Brief Reflections on “Sharing the Gospel” or “Evangelizing” or “Saving” Our Guests at Manna House

“Do you share the Gospel with the people who come to Manna House?”

“Do you evangelize the people you serve at Manna House?

 

Yes, we do, if by sharing the Gospel (or evangelizing) you mean what Jesus meant by sharing the Gospel (evangelizing) which was to share

“good news to the poor, 
    to proclaim release to the prisoners 
    and recovery of sight to the blind, 
    to liberate the oppressed,  

and to proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor” (Luke 4:18-19).

 

We hope to be good news to our guests who come from the streets and in poverty by offering hospitality that respects their dignity as made in the image of God. 

 

We hope to proclaim release to the prisoners as we advocate stopping the criminalization of people in poverty, ending the death penalty, and undoing the mass incarceration done by our racist and classist criminal justice system. 

 

We seek to liberate the oppressed as we stand opposed to the “filthy rotten system” of consumer capitalism that oppresses the poor and God’s creation, and we urge a Beloved Community dedicated to the common good. 

We proclaim the year of the Lord’s favor (Biblical Jubilee, Isaiah 61:1-3, Leviticus 25:1-22) as we urge and practice a radical redistribution of goods so that everyone can enjoy enough to have life and have it to the full (John 10:10).

“How many people have you saved at Manna House?”

We have saved exactly zero people at Manna House. We are not God. We are not Jesus Christ. We don’t save people. God does. Our guests at Manna House do bring Jesus Christ to us, just as Jesus promised, “Whatever you do unto the least of these you do unto me” (Matthew 25:31-46). We seek to love each of our guests as Jesus commanded us to do, “Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another” (John 13:34).

Appeal for Support for Manna House and the Manna House Women's Sanctuary

 For the needy will not always be forgotten, nor will the hope of the poor perish forever. (Psalm 9:18, Modern English Version)

 

Manna House began sixteen years ago. A few of us gathered as a community of volunteers to serve people on the streets and others in poverty in the downtown and midtown areas of Memphis. Several of us had gotten to know people on the streets as we worshipped at Sacred Heart Catholic Church at the corner of Cleveland and Jefferson. 

 

Three of those people on the streets, Sara, Tyler, and Abe, were regulars at Sacred Heart. They became the “holy trinity” who taught us about the needs and strengths of people on the streets in that neighborhood. They invited us to open a place of hospitality in which sanctuary would be provided, where people would be welcomed for coffee, conversation, showers and clothing, and above all, treated with dignity. Resources were pooled and a house was purchased at 1268 Jefferson to be remodeled into a place of hospitality. 

 

Our guiding inspirations, in addition to Sara, Tyler, and Abe, were the Open Door Community (then in Atlanta), the Catholic Worker Movement of Dorothy Day and Peter Maurin, and the long traditions of hospitality in the Christian tradition and in other world religions. 

 

In the late summer of 2005, Manna House opened without fanfare but with much hope, love, and faith. The then five-year-old daughter of Kathleen, one of the founders of Manna House, held a sign that said, “Free Coffee” and announced to all who walked by “Free Coffee for Sale!” People from the streets started to stop in and relationships were built. In the early months, coffee, conversation, and the occasional sweet roll gathered people several times a week, while fresh socks and hygiene items were also shared. By January, a new shower room was opened, so three times a week showers could be offered with a change of clothes. The “socks and hygiene” continued as well. In the winter months, coats, hats, gloves, blankets, sleeping bags, and more were also offered. In the summer months, fresh t-shirts, baseball caps were added. Haircuts were offered.

 

Hospitality, the welcome of people in their dignity as made in the image of God, and no requirements of ID or “needs testing” has been our central practice at Manna House. A little over a year later, a former guest (now off the streets and housed) began “More on Monday” a simple meal offered every Monday at Manna House. Over the years Manna House has also hosted a variety of start-up organizations, including Door of Hope, Outreach, Housing and Community, Room in the Inn Memphis, and Homeless Organizing for Power and Equality (H.O.P.E.). Most recently we also opened the Women’s Sanctuary, working with Room in the Inn Memphis to offer shelter to women at a second location on Greenlaw.

