Sometimes I
feel deeply estranged from the world as it is. I feel like I am living in an
alien place, that I do not belong here. Sometimes I feel like we are all
strangers in a strange land.
On such a day, the power of death hangs heavy in
the midst of hospitality. Thaddeus Lawrence was killed last Saturday. Manna
House guests shared the news with Kathleen and I at church on Sunday.
Thaddeus was a tall, slender,
African American man with a loping stride that covered a lot of ground. He had
been coming to Manna House for a number of years now. He wrestled with mental
illness, but more he wrestled with the harshness of homelessness.
On his good days, his face would
light up with a mischievous smile. On his bad days, he appeared with a very
stern face, and he would say angry words, usually not to us, but to the world
in general.
But whether smiling or struggling, each
day that Thaddeus came to Manna House to get on the list for showers, or socks
and hygiene, he would present his ID. We
do not require ID for any services at Manna House, but he would always show his
ID, point to his picture, and say his name, “Thaddeus Lawrence.”
When we opened for the day, Thaddeus
would come and get his coffee. Typically he would then stand off by himself.
But some days he would get very close up in my face to share some secret
insight. I never could understand what he was saying. I never could follow his
train of thought.
Thaddeus was killed by a hit and run
driver near the intersection of Claybrook and Jefferson, one block from Manna
House. He had been attacked and thrown into the street, and that was when he
was hit.
Guests were very shaken by his death.
Some saw what had happened. Others in hearing the news reflected on the
violence they know so well.
In the midst of our grief a guest
asked me for the “Word of the Day.” I was moved to share Psalm 137. Originally
this psalm was about the Israelites in exile.
But in Christian usage “heaven” stands in for “Zion,” and “the City of
God” for “Jerusalem.” I like to think of the vision of the Beloved Community as
replacing Zion and Jerusalem. In the Beloved Community, we will all come
together, all will be welcome, and we will all flourish together in the
presence of God. So, I paraphrased a bit as I shared the psalm,
By the
rivers of Memphis there we sat and wept,
remembering
the Beloved Community;
on the
poplars that grew there we hung up our harps.
For it was
there that they asked us, our captors, for songs, our oppressors, for joy.
“Sing to
us,” they said, “one of your freedom songs.”
O how could
we sing the song of the Lord on alien soil?
If I forget
you, City of God, let my right hand wither!
O let my
tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth if I remember you not,
if I prize
not the Beloved Community as the first of my joys!
The words of
the psalm hung in the humid morning air. For a while no one said a word. Then a
guest responded,
“Slaves won’t
sing for their masters.”
“They aren’t
going to entertain those who are killing them,” said another.
“Someone
might steal one of those songs, like Elvis took the black man’s music,” said
yet another.
“That’s a
sad Bible reading” said one more guest, “it’s bleak, but so right.”
“That’s how
I feel this morning, knowing about Thaddeus’s death,” I said.
“No one
deserves to go that way. Run down like a dog in the street,” a guest added.
Later that morning, after I had left
Manna House to go to work, I got a phone call from a minister at a midtown
church. An apparently homeless man had been found dead on their property. Could
I come and see if I knew who he was? I went. I saw him lying dead. I did not
know him. None of us gathered recognized him. As I walked back to my car I
started to cry. Thaddeus and this unknown man, both dead. I called Kathleen and
returned to Manna House. I had to grieve with her.
I
thought of another phrase “vale of tears” that comes from a translation of
Psalm 84:6, which describes those
strengthened by God's blessing in the midst of sorrow. Even in the valley of
tears they find life-giving water. I feel the tears, but I
am also feeling pretty thirsty for that life-giving water. Come Lord Jesus, come!
