Dear Friends,

I may be the only one who’s noticed, but after writing monthly about our neighborhood for more than five years, I’ve managed just a single letter since last August. Part of the reason is that I couldn’t bear adding to the deluge of updates and solicitations pouring in between Thanksgiving and New Year’s Day, but mainly I’ve been trying to find my way on Abraham’s Path and struggling with my demons here in Walnut Hills.

In case you’ve forgotten, Abraham’s Path is a cultural walking trail that traces the footsteps of Abraham across the Middle East. It is also the centerpiece of the Abraham’s Path Initiative, the international NGO I joined in June, thinking I was part of a radical shift towards cross-sector leadership development, interfaith outreach, and large-scale systems change.

What I ended up being part of instead was a mission-definition process which left API focused on developing an online knowledge base that invites and enables travelers to experience the Path, its various peoples, and the story of Abraham in a genuinely transformative way, and which left me, who knows practically nothing about social media or cultural tourism, looking for my next assignment.

Confusing as it was, my brief sojourn with API took me to some of the world’s most amazing places, introduced me to some of the world’s most wonderful people, and convinced me that I can be equally valued and useful for the common good outside of evangelical Christendom. What that sojourn didn’t do, however, was quiet my mind about my poor, unfortunate neighborhood. As much as I love my family, my little faith community, and our life together, this place and its people are really starting to get to me.

It’s good that most of you have been my friends long enough to already know what I mean, because I don’t feel like describing it again any more than you feel like reading it again. After all, nothing has changed since we started, including my personal sense of purpose.

I came here to love broken people, well aware that even though an individual might change once in a while, the self-defeating family s/he would need to escape to do so wouldn’t, nor the absurd ghetto subculture where a family like that makes sense. I always understood that our ministry would be more about hospice than healing.

So then, five years on, I’m not disillusioned; I’m just awfully tired. Marty’s tired too, in much the same way. For the first time in our lives, we’re wondering if engaging our neighbors this way is worth the romance, beauty, and hope that it daily costs us, or, even if it is, how much longer we can pay that price.

Strangely enough, we’re in no great hurry to answer that question. The rest of our lives—our kids, our little faith community, and all of you—sustain and enrich us so well that we have plenty of time to get it right. Until then, we’re just staying the course here, whether or not I remember how to write about it.

What we ARE in a hurry about is me finding that next assignment, career-wise! Not because money is tight—we’ve got savings and Eastern University has been very generous with both Miranda and Roman—but because doing meaningful, creative, fruitful Kingdom work outside this neighborhood has always been the best antidote for what ails me here.

Does that mean I’m open to new ideas and opportunities? You bet it does! I may no longer be a perfect fit for evangelical Christendom, but somewhere out there, somebody needs the kind of vision and leadership I’ve grown into over time. So then, if you’ve got something you think I should look at, go ahead and send it my way.

While you’re at it, go ahead and send a photo, too, since I’m sending you this one of us. I’m also sending you all our love and many thanks for the kindness and support you show us in so many ways.

Your friend,

Bart

Dear Friends,

Towards the end of our big community dinner last Monday, right in the middle of this crazy obstacle course game, time stood still just long enough for me to look around.

Up front, six-year-old Tanisha and her father TT were running the course together, laughing at each other while the rest of the group shouted directions and cheered them on. TT’s been in and out of jail for as long as I’ve known him, and he and his wife Gina are always on the edge of disaster, but their love for their kids is incredibly strong. I hate the way they parent, and I hate lots of the decisions they’ve made, but I can’t help rooting for that family, and not just in games.

At the back of the room, Gina’s brother Terrell was shouting encouragement, along with his best friend Robert. Terrell is only 5’5”, but he weighs more than 250 pounds, smokes like a chimney, and has a bad case of asthma that takes him to the emergency room four or five times a year. He’s a genuinely nice kid, though, and great with his nieces and nephews, which is a good thing since he is practically unemployable and will probably live with Gina and TT forever. Robert is genuinely nice too, which is no small thing for a nineteen-year-old boy in a neighborhood like ours.

A few rows up were Danielle and her daughter Jasmine, whose two-year-old son Malcolm happened to be squirming in my arms at the moment. He had been running into danger before I scooped him up like I used to scoop up Roman, without even thinking about it. Jasmine didn’t mind, of course, partly because she was so into the game, begging her mom to be her partner in the next round. She’s still a little girl herself, after all, though just last week she finally landed a job at McDonald’s. We’re all delighted about that, since none of us much liked Jasmine’s backup plan of stripping in bars. She’s better off here, playing kids’ games with people who love her.

