January 2004

OK, so this past August my family and I moved into our fifth home in the past seven years. As foolish as it sounds, though, I really think we’re going to stay in this one, so you may as well have the address:

Bart, Marty, Miranda, and Roman Campolo
481 King of Prussia Road
Radnor, PA 19087

And no, that is not a typographical error. We really did move to the suburbs.

How we got here is a long and complicated story, but it probably shouldn’t be. The simple fact of the matter is that while I have long been a ‘city person’, Marty and the kids most definitely are not. I wish it hadn’t taken Marty developing a nasty case of Rheumatoid Arthritis for us to finally recognize the cost of ignoring that fact for the past fifteen years, but it did, and we have, and so here we are.

For those who don’t know Radnor, suffice to say that it is the quintessential Main Line Philadelphia suburb. It is also where I grew up on the campus of Eastern College, and not too far from Friends Central, the school both Miranda and Roman have attended since kindergarten. Also, not coincidently, the house we found here is just a few blocks from my parents.

Actually, we didn’t find this house as much as it found us, via the friend who sold it to us. Another friend drew up the papers, and others came to help remodel the kitchen, paint the walls, turn the basement into a family room, and reassemble Roman’s beloved trampoline in the backyard. When you visit, you’ll see that it fits us perfectly.

As confident as I am in our decision to move out, however, and as thrilled as I am to see my family so happy, the transition from West Philadelphia to Radnor has been hard on me. I miss so much about living in the city and, no matter what anyone says, I often feel like a traitor to my cause. Like so many Christian activists, I have worn my inner-city address as a badge of honour, which validated my commitment. Out on the speaking circuit or among our Mission Year Team Members, invariably the first question I’m asked is, “Where do you live?” Regardless of what I did or did not do there, West Philadelphia was always a good answer. Radnor, on the other hand, doesn’t much help my credibility as a crusader for social justice.

My real problem, however, is not what other people think. My real problem is that, aside from adding a miserable commute and a little yard work, moving out to the suburbs hasn’t really changed my life at all. Stripped of my urban trappings, I am finally facing the fact that I long ago ceased to be a street-level minister of the Gospel to the poor. Instead, I am the desk-bound CEO and fund-raiser of two medium-sized, non-profit organizations (Mission Year and EAPE), enabling other people to do that work I’ve always wanted to do myself. The truth is that I may still talk about loving relationships with poor people, but I don’t really have them myself anymore.

Of course, I know that different people are created for and called to different roles in the Kingdom of God, and I think I could accept no longer being a street-level urban missionary, if I were doing something that fit me better. Unfortunately, these days I spend most of my time administrating programs, managing staff, and asking people for money, none of which I do particularly well. The more I understand my job, the less I want to do it.

Honestly, at this point, I increasingly feel both gifted and called to passionately communicate the love of Jesus, the needs of the poor, and the joys of sacrificial service. Deep down, I think I ought to concentrate my energies on speaking and writing and counselling, but I am afraid to admit that, even to myself. I wonder, how can I step away from my present role without letting people down? How do I find my voice as a Gospel preacher? What if I try my best and fail? If that sounds like a mid-life crisis to you, well, what can I say? I’m 40.

An analyst could have a field day with me about now, trying to figure out the complex motivations that drove me to organizational administration in the first place. I know it had a lot to do with me trying to prove I’m not my father, but perhaps there was some office furniture fetish or obsession with spread sheets mixed in as well. At this point, however, I am much more interested in figuring out what comes next.

When Marty first developed RA, I thought it was nothing but bad. I couldn’t foresee the many ways her physical pain would cause her to actively pursue emotional and spiritual strength. Over the past few years, however, she more than anyone has been speaking into my life, pushing me to be honest, encouraging me to listen to what I hope is the Holy Spirit. Just a few weeks ago she reminded me again that she would gladly sell anything and move anywhere to see me become my best self as a follower of Jesus. On that level, I am both free and supported.

Our kids are in good shape these days, as well. At 14, Miranda continues to be confident, open, carefree, and beautiful. Although she has a spiritual side, it troubles both Marty and me that she is so clearly turned off to the specificity of Christianity. Still, she has chosen fine friends, and we are grateful that she stills talks to us about so much.

Roman at 11 is as sensitive, intensely emotional and argumentative as ever, but slowly but surely he seems to be getting more comfortable in his own skin. God has been faithful to restore our patience over and over again, and Roman’s intelligence and sense of humour often make him a joy to us all. His passion for playing tackle football, too, has been an incredibly positive factor in his overall development this year.