 

All of this has been done over the years with a completely volunteer staff. No one is paid to work at Manna House. We are ordinary people offering hospitality. We started small and have stayed small so that we can offer a personal welcome to our guests. During our sixteen years, people from a variety of faiths (or no particular faith) have served at Manna House.  We have also hosted groups from schools and universities, and other organizations both locally and from across the United States. 

 

We’ve received financial support from many different individuals and from a variety of religious communities and other organizations. We do not seek or accept any government funding or complicated grants requiring a professional staff. For about $35,000 a year we serve 100 or so guests each day that we are open; that is, about 15,000 people a year. Since we have no paid staff all financial support goes to serving our guests either directly through goods that they receive or indirectly through maintaining our two places of hospitality where our guests are welcomed. We are a 901c3 (official name, “Emmanuel House Manna”), and each year we file a 990. 

 

We have continued our practice of hospitality through the pandemic. Though the pandemic has changed some aspects of how we offer hospitality, it has not deterred us from continuing to welcome guests, to offer a place of sanctuary, to offer showers, clothing, coffee, a weekly meal, and shelter at the women’s sanctuary.

 

Please consider supporting the work of hospitality at Manna House. Checks can be made out to Manna House or to Emmanuel House Manna (the official name of our nonprofit) and mailed to 769 Stonewall, Memphis, TN 38107.

 

Thank you!

 

 

Standing at the Foot of the Cross

The hospital, the jail, or the morgue. These are the three likely places where Manna House guests have gone if I have not seen them in a while.

 

One guest disappeared about a week ago. He showed up this morning. He had a cast on his right arm that ran from his fingers to just below his shoulder. 

 

“What happened?”

 

“I tripped and fell on a sidewalk. I’ve been in the hospital. They’ve done three surgeries on my arm.”

 

He had an awkwardly large and wide sling going around his neck and holding up his arm. He asked for something that would not chafe his neck so much. I suggested we try a tie. I went in and got several from the clothing room. With a little adjustment he had a new slender and non-chafing sling for his cast.

 

I was approached by another guest later in the morning. I had not seen him for several months. 

“Where you been?”

 

“Jail. Do you know how I can get my Social Security started again? They cut it off when you’re in jail.”

 

The Social Security office on Cleveland is still closed to walk-ins due to pandemic restrictions. A person can make an appointment online. Not so easy for someone on the streets. I gave him a few options, like using the public library for computer access.

 

A week ago, I was told that one of our guests had died of COVID. I have not been able to confirm that rumor. I certainly have not seen him, so I can still hold out the strange hope that he might be in jail or the hospital.

 

Many years ago, the Open Door Community in Atlanta (now in Baltimore) had a large crucifix with the Christ figure dressed in donated clothes from the community’s clothes’ closet. “The Vagrant Christ” was a regular at street liturgies during Holy Week. It was the Open Door that first opened my eyes and heart to the Liberation Theology understanding of, “the crucifixion of the poor.” As Jon Sobrino wrote of this crucifixion, “Poverty [and I would add, homelessness] is not some sort of natural destiny… It is the effect of historical decisions made by human beings. It is the effect of unjust structures. … It’s contrary to the plan of God the Creator, and contrary to the honor which is due to God.” 

 

I have learned from the Vagrant Christ and theologians like Sobrino that the poor are crucified. I have learned from the Open Door and at Manna House that when I offer hospitality I stand at the foot of the cross. 

 

To stand at the foot of the cross, Barbara Holmes writes, is to respond to God’s call "to stand silently at the places where the national powers are crucifying the innocent and waging war against the poor... willing to embody a contemplative resistance which is simply the expression of love and faith that transcends the ability to see or understand the outcomes" (Joy Unspeakable p.106). She adds that to stand silently is not to stand passively. Contemplative resistance requires that I listen, learn, and then bear witness to the ongoing crucifixion of the poor in our society. 