On the other side of the room, Ronnie and Deandra were sitting next to one another. Ronnie’s an awkward twenty-something white guy who came to us out of a halfway house, angry, suspicious, and alone. Over the past two years, however, Ronnie has not only stayed sober; he’s grown up as well, into a bright, healthy, fun-loving young man who takes care of himself and cares about his friends. Among those friends is Deandra, a gregarious but physically broken fifty-something black woman whom our fellowship has kept safe and warm for years. Deandra was smiling that night, partly because, after many years of toothless frustration, she’s finally got dentures, and partly because she loves it when we all play games together like a big happy family. If you knew her real family, you’d understand why.

Out in the kitchen, my introverted next-door neighbor Ric was doing the dishes, happy for any excuse not to play the game, while my wife Marty, who cooked for 50 tonight as usual, sat with Ric’s wife Karen, laughing with some of the younger women in the group. Among them was nineteen-year-old Tasha, who we’ve collectively mentored for the past six years, and who is just about to move from her family’s overcrowded apartment into our fellowship’s community house. Tasha usually won’t play my games either, but she and Karen had taken a run at it earlier, just for fun.

There were thirty or so other people around me, too, all of them connected to me and to one another by a web of loving relationships so tangled and unlikely that I could never fully describe it in a way that makes sense. And yet, in that frozen moment, it all made sense to me. I’m not saying my friends and I don’t struggle with ourselves and one another, or that we know what we’re doing when it comes to living by faith, or even that a few of us might not have shown up drunk or high that night. I’m just saying that, for that one moment, it wasn’t very hard for me to believe that God was the One who brought us together, or that God was in that room, whooping it up with the rest of us, having the best time of all.

On the way home afterwards, as I decided whether to give Deandra the Oxycontin left over from my ankle surgery—believing that her daughter stole her own prescription—or whether she would just sell it for beer money once I dropped her off, everything went back to not making sense, and I wondered how God slipped away on our way to the car. But then I thought, so what? I had my moment, and I still have it.

So do you, I hope.

Bart

Dear Friends,

This is a mean season in Walnut Hills. Jobs are scarce. Government programs are tightening their belts. Groceries are running out. Rents are due. People are scared.

On every busy corner around here, somebody is holding up a sign asking for help. It used to be you knew those folks were junkies, but these days you don’t need a habit to be that desperate. Every non-expatriate family in our fellowship is in some kind of trouble.

Last night I had to tell Diana’s not-yet-twenty-year-old daughter that she can’t keep staying with her mom because, if she gets caught, HUD will throw them both out of the cheap-but-highly-regulated apartment we rent to keep Diana off the street. We found her a place, but it won’t last long unless she finds work, and the felony on her record makes that a long shot, even with our help.

Dena called a few days before that, crying that she had nothing to feed her four kids until their food stamps arrived. I know she and her husband smoke and drink and manage their money worse than Bernie Madoff on his worst day, but hungry kids are hungry kids. Anyway, the food I took over doesn’t change the fact that they are four months behind on their rent.

I could go on, but you get the picture. In a world where almost everyone is one check away from homeless, it feels like all the checks have stopped at once. Nobody here has any savings. Nobody has any rich family members to bail them out. Unskilled, unhealthy, and often unemployable, these people weren’t making it very well even when times were good. Now they’re not making it at all.

The question, of course, is what are the rest of us to do?

Loaning money to people who can never pay it back doesn’t work, but standing by while they get evicted ends friendships almost as surely. Taking people into our homes sounds good, but only if those people are both willing and able to do what it takes to be independent again. In this neighborhood, in this economy, we need another answer.

Almost every day, somebody sends me an article about some new program that miraculously transforms inner-city nightmares like ours into dreams come true. When I look more closely, however, I find that those programs are expensive and only seem to work for the most highly-motivated poor people. They are beautiful experiments, but they aren’t scalable.

Almost every night, we expatriates here have a conversation about somebody we love who is in trouble. We take turns coming up with ideas and shooting them down: She doesn’t read well enough for that. He won’t show up. She can’t be on her feet more that an hour. Her mom won’t help. He’s drinking again. They’ll spend the money on something else.

Over and over, we try to work out problems that have no solutions. Over and over, we end up right back where we started; living and eating, laughing and crying, walking and talking together with dear people we can almost never really help. We have jobs and cars and houses and bank accounts, and most of us believe in God, but none of it really matters when it comes to making a difference in this place.

I’m not trying to bum you out. Believe it or not, I’m trying to draw you in. I figure that if enough of us lie awake wondering what to do for the rest of us, then maybe one of us will find a new answer after all.

In the meantime, especially during this mean season, God help us all.

Bart

PS For those of you wondering, I love my new job. After six years in Walnut Hills, peace in the Middle East actually seems quite doable to me! I spent two amazing weeks in Israel, Palestine, and Jordan last month, but right now my focus is on inspiring good people – people like you – to organize Abrahamic 9/11 Walks in their own neighborhoods all over the world. Think about it: Wouldn’t it be great if 9/11 became a day for Christians, Muslims, Jewish people, and everyone else to step over boundaries and walk kindly with ‘the other’? If you want to help, let me know!