I never feel like a great father, especially when I listen to other people talk about their kids. Marty is instinctively nurturing, but practically nothing about parenthood comes naturally to me. I just keep trying like crazy and hope that counts for something. Still, the fact that both my kids are doing well is making is easier for me to face all these other uncertainties.

Of this much I am sure: The fact that I want to change roles doesn’t mean I’m not as passionate as ever about Mission Year. On the contrary, the more Mission Year grows, the more I want to be out there inspiring young people to join up, and encouraging them on the field once they do. We need a new President as soon as possible, but I believe I still have an important part to play in the movement.

Until we find someone to raise money and run Mission Year on a day-to-day basis, however, I need to do both as well as I can, particularly because more young adults than ever are applying for next year’s program. At the same time, I need to begin laying the groundwork for the next part of my own ministry, so I am ready when to take advantage of the opportunities I pray will come.

A few weeks ago, at Mike Yacconelli’s memorial service, I realised that I had been deceived by my upbringing into believing the world was full of brilliant, funny, honest, passionate communicators of grace and social justice and authentic faith. My father, after all, is Tony Campolo. Yacconelli, my father’s great buddy, was always like some wild and crazy, Jesus-loving uncle to me. And so I grew up, sharing meals and conversations with people like Brennan Manning, John Perkins, Philip Yancey, Clark Pinnock, Ron Sider, and Jim Wallis. In my little world, it seemed like everywhere you turned there was someone wonderful, proclaiming the Kingdom of God in a beautiful, prophetic way. It never occurred to me that there might not be enough preachers like that, or that even the ones we had might die someday.

Please, don’t get me wrong. I know better than anyone that I’m not the next Tony Campolo. No one can be that. I know I can’t replace Mike Yacconelli, or any of those great men I got to know. No one can do that. All I can do is get out there and do my best to communicate that same grace and social justice and authentic faith in my own way. All I can do is to add my voice to those others, and hope that it reaches somebody who might have missed their message. If that sounds overly dramatic, well, tough. I’m having a mid-life crisis. This stuff feels genuinely monumental to me.

Unfortunately, this letter feels genuinely monumental as well. If you have made it this far, you must be either a very generous person or a very compulsive reader. Either way, I’m sorry. I am also grateful and hopeful. Most of all, however, I am bound and determined to end this letter.

Your friend,

Bart

January 2004

OK, so this past August my family and I moved into our fifth home in the past seven years. As foolish as it sounds, though, I really think we’re going to stay in this one, so you may as well have the address:

Bart, Marty, Miranda, and Roman Campolo
481 King of Prussia Road
Radnor, PA 19087

And no, that is not a typographical error. We really did move to the suburbs.

How we got here is a long and complicated story, but it probably shouldn’t be. The simple fact of the matter is that while I have long been a ‘city person’, Marty and the kids most definitely are not. I wish it hadn’t taken Marty developing a nasty case of Rheumatoid Arthritis for us to finally recognize the cost of ignoring that fact for the past fifteen years, but it did, and we have, and so here we are.

For those who don’t know Radnor, suffice to say that it is the quintessential Main Line Philadelphia suburb. It is also where I grew up on the campus of Eastern College, and not too far from Friends Central, the school both Miranda and Roman have attended since kindergarten. Also, not coincidently, the house we found here is just a few blocks from my parents.

Actually, we didn’t find this house as much as it found us, via the friend who sold it to us. Another friend drew up the papers, and others came to help remodel the kitchen, paint the walls, turn the basement into a family room, and reassemble Roman’s beloved trampoline in the backyard. When you visit, you’ll see that it fits us perfectly.

As confident as I am in our decision to move out, however, and as thrilled as I am to see my family so happy, the transition from West Philadelphia to Radnor has been hard on me. I miss so much about living in the city and, no matter what anyone says, I often feel like a traitor to my cause. Like so many Christian activists, I have worn my inner-city address as a badge of honour, which validated my commitment. Out on the speaking circuit or among our Mission Year Team Members, invariably the first question I’m asked is, “Where do you live?” Regardless of what I did or did not do there, West Philadelphia was always a good answer. Radnor, on the other hand, doesn’t much help my credibility as a crusader for social justice.

My real problem, however, is not what other people think. My real problem is that, aside from adding a miserable commute and a little yard work, moving out to the suburbs hasn’t really changed my life at all. Stripped of my urban trappings, I am finally facing the fact that I long ago ceased to be a street-level minister of the Gospel to the poor. Instead, I am the desk-bound CEO and fund-raiser of two medium-sized, non-profit organizations (Mission Year and EAPE), enabling other people to do that work I’ve always wanted to do myself. The truth is that I may still talk about loving relationships with poor people, but I don’t really have them myself anymore.

