(e)mergent Voyageurs

Over the past week, given the lovely Spring weather we are enjoying here in Winnipeg, Kim & I (and Dino) have been out a lot more, working in the yard, chatting with the neighbourhood kids and walking through the community. As much as a I love our community, these recent outings have stirred in me memories of Harry. Harry (along with the rest of the New Life Ministries crew) are largely responsible for us calling Winnipeg’s West End home. I missed him this week a great deal.

So I wanted to do something a little different today for this “Tuesdays With Harry”. Rather than post one of his many excellent columns, I want to draw your attention to the Wikipedia entry about Harry & his life. It is understandably brief, but fairly accurate. For those who do not know Harry, it might be a good place for you to start to get an idea about the man behind the columns I post here each week.

For those who knew Harry, perhaps we can all work to making this article more full. Given his appointment to the Order Of Canada, he is without question worthy of a fuller biography. If you are unsure how to use Wikipedia, feel free to send info to me and I will add it for you, as long as you can provide citation and that it is relevant to the article.

I hope those people who you look up to and draw inspiration from do not simply make you feel good or challenge you intellectually. I hope, like Harry did for us, that they disrupt your life on such a fundamental level that it changes the course of your life- or at least a change of address.

Missional

Previous Post – Exploring The Community Coming To Be Known As Missional – 1

I Didn’t Want It To Be My Fault
November 28, 2004 – Winnipeg Sun
by Harry Lehotsky CM, 1957-2006

I’m not shy about taking blame when I can see I’ve done something wrong.

It’s not unusual for people to take issue with things I do or say. I live and work in a place where I don’t always have the luxury of time to plan my response to every spontaneous combustion of circumstance.

Living in our neighbourhood, working on these streets, folks develop and trust instincts when they don’t have time to exercise lengthy analysis. Those instincts have helped me quickly cut through political mumbo-jumbo, assess physical threats, or discern when someone’s feeding me a line for a quick buck.

Despite years of experience, however, I know I can still make mistakes.

But this was a little much.

A few months ago, a woman accused me of forcing her into prostitution. That was a first for me!

I’ll tell you what happened so you can assess my guilt or innocence.

I was getting ready to leave the church to meet with someone. A woman I’ve seen on the street came to the door and struck up a conversation. As she spoke, it became evident that what she really wanted was some money.

It wasn’t like I had money to give that I didn’t owe elsewhere. But I decided to ask some questions anyway.

When I panhandle a funding agency for a little help in providing a service requested by the community, I usually have to go through a process. Typically the four-page application form requests articulation of goals, objectives, values, partners, and a business plan. Then they want to see my sustainability strategy and how they can evaluate whether their donation was well-spent.

I didn’t have one of those forms handy, so my questions for the woman were quite basic, starting with the purpose of her funding application.

After a while, she explained that what she really needed was some money to fill several prescriptions.

Sensing my suspicions, she addressed them directly. “Do you think I’m lying? Just wait here, I’ll go get the bottles.”

She left the church, returning in a few minutes with an assortment of pill bottles. The labels all bore her name, and she described the purpose of each prescription. The most important, she said, was the pill which would alleviate her anxiety.

I stared at the bottles while listening to her talk, fully aware of the reality of mental illness, but still suspicious of the woman’s story.

I considered the likelihood that someone smarter than me probably performed an expert assessment prior to prescribing all those drugs. But I had to weigh that against the knowledge that there are a few doctors who are said to prescribe almost any drug in exchange for financial or sexual kickbacks.

It’s not uncommon for people to be abusing combinations of falsely (or mistakenly) prescribed drugs. I had to consider this as an option. I’ve even seen some people resell their prescriptions, pill by pill, on the street.

Still uncertain as to the legitimacy of her claim, I took another look at the woman. I couldn’t escape the thought that the symptoms supposedly addressed by her combination of medications didn’t seem to suit the woman in front of me.

Outwardly she displayed an exaggerated anxiety which would lead me to believe her desperate need for anxiety medication. But in her eyes and spirit, she seemed cool and methodical as she tried to coax my charity.

Seemingly sensing my thoughts, she pulled out all the stops. She even admitted what I already knew. “Yes, I work the street. Yes, I’ve conned people for money. But I really need this $25 for this medication.

“I know the work you do in the community. I can even help you do it ’cause I know what’s going on out there.”

I made my decision. Believing I was right but knowing there was a chance I could be wrong. I said I would be glad to work with her, and even advocate for help from her worker, but there would be no money changing hands between us.

There were several seconds of silence as she stared at me in disbelief.

Then she hit me with the zinger.

“Fine. But I want you to know one thing. Since you didn’t give me the money I need to fill my prescription, I’m going to go onto Ellice Avenue and hook until I get the money that you wouldn’t give me.”

