I remember playing the Hot or Cold game as a kid. A step above I Spy it included a bit more mystery and intrigue for my taste. I remember hiding toys from my brother and sister then watching in delight as they tried to discover my ingenious hiding place.

Violence is a generational epidemic. It is widespread, extensive, global, and indiscriminate. Many attempt to avoid prosecution but every single one of us is guilty beyond reasonable doubt. Humans are by nature violent.

Yes, you read that correctly. I must admit something that no one ever seems to believe about me. I have never smoked weed. More often than not in my life I have been profiled as a stoner, pothead, hippie who loves his ganja, or any other descriptor of someone who admires the marijuana high.

It was a fairly crisp, sunny morning as I made my way back out to the car. I sank into the driver seat and sighed. Heavy. Two years of communication, commitment, and consistency are bearing fruit.

I stand between black and white, but I also stand between law enforcement and community engagement. I am a recently trained and certified member of the inaugural Chattanooga Police Department Chaplain Corps. I am also pastor to gang members and community residents in a neighborhood where tension, antagonism, and distrust between the two run high.

I am not a first generation American of an immigrant family. I am not a refugee, I did migrate to Chattanooga. In many respects I discovered a new world, filled with hopes, fears, and an immense amount of uncertainty. I will never know the plight of the refugee or the integration of the immigrant.

#BlackLivesMatter.  Don't ignore this or overlook them.  It is not a movement.  It is not a hashtag.  They are people to join not a problem to solve.  They are neighbors and residents of our shared streets, grocery stores, and shopping malls.  They are fellow students and sports fans. They matter to God.  Let them matter to you too.

This post is not an inspirational/motivational post about the urban grind of our mission here at Bridge City Community. I will not be sharing stories of success, epic life transformation, or even anecdotal testaments to our efforts.

Tuesday afternoon marked the third time I’ve been cussed out by a member of my congregation. At this point it’s no longer shocking. Well, the first time wasn’t either really. How did this happen you’re wondering? What could possibly encourage a parishioner to drop an F*Bomb on me?

How can a person ask for themselves what they refuse to give to another? If they expect to receive any mercy in heaven, they should give mercy on earth. Do we all desire to receive mercy?

I am now acutely aware of the need to provide pragmatic insight into our operational strategy as an urban mission. We are part of a growing effort to pioneer the frontier of urban, multi-ethnic church planting. Considering this lies outside popular church planting methodologies I feel the need to clear up the muddy waters surrounding this type of ministry.

This week we have a guest post from Jon Berestecky about his family's experience visiting BCC for a weekend and making the decision to move to Chattanooga to become urban missionaries.  Thanks Jon!

Not what you were expecting, right? Neither was I. Bridge City Community had been nominated by a number of people from around the country to receive the Guido Merkens Entrepreneurial Ministry Award. And we won! I couldn’t have been more surprised.

Are we really so ignorant, so dense, that we need an animated children’s movie to demonstrate systemic injustice and cyclical stereotypes of race and class?

The last few weeks have been crazy busy. It’s always busy at Bridge City Community but the month of February was utter insanity - in such a good way though. In addition to our regular, ongoing efforts we have been overwhelmed by the requests for us to share our story with diverse audiences. Humbling would be the best word to describe these recent opportunities.

Occasionally I have an identity crisis. By me, I mean myself and Bridge City Community. I am acutely aware of my whiteness and tend to err on the side of self-consciousness when it comes to our reconciliation efforts. I have had numerous honestly transparent conversations with black friends who have allowed me to say some ignorantly raw things on the road to understanding.

Yesterday was the first official day of Spring. For many of us spring means busting out bathing suits and hitting the pool. If you’re like my family, with the arrival of the first signs of warm weather and the promise of long summer days spent in the humid sun we sign the kids up for swimming lessons.

The pastor needs absolute focus on Easter because this is his chance to take the stage, figuratively & literally, and blow people’s minds with the most epic resurrection sermon anyone has ever heard… of all weekends, with the exception of Christmas, this sermon has to kill it… bring the heat as one of my previous pastors would condition me to believe.

I have a tendency to speak before listening or even thinking for that matter. Since I was young I worked diligently to earn the reputation of joker, opinionated, blunt… or, as my mom so politely described it: passionate.

I watched Jr. walk out the door after grabbing a cup of coffee and some donuts. It was pretty early and church hadn’t started yet and I figured he would be back for worship. I was wrong. One minute he was sitting on the cold concrete bench with locked backdrop and the next he was gone. Not exactly the start to a Sunday I was looking for.