An odor blew across my fence on a recent Wednesday afternoon, interrupting my pruning. I looked under the tangerine tree long enough to realize I didn’t just get sprayed by a skunk. I smelled weed.
Cannabis is a familiar smell in San Diego. I smell it when I walk my dog or take my toddler to the park or drive down the street. Smelling weed is just part of San Diego living.
The smell itself wasn’t cause for alarm but cause for investigation. Our next-door neighbor has a card to smoke because of a disability, but this part of the yard was upwind from her house so that theory didn’t last. No, this smell was coming from the other side of the yard—over the fence and into a no man’s land between my house and the house in the canyon.
Peeking my head over the fence, down the hill a few feet I could see the source. I already suspected who it might be: two teenage guys who live on my block. I only know their names because their parents scream them when they are in trouble.
They are the two I see wandering around at all hours of the day and night, walking obliviously slow in front of cars, giving looks dirtier than their hair. This past fall, I watched one of them come home unceremoniously in a squad car. A couple years back I called the police about them because they were stealing citrus from my trees and throwing them at a neighbor’s house down the canyon.
“Hey guys. You can’t do that here. You need to go somewhere else.” They glared at me. I stared back blank-faced and said, “I don’t want you smoking in my backyard.” One guy, the one who lives closest to me, said “It’s not your yard. It’s an easement. It belongs to PG&E.”
Though he had a darn good case, I turned around to walk back toward my garden. Dismissively, I trailed off, “Suit yourself. I guess I’ll just call the cops.”
I didn’t allow myself to look back at them, but I knew they were leaving. I played the power card and won. Feeling as though I’d defended my turf and hopefully sent a message that they weren’t welcome to smoke in the easement behind my house, I puffed myself up a bit. I handled that well.
A couple hours later, I got in my minivan, backed out and started driving down my block toward our church for high school small groups. I was in a bit of a hurry with a lot on my mind.
As I braked at the end of the block to turn left toward the main road, I saw the same two teenage neighbors sitting on the curb, doing nothing but sitting on the curb.
We made eye contact—me on my way to church to hang out with a bunch of church-y teenagers; and them, two neighbors who lived on my block with whom my only relationship revolves around me calling the police.
That’s when it hit me. Jesus didn’t command me to love the eight guys in my small group as I love myself. He said, “Love your neighbor as yourself.” There’s no way I can redefine neighbor enough to justify the eight guys in my small group ahead of the two guys who live on my block. I flat blew it.
Each Wednesday night, I’m opting out of what I know Jesus commands me to do. It’s not as if where I live is an accident or surprise to God. Those guys aren’t just there, and their need for a Savior isn’t any more or less than the guys in my small group.
So who am I to drive past the teenagers on my block to hang out with the teenagers at my church?
So, why am I leaving my neighborhood to do youth ministry?
