Antique Cars and Ice Cream Sandwiches [on being a refuge].

Give it a few decades, and I’ll probably resemble my dad and grandfather in the ways they reminisce about the cars they had when they were my age. But if I have my way, my Jetta will last forever if it means I have to gut and rebuild the engine every 225,000 miles. Whatever. It’s pretty and they don’t make them like that any more. It’s tragic.

I was driving to Orlando from Jacksonville last night, and for those unaware that includes a drive on I-4, the Road of Death. I was in a hurry so I broke my no-extreme-speeding rule for a moment and began to fly. It’s been a while, and I forgot how good it feels. So my fancy modern six cylinder was flying by most of the cars and keeping up with the others, and I began to notice how many vintage cars were sharing the road with me at a much slower pace. There were several, and it has led me to conclude that if I looked into it a little, I’d learn there was an antique car show of some sort that night in Orlando. But I don’t care so I haven’t investigated and I continued to fly to my destination, which was a show. So once hours pass and the show and post-show dinner concluded themselves and faded into yet another fond memory, I drove home. Another journey on the Road of Death.

To be completely honest I was more tired than I should have been as a driver, so I’m a little fuzzy on specific details but I do remember seeing several cars on the sides of I-4 and I-95 alike. One in particular stood out to me on the way home: yet another antique car, returning home from this vintage car extravaganza. Its sleek lines glimmered even in the headlights of my car and the moonlight, washed and waxed to be gazed upon and admired in its utmost pristine condition, fingers run across its design. Except this time, the hands were those of the tow truck man, his eyes investigating the best method to get this car off of the side of the interstate and to the nearest mechanic qualified to be trusted with such a treasure.

The irony of the moment is what struck me most; a car that not only is admired just as it drives down the road but was just at an event where car collectors and fans gathered to discuss and share their passions, to brag about their babies. This car probably got a few compliments, “This sure is a nice looking car, I had one just like it years ago….” And the owner probably pretended to be more humble about it than he is, “Aw shucks….well I’ve done this-and-this and such-and-such work on it, since my kids moved out and I’ve retired, I’ve had more time.” He probably didn’t mention that there was a chance the car wasn’t going to get itself back to its protective garage that night. That’s my guess on how it all played out anyway. And it occurs to me that this is probably how many of us seem, how I seem to so many. I am so well-put together, that girl who goes to college and church and doesn’t do drugs. Like I have nothing wrong on the inside, like I am not plagued by a curse thirsty for my veins. Hide your sins from the righteous, for they will judge you. When in fact I think it is so important for us to invest in community, to have relationships facilitating freedom so I can pull up my sleeve and show you my scars without shame, to reach for victory and be caught when I fall. We don’t have that community. We go to the show, brag, and die on the way back to our self-fashioned homes, our comfort zones. We go to work and class and church and the beach and the movies and out to dinner and the bowling alley and say we’re “fine,” we’re “good.”

Nearly four years ago, my grandma was quite literally fading away on the death bed Hospice had rolled in for her. My mom, brother and I moved up to Arkansas to be with her until the end. It did not take long for me to settle back into the home of my childhood, the den that saw my finest Lego creations and the kitchen walls that saw my watermelon fight with my brother, the bedroom that saw my slumbers and the acre of pine trees that saw my young explorations and games. My grandma and I didn’t talk every day and we kept in touch through my mother, but it was with my grandma that I felt least condemned as a child; I usually got in trouble with everyone else. So I never felt like a guest in that house. If it was her house, it was my house and that’s just the way it went. Her car became my car, actually, and I loved that boat simply because she had driven it.

So that May, my aunt and her kids came to bid my grandma farewell. Family politics had separated them for years, and no doubt my cousins had no idea what to expect and I am sure the dying woman hardly able to simultaneously breathe and keep her head up straight threw them off guard. My brother and I were present during their visit, stretching out all over the leather couch in ways my mom would probably reprimand me for, eating every treat under their roof because those ice cream sandwiches were purchased for us and we knew it. My mom probably would have reprimanded me for my 2^nd or 3^rd ice cream sandwich, but it was Grandma & Grandpa’s house so I could pretty much have as many as I wanted, sixteen years old going on seven, forever young in their eyes.

One of the things I remember most about that night was the lack of seating during the reunion, which was probably only exaggerated by the amount of space my brother and I were taking up without hesitation. As comfortable as we were, my cousins were not as it had been nearly a decade since the last time they had seen those walls. We had pulled in the dining room chairs for them, and I remember seeing them sitting on the edges of them, clearly not at ease and hardly speaking. I probably would have reacted the same way. It was a very awkward situation. My grandma passed away four days later.

This is what I know: I know that if you want to find Jesus, He is with the dying, the nearly dead. He is with the strippers and prostitutes on their way home, whispering in their ear that they are worth and meant for something so much more than they sell themselves for. He is with the homeless and the hungry, giving them reason and hope to draw their next breath when hope is a stranger and hot food is a forgotten luxury. He is with the wealthy, coaxing them out of their bank accounts to feed the hungry and clothe the naked and cold. He is with the weary, those resigned to the mundane and pathetic, those who have lost themselves to “the way things are.” He is with the Church, telling her to be a refuge for the beaten and battered souls seeking asylum. And this is what I know: the Church, at least in America, is no refuge. I’ve talked to homeless folks who were denied pastoral advice until a background check was run. I’ve been on the payroll at a church that locks the doors that bear the name of Jesus Christ, because no one wants those homeless people inside. They might want help and then we’d have to give it. I’ve seen false prophets scream lies and judgment at college students.

And let me tell you, Jesus Christ has no part in any of those things.

What needs to happen is this: we need to look in the mirror and examine the reflection. I am tired of lies and well-to-dos. There is no room nor time for false premises, and Sunday bests are hard to maintain and yet hard to shed. The shiniest cars break down. Hearts will fall and stagger in this fragile life. I want community. I want the Church to step it up so my friends will stop seeing a false impression of Jesus and decide they want nothing to do with the God they see in America, the God who hates the gays and abortionists.

That God does not exist.

We are all poverty-stricken, even if our bank accounts are fine. I want the poor and broken-hearted, the contrite spirits to know that when they walk in the houses of the Church—they are only walls, by the way—that they can lay all over the couches and eat every last bite of ice cream in the freezer. I want the lost to know they can walk into the Church, the body and fellowship of Jesus Christ, and be neither judged nor condemned. A refuge is a stronghold, and love is shelter from the storm. I want the hands of Jesus Christ on earth to be the best vintage car mechanics the world has ever seen.

I want a refuge.