Of course, I know that different people are created for and called to different roles in the Kingdom of God, and I think I could accept no longer being a street-level urban missionary, if I were doing something that fit me better. Unfortunately, these days I spend most of my time administrating programs, managing staff, and asking people for money, none of which I do particularly well. The more I understand my job, the less I want to do it.

Honestly, at this point, I increasingly feel both gifted and called to passionately communicate the love of Jesus, the needs of the poor, and the joys of sacrificial service. Deep down, I think I ought to concentrate my energies on speaking and writing and counselling, but I am afraid to admit that, even to myself. I wonder, how can I step away from my present role without letting people down? How do I find my voice as a Gospel preacher? What if I try my best and fail? If that sounds like a mid-life crisis to you, well, what can I say? I’m 40.

An analyst could have a field day with me about now, trying to figure out the complex motivations that drove me to organizational administration in the first place. I know it had a lot to do with me trying to prove I’m not my father, but perhaps there was some office furniture fetish or obsession with spread sheets mixed in as well. At this point, however, I am much more interested in figuring out what comes next.

When Marty first developed RA, I thought it was nothing but bad. I couldn’t foresee the many ways her physical pain would cause her to actively pursue emotional and spiritual strength. Over the past few years, however, she more than anyone has been speaking into my life, pushing me to be honest, encouraging me to listen to what I hope is the Holy Spirit. Just a few weeks ago she reminded me again that she would gladly sell anything and move anywhere to see me become my best self as a follower of Jesus. On that level, I am both free and supported.

Our kids are in good shape these days, as well. At 14, Miranda continues to be confident, open, carefree, and beautiful. Although she has a spiritual side, it troubles both Marty and me that she is so clearly turned off to the specificity of Christianity. Still, she has chosen fine friends, and we are grateful that she stills talks to us about so much.

Roman at 11 is as sensitive, intensely emotional and argumentative as ever, but slowly but surely he seems to be getting more comfortable in his own skin. God has been faithful to restore our patience over and over again, and Roman’s intelligence and sense of humour often make him a joy to us all. His passion for playing tackle football, too, has been an incredibly positive factor in his overall development this year.

I never feel like a great father, especially when I listen to other people talk about their kids. Marty is instinctively nurturing, but practically nothing about parenthood comes naturally to me. I just keep trying like crazy and hope that counts for something. Still, the fact that both my kids are doing well is making is easier for me to face all these other uncertainties.

Of this much I am sure: The fact that I want to change roles doesn’t mean I’m not as passionate as ever about Mission Year. On the contrary, the more Mission Year grows, the more I want to be out there inspiring young people to join up, and encouraging them on the field once they do. We need a new President as soon as possible, but I believe I still have an important part to play in the movement.

Until we find someone to raise money and run Mission Year on a day-to-day basis, however, I need to do both as well as I can, particularly because more young adults than ever are applying for next year’s program. At the same time, I need to begin laying the groundwork for the next part of my own ministry, so I am ready when to take advantage of the opportunities I pray will come.

A few weeks ago, at Mike Yacconelli’s memorial service, I realised that I had been deceived by my upbringing into believing the world was full of brilliant, funny, honest, passionate communicators of grace and social justice and authentic faith. My father, after all, is Tony Campolo. Yacconelli, my father’s great buddy, was always like some wild and crazy, Jesus-loving uncle to me. And so I grew up, sharing meals and conversations with people like Brennan Manning, John Perkins, Philip Yancey, Clark Pinnock, Ron Sider, and Jim Wallis. In my little world, it seemed like everywhere you turned there was someone wonderful, proclaiming the Kingdom of God in a beautiful, prophetic way. It never occurred to me that there might not be enough preachers like that, or that even the ones we had might die someday.

Please, don’t get me wrong. I know better than anyone that I’m not the next Tony Campolo. No one can be that. I know I can’t replace Mike Yacconelli, or any of those great men I got to know. No one can do that. All I can do is get out there and do my best to communicate that same grace and social justice and authentic faith in my own way. All I can do is to add my voice to those others, and hope that it reaches somebody who might have missed their message. If that sounds overly dramatic, well, tough. I’m having a mid-life crisis. This stuff feels genuinely monumental to me.

Unfortunately, this letter feels genuinely monumental as well. If you have made it this far, you must be either a very generous person or a very compulsive reader. Either way, I’m sorry. I am also grateful and hopeful. Most of all, however, I am bound and determined to end this letter.

Your friend,

Bart