Paper Sack Sermon

When the morning service at Salvation Army* finished, all kinds of people greeted one another. Rachel and I were instantly caught up in a number of friendly conversations and encouragements. Out of the corner of my eye, two kids approached me holding three paper sacks filled with something; all I could see were heads of grass waving out the tops like flags. Written on the outside of the sack in red sharpie were two words: God created! "This is for you," the boy gleamed, holding one up to me. "We made them in Sunday school." 

The boy and girl were obviously siblings and also the only ones present today for Sunday school. The teacher? Their mom. The next youngest person in the room was probably Rachel, then me, then their mom, and then all the others, averaging in their late sixties. But they were a warm bunch, visibly stripped of pretense and riches and glad to gather together for Sunday worship.

At the beginning of the service, the leaders led the church in a prayer, "God bless Brendan this

Playing In God's Smile

"Let's do cartwheels all the way down the middle of the street!" I turned and three girls had begun their gymnastic mini-parade. When I had asked one of the kids if he wanted to help me set up the yellow barricades the police provided to close our block, I was soon followed by the whole gang, complete with the blonde four-year-old boy asking in his hoarse little voice, "What's going on guys?"

Soon chalk rubbed colorfully on the black pavement (and even on young faces). Taylor Swift echoed from my car radio. An overt skirmish between two neighbors about the limited road access was quickly extinguished. Whimsical yard games intertwined in non-competitive joy. We smacked home runs out of a dented wiffle ball over chalk bases. We shot basketballs into an empty trashcan hoop. We threw frisbees over sitting heads and around parked cars. We got ketchup on the ground after a big bite into a hot dog. Ice cream, donated by a local shop, melted
down our cones and between our sticky fingers. It was the day for extra sprinkles and double scoops, even for grandmas. The sun was bright and warm like a smile from God.

When we met as a neighborhood a number of weeks ago, we began talking about things that could be changed on the block. The conversation veered when defenses went up over the appearance of someone's front yard. "You don't have a pass. If you get a pass, then the whole neighborhood gets a pass. We've got to clean this place up," said one of the more outspoken leaders. Technically she's right. Our neighbors should do a better job at keeping their yards tidy. But as I've been praying about this neighborhood, a scripture has come to mind.