lindsey krinks

Of paralytics and stretcher-bearers, of death and hope

elijahposted by Lindsey Krinks

Several mornings ago, I awoke to a faint dusting of snow. The air danced with specks of white fire, tiny fragments lit from the early light emerging from the dense veil of winter clouds. I got ready in a daze, my mind brimming with all the people I forgot to call, all the emails I forgot to send. On the way to our staff meeting, something dark up ahead caught the corner of my eye. At first, it looked like crows, but as I drove closer, I realized it was six to seven large, midnight-black turkey vultures crowding over some dead, frozen casualty. My car must have gotten within a foot or two of the carcass as I passed, but they didn’t flinch. Two hulked above the others on a fence glancing downward and the macabre feast continued. I shuddered at the thought of such terribly large birds silently feeding on death.

Last week, I dreamt that I was in some sort of cave. The lighting was dim and there was a fire burning near the center. In my dream, I was surrounded by dead bodies—40 or more—and my job was to anoint them. Not save them, not bury them… to anoint them. I remember feeling grave about this task, but doing it with intention and feeling some strange sense of meaning, like the task was one that needed to be done and done well.

When Samuel and I went to pick people up for the warming shelter the other night, it was late, already dark, and we only had 10 spots. A local musician was opening his home to our friends, even though the temperature was a little above 25 degrees. My task was to choose and pick up the 10 people. I made calls and sought out the most vulnerable. We arrived to the sight of canes and hospital bracelets, but “Kentucky’s” wheelchair was nowhere in sight. We found him nearby at the Citgo with “Chris” and “Jerry” (who were both a little more sober than usual). They both knew they couldn’t come in with us because of the lack of space, but they were determined to make sure Kentucky got in the van.

"This one is for the riders" found beneath a train trestle in Nashville, 2014 Kentucky hasn’t been able to walk for some time and can barely move. He gets a disability check, but hasn’t been able to access subsidized housing because he has a warrant out for his arrest in Mississippi. Kentucky used to hop trains and travel around the country. When he was passing through Mississippi, he said he once went for four days without food or water in a train car. “Hunger makes you do strange things,” he said. As the train neared a small town and slowed, he began passing fast food restaurants—Burger King, Wendy’s, McDonalds—but he had no money for food. Tired and half-starved he got off the train and went into a convenience store and stole a package of baloney. They caught him and he left town before he could be booked. And he now has a warrant out for his arrest.

Oscar Romero, the Archbishop of El Salvador who was assassinated in 1980, once said that we are called upon to be “stretcher-bearers” in this world. He was drawing from the story in Mark of the paralytic man who was raised up to the roof of a house and then lowered down to by Robert LentzJesus to be healed. Romero was saying that yes, God still works to mend our wounds and heal the brokenness of our wayward, capitalistic society that feeds, like a vulture, on the death of “the disposables,” but that we are called to be the hands and feet that bring those broken, wounded, wayward things forward.

When I saw Chris and Jerry in front of the Citgo, straining with all of their might to pull Kentucky out of his wheelchair and raise him up into the van so he could get out of the cold, all I could think about was this story of the paralytic. And I wonder what the friends of the paralytic were like in the story. Surely they were resourceful, determined, willing to break the rules, willing to piss a few people off. I can’t imagine what kind of an operation it took to raise and lower their friend. I wonder if there were moments they thought they might not make it. If they were truly the paralytic’s friends, I wonder if they, too, were outcasts. I wonder if they, too, smelled of urine and filth. I wonder about how their lives were changed after that day, about the stories they told that evening. I wonder if they laughed among themselves when they thought about the shock and dismay on the faces of the scribes and those in the crowd when bits of roof fell in on them as they dug through and as Jesus showed them grace. I wonder what that day meant for their lives moving forward.

paralyticAnd I wonder what kind of healing Chris, Jerry, and Kentucky seek. At this point, they have all saved each other’s lives several times over. At any given time, at least one of them is sober enough to take care of the others. But what kind of healing do they seek? I heard last night that Kentucky’s feet were so frost-bitten that the doctors wanted to amputate them. And there is something deep in Chris and Jerry’s eyes (especially Jerry’s) that is so tender, so gentle.