She continued: “You know how many women have died out there. Just think how you’ll feel if something happens to me while I’m out there because you didn’t give me what I needed.”

How would you have responded to that?

I tried to affirm my care combined with my belief that what she needed would not be addressed by the money for the “anxiety medication.” I said I was willing to try to get her some real help. But if she was going to do what she threatened, I knew I couldn’t stop her.

She left, and about an hour later I saw her working on Ellice.

We looked at each other silently across the street. Knowing further conversation wouldn’t change anything, I prayed she would at least make it home safely.

I didn’t want to accept the blame for putting her on the street. But not accepting blame wouldn’t diminish the pain if something happened to her.

She continued working Ellice for the remainder of the summer.

I haven’t seen her for a while. I found myself praying again this week that she survives long enough to have a chance to get better.

Not Every Village Is Qualified To Raise A Child
January 2, 2005 – Winnipeg Sun
by Harry Lehotsky CM, 1957-2006

Have you ever heard the old African proverb which states, “It takes a village to raise a child?”

The proverb gained North American notoriety several years ago with the publication of Hillary Clinton’s book, It Takes A Village.

The book emphasized the impact of communities on growing children. No man — or child — is an island. No family raises children in a vacuum. Children are influenced by their surroundings, peers, extended family, media, and a plethora of other influences.  

Clinton’s popularization of the African proverb fostered a romantic notion of solidarity and community development of the family.

When I first heard the proverb, I cynically commented, “That may be true somewhere else, but we’re a long way from Africa!” I reflected on the large number of messed up children in our society.

Taking responsibility

I wondered if the misappropriation of a cultural maxim would become simply another way for errant kids to avoid taking responsibility for their own behaviour. Now they could pin their exploits on the influence of the village. And it wasn’t long before I heard Hillary’s phrase parroted by courtroom defence attorneys.

Recently, I’ve met a growing number of refugees and immigrants from other countries. And I ponder the old proverb as I listen to their stories.

Many individuals and families have come from distant villages to our North American cities. Many have left circumstances of extreme violence, poverty and political turmoil.

They come with dreams of advanced education, heightened civility, elevated culture, and hopes for accessing the success advertised so well by our society.

But as they pursue participation in our success they also discover that they are sucked into our dysfunction. There’s a flip side to the freedoms celebrated by our culture.

As I listen to their stories, some of their observations about our culture are painfully blunt.

“I’m not quite sure what we expected when we came here, but it’s harder to succeed than I first thought.”

“We thought we were leaving a land of danger for a land of opportunity. But even here, in the midst of great potential, there are new dangers for us and our children.”

I feel their frustration and fear as they share some of the ways their experience is devalued and their best values are systematically dismantled.

They are surprised to discover that our schools allow promotion through grades without passing grades.

They are shocked to hear that schools struggling to convey basic literacy and computation skills feel qualified to educate children in applying condoms and accessing abortions “necessitated” by irresponsible intercourse.

Some parents have expressed extreme dismay that schools teach their kids that gay is OK and that all authority — including that of parents — must be questioned.
Media bombards them with the commercialization of violence and promiscuity. Our free media provides daily lessons in the art of claiming rights without accepting responsibility.

They meet people who, despite their physical fitness, receive “social assistance” cheques without working. And they hear their own jobs mocked and rejected as “McJobs” by those who claim they inherently deserve more than what is offered to their neighbours.

Legally, they observe laws without consequences and courts without clout. They learn that government health agencies distribute free crack pipes and needles for illegal narcotics.

They notice that our provincial government runs casinos to squeeze more money from gambling addicts.

Our city licenses brothels in the guise of “massage parlours.” Our federal government imports strippers and routinely promotes bureaucratic graft which is obscene in its excess.

Our Supreme Court outlaws spanking, neuters youth justice, redefines pedophilia to allow sex with children, and forces conditional sentencing for offenders. Unelected officials obsess over definitions and words while ignoring the pleas of citizens for practical help on pressing issues of daily concern.

Ralph Abernathy, black civil rights leader, commented: “I’m sick and tired of black and white people of good intent giving aspirin to a society that is dying of a cancerous disease.”

Rules and schools and social workers ensure that newcomers are bureaucratized to play our cultural game and desensitized to its consequences.

Our moral incontinence masquerades as an enlightened appreciation for diversity. Newcomers are consumed by our multiplicity of standards and our duplicity of values. Dissidents are mocked as regressive, repressive and narrow-minded.

What a country!

The romantic notion, the sociological idealism of our “village” raising children is betrayed by the hard cold facts. Our North American village is in chaos.