Dear Friends,

Ever since we moved to Cincinnati and started loving our neighbors here in Walnut Hills, I have been communicating the street level joys and sorrows of our life here with as much honesty as I can muster. In doing so, I have gradually distanced myself from the mainstream evangelical Christian community in which I was once a well known leader. My faith keeps growing stronger, but my understanding no longer fits into the same neat categories it did when I ran Mission Year and EAPE, which is a big reason I don’t run them anymore.

Thankfully, our little fellowship doesn’t depend on my speaking engagements or require much outside support. Still, as my public profile has dwindled, I have increasingly wondered if I had any future as a spiritual leader and social justice advocate beyond this neighborhood.

Earlier this year, my old friend Jerry White called to ask if I could help him put together a capacity-building program for leaders from religious, governmental, media, corporate, and philanthropic sectors working in the Middle East. Since we were in college together, Jerry has been a high-level global leader, first in nuclear arms control and later with Survivor Corps and the International Campaign to Ban Landmines, so I knew he knew what he was doing. Me? Not so much. Over my protests of ignorance, however, Jerry assured me that he just needed a small group facilitator for some weekend workshops in Malta.

Then, while the rest of the workshop team and I were planning, Jerry strongly reconnected with William Ury (a world-class negotiator and the bestselling author of Getting to Yes), joined the board of William’s Abraham’s Path Initiative and brought our project under that umbrella. Before we could say “cultural walking trail following Abraham’s footsteps across ten Middle Eastern countries,” Jerry and I were retooling our new organization to provide more and better opportunities and experiences aimed at positively transforming the conflicts and attitudes of leaders and everyday citizens working for constructive change in the Middle East.

In other words, just when I was wondering what happens to little people like me, who still follow Jesus even though we’ve given up our claims of exclusive access to God, I find myself up to my ears in the interfaith movement for justice and peace, trying to figure out how to help engineer an Abrahamic family reunion on a global scale!

If all this raises big questions for you, well, join the club. Here’s what I know so far: I’ll be traveling more, but our family is staying where we belong, right here in Walnut Hills. The fellowship will carry on as usual, with no paid ministers and plenty of chaos. And my first project with Abraham’s Path Initiative isn’t facilitating those workshops in the Middle East, but rather is organizing dozens of local 9/11 walks in New York City and around the world, where making meaningful, positive connections with ‘the other’ will be easy. You can check it out – and help me out – at www.The911Walks.org!

At this point, my job is all about making Abraham’s Path Initiative a genuine servant to the larger movement for justice and peace, in the Middle East and around the world. Along the way, I’ll almost certainly end up encouraging Jewish people, Muslims, atheists, and anyone else who’s ever wrestled with faith to do what I’ve encouraged my fellow Christians to do for many years: Proudly practice your way of connecting with the God who is Love without being so arrogant or naive as to insist it is the only way, and judge another’s faith the way Jesus taught his followers to judge a tree, by the fruit it produces.

I know that may not be enough to please all of my friends out there, but it is enough for the people I love here in Walnut Hills, and it is more than enough for me. Just when I thought my days as a public communicator of Grace were coming to an end, Grace herself has given me a new beginning. I may be a novice again, but that doesn’t bother me. To paraphrase Jesus, I’m going to seek first the Kingdom of God…and let the chips fall where they may.

Keep the faith,

Bart

Dear Friends,

Part of me wants to just jump right in with a story, but I’ve gotten enough inquiring emails to figure I owe those of you who read these letters an explanation for my long silence, especially since it came on the heels of what many thought was a downbeat letter.

When I earned my living running ministries like Kingdomworks and Mission Year, of course, I never missed sending a newsletter and I did my best to keep them upbeat. My natural propensity for hard questions and reckless honesty occasionally won out, but in general I communicated that whatever was wrong with urban America that month was entirely defeatable. With your generous help, that is.

Things are different here in Walnut Hills, partly because I don’t draw a salary from this ministry, but mainly because I’ve come to believe Love doesn’t outright defeat fear and ignorance as much as it simply outlasts them. No matter how much you give, our little neighborhood fellowship will never overcome the culture of poverty surrounding us. We are just the Resistance, wreaking compassionate havoc where and when we can, waiting for a much stronger force to come finish the job. (And no, I don’t mean a mission trip of high schoolers from Grand Rapids).

In the meantime, we try not to push too hard, for fear of burning ourselves out, and we work regular jobs so we don’t have to feel guilty about not pushing too hard. The reason I haven’t written isn’t that I’ve been curled up in a ball of despair; I just got too busy, with my paid work, and with Roman and Corbin’s graduation, and with a fresh batch of ghetto drama so strange I don’t even know how to write about it.

