Sanctuary

The streets are a violent place.  I was reminded of this again this weekend as I heard the news of a guest who was involved in a fight and now lies in intensive care at the Med.  We prayed for him as we opened today, and we prayed again for another guest, who is still in a coma from a separate violent incident. 

Over the years we have seen guests arrive sometimes with black eyes, or stitched up cuts, and even occasionally a shirt still bloodied from a fight.  Guests get jumped, beat up, robbed, harassed verbally and physically, and sometimes they get into fights themselves.  We have lost guests over the years to murder on the streets. 

There have even been a few (very few) mornings at Manna House when harsh words, fighting words, got exchanged, and pushes and shoves or worse erupted.  And when that happens we shut down for the day.

            This morning, however, like most mornings at Manna House, was peaceful.  The cooler weather, the slight wind blowing through the shady backyard, and the feeling of sanctuary we work with our guests to create, all conspired to keep the violence of the streets far away.

             That feeling of sanctuary comes in part from the physical separation of the backyard at Manna House from the streets.  As you walk along the brick path from the sidewalk into the backyard, the ten or fifteen yards you traverse takes you from one world into another.  The noise of traffic is replaced by the melody of birds and the breeze through the trees.  Those same trees give shade that provides a cool contrast with the harsh sun on the streets.  The brightly painted picnic tables, back wall and porch of Manna House stand in contrast with the grey sidewalks and black asphalt out front.  It is a different world.

            Sanctuary also comes from the respect we offer our guests as we share hospitality.  We learn people’s names and stories.  We don’t post rules, but we do share expectations and information.  We listen for guests to make choices about the clothing they want before they head into shower, and to make choices about the hygiene items they want if they are on the “socks and hygiene” list.  We pour coffee for each guest who wants a cup.  We keep the creamer and sugar table clean and looking good.  None of this is very dramatic, but these are our consistent gestures of respect.

Our guests offer their own gestures of respect that also help to create sanctuary at Manna House.  Our guests offer us “good mornings,” handshakes or hugs and smiles, and conversation, and good natured checkers’ games.  Our guests leave out on the streets any defensiveness, mistrust, anger, or short temper they might have.  Kathleen says “our guests bring us their best” and they do, and we are grateful. 

This isn’t to say neither of us fails or our worst never emerges.  As volunteers sometimes we are too quick to judge and say “no” or we get short with a guest who is a bit rough around the edges.  And guests can sometimes bring a sourness or sullenness that isn’t helpful.  But most of the time most of us, volunteer and guest alike, give our best to try and make sure those things don’t happen. 

The result is sanctuary, a place of welcome and respite, a place where guests feel safe enough to fall asleep on chairs or couches, where volunteers bring their young children, where we look out for each other and keep the violence of the streets and the world away.

            This sanctuary is a fragile thing.  It needs careful attention and cultivation by all of us each day.  We can’t take it for granted as our failures remind us how quickly it can evaporate.  We can cherish it, acknowledge it, and give thanks for it.  And we can offer it to ourselves and to the world as an alternative to the violence of the streets and the violence in our hearts and in our world.   

            It doesn’t seem like much in the face of so much violence.  And maybe it isn’t much.  But somehow the kingdom of God is in a mustard seed, and peace may begin as we offer each other sanctuary, in a backyard like Manna House, on a border where children are crossing, in a house where Israeli and Palestinian come together to break bread.  We have to start somewhere.