The closest we get to a village raising children is when Child and Family Services takes custody of children in hotel rooms. And that’s little more than the child-care equivalent of hallway medicine.

We rightly bemoan the loss of culture and trampling of the identity of our First Nations people.

But we don’t consider how we continually trample the cultural identity and morality of so many other nations to accommodate prideful notions of superiority and enlightenment.

Delivering the truth

Perhaps Hans Christian Anderson was right. Sometimes it takes a newcomer to help us see that our proud emperor’s wonderful wardrobe has been spun with threads of delusion and denial. As in his fairy tale, a persistent delivery of truth is the best antidote for false pride.

Yet the newcomers are gracious. In the midst of their fears and frustrations, they are not ungrateful for the opportunity to build a new life.

They share their observations not with arrogance, but with the concern of friends who have something to contribute to our healing.

If it’s true that it takes a village to raise a child, then somebody better help us raise a better village — before our village raises too many more mixed up, messed up kids.

Perhaps we can learn a few lessons from the lands in which the old proverb actually had some meaning.

As most of you are probably aware from this blog, Harry Lehotsky was a friend and hero of mine. His columns, like his life choices, represented examples of his courage and commitment to our city, especially in our inner city West End community. However, in his columns (again like in his choices) he was very human. In order to be as bold as Harry was, he also (and self-admittedly) put his foot in his mouth from time to time. I think the following post is a small reflection of this.

In the end, I do not think this column was helpful to the issue. Had I written, I would have taken a different tact. However, in addition to reading the important truths beyond the failures, it also protects us from viewing Harry anything more than a human being, prone to mistakes. If we fail to do so, we could convince ourselves that his example is an exception, not able to be followed. As Dorothy Day once said, “Don’t call me a saint. I don’t want to be dismissed so easily”.

A Racist Fart?
February 6, 2005 – Winnipeg Sun
by Harry Lehotsky CM

Have you ever heard the phrase, “Maybe he that smelt it, dealt it.” … ?

As kids growing up, we develop all kinds of survival and coping skills. One of the more humorous deals with farting.

Have you ever farted in a room (or bus, or subway) full of people? Perhaps it was one of those unconscious odoriferous flatulations that slips out before you think to try to stop it. Or maybe you knowingly let loose, gambling that it would be silent and scentless. Then, to your dismay, it turns out to be neither.

In a few seconds, you know people will be wrinkling their noses and seeking the culprit. Thinking fast, you launch a pre-emptive strike. “Aw, man! Who farted?”

You know you’re the culprit, but by asking the question out loud you hope to exclude yourself from the list of suspects. People will be busy casting accusing glances at each other, thinking, “It can’t be him, since he asked the question.”

One of my buddies pulled the trick so often it ceased to distract us. We saw through the smoke. After awhile, we just turned to him and suggested, “He that smelt it, dealt it.”

And the phrase wasn’t unique to our little group in New York. People everywhere seem to be familiar with the phrase.

More recently, however, I’ve come to believe that phrase may apply to more than farting. Like maybe when someone starts accusing others of racism.

Sometimes it’s wise to examine the claimant as well as the claim.

Over 25 years of community work, I’ve met lots of ethnocentric activists. These folk are typically paid, elected or self-appointed to be advocates for “their” people.

They forcefully articulate the strengths and needs of their people. That’s fine. But, in the process of this ethno-centric advocacy, they articulate those needs and strengths in opposition to, and at the expense of, all other people of all other cultures.

Some ethno-centric activists, whether white, aboriginal, Asian or African-American start to sound amazingly similar.

They spout variations of, “My culture is better than your culture.” … “Your culture is keeping us down.”

What they mean is, “I won’t admit or explain the weaknesses or deficiencies of my culture to you. And besides, if there are any serious problems in my culture, those are due to the pollution caused by other cultures.”

The ‘R’ card

Some activists often play something called the ‘R’ card. This refers to the tendency of some to shout “racism!” whenever there is danger of losing an argument or funding proposal.

Sometimes the ‘R’ card is played by folks who never seem to show up in the news other than when they’re accusing someone else of racism.

Media reports are replete with stereotypical examples of activists who, when pressed on issues of accountability or personal responsibility, automatically play the ‘R’ card.

For a small but vocal minority of activists, personal culpability for one’s problems is consistently swept under the carpet of socio-political-economic explanations for destructive behaviour.

Abdication of responsibility is a personal problem, not a cultural characteristic.

I don’t deny the deleterious impact of generational poverty, residential schools, sexual abuse, loss of traditional culture or bad parenting. These are factors which have far-reaching and long-lasting impact.

But I am not a determinist. I believe that people of every race are more than the sum total of their deficits or victimizations.

Those victimizations are not the sole or immediate cause of all personal or social problems.

