The Salem community recently lost a very humble man: Ron Elliott. His name is neither a household name nor what he did nor will how he died become a water cooler topic. He was homeless for many years, living in several shelters and most recently, a deplorable rental unit on 14th Street in Salem. A man who had nothing, asked for nothing, but gave all he had. He was remembered on September 24, approximately two weeks after his death at the Blue Pepper, downtown Salem. Many homeless people gathered upstairs at the Blue Pepper to share with Ron Elliott’s children their life and experiences with this special man. The people who gathered at this “wake” were mostly homeless. I had not seen some of them in a few months, and in some cases, a few years. Some had worn a shirt and tie, others the best they had to wear. But they wore what I had always remembered them by; they all wore a smile. It was good to see them again. We embraced, shared a tear and a story or two. Some, not many, have moved out of staying in shelters, others are still stay in shelters. Some are camping, and others are somewhere between nowhere and goodbye.

“He that loves his brother abides in the light and there is no occasion of stumbling in him.”
1 John 2:10

Ron was homeless and was residing at the Salem Union Gospel Mission when I first met him many years ago. While he was staying at the mission, he worked doing laundry, cleaning bathrooms, and most importantly, helping people one on one. He was not in need of a recovery program or a support group. Ron never asked for a handout or special favors. All he asked from this world was shelter and a meal during his cancer treatment; he was willing and ready to work for that. And work he did. He loved helping people. It was ironic he was remembered a block away from a place he made the most impact with people. “If You Help, You Care” was one of Ron Elliott’s creeds. He was stricken with terminal cancer a few years ago. When you saw him, you could see he was not well, but when he spoke, his appearance no longer became a concern. You would never know that this man was dying. He was alive with the hope of life ever after with Christ and shared that hope with all he met. On occasion Ron and I would walk around downtown Salem. He told me of the mistakes he made during his life. Yet he was amazed of the love that God had for him during his life. Although suffering, he was enthusiastic with the opportunity to help and assist others during their time in “the pit” as he called it. He really believed we were to help one another every day, not just on Holidays.

I found out recently that his final days were very painful. He was bandaging his own open sores. His diet was anything he could find to eat. He told another homeless friend a few days before his passing that “it will be ok, the Lord is in charge.” He was cleaning the community bathroom where he ended up living his last days. It was so very sad he ended up in such a dreadful place after giving so much of himself to other people and organizations.

Most people I know who are homeless are surviving with what cards are dealt to them by the courts and the extremely bad choices they made during this journey of life. They are not lepers; they need a hand or two along the way. Take a lesson from Ron, whatever your heart directs you to do when you see someone hurting, please follow your heart. CS Lewis wrote in his book The Four Loves that “friendship is not a reward for our discrimination and good taste in finding one another out. It is the instrument by which God reveals to each the beauties of each of all the others.” Ron never feared being alone. He feared he may have to leave someone alone and not able to help them. For people, homeless or not, a life of loneliness without Christ can be endless.

In a world of “me first,” it was refreshing and such a blessing to know a person like Ron who cared for others first; not by the directions of man, but by the Spirit of God. I am aware that there are many ‘Ron’s’ out there; I wish it were not so. I hope someday to start a fund in memory of and honoring Ron Elliot. This fund would insure that a homeless person‘s last days would be comfortable and dignified. Sadly, this may be a very active fund. Ron died on September 10, 2009. He was proud of his faith in the Lord and he wanted to share it with anyone who resided at UGM and other areas of town.

Michael Olsen was the Director of Ministries for the Salem Union Gospel Mission for 10 years. Prior to his work at UGM, he retired from the U.S. Army after 21 years and worked for Trans World Airlines in New York after his military retirement. He and his wife Wendy live in Salem. Michael can be reached at mjeccl4@gmail.com.