 

            I find it hard to stand at the foot of the cross and practice this contemplative resistance. There are mornings I do not want to go into the backyard and hear the stories of our guests. Just like with the guests this morning, there is little that I can do when they tell me of their time in the hospital, the jail, and the ways death comes on the streets and in poverty. In contemplative resistance I come to sit with these realities. 

 

At the foot of the cross, I listen to their stories and learn again how hard and yet necessary it is to trust in the power of love, and in the presence of God in the people who trust me enough to share what they are suffering. They teach me what Jesus knew on the Cross. Even as he cried out, “My God, my God why have you forsaken me?” God had not abandoned him, just as God had not abandoned him in the silence of 40 days of fasting and prayer in the desert. God was with him in the isolation and the darkness. 

 

At the foot of the cross, when I hear the stories of the Manna House guests, if I practice contemplative resistance, I will also experience the presence of God. I will experience how God remains present and affirms this is not the way things are supposed to be. 

 

Strangest Damn Church

What we call the Chapel at Manna House is an extension of the shed in the backyard. In this covered space there are a few old donated church pews and some park benches, along with a statue of St. Francis, and a large crucifix where a silver Jesus hangs from a wooden cross attached to the shed’s sheet metal wall.  It is not fancy. But it has been the scene for a few weddings among guests, memorial services for guests who have died, and even one ordination for a Manna House volunteer now a chaplain at a local hospital.

In COVID times, since we cannot crowd into the house, guests gather in the backyard, even when it rains. We make do with picnic table umbrellas, a red tent, and the Chapel, as places where the guests can stay dry.

As I moved around the backyard this morning talking with guests, I stopped in the chapel.

“How you all enjoying church this morning?” I asked.

“This ain’t no damn church,” a rather sour faced guest responded.

I said, “You’re sitting on pews, there’s a statue and a crucifix, and over there is the minister.” I pointed to another guest, and then added, “He’s about to take up a collection, $5 dollars from each of you.”

“I’m a minister, too!” the sour guest said. And we all laughed, even him.

Then he said, “Charlton Heston was a horrible Moses. He messed up that movie ‘The Ten Commandments.’”

“He sure did,” I said, “no white man would stand with slaves and get them free. Besides Moses was dark skinned.” 

The guest smiled and shook his head as if amazed and asked, “What’s your name?”

I told him and asked him for his name. Then he said, “Let me tell you a joke.”

“Sure.”

“A man goes to church on Sunday. While he’s waiting for the service to start a Deacon taps him on the shoulder and says, ‘You aren’t allowed in here. You got to go.’ The man is upset, but he doesn’t want to cause a scene, so he gets up and goes. During the week he prays about it and thinks about it and decides maybe he wasn’t dressed properly for church. So, he gets a suit and returns the next Sunday to the same church. While he’s waiting for the service to start a Deacon taps him on the shoulder and says, ‘You aren’t allowed in here. You got to go.’ The man is upset, but he doesn’t want to cause a scene, so he gets up and goes. During the week he prays about it and thinks about it and decides maybe he needs to make a sizeable offering then he’ll be allowed to stay. So, he returns the next Sunday to the same church. He makes it until the offering when he puts $500 dollars in the plate. Just then the Deacon taps him on the shoulder and says, ‘You aren’t allowed in here. You got to go.’ The man doesn’t want to cause a scene and he leaves. But he’s very upset. He prays to God, asking God why this is happening. ‘Why won’t they let me in to that church?’ God answers him, “They’ve never let me in either.’"

As the guests and I laughed, the man said, “I don’t go to church. You see why. That’s why this can’t be a church.”

“Well, you’re here and you just gave a great sermon, so this is church now.”

“Strangest damn church I’ve ever been in,” the man said, only now he smiled.

