This Square Inch

"[T]here is not a square inch in the whole domain of our human existence over which Christ, who is Sovereign over all, does not cry: 'Mine!'" -Abraham Kuyper

This oft-quoted phrase around Calvin College has been ringing in my head this summer. We (Megan and I) have invested deeply in our neighborhood for the past seven years or so, because we saw a place for which Christ was crying, "Mine!" There have been days when I've seen Christ's ownership manifest, and times when I've wondered if the tenants are paying rent to a different landlord.

This Summer, with bemused joy, I watched as young women and men with hearts beating strong for God's Kingdom came out of the woodwork to set up residence on these streets. This place that for several years has felt so lonely, so barren, to us is now trod by new feet who want to garden empty plots, renovate neglected homes, share lawn and kitchen equipment, speak the gospel. And I say with confidence, "This square inc, is yours, Christ. You are claiming what is rightfully yours!"

Then I see a family from church vacate their home because of the raucous nightly noise from across the street. My neighbor's hand is broken in several places after intercepting a trespasser's jaw. I witness a half dozen drug deals go down from the stoop of the church. A girl my daughter's age pushes a wagon down the middle of the street with no parent in sight. A rock intended for someone else shatters my friend's windshield. And I say with disappointment, "This square inch is yours, Christ. Why don't you claim what is rightfully yours?"

We live in this in between. Every square inch does belong to Christ. He is claiming it. He is claiming the vacant lot, the broken metacarpals, the renewed home, the newly empty one, the drug dealer and the pusher, the little girl and me.

Lessons From the Weekend

Because all my friends who have being cutting my hair in the last two years of college have graduated, I had no choice but to visit a barber last Friday. So I went to this barber shop not too sure what to expect, just like every time we do something for the first time. The two barbers were white, the clients there were white, and the hair on the floor was all blonde. I am not white. There was this urge to check if there were any sign that wrote “whites only.” No, this is 21st century America-- a free country. OK. I wondered if the barber would treat me differently. It turned out he didn’t. OK. I wondered if this scene was possible 80 years ago, or even 50 years ago. I got out of the barber shop, sporting a new hair style. OK.

Then in class today, the second week of class, I noticed in one of the lectures that all the students of color were sitting in the last row. White students occupied the first two rows. None in that class really knew each other, so my guess is that most chose their seats based on whom they wanted to sit with.

We have progressed so far, yet so little. Maybe the young ones, who grew up in 21st century America, could learn a thing or two from those who lived through the segregation period. Like my barber--my new found friend.