In the midst of all that busy-ness, however, I must confess that I have somehow, quite unexpectedly, fallen in love. Don’t worry; the object of my middle-aged passion is not a younger woman, or even a little red sports car. Instead, I am suddenly smitten with the two-year-old son of my favorite neighborhood teenager.

Honestly, I hated little Malcolm from the moment I first heard about him, though I told myself I was only hating the tawdry, clichéd way he was conceived. Even after he was born, acting kindly towards him was a chore for me. Jasmine, his charming 17-year-old mother, was among our fellowship’s brightest hopes before she got pregnant by a not-so-charming thug who had already fathered two other children by two other women. To me, Malcolm represented failure.

Strange as it sounds, it was a documentary about some Guatemalans my kids know that broke my heart. Actually, it was just one scene from that movie, Reparando, when a seasoned slum minister named Tita explains why she always embraces children of failure, no matter how filthy or damaged they might be. Such children, says Tita, deserve our tender adoration as much as the most lovely, most wanted baby in the world. Sitting in the darkness of that movie theater, I was both convicted and released.

The next day, on my way to work, I walked past Jasmine and Malcolm’s front door just as they were leaving for the grocery store. Without thinking, I grabbed Malcolm and began covering his face with kisses I haven’t kissed since my own kids were little. Before I knew what I was doing, I was cooing at him, telling him how beautiful and bright and beautiful and precious (not to mention beautiful) he is.

I am not bragging, or trying to make myself the hero of this story. I made no decision that morning, praiseworthy or otherwise, and I have made none since. I was simply and utterly overwhelmed by Love, in a way that shocked me as much as it did the squealing little boy in my arms. Honestly, I am still shocked. Literally overnight, I can’t get enough of Malcolm, and now that he’s gotten used to it, I think Malcolm has a little crush on me, too. Every time we are together, Jasmine and I ask him, “Who’s your favorite white man?” and both of us are determined to make sure his answer is always me.

Again, I take no credit. It might make sense for someone as blessed as me to choose to be generous to an underprivileged teenage mother and her poor, fatherless son…but that isn’t what’s going on here. What is going on here is a minor miracle of Love. Or God. Or whatever you call that much stronger force that overwhelms us from time to time, and that we hope and pray is coming soon to finish the job.

Sincerely,

Bart

Dear Friends, 

Chester has been my Monday night dinner companion for the better part of five years. He’s my friend, despite having never once lifted a finger to help or encourage me or anyone else, despite having often expressed the most debauched kind of selfishness, and despite his contempt for faith. 

The doctor says Chester has six to twelve months to live, but everyone knows he won’t last that long. It isn’t just that he refuses to go back for radiation and chemotherapy; he was in terrible shape already. He lives alone, he eats only fast food, and he started smoking and drinking again as soon as he got home from the hospital. His lung cancer is just the last straw. 

I prayed for Chester the other night, but after all the ways he’s abused himself over the years, I wasn’t about to ask for healing. Actually, I’ve never thought prayer was very useful in terms of getting God to do the right thing anyway. It is us who need righteous motivation, not God. If God is Grace, she’s already doing her level best. 

I didn’t pray for Chester’s salvation, either. Frankly, what worries me is not that his immortal soul will burn in Hell. What worries me is that I’m no longer sure he—or I—has an immortal soul to burn or save in the first place. 

I always thought it was a package deal; if you believed in God, then you must believe in some kind of afterlife, too. And so I did, or at least so I told myself. While Heaven and Hell had nothing to do with my reasons for becoming a Christian, it went without saying that accepting Jesus as my personal savior meant accepting that such eternal destinations actually existed, along with my own immortal soul, which hitherto had been hanging in the balance between them. It never occurred to me that someone might put their faith in the living God without being persuaded that something awaits them beyond the day they die. It only occurs to me now, I think, because I am well on my way to becoming that someone. 

It isn’t that I don’t like the idea of waking up on the other side of death, fully conscious as the one and only Bart Campolo, ready to be surprised and delighted by whatever God has in store. Actually, I like that idea very much. My problem is that it seems to me utterly impossible that my individual identity will somehow survive the inevitable demise of my physical brain. 

I am no neuroscientist, but I have studied enough to know that each of the many and various parts of my personality has a physical location in my brain, and that if and when that location is altered in some way, my personality will be altered as well. Stimulate my limbic system one way, and I will become more sexually aggressive. Stimulate it a different way and I will become depressed. Damage part of my amygdala and I will become unable to form loving relationships. Damage part of my prefrontal cortex, on the other hand, and I will lose all sense of right and wrong. 

In other words, my brain and my soul are essentially one and the same thing. My individual identity is a particular arrangement of particular organic matter over a particular period of time, and when that period comes to an end, that matter will be rearranged into something (or perhaps someone) else. So then, when my ashes return to ashes, and my dust to dust, I reckon Bart Campolo will be no more. 