Most people willingly acknowledge that an explanation is not the same as an excuse.

When blaming the victim is replaced by blaming the victimization, we’re no closer to lasting change. Both extremes facilitate denial of one’s own responsibilities.

When the only way to advocate for “your” people is to pretend they’re culturally and morally superior to everyone else, isn’t that racism?

When people are organized around self-pity, anger and blaming others who don’t share your skin colour, isn’t that a form of racism?

When cops are so quickly accused, while criminals are so routinely excused — isn’t that racism, too?

I wish the ethnocentric activists would grab a clue! All this propensity to blindly accuse others of racism actually backfires. It perpetuates the prejudice they seek to avoid from others.

In one funding meeting an activist commented, “After all your people have done to my people, you have no right to talk to me about accountability or paperwork.”

They may as well have said, “Just give me the money or I’ll call you a racist.”

In another meeting, an activist commented, “I am offended that cops keep arresting my people!

“Look at the prisons. It’s obvious they’re picking on us.”

I wondered if he was suggesting that some crimes committed by “his people” shouldn’t be enforced or prosecuted until there’s fewer of “his people” in prison?

Human rights

On a more personal note, I’m surprised at the sensitivity regarding human rights from some individuals who so regularly profess disdain for my person, my colour and my faith at community meetings.

I’ve learned that racists come in all colours and exist in all cultures. What they share in common is the conviction that they have a valid reason for their prejudices, an excuse for their racial bias.

I’m thinking the lesson learned in my childhood may still apply.

When somebody says, “Who farted!” my first reflex is still to check if “he that smelt it dealt it.”

Similarly, the next time somebody screams, “Racism!” I won’t dismiss the possibility that “he that smelt it dealt it.”

Emerging Church, Missional

(For Part 1 Click Here)

Why Did Chris Quit?
January 16, 2005 – Winnipeg Sun
by Harry Lehotsky CM

One of Chris’s co-workers phoned me and asked, “Can you go check what’s going on with Chris? This is the second day he’s not at work and he hasn’t told us if he’s sick or tired, or just ticked off about something.”

I walked up the three floors to his apartment, wondering what kind of discussion would follow.

I remember how we became friends. Chris came to our church sporting stereotypical biker attire with a history of incarceration and an attitude to match. But behind the hardened mask was a genuine interest in exploring faith and life from a different angle.

From philosophical discussions to theological debates, we covered a broad range of issues and concerns.

I remember the time we even argued about Winnipeg Transit.

The whole notion of working an honest job to earn an honest wage was a tough concept for Chris. It was much easier to make more money doing collections, enforcement, theft, and deals of different sorts. While dangerous and illegal, these provided an addictive blend of excitement and profit.

But despite the rationalizations, Chris knew he was doing wrong. He carried a heavy load of guilt for some of the suffering his actions had caused others. Despite all the forces pulling him the other way, he decided to explore the life of an ordinary citizen.

While on welfare he started volunteering with Lazarus Housing. After a while, he found a part-time job with someone else.

I remember one particularly cold winter day when I asked how it was going at work. He responded that it was good, but it was a long walk in the cold.

I questioned why he would walk over three miles to work — right along a bus route. I asked, “Why wouldn’t you just get on the bus and let it take you right to work?”

And I was shocked at the intensity of his reaction.

He leaned close to my face, speaking loudly and deliberately. “I don’t care what you say, Harry. I ain’t riding no damned pumpkin!”

I guess some people have a thing against buses. I wasn’t sure what the problem was, but I knew this was a problem waiting to be resolved.

I challenged him on the logic of walking in the cold snow when he could be riding in a warm bus. He responded with some nonsense about “the man,” the “system” and having to pay to live by someone else’s schedule.

I was kind of ticked off at my friend’s logic. It was my turn to lean forward and speak firmly. “What makes you think you’re so special? You see the old lady, the young immigrant, the student taking the bus. When you’re walking in the cold with your frozen pride, you think you’re better than them because you haven’t given in to taking a bus?”

The yelling continued for awhile inside my office. I remember someone knocking to see if everything was OK. We both calmed down and decided to let it rest.

I didn’t say anything more about it. I’ll always remember when, weeks later, Chris approached me after church and said he had something to show me. He warned, “But you better promise not to laugh.” Checking to make sure nobody was watching, he pulled something from his pocket. His hand opened to reveal a bus pass. He commented, “I still don’t like it, but it beats walking.” We both smirked and figured things were getting better.

I figured there wasn’t much we couldn’t talk, or argue, through to some resolution.

I reached Chris’s apartment door and knocked. There was no answer. I considered he might be mad about something that he wasn’t ready to talk about. So I said, “Chris, open up. If you don’t, I’m going to use my key to unlock the door.”

