such time my friend and I talked at length about how God had created all things, including relationships. I told the story of Adam’s first look at Eve and how he went crazy over the perfection he saw in her. Our conversation might have been quite humorous on the street so I am glad that all the other people disappeared.

“Wow, I can see!” These are the words that rang from her mouth when she put on her new pair of glasses.

Carol had no idea just how bad her vision was until she experienced the change in eyesight with the use of her new glasses. As we walked all the way back to her *squat she could not stop commenting on how incredible it was to be able to read the words on buildings, billboards, street signs, and much more. Carol was indeed thankful, not only for the glasses but, as she said, “For the whole Dry Bones team for caring so much about her.”

May 1st 2006 marked the first time I ever participated in any kind of rally, and I have decided to share with you some photos from the event. I took my daughters that day, and it turned out to be a very special day for us as we learned more about our heritage, our rights, and our struggle to find our identity.

I'll say a few things on each image to let you know the story.

I just finished building a Lego replica of "The Healing of the Paralytic". Later today I'm telling our Street Church kids this story and hoping to teach them a little about faith. I have all my little Lego minifigures hovering around a yellow house with a black tile roof. Inside is Jesus (actually it’s Han Solo – but it will work) and more people sitting on Lego stools.

A broken man with four friends. They wanted him well - so they carried him to Jesus. When they couldn't get through the crowd they climbed the wall. They made an opening in the roof and then dug though the mortar and tiles until their was enough room to lower their friend down. Amazing.

There are miracles popping out all over this story. Jesus made the lame man to walk and he forgave his sins – and the sins of his faithful friends. Why? Because He's God.

But my favorite miracle isn't the one that's the stuff of epic stories and headlines – it was the miracle of the four men whose faith in the healer and love for the broken moved them to dig through a tile roof for a chance to see their friend walk.

“I have got some good news.”

“You do?” I replied.

“Monday is my birthday.”

I must admit I love it when my perspective is challenged. You know, when someone makes a comment and it causes you to see the ordinary differently? I think times like this keep my mind from numbing out. You know, it is like asking someone where the sky is. Most of the time they look way up and say up there. My reply is, I think it starts at the very end of your eye.

Like Levi, I ditched last Monday… well, actually just a long lunch hour. I’m not really much of a rally person these days, even when it comes to things I feel passionate about—like immigration reform. But I put on a white shirt, as directed by the “A Day Without Immigrants” organizers. Never mind that it said “Canada” on the front… it was my nicest white t-shirt even if it was from across the wrong border. Within a few blocks of my office I was bustling along with 75,000 people chanting “Si, se puede” (“Yes, we can”).

Twenty years ago I was a big rally person, or at least I tried to be. My wife and I were in the streets of Chicago many weekends with a movement protesting an issue of injustice we felt strongly about. I have good memories of those events, and of a time in my life when I was awakening to God’s heart for justice for the oppressed. It set a new course for our lives that is still unfolding these many years later.

But I remember one moment during a demonstration which made me uneasy, and at rallies ever since, I’ve felt a little like a guy with a Canada shirt trying to chant “Si, se puede” and wondering if my grammar’s right.

Last Monday I ditched school. I didn’t go to City Park, where the majority of East High students go on their “off-period,” nor did I go to Starbucks or Chipotle. Instead, I found myself surrounded by 75,000 people waving American flags and screaming for acceptance, whether it was for them or for others. It was an immigration rally dubbed, “A Day Without Immigrants.” Now, sunburnt and in the newspaper (if you count the panoramic photos of the masses), I have the chance to reflect upon my experience.

Initially, I thought that this would be a great opportunity to get a 3-day weekend, enjoy the weather, and get some exercise. But by the time we reached downtown it became something different. I didn’t know what to expect. Would the march turn violent? Would we get tear-gassed? Would I be the only gringo there? My questions were soon answered, No No and No.

We had our first week of T-ball practice with our kids from Joshua Station. It was of course a chaotic event! When I started this team I just wanted the kids to have some fun in an environment that builds confidence. However, it didn’t occur to me that all of our kids rarely have the attention span needed for focusing on sports. This is not just from being children, but stems from having experienced things in their lives that little kids have no business experiencing.

A specific example that haunts me on many levels is a five-year-old little girl who I saw walking aimlessly in the middle of the field. She was supposed to be at a station practicing her throwing. Nonetheless, I invited her over to try batting, and noticed she was distracted. I said to her, “You need to focus on this, sweetie. You need to put your hands here, and here, then look at the ball and swing.”

She turned and looked me in the eye. “Coach, I know, but I can’t focus right now. I can’t stop thinking about my dad. I miss him. Even though I know that when he and my mom used to fight he’d hurt her awfully bad, I still miss him. I just can’t stop thinking about him. I can’t focus.” She continued a little longer, and I was taken aback by her incredible sense of awareness at such a young age. I heard a five-year-old child articulate pain within a broken family the same way I’ve heard a fifteen-year-old articulate pain where divorce was occurring.

Having three small children keeps me from being on the streets too much, but I have been blessed with opportunities to serve in my own way. My kids and I attend pool night once or twice a month. We’ve helped collect sleeping bags and blankets to keep our friends warm at night, brought pizza to the park for the Thursday night meal, and we have celebrated Thanksgiving and Christmas with some of our street friends. All three of our children love hanging out downtown.

Children don’t have all the pretenses that adults do, and when they look at our friends from the streets they just see a person. They aren’t fearful of weird hair, multiple piercings, or tattoos. The cussing doesn’t throw them
off guard. They love the street kids because we do. They learn by watching the example set for them by their parents. When Benny and I are friendly with a street kid, so are they. When we find a way to bless one of them individually, our kids are there to bless them too. It’s a family thing.

As I walk through the recovery process with those kids who are ready to make a change in their lives, my faith grows. I have a deeper understanding of what it means to “turn it over.”

This phrase is used a lot among the Alcoholics Anonymous 12-step goers. The third step of AA says “We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God, as we understood Him.” Christ-centered 12-step programs’ third step reads, “We made a decision to turn our will and our lives over to the care of God. Therefore, I urge you brothers, in view of God’s mercy, to offer your bodies as living sacrifices, holy and pleasing to God - this is your spiritual act of worship.” (Romans 12:1)

Lately, I have been worshipping and praising God often while I walk with my friend through her recovery process. She is ready. She desires relationship with God. She is trying her best every day to do the right thing as she leaves the street life and continues in her secular rehabilitation program. She then looks forward to the time she chooses to spend around other Christians at the 12-step, Christ centered program she and I go to at the end of each week.

There have been so many times that I was tempted to try and fix my friend. This is out of desperation, really. I was afraid she would end up dead.