And yet, just as I still believe in a living God, I still believe in eternal life and daily strive towards that goal. I very intentionally love and teach as many children and young adults as I can, trusting that by so doing I am becoming part of each one, even as my parents and best teachers became part of me. In this way, I hope and expect to live on through their lives even after I die, and then in the lives of the younger ones they teach and love. As long as my line goes on, it seems to me, so will I. Even so, my personal immortality is not the point. 

The point is that, as one who has so deeply appreciated my own human experience, I am desperate to ensure endless generations have that experience as well. I cannot breathe forever, but this air is so sweet that I want someone to breathe it always. I want someone—many someones—to taste this wonderful food, and to savor this fabulous wine. Having family and friends has been such a joy to me, laughing and dancing and making love have been so delightful, working to exhaustion and then resting has been so satisfying, and raising children so terrifying, believing in God so inspiring, and aging so interesting, that I can’t stand the thought that people might cease to do those things. I love life, after all, not just my own life. 

Striving towards eternal life, for me at least, is not so much about getting God to punch my ticket for Heaven as it is about doing all I can to ensure that humanity itself endures, and in particular that best part of humanity scripture calls the image of God. It is about asking Grace to guide my thoughts and actions, to literally flow through me into the lives of those who are growing up behind me. It is about keeping the faith by loving my neighbor, and trusting that both of us are thereby becoming part of God’s endless love. 

That’s right, both of us. Me and Chester, in this case. We’re in this thing together. So what if I am the lover this time, and he is the taker? I’ve been the taker plenty of other times, and besides, we all need friends like Chester to teach us about loving out of our nature and not just to get a result. I wish he had been less crude and selfish, and I wish he had done more for others during his life, but over the years Chester still became part of me, without even trying. So then, if I live on somehow, I reckon he will too. I know that isn’t fair, of course, but Grace is always better than fair.

In the meantime, however, confused as I may be about matters of eternity, Chester is on his way back to the hospital, and I am on my way to visit him. I may not always know what to believe anymore, but none of us needs to pray very long to know what to do.

God help us.

Bart Campolo

Dear Friends,

Donnie is only a few years older than me, but he’s seen much harder use. He had a nasty apartment up the street when I first met him, but no lease. His slumlord let him live there in exchange for unpaid day labor, until Donnie got hurt. Since then he’s been homeless, though he often sleeps on the couch at our friend Deandra’s place. They were a couple once, until she stabbed him one night in a drunken rage, but that’s all water under the bridge. Now they just help each other as friends.

Donnie still works when he can, but he has no skills and his back isn’t as strong as before. Born to a drug-addled prostitute, he’s been on his own in Walnut Hills since sixteen, and it shows. He can’t read, his teeth are gone, and he doesn’t hope for much. On the other hand, he isn’t hard or mean. In fact, since Deandra started bringing him to our Monday night dinners, he’s developed a genuine enthusiasm for being part of the group. Still, he’s never let any of us help him get off the street.

Last Monday, after we cleared the tables, I told the story of Charles Blondin, the great acrobat who in 1859 crossed Niagara Falls on a tightrope, first alone and then with his manager, Harry Colcord, perched on his back. It’s a terrific story all by itself, but my version makes it a great illustration of trust and commitment as well. In this case, it was meant to encourage the individuals in our group to take steps to deepen their relationships with one another.  It ended up being a set-up as well.

After I finished, as we discussed the story, I told everyone that my favorite part is when the watching crowd begins chanting Blondin’s name. Wouldn’t it be terrific, I asked, catching Donnie’s eye, to have a whole bunch of people cheering for you that way? When he nodded his head, I turned back to the group. Let’s do it, I said.  Let’s give Donnie a thrill.

It started out slowly, with just a few of us slowly chanting his name: Do–nnie. Do–nnie. Then some of the kids joined in, and it got a little louder, and a little faster: Do-nnie! Do-nnie! Before long, everyone in the room was completely into it, clapping hands, pounding tables, shouting with all their might: DO-NNIE!!! DO-NNIE!!! DO-NNIE!!! In a matter of moments, our little dinner was a madhouse!

And sitting there in the middle of it was Donnie, with a huge grin on his face, clearly loving the attention. Suddenly, he stood and climbed up on his chair. As the cheering got even louder, he closed his eyes, threw his head back, and thrust his arms in the air like a champion, soaking it all in. Then everybody laughed, and then it was over. And then we had dessert.

As I snuggled into bed that night, I couldn’t stop smiling at the thought of Donnie standing on that chair, being celebrated as the center of attention in a roomful of good friends, almost surely for the first time in his life. His words at the door kept ringing in my ears: That was amazing, Bart…I really loved that!

I couldn’t have put it into words five years ago, but this is what I dreamed about when we moved here; a group of people who could do something rare and beautiful like that without making a big fuss.