Getting no response, I unlocked the door, calling out more loudly to make sure he heard me if he was home.

As I tried to open the door, it was stopped by a secondary chain lock. Getting aggravated, I said, “OK Chris. That’s enough. Just open up the door so we can talk. If you don’t open it, I’ll kick in the door.”

I expected an answer, a retort or even a laugh at my pastoral approach. But there was only silence.

So I kicked in the door.

I stood in the doorway and scanned the small apartment for Chris. And I didn’t see anything until I stepped inside.

That’s when the door moved and I saw Chris — dead — hanging on the back of his door.

I didn’t know it was possible to feel so shocked, afraid, angry and confused at the same time. Disoriented, I dropped to my knees crying. I asked “Why?” Out loud. I yelled something I can’t remember, wishing he would yell back, talk back — anything but his horrible silence.

As I waited for cops and friends, I looked for a note but there was none to be found.

Years later, I still wonder what happened to spark such an act of anger or despair. I resented him for leaving his friends without an explanation.

I’ve learned a few things over the past few years. Not all questions get answered. Some circumstances lack adequate explanations. I’m responsible to people — not for them.

But I still miss Chris.

Missional

Chris’s Release Into A New Community
January 9, 2005 – Winnipeg Sun
by Harry Lehotsky CM

I extended my hand and smirked as Chris entered the church. It’s not my typical pastoral greeting, but this time I couldn’t help it. We had talked several times over the phone, and I had heard about him, but we hadn’t met.

His visit was prefaced by a typically brusque and blunt phone call. “Hey, I’m just gonna come in, meet you, and just check out the joint, see if it’s safe.”

As he entered the church, I considered the oddness of his expressed concern for safety. He looked more like the type of guy who would elevate the concern of others for their own safety. Long hair, wild beard, battle worn leather jacket, and extensive tattoos accompanied a look and manner which indicated a hair-trigger temper and a history of anti-social behaviour.

As I shook his hand and our eyes met, I knew he wasn’t concerned about his physical safety.

So I figured if we’re both thinking something, we should probably talk about it — even if it’s awkward.

His comments clarified that he knew better how to deal with a physical threat than a look of condescension or judgment.

Chris, like so many others, understood that physical wounds heal, but dirty looks and mistrust cut in a way that can’t be sutured.

I told him I couldn’t guarantee that everyone would immediately trust him. Some in the church had been hurt by people who looked like him. They might understandably be a bit nervous. I reminded him that he had gone to great lengths to develop a look that worked to protect him on the street precisely by making other people nervous.

It’s like others I know who don’t take a bath for weeks and then get all indignant about the snobbery of people whose gag reflex hasn’t yet adjusted to the stench.

But I assured him that most of the folk in our church aren’t ruled by first impressions or old prejudices. They would give him the same chance they got — a chance to be who they wanted to be. To be treated like they were prepared to treat others.

He made sure I understood that he had done “hard time.” That he wasn’t impressed with religion. That he was about “as interested in the Bible as in Playboy magazine.”

And I could tell he was surprised when I responded with a smile and commented that I was fine starting there.

Chris was a survivor. He survived the death of his wife and kids via a drunk driver. He survived an internment of over half his life in penitentiaries across Canada. He had survived the enmity of determined foes and the friendship of similarly challenged buddies.

I found it intriguing how Chris and I lived in the same neighbourhood, yet our view of the community — let alone the world — could be so totally different.

It hit me when Chris and I spent a day together. I visited the school, several businesses and some church and community acquaintances. Since Chris was with me, I simply introduced him as my friend.

Had he come alone, folks may not even have answered the door.

Part way through the afternoon, Chris announced, “Harry — this is blowing my mind. I always laughed when people talked about community. Before today that was just a place where I had a room, ate my meals and watched my back. Now I can understand what people mean when they use the word ‘community.’ “

And the concept revolutionized his behaviour in the neighbourhood.

There was the time Virginia was at the checkout line in Safeway when she spied Chris glaring in her direction. Unsure of what was going on she approached him to ask what was happening. He clarified that he wasn’t looking at her but some guy who was getting too close — probably trying to look into her purse. The guy caught Chris’s glare and took off quickly.

Chris was a guy who was labelled a perpetual perpetrator. He was a guy with serious authority issues, a history of criminal behaviour, a trail of violence and incarceration that made him a suspect even when he wasn’t committing crimes.

Now, instead of a perpetrator, Chris began to see himself more in the role of protector of community. He didn’t trust “the system” and he despised “programs,” but he was determined to find ways to help.