The other night, after most people were settled into the emergency shelters, I took the church van out with our intern, Corley, and we drove around East Nashville looking for those guys. We couldn’t find them anywhere so we headed to the MTA bus terminal to check the benches and warming rooms for people who needed to come in. As soon as we walked in, I saw a wheelchair and realized it was Jerry and Kentucky. They were trying to get someone to give them a ride to a shelter but had no bus fare. They were beyond glad to see us, they almost cried. After we checked the other areas, we turned to the task of getting Kentucky from his wheel chair into the van. It took 10 minutes, at least, maybe more, but Jerry got him in.

Jerry is a 38-year old country boy born and raised in Nashville with black and gray speckled hair and a speckled beard. He looks much older than his years and has soft, sky-blue eyes. As we were driving down to check Broadway and 2nd Ave., Jerry said, “Miss Lindsey, you know I love this man. I’ve done things for him I never thought I’d do… things I couldn’t imagine.” He described how he has been one of Kentucky’s care takers and has helped him with everything—eating, clothing, bathing, going to the bathroom… As he talked, his eyes filled with sadness and disbelief. “We’ve got to get him off these streets,” he said.

Yes, we are stretcher-bearers, Jerry is a stretcher-bearer. We sometimes share the filth and sickness of others. We tend to each other’s wounds, search for healing, and push each other forward. We walk alongside those who are beyond help and anoint the dead with oil. We work daily to comfort the afflicted and break the yokes of oppression. We pass those who prey and profit off the casualties crushed by a system of war and greed, and with every ounce of hope we can muster, we cling to the faith that a better world is possible. But what kind of healing do we seek?

Jesus said to the paralytic, “I have seen your faith, pick up your mat and walk.” And with Chris, with Jerry, with Kentucky, with Romero, I cling to the hope that our people will somehow get up and walk.

(Originally posted on


Fear, Death, and Love

(remarks from recipient of the Mary Morris Award, Lipscomb University: Brett Flener)

Hearing people speak about the kind of person Mary Morris was in her time at Lipscomb is a humbling experience.  In my time, I hope to cultivate only a portion of the spirit she spread among her peers and students.  James Brown, a good friend of mine, and co-worker of Mary Morris told me countless stories about the kindness she practiced so regularly.  Specifically, he mentioned his experience of a dinner party that Mary invited him to.  It was at that dinner party that James fully experienced Mary’s way of making everyone she encountered feel valued and appreciated regardless of socioeconomic level or position in society.  So, I would like to first thank Mary’s parents for raising such a wonderful woman and sharing her with the community here at Lipscomb.

I would also like to thank my parents who have taught me more about hospitality than they will ever know.  I cannot remember a time in my life when the door hasn’t been open to whomever I decided to bring home.  Be it best friends from university or a chronically ill individual whose residence was the streets of Nashville- there was always a place at our table.  I cannot thank them enough for all of the support they have given me over the past few years.

I would also like to mention past recipients of this award, Andrew and Lindsey Krinks, both of whom have been instrumental in forming and sustaining the person I am today.

1 John talks a lot about fear, death, and love.

We know that we have left death and come over into life; we know it because we love others. Those who do not love are still under the power of death. –1 John 3.14

There is no fear in love. But perfect love drives out fear, because fear has to do with punishment. The one who fears is not made perfect in love. –1 John 3.18

Who in this room fears death?

As biological creatures we are driven by our instincts for self-preservation. And given that pleasure and pain regulate our actions we often become selfish and hedonistic.  Further, given that self-preservation is the ethic of being mortal we can see how we can become enslaved to death. Mortality fears constantly push and pull on us, manipulating our animal instincts for survival and self-preservation.

The battle we all face is the battle between fear and love. Between self-interest and self-giving.  Obviously, selfish, envious, prideful, and violent people are going to have a hard time loving others. Such are the psychological and behavioral expressions of a life enslaved to the fear of death.

Resurrection, or living in freedom, is victory over this fear in the concrete expression of love toward others.  Living a life marked by Resurrection is the willingness to undergo a diminishment of the self and the ego to give life to others. Resurrection is perfect love casting out fear.