It’s hard to believe in miracles isn’t it? Do you think perhaps it’s because we have become jaded by charlatans, or because we have become desensitized by all the special effects we se on TV and movies. But make no mistake; miracles still happen. They happen at the edge of a mean and sinful world where light pushes back the darkness.

Many miracles happen in distant remote places where God is able to show His awesome power. I’ve talked to missionaries who have witnessed awe inspiring miracles. But, I’ve seen them too, and I saw them when I went to the edge.

It all started that first day when I walked into the Edgewater District as a volunteer of the Salem Dream Center (a ministry that reaches people through volunteer service and works projects). I stepped on to the edge that day; looked over and jumped. My life has not been the same.

On my first day in Edgewater, my team and I knocked on the door of a woman who wouldn’t tell us her name. Week after week she would talk to us, but never tell us her name. Our conversations were always centered on everything that she did, kind of her way of telling us, look I’m OK; I don’t need your help.

I was resolute to learn her name. Every Saturday we would knock on her door and try some new clever way to learn her name, only to be thwarted by her determination to remain anonymous, and I guess impersonal.

This battle went on for some time, then on the Saturday before Thanksgiving, when we knocked on the door, it swung open and a hand thrust out. In a stern and harsh voice she proclaimed, “I’ve had enough of your friendliness, leave me alone,” and the door slammed in our faces.

That was a first. We weren’t sure what to do. After walking away in disbelieve we talked about what just happened, and what we should do. We came up with a plan to write her a note that said we were sorry for bothering her, that bothering her wasn’t our intent. We only wanted to be friends. We acknowledged all that she did: working full time, going to school, and helping to raise her grand kids.

We closed our note saying; “We won’t bother you, but we will always be out here on the street on Saturday mornings if you need us.” We placed that note on her door on a Saturday, the week after Thanksgiving. We snuck up, quietly put the note on her door and ran.

That same day our anonymous woman called West Salem Foursquare Church, and asked if we were part of the church?

You know the feeling you get when you are driving and you see those blue lights flashing in your rear view mirror? Well that’s what I felt when on Sunday I was asked if I had left a note on a door in Edgewater, because a woman had called about it. But relief flooded over me just like when the police car passes and pulls over the car in front of you.

The woman called to tell us she was sorry, and to tell us that we could come back. Melanie, the pastor who answered the call, could have taken the message as it was given, but instead she asked, “Are you OK?” The woman broke down crying and told Melanie that two days before she slammed the door on us, her 7 year old grandson died a tragic death.

Melanie went on to talk with her about God, about death, and about a world that is cruel: one that doesn’t make sense. At the end of that conversation Melanie could have said goodbye, but instead she asked if she could pray for her. The woman broke down crying again, and said yes please pray for me.

The next Saturday, we went back to that same door that had been slammed in our faces, and as we knocked. It swung opened, only this time two arms were thrust out of the door and the woman grabbed me in a tight hug. Then all of the sudden she pushed me back and said, “My name is Linda. My name is Linda.” I replied, “That was my mom’s name, she passed away a few months ago.”

Linda slammed the door, but God opened a heart.

As time passed Linda and I became very good friends and we are great friends to this day. On Saturdays Linda and I always talk about what I read in my devotionals, about what she has read in the Bible, and about her family and mine.

A little more than a year later after Linda opened her door and welcomed me with a hug, she received Christ. A short time later her daughter and son-in-law received Christ. I was amazed at how God worked in her life, and then through her life to reach her children. I never took a Bible, or even tried to get her to accept Christ, I just listened, talked and told stories, and God did the rest.

Linda and I talked a lot and I honestly thought I knew everything about Linda. She had told me about her daughter who led a life of regret, about her son-in-law who was drug addict. We talked about some very deep and painful stuff. Then one day she asked me, “Did you know I have a son?” I said, “nope.” She replied, “That’s because I’m embarrassed of him.”

She continued, “My son is in prison for murder. He’s in there for life without parole.”

