THE BEAT OF A BIG HEART (part 1) WINSDAY WISDOM Session 16

Love always makes a difference. It breaks down barriers and builds bridges. However, Love does not come easy, and that truth is more than a blast from the past song by Diana Ross.

Momma said, “Love don’t come easy, it’s a game of give and take. You can’t hurry love; no, you’ll just have to wait. You gotta just give it time, no matter how long it takes.”

I experienced that reality firsthand in one of my blasts from the past when I traveled with a youth group to help build a playground for a small, struggling ministry in Chelsea, Massachusetts. The city is directly across the Mystic River from Boston, along a peninsula of the Boston Harbor.

The sharp contrasts and strong conflicts we encountered were much wider, longer, higher, and deeper than the cultural differences of the East Coast and Midwest. Chelsea is a highly industrialized city with the second most densely populated area in the state. Most residents identify as Hispanic or Latino. At the time of our visit, racial tension and conflict were rampant. It was ranked the state’s poorest and most dangerous city. Yes. The poorest and most dangerous city. What was I thinking?

Our home for the next seven days would be a magnificently beautiful, historic church in the center of Chelsea, now boarded up and surrounded by a barbed-wired topped chain link fence with a locked gate. Once a crown jewel of church history, the architecture of the auditorium was representative of vintage New England glory days, but now covered in years of dust.

The small group of current church members met in a little classroom near the back of the building. The ministry’s leadership published a plea for assistance in the funding and erection of a neighborhood playground accessible to the community children. Why? To show love to people, especially young people, who were lost in a swamp of drugs and sexual exploitation.

Rock throwing left beautiful stained-glass windows broken and boarded up. During the previous year, the church steps became a place to sell drugs, safe from police intervention. The church basement became the hot spot for several illicit parties and underage orgies. Think about that! The church had become the safe haven for drug deals and orgies. What was I thinking?

Our youth arrived by charter bus, led by my trusted Jerry Lewis intern, aided by the structured planning of some very outstanding young women. I met them at the old church along with the local cigar smoking pastor. No judgment, just surprise; I think Spurgeon smoked cigars. Also surprised the intern was still on board! I had feared Castaway or Mutiny on the Bounty. He earned his stripes. He remains the Mount Everest on my horizon.

We moved into the large fellowship hall with our food supplies and sleeping bags. Our group walked around the block, but only once. Our hosts delivered strong safety precaution warnings forbidding anyone to go beyond the corner of the property. Danger lurked everywhere. Stay inside the fenced compound or we might not find your body. Or something like that.

Again, what was I thinking? I wish I had a good answer or at least a dollar for every time someone asked me that question. Confidence in my leadership quickly vanished.

I spent the first evening in the emergency room with one of our “watch me do something stupid” guys who broke his ankle trying to jump from the top of the fence. I returned to the church to find unimaginable chaos and panic. Yep. You heard that right. Unimaginable chaos and panic!

Our well-intentioned, sheltered youth sat on the front steps of the church and started to sing as local gangs gathered across the street. The saccharine sweetness tasted bitter to the target audience. Lyrics of love and peace were quickly silenced by shouts of profanity and protests of thrown eggs crashing on and around the singers. The kum-ba-yah moment transformed into war zone terror as the kids fled into the sanctuary for safety.

My arrival at the church stand-off was not a scene from the movie, Do the Right Thing. The intolerance had intensified. The sounds of “There’s a Sweet, Sweet Spirit” were drowned out by a boombox blaring Public Enemy’s mesmerizing “Fight the Power.” 

As I climbed the steps of the church, my head and back felt the crack of eggs as my body dripped with yoke and egg white. Sadly, it was not breakfast time, only cryin’ time.

To quote Butch Cassidy, “We seem to be a little short on brotherly love round here.”

Inside, kids were sobbing hysterically, not just the girls. Bags were packed. The sounds of retreat were everywhere from sea to shining sea. Parents back home heard the assault accounts from their frightened children. Social media was ablaze with horror stories, some true, mostly fake news. New England brogue expressing “she was hit by an egg” became translated in Midwestern twang, “she was shot in the leg.”

The parental social network demanded my immediate impeachment over mishandling their teenagers’ endangerment. One suggestion proposed I should be lynched for my misplaced and mistimed mission. The guillotine was not available. Now, years later and as a parent, I understand their concerns and agree with their sentiments.

Things got worse!

Our group was stuck at the besieged church for the night. The bus was unavailable, the police were dismissive, and the growing crowd of dissidents was frightening. We barricaded ourselves inside and the men slept against the doors.

Rocks, eggs, and tomatoes pummeled the entrance throughout the night, probably a clue to the neighborhood’s reported food shortage. The mob’s shouts demanded we send out the women or else they would storm the building.

Our kids huddled in prayer groups and pity parties. Our staff took up defensive weapons in case of attack. “Sticks and stones will break your bones, but your words say you plan to hurt me,” or something like that. Where is Braveheart when you need him?

I called the police three times. The officer chuckled the first time and suggested we should be happy it was an egg assault and not bullets. When I pressed him for whom to call, he suggested, Ghostbusters. Really? “Who you gonna call?” How about the Minutemen?

Afterall, we were camped in the place where the first projectiles of the Revolutionary War were snowballs thrown at a British soldier. I imagine some eggs were tossed as well before English tea got dumped into the Boston Harbor. We were not faced with taxation and tyranny, but the nighttime terror felt dangerously intense.