The more I thought about Donnie, however, the more uncomfortable I got. It was bitter cold outside, after all, and I had no idea where he was sleeping. I knew I wasn’t the only one worrying, either. As I said, a number of us here have asked Donnie to let us help him find a place to live. He’s always put us off, afraid of responsibility perhaps, or maybe just afraid to fail.

After a restless night, I woke up the next morning up with a new resolve. After breakfast I tracked Donnie down at Deandra’s apartment—she too had worried about the cold—and tried a new approach.

Donnie, I said, I need a favor.  I need you to let us get you an apartment, even if you don’t want one. You don’t have to stay there if you don’t want to, but I need to know you have a place. We all need that.  You’re our friend, and it isn’t fair that we have to keep worrying about you when it gets cold. This isn’t about you, Donnie…it’s about me. Can you do this for me…please?

After years of arguments and evasions, this time he didn’t even hesitate. Yup, he said. I can do that for you. Yeah Bart, sure.  I can do that.

Since then, Donnie and I have been knee deep in birth certificates, criminal background checks, drug screenings, and no-income housing applications. Some of the others have been tracking down used furniture for Donnie’s apartment, if and when we get it.  And yes, in case you’re wondering, we will happily pay Donnie’s $25 per month rent, no strings attached.

Will Donnie eventually get a regular job and start paying his own rent? I don’t think so. Will he stop drinking to excess whenever he scratches together enough cash to do so, or at least keep his new place neat and clean? I seriously doubt it. Will he even keep on joining the rest of us for dinner and fellowship on Monday nights? Honestly, I don’t know. The longer we’re at this, the more I understand the inherent difficulties of maintaining ongoing, loving relationships across the vast chasms of race, class, age, and culture that surround us in this neighborhood.

Here’s what I do know: If you listen carefully, you can hear Grace’s voice. She starts out softly, but if you keep listening she gets louder:

Do-nnie. Do-nnie! DO-NNIE!!! DO-NNIE!!!

Bart

Dear Friends, 

The other day I met a young woman whose entire life was built around her identity as an urban minister, and whose entire life was in shambles.  She was burned out from her work and, in the aftermath of a failed romance, suddenly aware that most of her other relationships were unhealthy as well.  The more we talked about her path and the key decisions she had made along the way, the more evident it became that something was deeply wrong. 

At first I thought it might be some combination of the usual suspects:  religious legalism, a broken home, an addiction of some kind, clinical depression, or a history of abuse.  But as our conversation wore on, and each of those possibilities was ruled out, I began to suspect a different kind of wrongness.  Eventually, I asked.  This may sound strange, I began, given what you do for a living, but I want you to think very carefully before you respond:  At the core of your being, do you really believe that the personal God you’ve been serving even exists?

She looked up from the patch of floor between her feet, maybe to make sure she had heard me right or maybe to see if it was a trick question.  In any case, she held my eye as she shook her head.  No, she said quietly, I don’t think I do.  After a moment of silence, she asked a question of her own:  That’s pretty sad, isn’t it? 

It was all I could do to keep the grin off my face as I answered her.  Actually, I said, that’s the most hopeful thing you’ve said all day. 

I wasn’t out to undermine that young woman, of course.  The reason I was happy was that the root problem of her faith—of her whole life, really—was one I knew we could work around.  You see, two days out of three I don’t believe in a personal God either. 

I used to think my lack of credulity had mostly to do with living in this ghetto, but over the years I’ve discovered that you don’t need to be surrounded by ignorance and brokenness to begin wondering about the likelihood of a benevolent, all-knowing, all-powerful creator.  You don’t need to be a bad person, either, or a stupid one for that matter.  In fact, many of the best and brightest people I know find it difficult, if not impossible, to believe that Someone is actually listening to their prayers.

Honestly, I think whichever psalmist wrote “Only a fool says in his heart that there is no God” must have been an arrogant fool himself, unless he was simply fronting like the rest of us.  Or, better yet, unless he was misquoted.  Perhaps what he really said is that only a fool hopes in his heart that there is no God.  In that case, you and I may be doubters, but we are no fools.

Regardless, it seems to me that what we hope for is ultimately more important than what we believe, anyway, partly because our hopes better reflect our true selves, and partly because those hopes so often determine what we believe in the end.  That is good news for those of us who often doubt the existence of a good and loving God.  Why, after all, would we even notice those doubts, let alone lament or defend them, if we weren’t so deeply attracted to their object in the first place? 

Certainly my young woman friend (let’s call her Marian) is attracted to the possibility of such a God.  Indeed, as she puts it, she is “absolutely desperate” to remain a believer.  Beyond her understandable fears of losing her job, alienating her family and friends, and perhaps going to hell if it turns out she’s wrong, Marian is desperate because she is virtually addicted to the everyday experience of living by faith.  She’s hooked on the comforting routines of discipleship, on the easy camaraderie of spiritual fellowship, on the purpose and identity she draws from openly following Jesus.  Also, on a more existential level, she’s terrified of being alone and adrift in an uncaring Universe, with no meaning but that which she can fashion for herself.  Really, she needs the assurance she’s on a divine mission like a junkie needs a fix.  I can relate, of course.  I’m a faith addict, too. 