She went on to tell me about his life and how terrible he was to her. She said all he ever did was take, and never cared about anyone, never said he was sorry for the pain he caused.

Then she told me that her son had received Christ. My first thought was jail house conversion. She must have read my mind because she said, “Yes that is what I thought, but then he told me something that made me know it was true. He told me, ‘Mom, I did it. I killed that man, I deserve to be here. I know God didn’t have me kill that man, but I think God wants me here so I can help people come to know Him.’”

Linda looked me in the eye and said, “He always said he didn’t do it, he said he was framed. Now he said he did it, that’s how I know he really has turned his life over to Christ.”

Then she told me, “You know my boy always took from everyone, now he wants to give back. He wants to be a pastor.”

She went on to tell me that he called her every Sunday and for the past year and a half she shared our talks, shared our devotionals and what she heard in church or on TBN. She said God just took those words and made them grow in him. He told her that over the phone he could hear the difference in her, and his sister. He wanted what they had, they were happy, they had moved beyond their past and were alive. He wanted that.

One Saturday a few months ago Linda told me she knows she will never see her boy on the streets of this world, but she knows she will see him walking down streets of gold, and he will be holding the hand of Mike’ her grandson.

More than a year has passed since that day her son accepted Christ and her son is still studying to be a pastor. He is also helping in the chapel. He has moved beyond his past and he is alive. He said the change in his life is so dramatic, that other inmates will come up to him and ask him, “What happened to you?” It’s then that he tells his story and offers them what his mom offered to him: life with a Father who loves them exactly as they are and forgives all their sins.

Miracles still happen. Some are simple, some are amazing, but they happen in far off distant and remote places, and yes they happen right down the hill from the church I call home.

I walked into Edgewater in 2003 knowing that I had nothing to give, you know what? I was right I didn’t and I don’t, but God does. All I have to do is step to the edge every Saturday and push back at the darkness of a cold and harsh world with His love. Then He shines with a light that goes beyond the blocks I walk, and shines into a prison thousands of miles away.

You know I was terrified that first day I stepped into Edgewater, It wasn’t easy but all I had to do was step out of the boat just like Peter did. All I had to do was exactly what the Bible says I should, go out into the world and use the gifts God has given me, and use the passion that He put in my heart. That’s when I get to see miracles right there at the edge.

Craig Oviatt is the Director of the Salem Dream Center and is on the pastoral staff at West Salem Foursquare Church. Craig is married to Renee`, the love of his life, and has four wonderful children, a son-in-law, and one beautiful granddaughter. He loves to write, read, cook, and be at the Salem Dream Center.

Recently we sat down with Rob Bell and talked with him about his new book, Drops Like Stars, and his West Coast tour. We had a great conversation talking about suffering and creativity, creating without pain, and the “church shopper.”

If you’d like to be entered into our contest to WIN tickets to see Rob Bell on his West Coast Drops Like Stars tour, please click here.

RETHINK MONTHLY: You recently wrote a book, Drops Like Stars, and in just a few short weeks, you’ll be on the West Coast giving a presentation of the same name. Can you tell us what led you to write a book about connecting the dots between creativity and suffering?

ROB BELL: Two things: First, I cut my teeth as a pastor. What happens when you’re a pastor and have an actual congregation full of people is you end up getting invited in to some of the most intimate moments of people’s suffering. I can think of an endless number of times when there’s some couple that I’ve only met twice, and then I end up in the I.C. unit with them in the last hours of their kids’ life. Or a family, who I’ve probably had five conversations with, whose sixteen year old son hangs himself, and I end up sitting in the hospital room all alone – just me and the family. Or I go to a funeral home to plan a service and it’s just me, the family, the body, and the casket, and I have to put together a service in the midst of all this grief and pain. Or the endless couples that I’ve met who are struggling with miscarriages. Then I see those same couples two years later and they’re still suffering. So part of it as a pastor is just watching people go through agonizing suffering and then seeing them a year later, two years later, three years later, and seeing the kinds of things that came out of their suffering. And secondly, I make things for a living. Whether it’s books, films, even sermons, there’s a certain sort of art to creating things – a certain agony to the art process. You have an idea about something and then you just work and work at it. It’s frustrating and you feel like you’re missing it. Then eventually it starts to exist. So I started to see all these parallels between the creative process and what I had seen with people who had gone through brutal suffering and all of the creativity and imagination that their suffering actually unleashed.