A night owl, he put together a medical kit in a small tool box and always kept it ready to help people he found injured in dangerous places. He found ways — some very unorthodox — to try to get people off the streets. He broadened my understanding of community — the people, the behaviours and the concept of friendship.

We became friends — talking together, working together, jogging around the neighbourhood.

He started working on some of our housing renovations. Kids, including my own, were drawn to this wild, intense ex-con always willing to talk about appreciation for life and parents and getting real with doing good. And I was happy for their time with Chris. I had no worries about him corrupting the kids. If anything, he was inspiring them in new ways to carve out a good path. To pursue with vigour the chances he felt he never got.

Chris continually marvelled at the new world opening up in front of him.

And I marveled at what can happen when you start treating someone like they want to be treated instead of how they’ve felt they deserve to be treated.

Missional

The following article was written by Harry in the midst of the SARS scare a few years back. Without saying too much, I think this article powerfully demonstrates a serious challenge facing the church in its journey to becoming truly missional. I wish more people would discover what Harry knew about our neighbourhood and others like it. I hope you will be open to discovering it too.

Neighbourhoods can be travel-advisory victims too
May 4, 2003 – Winnipeg Sun
By Harry Lehotsky

Barely a week ago, Toronto’s Mayor Mel blew a gasket when the World Health Organization issued a “travel advisory” against Toronto. Despite his inability to articulate the facts, he was clear in his anger at outsiders who effectively “quarantined” his city, assuming Toronto was less safe than he felt it was.

A few days ago, after reviewing statistics, scientific data, political pressure and economic implications, the WHO withdrew their advisory against travel to Toronto.

Unfortunately, the removal of the WHO advisory doesn’t automatically erase the ex-officio private travel advisories of families, and friends who are not so quick to trust politicians and bureaucrats.

In a way I can’t blame them. Would you have blind faith in a system which, in our province, doesn’t count some patients stuck in hallways because there’s an empty bed in a room somewhere else? Across our country, confidence in the health system erodes as people sense that politics has taken precedence over patients.

A few weeks ago, an older friend of mine went to “Urgent Care” at the hospital after a painful fall. She waited for 4 hours and eventually sat with a doctor for about 5 minutes. He advised her to take some Tylenol for a bruised muscle. A little over a week later, she went somewhere else. They actually ordered an x-ray and discovered the arm was broken. She commented on her loss of confidence in the system.

Even doctors disagree. One doc at a local clinic still wore her mask this week. Is she overly cautious or are others overly careless?

I know some skeptical folk are still advising family and friends against travel to Toronto. I guess it’ll take more than official pronouncements and $1 Blue Jay tickets to alleviate the fear of SARS.

This whole situation parallels another “travel advisory” which has haunted my neighbourhood for years.

I have reacted strongly to outsiders who advise against travel to my neighbourhood because it’s “too dangerous there.”

I’ve heard it often. They’ll cite anything from crime, drugs, HIV, Hep C, prostitution, gangs, cockroaches, cons, crooks and panhandlers as reasons to avoid our fair community.

Several years ago, I met a young couple in a local coffee shop. They were “researching” our community before deciding whether or not they would move here.

The only things they knew about our neighbourhood was what they saw in the media or heard from friends and family. Unfortunately, most of that information was negative. Before dismissing the idea, however, they decided they would meet with some residents. They had some basic questions for me.

They asked, “Is it safe to come down here?” I answered, “Yes!” I couldn’t offer an ironclad guarantee, but I wouldn’t do that in any neighbourhood. I did, however, introduce them to healthy and happy families living without fear in the West End.

We discussed the convenience, affordability, services, and ethnic diversity of the neighbourhood. We checked out a few large renovated character homes. I could tell they were falling in love with our neighbourhood.

After awhile, they asked their toughest question. “How do you handle caring parents and friends who warn us against living here or threaten not to visit if we move?”

I asked if she had any specific examples. Apparently, this woman’s mom warned that if this couple moved into our “bad” neighbourhood she might call CFS because she considered that a move which would put her grandkids “at risk.”

Now that’s an ominous travel advisory!

It’s not just official bureaucratic “travel advisories” that hurt communities. These ex-officio and mis-informed travel advisories can have a serious detrimental impact on the economy, self-perception and social fabric of a city like Toronto or a neighbourhood like mine.

I’m not in denial. We definitely have some problems in our neighbourhood.

But it doesn’t seem to matter to these outsiders that 95% of all people in our neighbourhood have no involvement in those problems.

It doesn’t matter that these things are not normally communicable through casual contact. Most crime in our neighbourhood befalls those already involved in criminal activity or rotten relationships.

Sometimes the desire to protect ourselves takes priority over any desire to educate ourselves about real or imagined risks. You can spend a lifetime avoiding “bad” neighbourhoods, shunning suspicious people, dodging mosquitoes and every other imaginable risk. Or you could take a little time to check the facts about those perceived risks.