Of Broken Angels and People

I have to confess that for the past month or so, I have not been very attentive to the presence of God at Manna House. I have grown tired of the changes to how we offer hospitality due to COVID. Masks mean I cannot see smiles. Social distancing prevents the relaxed gathering of people in the house. A number of guests who are housed, but enjoyed the community of conversation around coffee, have simply stayed away. Our coming together is always tinged by some level of anxiety about contracting COVID.

God got through all of that yesterday and got my attention. It started, of course, with a guest who called me by name.

“Pete,” he said, “you don’t remember me, do you?”

When I arrived at Manna House on this morning to open the gate and help prepare the house for hospitality, I had seen this man sleeping in the parking lot. He was under a blanket, on the hard surface of the lot, sound asleep. A purloined grocery cart stood watch over him, filled with his belongings. I figured he would eventually wake up and come across the street to Manna House for a cup of coffee, and maybe get a shower and a change of clothes.

About mid-morning, I was unloading donations from my car at the front of Manna House.  I saw that the man was now awake. I also saw that he had difficulty standing. I went across the street and asked him if he would like a cup of coffee. That is when he called me by name.

Then he told me his name. And yes, then I remembered him.

This began a conversation and a process that involved driving him to his lawyer’s office so they could help him get his disability check started again (his check had been stopped because he was in jail this past year), a quick stop at Catholic Charities to get a sack lunch, and then on to the Methodist University Hospital Emergency Room, to get medical clearance to stay at the Room in the Inn Recuperative Care Center.

All of this was facilitated by several of us Manna House volunteers, while others continued the usual hospitality of showers, socks and hygiene, and coffee. One of the volunteers that helped me with driving the guest around and getting him into the Emergency Room is a Memphis Theological Seminary student who is doing his Clinical Practicum at Manna House this semester.

When we got back from the hospital, we started to have a conversation about Manna House and how it works. Another guest came up to us and said, “God bless Manna House.” I responded, “God bless you. Do you know you are blessing?

A little later, at the end of the morning, Ashley and Kathleen fixed the broken wing of the concrete angel that has stood in the backyard of Manna House since we opened. Thanks to their careful work and some cement glue, the angel is now whole.

But as I looked at the angel, I saw the cracks were still visible in her wings, reminders of her brokenness. I started to think about all of the angels, all of the messengers of God who remind me of God’s call, of God’s gracious presence.

Those messengers have always been there, and yet in these days of COVID I have missed them. I have not been paying attention.

The angel reminded me of God’s presence that I had seen in the man in the parking lot, in the way in which volunteers responded, and in the guest who said, “God bless Manna House,” and that I now realized in myself. Every one of us at Manna House, whether guest or volunteer, comes with broken wings, more or less healed. It is in our brokenness, our wounds, that God’s gracious presence comes and helps us so that our compassion grows, as Paul wrote of God telling him, “My grace is sufficient for thee; for power is made whole in infirmity” and so Paul concluded, “Gladly therefore will I glory in my infirmities, that the power of Christ may dwell in me” (2 Corinthians 12:9).

The angel with a broken and now repaired wing called me back again to the grace of God that comes in hospitality, when we welcome each other in our brokenness. As it says in the New Testament Book of Hebrews, “Do not neglect to show hospitality to strangers, for in doing so, some people have shown hospitality to angels without knowing it” (Hebrews 13:2). Yes, to angels with broken wings, they are most adept at announcing God’s loving presence.

Death Clothes; Resurrection Love

I spent part of Thursday morning at Manna House sorting through clothing donations. On this particular morning, among the clothes I sorted, were some from a young man who died a little more than a week ago. His sister and her husband brought the clothes to Manna House on Tuesday.  Such donations of clothing from the deceased are not unusual. Over the years, we have often received donations of clothing that belonged to someone who had died. 