RM: In the book, you say, “And so we’re polite and we play by the rules and when asked how we are, we answer, ‘I’m fine, thank you,’ just like we’re supposed to. And then we suffer. There’s a disruption and our boxes get smashed.” Did you write this book out of your own experiences with suffering, or were they more out of observations of other people’s sufferings?

ROB: In the end, the book is kind of absent of my own experiences, but it’s deeply shaped, and a lot of people who’ve read the book have had the same sort of idea and say, “Hey wait, there is a bunch of you that’s missing in this book, but it’s got to be there somewhere.” My next book is essentially going to be all of the agonizing, brutal sorts of things that led to up to this book. But, yeah, my own experiences have deeply shaped the book, and my experiences will probably have its own book; just not as many pictures.

RM: Speaking of the visual element of the book, how did you connect with the designers to develop such an engaging, creative piece?

ROB: Mark Baas headed up the design, and he’s been a friend of mine for ten years, and we’ve been through all sorts of things together. Right away I knew that the content had to have a strong visual element, and when I finished the first draft I read it to him as my friend, but knowing that he might have some opinions about it. He immediately said, “Let me art direct, please?” There are several photographers and designers, all here in Grand Rapids, and Mark put together a whole team of people. When I had originally hand-written the first draft, I had a lot of notes in the margins – picture of this here, picture of that there – he took it and ran with it. We had the concept together, but he really oversaw the details of getting it all shot.

RM: There was a phrase in the book, “You can’t create without pain.” You also mention, with the cross, that God says, “I know what you’re feeling.” But what about God’s creation prior to pain, prior to the fall, and prior to the cross? Some of the best things we witness in this life were created in a world and at a time without pain. So, does that conflict with your message that creativity has to come out of pain?

ROB: When I first talked about creativity and suffering, several people said “You mean the tormented artist?” or “Only people who were abused can write great music.” There’s sort of an illusion in culture where the tortured artist is the only person who’s able to access their feelings. Central to the Christian story is a Trinitarian God who creates out of joy. The universe is the overflow of love and harmony. God doesn’t need pain to create. The cross, however, and the new creation does come about through pain. That’s the story of the cross. Out of all this mess, something beautiful emerges.

RM: Concerning the response of the book, do you feel it has connected with people who are still asking questions about life, still searching for faith?

ROB: There was a man and his wife whose 22-year old son was killed in March, and the wife got the book and read it out loud to her husband, five months after their son was killed. They talked about that being the beginning of the healing process for them. In one city, a man’s mother died of cancer twenty-nine years ago, and he said he felt that at the Drops Like Stars live event, for the first time he was able to go places he hadn’t gone. He was able to heal in a way he hadn’t in the previous twenty-nine years. One woman from Tampa, Florida bought tickets for her and her husband, and from the time she had bought the tickets until the night of the event, her husband died. So there have been some very visceral, powerful encounters I’ve had personally.

Our culture is a culture of denial. We don’t have good culture modes for grief and mourning, let alone just asking questions. And I think a lot of people with faith backgrounds feel guilty for being angry or venting or putting God on trial. Being honest about how they’re really feeling is not something they’ve been encouraged to do. My experience has been that when people are given a medium, whether it’s a book or a live experience where they don’t have to have everything resolved – they don’t have to end everything with a nice Bible verse about how it’s all going to work out – there’s a certain freedom in that to be healing. Some people think that half the Psalms are laments. And some of the psalms don’t end with “it’s all going to be alright.” They end just hanging there. And I think in our culture what people need are spaces where you can grieve and be angry and vent and rant and you can be fully human without having to, in the end, put on a polished smile. That’s actually, I think, where we begin to heal. So, the feedback has been that this has given people that certain space, and that’s a beautiful thing to be a part of.

