Anthony was a first-grader when I met him, small for his age, but already sporting a significant swagger. I saw his mugshot in the paper recently. He’s been charged with murder. Sadly, I can’t say I was surprised.
There are a handful of young men I met through the years whose life outcomes felt tragically predictable. Their childhoods are unbelievably difficult. Dad is not usually in the picture. The streets are rough and teach them violent lessons about how to survive.
I met Anthony while volunteering as an after-school tutor at the Jefferson Center, just across Farquhar Park, an expansive hilltop green space, near my home. Our church partnered with the center to tutor kids from the nearby Section 8 housing. As I attempted to engage Anthony, he defiantly asked, “Who are you?”
That’s a question I should have been expecting.
I was a stranger to Anthony. Yet here I was, some weekday afternoon at the Jefferson Center, offering help with his homework.
The kids were usually wound up after school. They were supposed to bring their homework to the center, where they would receive a snack while tutors helped them with their homework. Once they finished, they could hop on a computer to play a game or visit the game room.
I usually attempt to use my 6’6” stature, goofy sense of humor, and love of playing games to connect with kids like Anthony. My goal is to establish a relational connection, discover what motivates them, and find ways to help them in the moment.
As tutors, we were also responsible for crowd control. The girls were usually on task. The boys did boy things, such as insulting each other and playing roughly.
I distinctly recall a moment when I had to separate Anthony from another boy to get him on task. His little frame looked up and shot back, “Who are you?” That wasn’t the only time. It was like he had said this a thousand times to different volunteers.
Someone once told me that kids in the city are accustomed to seeing people and programs come and go. They learn not to expect you tomorrow, let alone next year. So, they get hardened in ways that make it difficult to connect. It’s hard to blame them when people don’t consistently show up.
That lesson stuck with me. In 2008, as we planned to launch City Church in York, I recall someone boldly asking me, “Will your church be here next year?” It wasn’t just kids who looked sideways at newcomers looking to do good for a season. Those skeptical little kids become cynical adults. Fortunately, I had a friend who taught me that people who live in the city don’t expect new churches to last. They appear in storefronts, generate some buzz, but fade out quickly.
That cynical adult questioning the longevity of the church was, in a nicer way, asking Anthony’s question: “Who are you?”
The question stings a bit because it feels offensive. It is as if the question is, “What gives you the right? Who do you think you are?” The question is loaded with suspicion: “We know your kind, a fly-by-night, do-gooder who expects us to be excited you showed up.”
This is where many well-intentioned efforts quietly fail. Not because the vision was wrong, but because trust was never established. Without trust, even the best ideas struggle to take root.
It is challenging to build something meaningful in a place where people expect you to leave.
You will have to get comfortable waiting for results while trust is building The hard work of trust only begins when people notice that you have not left yet. You keep showing up. People start to believe that your presence is not tied to momentum or attention.
Building trust is slow work. You should probably be prepared to be misunderstood and perhaps even unnoticed.
The question “Who are you?” made me want to stay in York City for longer than expected. Over twenty years later, I still feel like a new guy in town, but that time has given me a small measure of credibility.
And maybe has caused some of those people to stop asking, “Who are you?”