 

But this was the first time I started to reflect on how the receiving and sorting of clothes from those who have died is a holy task. I think I am beginning to see this now because I am still reflecting on my Mom’s death this past February. After she died, I sorted through her belongings with my sister and brothers. Though we certainly kept mementos, we had to let go of a great deal, including most of her clothing. In our grief, we had to let go of many things that would remind us of her. In my grief I am trying to learn how to live with love in the face of death. I am trying to nourish compassion and love and openness to God by acceptance of vulnerability and death.

 

This shapes how I see the giving of the deceased’s clothing as a holy moment. Those who have lost a loved one come to donate clothing they have seen the deceased wear. The old saying that “clothes make the man” point to an intimate reality about clothing; what we wear reflects our personalities, our work, our leisure, our sense of style (or lack thereof). In this way, the clothing of the person who has died still reflects something of his or her spirit. To give away their clothing is an acceptance of their death. It is part of the hard work of grieving. To let go of the clothing of the deceased is to let go, again, of the person who has died. For me to receive that clothing is to acknowledge the loss of those who grieve and to participate in their time of grieving. This is holy work, to grieve with those who grieve.

 

The giving of the deceased’s clothing is a holy moment, too, because the people who are grieving also affirm their desire for others to have this clothing. They honor the deceased by offering the clothing of the deceased for continued use, for people on the streets to be well-dressed, as well-dressed as the person they loved. The clothing is handed on so that others may have what they need. There is a graciousness in letting go while in grief so that others may receive. At the same time, the grief itself is lightened by the knowledge that others will use this clothing, others will appreciate in their lives a good pair of pants, or a comfortable shirt.

 

In light of my faith and my Mom's death, I reflect on this holy moment of receiving the clothes of the dead by recalling a central mystery of Christianity, the cross and the resurrection. The clothing to be donated comes to me as a sign of death. I know from my Mom’s death that death’s power was palpable in the grief I felt not only when my Mom died, but also when her belongings were gathered up to be given away. How hard it was to bag up the very clothes that reminded me of the one I loved. Yet, as I found after my Mom’s death, and as I have seen at Manna House, the giving of the clothing for others to use is a sign of compassion and love in the midst of grieving the loss of a loved one. This clothing offered for others to use moves beyond the reality of death to the reality of ongoing life. Giving the clothing of the one who died is an act of love. And this love is not only what makes life possible, that love is not ended by death. 

Of Walls and Sin and Break Ins

 “Before I built a wall I’d ask to know
What I was walling in or walling out,
And to whom I was like to give offence.”
—Robert Frost, from “Mending Wall”

 

Manna House reopened today. We were closed last week due to repeated break-ins. In the past six weeks we have had more break-ins and attempted break-ins than in our past fifteen years. I think our last break-in was more than ten years ago. 

The person or persons breaking in were quite determined. They used a crowbar to pry off security bars on windows and bust through doors. Once inside they did additional damage to interior doors that were locked. And they rummaged about looking for things to steal creating additional messes. 

Over the past few weeks, we have gone to work, repairing, replacing, and reinforcing doors and windows. We also cleared tree limbs and other brush that might obscure views of the house from the street. Since not much was taken (there is not much to take), we also restocked and got rooms back in order.

But beyond these physical repairs and clean up, I have needed time to for spiritual repair. I need time to remember why I do this work and who I seek to serve. I have to address my anger, frustration, and feelings of despair.

One way to do this was to talk with our guests. On the mornings we were closed, I went to Manna House. I stood on the front porch and greeted guests as they arrived and shared with them the news that we were not open. Then we talked about the break-ins. They found the break-ins as confusing as I did. And, as they talked they offered me some reassurance.

“Why would anyone break in here?” one guest asked, “There ain’t nothing to take. You give it all away.”

“Sorry this is happening. It don’t make no sense.”

“Isn’t everything in here donations? What’s to take?”

“Evil abounds.”

“Damn, I hate missing my shower, but I understand.”

“I’ll pray for you all.”