It isn’t just that, like Marian, I’m already so deeply invested in the idea of God.  It’s that the idea itself is so utterly fabulous.  Whether or not you believe in a good and loving God who can and will redeem everything and everyone in the end, you have to admit that a God like that beats the pants off all the alternative possibilities, including all those lesser Gods whose so-called grace depends on everything from theological orthodoxy to luck of the draw.  Which is all the idea of God needs to do, as far as I am concerned: Beat the pants off all the other possibilities. 

Now I know there are folks who claim they can empirically prove not only the existence of God, but also quite a few particularities about his character and expectations, but I don’t know anyone who takes those folks very seriously.  Even my fundamentalist friends will admit that such things are matters of faith.  What they won’t admit, generally speaking, is why exactly they put their faith in the existence of this or that particular God.  Then again, born as most of us are into overwhelming currents of familial and cultural rituals and assumptions, I doubt they had much choice.  That kind of directional leap of faith is the unique burden—and the unique opportunity—of the true non-believer. 

When I say “directional leap of faith,” by the way, I don’t mean choosing what you actually believe.  Nobody gets to do that, unfortunately, just like nobody gets to choose who they are attracted to, or what they are afraid of, or if they like strawberry ice cream.  Faith is a feeling, after all, and, like it or not, you don’t get to choose your feelings.  All you get to choose is how you respond to them—what you say, where you place yourself, who you watch and listen to, when you start or stop trying to do the right thing.  What you do get to choose, in other words, is how you live. 

Until proven otherwise, I choose to live as though what I (and Marian, and maybe you) desperately hope to be true actually is just that.  I can’t prove anything, but I reckon that if there was a good and loving God, that God would want me to love people—especially poor or broken people—so that’s what I’m trying to do.  I figure that God wouldn’t want me to hurt myself with drugs or alcohol, so I don’t.  I wish pornography and junk food were equally easy for me to refuse, but at least I am disappointed with myself when I succumb to their false promises, because I feel certain that the God I hope for would be disappointed, too. 

Here at last is my point: I believe that living by faith—even on those days you don’t believe in God—is the best life possible, for Marian, for me, for you, or for anyone.  You might call this my version of Pascal’s Wager, except that Pascal’s argument for taking the leap was centered on his fear of eternal damnation, and mine has nothing to do with that.  My best argument for choosing to live by faith is the happiness and meaning that choice gives me right here and now.  A good and loving God in the process of utterly redeeming every soul in the universe may not be the most obvious of existential possibilities, but it is certainly the most beautiful of the bunch, and even more certainly the only one I deem worthy of my devotion. 

And here is my good news: The more I live by faith, the more strongly I suspect that my faith is not in vain, even here in Walnut Hills.  I pray that happens for you, too, wherever you are. 

Your friend,

Bart

Dear Friends,

I agreed to use the family photo below, in spite of the dorkiness of my pose, partly because I am secure in my masculinity and partly because Miranda’s eyes are closed in the one that shows me beating up Roman, Corbin, and Santa for collectively undermining the spirituality of Christmas.

Actually, that Santa is our pal Pickett, who absolutely dazzled the crowd at last week’s Walnut Hills Fellowship dinner, and I couldn’t beat up Miranda these days, let alone the boys. Corbin just won his football team’s “Tough Guy” award, and Roman is gearing up for another season of rugby, while I’m still recovering from the hernia operation I had in September. All three kids will be in college next year, leaving Marty and me to figure out why nearly six years in Cincinnati feels closer to six minutes instead.

Roman called the other day, asking if he, his girlfriend Mariah, and Miranda could take the van to go sledding. He told us Corbin was at work, and asked for the phone number of Jameer, a new little boy in the fellowship. Roman has been trying to foster a friendship between Jameer and David, another boy in the fellowship, whom Roman has been tutoring all year long.

When Marty and I got home that night, Roman and Miranda gave us a play-by-play description of the sledding expedition, complete with collisions, near misses, and who rode with whom. At eight years old, neither Jameer nor David had ever gone sledding before, and they both were crazy about everything from the first run to the last cup of hot chocolate. Still, Roman had to coach them on making eye contact and saying thank you when he took them home. That wasn’t hard, of course, since both boys idolize him.

In a few days, Marty and I will open small gifts from our kids that will be forgotten a few days later. What we will never forget, however, is the feeling we had that night, knowing that our sons’ and daughter’s love for one another, like all real loves, naturally makes room for people who need it. Jameer and David may never escape the chaos of their families or this neighborhood, but both boys have felt the rush of cold wind in their faces, known the warmth of friendship, and enjoyed the careful attention of a young man with just the right blend of compassion and street credibility, along with his fine girlfriend and excellent sister.