In case you’re wondering about that couple I met in the coffee shop – they’ve been living in the area for several years now.

As we fix homes, fight crime, and start businesses we’re grateful for those who help us spread the good news. We continue to work to abate every risk, and joyfully anticipate the lifting of every travel advisory.

Emerging Church, Missional

After nearly 13 years with YWAM and being involved in the Discipleship Training School (DTS), one commitment my wife & I made when we started our ministry here in Winnipeg was that we would resist the impulse of creating a discipleship environment that was isolated from the surrounding community. Embracing the value of living in proximity with the people we were called to live and serve with, as well as attempting to contribute to what Alan Hirsch calls the Apostolic Environment, we have intentionally shaped our DTS in this way.

While finding expression in many different ways, one primary way is that we wanted to take our meals in the neighbourhood. To that end, we eat our meals at the amazing Ellice Cafe a block away from the YWAM house, sharing our lives with our neighbours. If you are not familiar with the Ellice Cafe and its story, here it is in Harry’s own words:

Revitalization can taste great – Our new cafe! - January 30, 2005 – Winnipeg Sun
by Harry Lehotsky

Some folks know me as a pastor. Others know me as an activist or a troublemaker. Some know me as landlord for some of the integrated transitional housing run by our church.

This week, however, I’m putting on a new hat. I’m becoming restaurateur at the Ellice Cafe & Theatre on the corner of Ellice and Sherbrook.

Some have asked: “Why would a church start a restaurant?”

It’s a good question. Some background.

For 21 years, I’ve pastored this inner-city church. I started in stereotypical fashion, going door-to-door, asking people if they wanted to attend a new church. I knocked on the doors of all the homes, apartment blocks and rooming houses in the neighbourhood.

I was able to count on one hand the people who expressed an interest in checking out a new church. An ordained Baptist minister with a seminary degree, I wondered if perhaps this was the wrong place or wrong time for a church — or perhaps that I was just the wrong person for the job.

I decided to go back through the neighbourhood and ask different questions. “What are you interested in? What are your concerns in the neighbourhood?”

Suddenly, people were willing to talk.

I heard their frustrations, fears, and hopes for the neighbourhood. I talked with parents concerned about their children. I heard from seniors concerned about health and safety in the neighbourhood. Business folk detailed their issues in the community.

I tried to help people regardless of whether or not they attended church. I expanded my understanding of ministry from serving people in a church building to serving the entire community around the church.

We spent years trying to help people through counsel, advocacy and referral.

I was frustrated by all the things we couldn’t provide. No sermon, song, counsel or social service could counter the debilitating effects of living in some hellhole of a building. It’s tough to sustain change when sharing long days and nights with others who have no interest in their own health and safety — let alone that of others.

Our experience in patching and painting each other’s homes helped us to gut and rehab a derelict house in the neighbourhood. A developer noticed some of our work on TV, and donated an apartment block to our church.

Government noticed our work and started helping us. We were able expand the quantity and quality of our renovations of homes for homeownership and apartments.

But the more you do, the more you see still needs doing.

I had noticed for awhile how eating and leisure habits contribute to — or frustrate — positive changes in the lives of people.

Whenever our church had a meal, people would share good food and warm fellowship. I noticed how happy people were getting out of their apartments to spend time with others.

For awhile, in addition to community meals, we started a monthly coffee house. On those Friday nights we arranged our seating around candlelit tables with a well-lit stage. We invited a variety of bands to play. We sold pizza by the slice, soda, coffee and desserts to cover our costs.

During one of those coffeehouses, a friend leaned over and suggested that I look around.

“Check it out, Harry. You know why some of these people are here? Some of them don’t even like this style of music. But they’re here because it’s better than sitting home alone and cheaper than all the other places they can’t afford.”

There were days I fantasized about starting a full-time coffee house or even a food service for residents of our transitional housing. But I never thought I’d have the opportunity.

The trick would be doing it in a way that wouldn’t force me to depend on government for operating funds. I wanted it to be self-sustaining.

But to become self-sustaining, it would have to be nice enough that people who could pay for what they want would choose to eat with us. Their income would not only pay for their own food, but also subsidize a high quality meal program for some low-income people in our community.

We were able to purchase the old Mac’s Building at the corner of Ellice and Sher-brook. This week we’ll finally open the cafe.

The name — Ellice Cafe & Theatre — was selected by community residents. A designer worked with our Lazarus Housing crew to feature some of the heritage of the building and our community. Evidence of providence came with the addition of an excellent chef.