I also took time to simply be at Manna House, in silence, and in prayer. The space felt desecrated in some way. These break-ins felt personal, like whoever was doing this was attacking the hospitality we seek to offer at Manna House. Was it a disgruntled guest? Was it someone I had angered? Why so determined to get in and do damage to this place? Or were these break-ins the work of someone who could care less about Manna House? Is Manna House just another place where there might be something of value to steal?

            I do not have answers to those questions. But as I have sat with them, a few things have emerged to keep me going. Manna House is a place of hospitality, where we welcome people and share needed goods. But Manna House is also a place with more resources than someone on the streets or otherwise in poverty. Our fence, our security bars and locked doors, are all signs of holding onto things, of trying to shut some out on some days and at some times. During certain days and hours, we are walling some out. I have no doubt, as we wall out some, we do give some offence. I know we give offence by the anger that comes when I have said “No” to a guest’s request, for clothing, for a shower, for a backpack. My “no” always has a good reason (boundaries, limits, our hours of operation being sustainable), but that good reason is from my perspective, my place of privilege, my place of power. My good reasons will not assuage the anger a guest may feel. And such anger may well have led to these break-ins. 

            I have had to remind myself that Manna House, the work of hospitality I do there with others, is a sign of grace, but also of sin. The hospitality is the grace. The sin is that the goods of this earth are not shared justly, and that even hospitality reflects on some level a divide between “haves” and “have-nots.” I am not saying such sin means Manna House should be broken into (just as I would not say we should do away with our fence and locked doors and security bars on the windows). I am saying, I need to avoid the self-righteousness which feeds my anger and discouragement about these break-ins. I need to realize that even in the good of hospitality I share, I am not addressing the deepest hurt and injustices that feed the evil of break-ins. I need to realize this is God’s work in a broken world, not my work.

            When Manna House reopened today, that good of hospitality was shared again. And the guests did as they so often do, they offered me pastoral care. “Don’t take it personally,” one guest said, “just keep doing what you do. A better day is coming. You wait and see.”

The Gift of Smallness

Lately, Jesus, Dorothy Day, and St. Therese of Lisieux have gone to work on my soul. I had succumbed to the deadly “bigger is better” and “busier is better” viruses. There were mornings at Manna House when I wondered if it was worth our even staying open. Given the risk to ourselves and to our guests, and the small amount of hospitality we were offering, should we even keep our reduced schedule of two mornings a week, from 8:00-10:000am?

Part of this questioning no doubt came from my sense of the paucity of what we were offering compared to the “glory days.” Pre-pandemic we were open three mornings a week from 8:00-11:30am. Typically, we would manage twenty-five or more people for showers, fifty-one or more for socks and hygiene, and three to four hundred cups of coffee served to several hundred guests. Now we had two mornings a week from 8:00-10:00am, six people for showers, maybe thirty for socks and hygiene, and a hundred or so cups of coffee for maybe sixty guests all total.

Part of my questioning also came from the slower pace for myself at Manna House. With fewer guests, on many mornings I found myself with a significant amount of “down time”—when there was little or nothing to do but wait for another person to finish his shower, so the next guest could be called in.

I know I was also mourning not only the reductions in service, but also the loss of relationships with people on the streets and others who came to Manna House each day we were open. Those relationships relied upon offering a place where it was comfortable to come and hang out. With our limitations on going into the house (one person at a time for use of the bathroom, and one person at a time for showers), we did everything else outside, including the coffee serving and “socks and hygiene.” It was not that comfortable for hanging out. For the people with a place to stay, the choice to stay away was easy. And many of the people on the streets likely found warmer places to go. In either case, the community at Manna House was smaller.

In my mourning and questioning, I heard the voice of Jesus say, 
“‘Come unto me and rest;
lay down, thou weary one, lay down
thy head upon my breast.’
I came to Jesus as I was,
so weary, worn and sad.”

And I listened as I rested, and Jesus said, “What is the kingdom of God like? What shall I compare it to? It is like a mustard seed, which a man took and planted in his garden. It grew and became a tree, and the birds perched in its branches" (Luke 13:18–19).