The gift Marty and I are cherishing this year is that our kids, all three of them, are growing up in the way that matters most. To us they have always been beautiful, talented, smart, and funny, but what we notice most about them these days is their consistent goodness. If that sounds like bragging, well, I’m genuinely sorry. If you were here, you’d know it is pure gratitude, and if you thought about it, you’d realize that some of it is aimed at you.

This season, all over this neighborhood, all over this world, there are people for whom we hope one thing above all: That they might know Love, first as a receiver, then as a giver, and, eventually, as a not-at-all disinterested fan.

Merry Christmas,

Bart and Marty

Dear Friends,

On Sunday evening, a few of us drove around the neighborhood in my battered mini-van, distributing 15 Thanksgiving baskets, complete with turkeys and all the fixings, that had been delivered to us that afternoon by some very friendly suburban church folks. It was a lot of fun, mainly because we got to visit with and bring food to folks who really need it without actually being the “richer-than-thou dispensers of material blessings” ourselves. This time, we were just the middlemen (and the middlewomen, as it were).

Mostly we visited close friends from our fellowship, including our lone Appalachian couple, Preston and Michelle Pruitt, but we had so much food that we were also able to include a handful of on-the-fence neighbors we’ve been trying to draw into friendship, including Miss Clarissa, who lives next door to the Pruitts.

We surprised Miss Clarissa in her front yard, where she likes to putter around, and she was more gracious than ever with me. A few minutes later Preston answered the door with babies in both arms and a big smile on his face. All was well on Sunday night, at least on Chatham Street.

By Monday morning, however, Chatham Street had gone to Hell. I know, because Marty and I share a makeshift office there, in our friend Chris’s apartment, and we heard the screaming outside our window, where Preston and Miss Clarissa were arguing at full volume. By the time Chris and I ran downstairs, Miss Clarissa was on Preston’s porch, shouting “Fuck you, you hillbilly asshole!” and Preston was walking our way, shouting “Fuck you, too!” back over his shoulder. I pulled him inside to cool off, while Chris went to settle her down.

Apparently, Preston had removed the lock and let himself into the alley between their houses, rather than asking Miss Clarissa’s permission, to repair his own window. Because the house next door had been empty for years until the Pruitts showed up, Miss Clarissa has come to think of that alley as hers alone, and because we live in a ghetto, she wants to keep it closed off to intruders.

I know, I know…it isn’t really a very difficult problem. Or at least it wouldn’t be if Preston didn’t have half a dozen easily accessible chips on his shoulder, born of a lifetime of violence and misunderstanding, and if Miss Clarissa didn’t carry trunk loads of anger, suspicion, and hurt collected from a lifetime of broken promises and outright abuse. Or if they were both black, or if they were both white. Or if either one of them were a little bit more secure.

As it is, the alley is the least of our problems now. Unfortunately, what we have here is not a failure to communicate, but rather the most evil kind of over-communication. In just those few minutes on the Monday before Thanksgiving, Preston and Miss Clarissa showed one another the ugliest parts of their inner selves, and saw in one another the things they fear most.

I wish I could tell you I was confident that Chris and I and the rest of us intentional good neighbors were going to be able to broker a genuine peace on Chatham Street. I wish I could give you the smiles from when we delivered the turkeys on Sunday night without the “Fuck yous!” from Monday morning. But that kind of false, freeze-frame resolution is not what we are thankful for here in Walnut Hills.

What we are thankful for here is that even in his fury, Preston had the presence of mind to walk our way instead of doing what comes naturally to him. And that he let me calm him down, and let Chris apologize on his behalf to Miss Clarissa, even though he wanted to tear her head off. And that he listened, eventually, to the notion that even when you are right in an argument, you can still be wrong if you don’t try to really understand the other person. And that he even managed to joke about it afterwards, when he told us he guessed his fellowship buddies Mark and Rich still had some work to do on his people skills.

Even so, he still has all those chips on his shoulder, and that alley is only three feet wide. I am afraid we are in for plenty of conflict on Chatham Street, and I reckon Miss Clarissa isn’t going to be even on-the-fence about friendship with us for a long time, no matter how sincerely Chris or I re-approach her. The truth is out. The damage is done.

It is a good thing to love people who are even more badly broken than you are, or perhaps just broken in more obvious ways. God knows, sometimes that kind of love even makes a difference in those people’s lives. But what God also knows, I think, and what every parent of more than one child knows as well, is that what we people-lovers really want, more than any praise or gratitude, is for the ones we love to love one another.

Some days I think it is possible, and eternal life sounds like a good idea. Some days I kind of want to sleep in forever.

Sincerely,
Bart Campolo