RM: What do you think has happened in modern evangelical Christianity where for so long it hasn’t been alright to lament or be in mourning? Where did we take a left turn to get to this place where everything has to be neat and in order?

ROB: The consumer mentality – the altar of consumerism – is almost like water that we are swimming in. It’s almost like you have to drag the fish up onto the beach and just beat it senseless. Think about the ways people evaluate your average sermon. The number one way a lot of people evaluate a sermon comes in the form of a question: “Did you like it or not?” Imagine after Jesus tells the parable of the wheat and the sower or he curses the fig tree. Imagine people saying, “Did you like it?” You know, those aren’t categories you generally find people throughout history using. Or secondly, people evaluate and say “Did she do a good job? Did he do a good job?” These are all the ways in which spiritual practice has been co-opted by consumer culture.

So, the questions aren’t: “What’s going on inside of you? What is the Spirit doing to you? In what ways are you stretching, evolving, growing, or being transformed?” Instead it’s “Did they do a good job?” which is essentially a subject, object, relationship, in which we stand at a distance and observe and then evaluate and decide whether or not go to that church. A guy the other day said to me, “I’m church shopping.” Can you imagine saying that to the mystics or the apostles? People use phrases that are absolutely insane with a straight face.

RM: Well, we just hope he finds a good deal somewhere.

ROB: Exactly. In a way, a spiritual path has become a commodity like everything else. You have to begin to see that this is the water that the fish are swimming in. It’s so pervasive that it takes profound awakening for people to go: “Oh my word, this is absolutely screwed up.” For a lot of people, the way they were taught about God is that this is an answer to your problems. But the truth is if you decide to follow Jesus, this may be the beginning of some of your problems. There is massive suffering on a global scale and Jesus invites us to see the world as God sees it. Then we begin to steal and see things that we didn’t see before. On many levels, the spiritual path has always, for thousands of years, involved suffering. That’s been a stated, obvious consequence of directing your life in purposeful ways. These are traditions and paths that have been lost to many people, especially when they are given a bright, shiny, happy god, who will fix all their problems. Part of it is introducing people to their own history. When you do, all sorts of beautiful things happen then.

This interview was featured in the Jan/Feb 2010 issue of Rethink Monthly magazine. To see the article in the online version of the magazine, please click here.

We set off to interview Peter Rodger, world-renowned photographer and director of the new documentary Oh My God. An interesting look at the question “What is God?” Take a seat and listen as Peter explains his vision for the film and shares interesting insights you won’t get anywhere else.

To find out more about Peter and his new film, Oh My God, check out the website at www.omgmovie.com.

We also invite you to the opening of the film in Portland, Oregon on Friday, December 11th at the Fox Tower 10. After the 7:10pm showing, Rethink will host an opwn interfaith discussion based on the question, What is God? Join us. For more information on the theater and to order tickets, click here.

[audio=http://rethinkmonthly.com/podcasts/OMG.mp3]

During graduate school I worked each summer in the maintenance department of a large financial services company helping to maintain its landscaping and beautiful rolling lawn. Early on I could tell that the guys on the maintenance crew weren’t real thrilled with having a “pastor-in-training” on their team, but their misgivings only strengthened my resolve to reach out to them and convert them to Christianity. My first week on the job I adopted the guys on my crew as my spiritual “project.” I remember praying, “Jesus, when I leave this place I want every person on my team to be a Christian.”