Then I heard Dorothy Day say, “by little and by little,” we are made whole by the small things, chosen deliberately and repeated each day in the service of the poor.

Then I heard St. Therese of Lisieux say that I should seek the “Little Way” in which “What matters in life is not great deeds but great love.” The key is not performance but relationship.

In the spirit of the little way of the mustard seed, Jesus, Dorothy, and Therese called me to embrace the gift of the smaller, the slower, the fewer. In this gift, I have space for practicing the presence of God. At Manna House this means I can slow down and recognize God’s presence in each guest as “Christ comes in the stranger’s guise” (see Matthew 25:31-46). When I am not so rushed, I can see each person’s dignity, and listen more carefully to each person. I can also take the time to sit for conversation.  

On Thursday, this gift of the smaller meant I sat down with a couple of guests, one black and one white. I listened to their stories about when they were younger. I was gifted as I saw their eyes brighten and smiles come across their faces as they reminisced about growing up in the country. They had simple stories about hunting, swimming, and taking care of “chores.” For a few minutes we were all in another place, a smaller place, a simpler place. Bigger and better took a back seat to the beauty of being with each other. And it was good.

A Stone Rejected Who Became a Cornerstone

I am not exactly sure when Robert B. started coming to Manna House. It was at least six years ago. This morning his close friend, Darren, shared with me the sad news. Robert died sometime last Thursday morning in his sleep, under the bridge where he stayed. 

For someone who came to Manna House so regularly, I did not know a lot of details about Robert’s life, but his character spoke clearly. He was a quiet man. He was unfailingly friendly but reserved. He liked to keep his nose in a book and out of other people’s business. And he did not really appreciate other people trying to get into his business either.

Always thin, Robert was even thinner since he got out of the hospital in late fall. He had been stabbed and for a while it was touch and go. I went up to see him (my clergy pass allowed me in despite the COVID restrictions). We talked and I prayed with him. This was “a bad cut,” he said in a matter-of-fact monotone. He held no grudge or hatred toward the person who had done it. “We were both being stupid,” he said, “it happens when you drink too much.”

Robert never got too excited about anything. I tried hard with my silly jokes to get him to laugh, but the best I could get was a wry smile and a shaking of his head. He would warn people to not ask me to tell a joke. “They are painfully bad,” he would say, “Don’t get him started.”

He would often ask me for the weather forecast. He wanted to know the ten-day forecast with highs and lows and chances of rain. I had a sense that Robert did not like surprises. He certainly moved in a methodical way, never hurried, but also never slow.

Robert read historical novels, thrillers, and mysteries. Every picture I have of him from Manna House he has a book in his hands, and he is reading. He was a regular in the furthest corner of the backyard. There he constituted with a few others guests an informal library reading space. It was like they created an oasis of quiet in the midst of all the activity of a morning at Manna House.

Robert had a dignity about him that was part humility and part acceptance of himself for who he was. He sometimes came to Manna House after having drank too much. He was always apologetic and vowed to not do that again. He told me that Manna House was a place he felt welcomed, and he wanted to keep it that way.

The first stone set in the construction of a masonry foundation is the cornerstone. All other stones will be set in reference to this stone, thus determining the position of the entire structure. Robert was a “stone that the builders had rejected” (Psalm 118:22). He was on the streets, one of the “homeless” defined as a problem and sometimes even a menace. But he “had become the cornerstone” at Manna House. His steady presence helped establish a sense of orderliness in which people can relax, and hospitality becomes possible. 

I am unsettled by Robert’s death. Life seems more precarious than ever these days. But I am also going to hold onto Robert’s witness to ordinary steadfastness and human decency in the midst of failures and falls. He would certainly wobble from time to time, but he constantly returned to read a book, to say hello, to be a friend. Perhaps he showed that joy in life is only possible in the midst of vulnerability. That seems like a lesson I can rightly draw from the life and character of Robert, much like the life of another stone that was rejected and became a cornerstone.