I may be naive, but I also wanted to tackle some of my frustrations in restaurants. Waiting too long for someone to take my order, or waiting too long for my cheque afterwards. Sticker shock from how pre-tax menu prices don’t match up to my bill at the end. Above all, I wanted a warm atmosphere and great food in the healthy context of a good socio-economic mix of people.

Sometimes folks get overwhelmed with the problems of the inner city. They wonder how to support revitalization.

We don’t want government operating funds. We don’t want to be dependent on your tax dollars. We’d like to attract some of your leisure dollars.

Revitalization is also about where you go to see movies or attend concerts. It’s also about where you go to eat, and who provides your catering.

Come downtown.

Revitalization can leave a great taste in your mouth.

Emerging Church, Missional

This weekend, as we were out in our neighbourhood, Kim & I noticed a couple of young men being arrested. Both were wearing gang colours. We took a deep sigh, knowing what this meant. The gangs were on the rise again, which meant we’d have to be more careful in the months to come.

Some might expect that we would be scared by such a development. In fact, while we aren’t foolish about it, this is by no means one of the more frightening aspects of missional living. As Harry’s article explains, it is sometimes the simplest thing that can scare us.

Why it’s scary trying to help… - March 7, 2004 – Winnipeg Sun
by Harry Lehotsky

Did you ever really want to help someone, but didn’t know what to do? Or even what to say?

It’s a privilege when people trust you enough to open up about their problems. It’s also humbling to realize their willingness to be vulnerable is accompanied by an expectation that you will care and perhaps be able to help.

One night last week I visited with a couple in our neighborhood. They were honest about their troubles as well as their desperation to change. Using crack cocaine, struggling with a very rocky past, unemployed and penniless. But they stressed that they wouldn’t be asking me for spare change. What they wanted was some real change – a change of life.

I realized that a request for money would have been easier to deal with than a request for help and change. You can give someone some spare change, walk away, and feel you’ve done your two bits. But if you listen to the problems and involve yourself in the solution, it’s no longer easy to walk away.

These folks had read some of these columns and felt that I might understand their struggles. They had heard about some of our church’s good work in the community. So I met with them, despite my fear of letting them down.

I liked this couple, and I really wanted to help them make important changes in their lives.

As we talked, however, I had to confront some nagging internal doubts. “What do you have to offer someone that’s penniless, jobless, struggling with crack, and a past beyond your comprehension?”

These thoughts are less about inferiority or inadequacy than a realistic reminder of my limitations. I’ll speak the truth as I see it. I’ll encourage. I’ll brainstorm. But, in the end, I know I’ll eventually leave that apartment, and they’ll still be on their own struggling against the night.

Fortunately, they knew we were way past a quick fixes and magic wands. They had traveled a long time in some deep ruts and it would take time and effort to get on a better road. So we had a good talk, a prayer and some resolve to meet again.

As I left their apartment, nothing much had changed about their situation – except now they weren’t quite as alone in the struggle. And we were all moving in the right direction.

In wanting to help others, we are confronted with our own limitations. We face our own fears of failure even as we try to help others past their failures.

I guess that’s what keeps many people from offering any help at all.

Last Friday, I was one of several speakers addressing a gathering of Mennonite leaders wanting to address poverty in Winnipeg.

One person commented on how scary it is to deal with “needy” people. I asked him what he meant.

He responded honestly, “I guess I don’t like failing. I work hard to resolve problems. I judge myself based on how many problems I fix or how much challenges I conquer. I’m driven by achievement. That’s why helping others scares me. I don’t have control over all the factors leading to their success.”

One woman commented, “The issues are so huge! It gets so overwhelming that I don’t even know where to start. You can give up hope before you start.”

But rather than quit in the face of all they couldn’t change, they brainstormed some creative ways to help in community revitalization.

One suggested that at least one of every ten times eating out could be dedicated to exploring some small restaurant in the inner city. They could make a point of occasionally shopping at some smaller business in a struggling community. They could encourage the business owners with their words as well as their cash.

Does this change the world? No. But it does brighten the day of that business owner and it builds a sense of city-wide community.

Another suggestion was that individual suburban churches could partner with a specific block in a neighbourhood like ours. Maybe renovate a house. Perhaps volunteer some time for helping on a community clean-up or barbeque.

Does this eradicate all hunger, crime and poverty? No. But it builds relationships which do more to help than throwing dollars at problems.

Another shared the experience of employers that “tithed” the time of their employees to an inner-city agency or cause. Imagine that! After 36 hours of working for the company, the employer allows his employees to work four hours for some community endeavour. And paradoxically, the employees’ productivity increases rather than decreases.

There’s no magic fix for the morass of urban decay. But there’s always something good you can do as a neighbour.

Emerging Church, Missional