The Christian tradition provides no clear consensus on where boundaries should be set when it comes to sacrificing for others.  Jesus has certainly offered little consolation in this regard- by sacrificing his interests for the interests of others- to the logical conclusion of the cross.  When we look at those who have tried in his wake however, I think it is clear that the saints and the gospels prophetically encourage us to adjust our current boundaries, to say Yes more to others and No more to the self. It’s the journey of learning to love more and more that seems most critical.

Richard Beck, a behavioral psychologist and ad-hoc theologian at Abilene Christian University (who I have been ripping off for the past two paragraphs) offers us some insight on how to serve: Give up the striving after self-esteem and significance. How? Do good work. Enjoy the work for itself. Don’t turn work into a self-esteem project. Don’t serve that power. Put aside the anxiety of chasing self-esteem and significance and learn to enjoy the day. Notice the simple gifts of food and drink. Be present with your loved ones. Cherish and cultivate friendships. Don’t turn religion into a self-esteem project. Don’t be too righteous. Yet don’t be foolish either. Seek wisdom over violence and war. Avoid the propaganda of nations and fools. Spend the day doing good.

Though I’m not sure how far we should go in some ultimate or absolute sense, I am fairly certain that most of us can do more. That’s what I’m asking us all to consider.

William James, a great pragmatist of the 20th century observed: “When we look at living creatures from an outward point of view, one of the first things that strike us is that they are bundles of habits.”

His point is simply this: Despite our feelings to the contrary, from the time we wake in the morning to the time we go back to sleep most, if not all, of our actions are deeply set in the grooves of habit. It follows, then, that much of our happiness and virtue, or misery or vice, is due to the kinds of habits we have acquired over the years. Our goal, therefore, is to learn to cultivate habits that lead to virtue and self-giving towards others.

When I met Chris Ferguson in January of 2010, he had recently been released from prison.  I was serving at one of the many warming shelters in the city that had been organized by Amos House Community church.  Chris and I shared stories until the early hours of the morning and exchanged contact information.  The relationship forged in that place still exists until today.

Chris had been a truck driver for the last 23 years of his life.  During his 2 years in prison- his trucking license expired.  This left him without an occupation or means to thrive in his new circumstances.  I introduced Chris to a group of my friends and we made it a point to spend time together on a regular basis.  Shortly after this, we began to pull money together to put down a deposit on an apartment for Chris.  If Lipscomb Security had the resources they do today, I’m sure there would have been an interrogation into suspicious activities.  During these times, it would be regular for me to send out a text in the morning and subsequently collect money for the entirety of the day in what- to the common observer- would look like an open air drug transaction than good deeds being practiced in secret.  There was a certain camaraderie between the individuals who were giving in secret throughout the hallways of Lipscomb.  It was something most of us had never experienced before.  After talking to Chris face to face and knowing him as a person, it was easy for our group of friends to tear down stereotypes of the other and practice compassion.

It was simple.  We had more than we needed.  Chris did not have what he needed.  It was common sense that we should fast from weekend activities, or for some people, from food, so that someone else could have the physical necessities and opportunity to move past their unfavorable circumstances.  It made sense that some of us should skip class to drive 8 hours roundtrip to Georgia so Chris could reinstate his license.  And when the church that offered him family and community held its services on Sunday nights, but the shelter doors closed at 5, it made sense that we offer him a bed in the dorm.  I feel confident speaking for myself and these friends who walked with Chris when I say we are forever changed in light of that experience.

I talked to Chris yesterday, he is doing well, on the road in Georgia to pick up a load.  Every-time I call, he never fails to proclaim his love and gratitude for the small sacrifices we decided to make on his behalf.  And unfailingly he asks if there is anything he can do for me.  On my better days, I return the thanks, acknowledging that he played a significant part in liberating my friends and I from our own oppression of selfish decisions and materialism and introducing us to the life that can be found in service.

Revisiting William James-the great pragmatist- we remember his observation that human beings are a bundle of habits.  Consequently, to make this world a better place, we will have to practice our beliefs about service consistently to make it a part of who we are.  If I had one piece of advice for individuals today, it would be to get out there and develop relationships with people doing significant work today.  Pursue your passion to serve and the rest will fall in place.