This is the city where, years earlier, I witnessed special riot units clad with masked helmets and shields take down student war protesters with pepper gas and batons. For the record, I am a grateful supporter of our men and women in blue who sacrifice their lives to protect us from harm. I was not a protester that night in Cambridge, but I got gassed while observing the confrontation from a nearby tree branch. Our present little skirmish was small Irish potatoes to these mob-tested, clam chowder cops.

After the third call (to the police, not Ghostbusters), they promised to conduct a routine check of the situation. The crowd dispersed and disappeared thirty seconds before the patrol car drove by the church, then reappeared thirty seconds after it turned the corner. The intimidating threats did not subside until 2 AM. Other than that, it was just a rainy night in Beantown.

In retrospect, our arrival frightened the local youth who were likewise threatened by our strange behavior and feeble attempts to break down long-standing barriers. We did not know them. We did not understand their culture. We did not speak their language.

I imagine the Massachusett Indian tribe felt that way when Samuel Maverick set up his 1624 trading post in what is now Chelsea. Who is this and why is he here? He looks, sounds, and acts differently.

Our first days were busy inside and outside. Inside work involved cleaning years of dust from the auditorium in hopes of a weekend concert available to the public. Outside projects prepared the ground for concrete supports for the playground equipment. Our more creative youth erected a graffiti wall for neighborhood art and a small garden, perfect for growing tomatoes. The taunting tantrums continued by day and the terrifying threats by night.

No, love don’t come easy; it’s a game of give and take.

On the third day, I granted our drummer permission to play his drum set from the top step of the church. Confidentially, our “drummer” was the last youth to gain my permission to join the group on this trip, mainly because of the pitiful pleas from our desperate choir leader. He was a nice kid, just a little strange and wired, which apparently are good traits for a drummer.

Drummer-boy beat the fire out of his drums, literally. He was smokin’ hot! Loud. Louder. Loudest. The kind of practice noise which drives parents crazy. The gang gathered. Their derisive shouts grew louder, but the drums drowned out their screams. Our percussion prophet pounded on the drums louder and longer. That was his crazy plan.

Suddenly, the opposition’s leader of the pack broke from their ranks. I met the kingpin at the locked gate. I anticipated his name to be Spike, Chainsaw, or Snake Eyes. Surprisingly, he was one of the smaller guys with an extremely high-pitched voice.

Dominic wanted to go up the steps to look at the drums. I reluctantly “welcomed” the Trojan Horse inside our safe zone. He walked to the top of the steps and watched silently as Drummer Boy pounded the sticks into the canvass.

At some point, Dominic asked if he could sit down and play. The two guys switched places and our visitor began lightly tapping the drums. He had rhythm. He quickly picked up the pace of the beats and the volume of the sound.

When he finished, the two young men exchanged some form of hand maneuver departure. Not a shake or a fist bump or gang signs. This ritual transcended my cultural hip-hop awareness. They acted like lifetime soul brothers exchanging some secret bonding ceremony.

God lives inside us to lead us to others He intends to love through us. Who would have thought drums would break down barriers of race and fear, walls of hate and distrust, prisons of pride and prejudice?

“Not I,” said the rat inside my body. The cosmos works in mysterious ways. God had a plan to love some young people who did not feel or think they wanted love. He used a little drummer boy to lead the parade.

You can’t hurry love; no, you’ll just have to wait; love don’t come easy.

The inner-city gang and their extended associates became friends with the invading foreigners. The neighborhood children, forced to stay home by fearful parents, were now allowed to enter the churchyard. Some participated in the graffiti, some helped with the playground development, and some just played the drums.

Our well attended weekend concert had a surprise guest musician introduced for the intermission entertainment. Dominic was magnificent, a standing ovation from his gang and ours.

We did not change the world that week, but the experience was life-changing for us. For some in Chelsea and in our youth group, it was eternity changing. Love does that.

Our bus departed early morning at the end of the week. It was raining. Both sides of the street, for three blocks, were covered with people of all ages standing in the rain. A few had umbrellas. Most were soaking wet. Waving goodbye, tapping their hearts, and blowing kisses to our kids. Some were brushing away tears. The gang walked alongside the rolling bus, a guardian escort of respect. Maybe love.

It looked like a scene from a movie. I cried. My eyes still tear up today knowing for one brief moment, with God’s help, we did it. This ragamuffin group of kids did it.

Our love stretched wider, longer, higher, and deeper than the differences which divided us from others.

I am still learning to love, with limitless love. No discrimination. No exclusions. No exceptions.

If all else fails in the relationship, I will beat on some drums until the other person surrenders to be loved…or decides to kill me to stop the annoying sound.

What are you doing to break down barrier walls of enmity and prejudice? If you cannot drum, then dance to the beat of God’s rhythm. Love First. Love Most. You can do better. You can do more.

May a wild drummer boy inspire you to do the most important thing in life. Love God and Love Others. Use your platform of influence to make large, lasting impacts on the lives of others as you love wider, longer, higher, and deeper than ever before.

A group of strange kids gave their hearts to some unknown people. They have grown up and continue to rock this world with the love of Christ.

Love First. Love Most.

One small step for Chelsea, one giant leap for mankind.

Addendum: Curtis Davis found Jesus at the beginning of that trip. Recently, a friend shared news about the drummer who unlocked the gate to the gang leader’s interest. He found a new life with Jesus about five years after the seeds of Christ’s love was planted into his heart on the Boston mission trip. Another one of that special group rocks the world with the love of Christ.

The beat of drums to the music of Christ’s love became the beat in his heart.

Why do you need a bigger heart?

Because the race to love others is against your own self-centeredness. (next session)