This marks the third day on the job here at Passport Camp in Macon, Georgia. I’m helping lead a small youth group from the church in DC on this trip to Mercer University, in which we spend much of the time each day divided into work crews helping to restore and repair homes for the needy in the community. If you’ve ever been to Georgia in July, you understand why the old hymn was running through my head as I worked with an pickaxe to uproot a stump in the afternoon sun:
“That soul though all hell should endeavor to shake, I’ll never, no never, no never forsake!”
Judging from the heat, hell’s endeavors had arrived and the humidity left me feeling quite forsaken. And dehydrated. Yes, today the sun finally got the best of me—my muscles were aching, my sleep had been minimized, and my head was throbbing. At this point one start’s questioning the concept of being “called to the ministry.” No one ever feels “the call” while swinging an axe in the triple digit heat.
In light of all this, I was becoming frustrated and irritable, although my frustration and irritation were not so much from my aches, sleep deprivation, or headache, but rather from the work itself. You see, usually these projects involve painting a house, patching up a roof, or landscaping the yard for a sweet elderly lady who usually thanks us at the end of the week with tears streaming down her cheeks and her frail bony hands reaching out to hug all the kids, even the sweaty ones. In other words, when we work we have the feeling that we’re truly making a difference, helping the helpless, and bringing some small token of happiness to a stranger. Which is satisfying.
But today was different: the crew leader led us to a narrow lot containing overgrown trees, smelly compost heaps, thick weeds, mounds of litter, and knee-high grass. Oh, and no house. The smelly piece of land is currently owned by the city and we were just there to spruce things up.
It didn’t take long before the result was clear: there was little direction, little purpose in the work. Due to poison ivy, only 10 or 12 kids at a time could work directly in clearing the brush, which left another 10 or 12 kids with little to do except find ways to fight with garden tools or flirt. Moreover, no one knew what exactly the finished product was supposed to look like—to “spruce up” is a phrase that can interpreted in quite a few ways. Consequently, a couple 14 year-old boys were lumbering around with an axe trying to find trees to cut down, while a group of girls was content picking up the scattered Coke cans.
By the end of the afternoon, my attitude was not particularly friendly. Why in hell would we be sent to work on a project without any real purpose?—I stewed on the drive back to campus.
Upon returning I showered, rested, and drank some water. And then at dinner something seemed to hit me: we don’t work on these community service projects just to see the little old lady cry in appreciation at the end of the week. We don’t work for gratification. We don’t work just for the sake of being productive. We don’t work because our impact is really that enormous on the community.
Rather, as I laughed with several of the youth tonight at dinner and remembered the nasty lot where we had been working, I realized that the purpose of working is simply to be reminded that we are a part of a movement much greater than ourselves.
To be reminded that only through unity and cooperation can the world be made a better place.
To be reminded that we are all members of a community—a world community—and the most fundamental, divine responsibility we each inherit is to help our fellow man and woman.
To be reminded that the force of love—the sacrifice of one’s time, energy, well-being, comfort, and convenience—can truly change the world around us.
And hopefully such reminders we receive in these summer days of 2009 will remain with us for years and decades to come.