By that time in my spiritual journey I had already proved myself to be a fervent evangelist, so I assumed my goal would be easily attained. The first part of my strategy was to set myself apart by living a morally noticeable life. I worked harder and longer than everybody on the team. I refused to join in when they told dirty jokes and swore, and whenever we were in the locker room I made sure never to look at the pictures of naked women hanging on the walls. The second part of my strategy was to insert spiritual ideas into our conversations to provoke discussions about God and faith. Some would have called this “picking a fight,” but at the time I called it “witnessing.”

I zeroed in almost immediately on one man named Andrew. He was in his early forties, and just moved to the states with his family from Poland. Andrew could barely speak English, so most of our conversations revolved around Andrew pointing to something and asking, “Brian, what English word for…?” I figured Andrew would be the easiest to reach on our team, so I chose every assignment I could get that involved working with him. I discovered Andrew was a former Catholic and had little interest in spiritual matters. However, this didn’t deter me in the least. With the zeal of a pushy door-to-door salesman, I forced spiritual matters into just about every conversation Andrew and I had.

Near the end of the summer I was talking with Andrew and casually asked, “Andrew, we’re friends, right?” He took me by surprise when he answered, “No.” Shocked, I said, “What do you mean? We’ve been working together an entire summer.” He answered, “Brian, what you call people…you know…you talk with them…you work with them…they are nice people…you go home and don’t see them until you go to work again? I said, “Acquaintances?” He said, “Yes, acquaintances. I have many acquaintances.” Then he said, “In Poland, our word for friend is special. In Poland, when we call a person friend, it means that we share hearts with that person. So, to answer your question: In America, I do not have any friends yet.”

Before I knew it the summer came to a close and I returned to school full-time, but when I returned the following summer I was a different person. I had spent most of the school year doubting the existence of God and sorting out an excruciating crisis of faith. I started my first day on the job thoroughly broken. I was still a believer, but I felt as if I had just come out of surgery and my soul was still bandaged. Gone was the spiritual bravado and pushiness from the summer before, replaced by a few things that were new to me: empathy, respect, and patience. I think Andrew was puzzled by the change in my persona because late one afternoon he asked if I still believed in God. I looked at the ground and slowly said, “Yes, Andrew, I still believe in God, but my faith in myself has been shaken.” Andrew wisely responded, “That might be good thing, no?”

As Andrew and I spent time together that summer I found myself listening more and talking less, and because of that I was amazed at what I learned about him. I discovered that Andrew was a lawyer in Poland, and that he couldn’t practice law here in the U.S. because he didn’t have the money or time to go back to school. I discovered that Andrew had a wife of twenty years named Eva, and two children. I also found out that Andrew was a brilliant man. He spoke four languages, studied philosophy, and had a fanatical interest in soccer. As Andrew talked and I listened, he initiated profound spiritual conversations and asked probing questions for which I had few answers.

Over time, the more we walked around the grounds, cutting the lawn and working on the building, the more ashamed I became of the way I acted the previous summer. I was afraid that I had single-handedly turned Andrew off to spiritual matters completely. Fortunately that didn’t seem to happen. It struck me as odd at the time, but it appeared that the more Andrew watched me struggle and the more I was honest with what I was feeling, the more spiritual interest he showed. There was something very authentic and natural about the way our relationship unfolded each day.

On my last day at the company, something happened that will always hold a special place in my heart. After I said goodbye to everyone on my team, none of which had become Christians, Andrew followed me out to my car. He placed both hands on my shoulders and said something I will never forget: “I will miss you, Brian Jones, my friend.”

Brian Jones is an author and the Senior Pastor at Christ’s Church of the Valley, an innovative community of faith he and his wife helped start in the suburbs of Philadelphia. Brian’s first book, Second Guessing God, was his attempt to help people wrestle with the question, “Why does God keep allowing really bad stuff to happen in my life?” In his second book, Getting Rid of the Gorilla, Brian explored the difficult issue of forgiveness, why he’s not very good at it, and how an unforgiving heart can make you do some pretty hurtful things in life if you don’t deal with it.