Jesus and Francis and the Manna House Chapel

Jesus and St. Francis have been with us at Manna House from the beginning. I guess that is how they have places of honor in our backyard chapel. Jesus brings us to Manna House, especially with his insistence on “Whatever you do unto to the least of these you do unto me (Matthew 25:31-46). Francis with his love for outcasts and his holy foolishness gives us the levity and humility needed to do hospitality in solidarity with our guests rather than offer charity from above. 

There are certainly other inspirations as well. St. Benedict, in chapter 53 ofhis Rule, reinforces that guests are to be received as Christ (from Matthew 25:31-46), and he added an emphasis upon stability—staying put in one place for the long haul. Dorothy Day of the Catholic Worker Movement and the Open Door Community provide concrete models of hospitality and resistance in the contemporary world. All of those and more ground who we are and what we do at Manna House. 

But it is Jesus and Francis who welcome guests to our “chapel.” Jesus on his cross and Francis in his traditional pose with a bird feeder adorn this place. In the winter, the chapel is enclosed and has heaters to warm guests who arrive after cold nights. In the summer, the chapel provides extra shade, supplementing the trees, providing a cool respite from the heat of the streets. The chapel, because it is at the rear of the backyard is also a bit more secluded and quieter than the rest of the backyard. It is away from the entrance to the yard, and away from where we serve coffee and where we offer people “socks and hygiene.”

 

Jesus and Francis are there every morning. They are as much a part of a morning of hospitality as the guests and the volunteers. From time to time a guest will place a cup of coffee on the bird feeder Francis holds in his hands, and sometimes I find an “offering” of cigarettes or a few coins placed there. Other times I have come across a guest standing in prayer in front of Jesus, looking him in the eye and telling him what is on their souls.

 

Jesus and Francis welcome the tired guests who stretch out and fall asleep on the two old church benches in the chapel. They welcome the lost guests who seek a place with some community and peace. They welcome those guests who carry their grief over loss, and those who carry guilt from judgments easily offered by churches and society. 

 

In the chapel, Jesus and Francis quietly listen to stories, jokes, and discussions about sports and politics and music. They see people’s faces, their weariness, their smiles, frowns, and tears. They watch a guest read his well-worn Bible, while another reads a novel from our “library” in the house. 

 

Besides these daily welcomes, Jesus and Francis are also there when we host a special event in the chapel. There have been a few weddings between guests. But there have also been too many memorial services for guests who have died.

 

In their welcome, Jesus and Francis offer love. Jesus with his arms outstretched in the cross takes up all the suffering brought to him. Francis with his little bird feeder humbly affirms respect and dignity for each person who enters. 

In the quiet of the morning before the house and backyard are opened to guests, they welcome me with love too. I don’t come here every morning. Sometimes the mosquitoes are too thick. Sometimes it’s too cold. Sometimes I just prefer the laundry room in the house which offers a cozy comfort and on dark mornings some light by which to read about the Saint of the Day and to pray the Psalms. 

 

But when I do come to the chapel, Jesus and Francis offer me the same love they offer the guests. I need to know and feel their love. This practice of hospitality can be a hard path. The work gets tedious. The finances are typically precarious. The guests and volunteers all bring their faults and foibles and rub up against my own. Sometimes there are painful conflicts, and so often my impatience and pride get in the way of hospitality. Jesus and Francis remind me of their love. They share with me their love which will animate hospitality and bring the joy of staying faithful to that love.

 

“Live Jesus in our hearts forever! 

 

“Lord make me an instrument of your peace… for it is in giving that we receive; it is in pardoning that we are pardoned; and it is in dying that we are born to everlasting life.”

 

 

Hospitality to the Demonized

At Manna House we offer hospitality to the demonized. The people who come to Manna House as guests carry labels that demonize them. They are “homeless.” “Crackheads” “Crazy.” “Panhandlers.” “Lazy.” “Dangerous.” “Drunks.” “Addicts.” And some are given derogatory slang names that demonize them for being “Queer,” or “Trans.” The demonizing makes it easy to blame them for being on the streets. They are at fault, not the lousy economic and political systems that favor the powerful, not the churches, not any of us who are hard-working, responsible, clean-living people.

 

Going right along with demonizing those on the streets is the theologically sanctioned demonizing distinction between the “saved” and the “damned.” Those on the streets are damned and need to be saved. Thus the “rescue missions” that dot urban centers. Get saved and get off the streets. 

 

I started down this line of reflection in response to Fr. Gregory Boyle who wrote, “Jesus stands with the demonized until the demonizing stops.” Boyle rightly sees that Jesus rejects the demonizing and asserts a divinizing of the damned. In a biblical passage that is central for the practice of hospitality, Jesus goes so far as to say, “whatever you do unto the least of these [the damned], you do unto me” (Matthew 25:31-46).

 

As I was having these high thoughts on Thursday morning before Manna House opened, I was interrupted by a woman’s voice, not melodious but grating like fingernails on a chalk board. Her voice shattered my meditation with her complaint, “Pete! Pete! There’s a man in a green shirt bothering me. Make him stop!”

 

The pecking order even among the demonized was alive and well on the front porch. At the low end of that order is this particular guest. She is a lightening-rod for harassment. It is a rare morning when she does not make a complaint that someone is bothering her. She is always ready to take umbrage at what is said around her. She is the “Karen” of Manna House.

 

And other guests, like the man in the green shirt, know this, and some of them, like him, find it humorous to stir her up. They take pleasure in her anger and her denunciations.

 

I admit that I find her hard to take as well.

 

So, at 6:30 in the morning, ninety minutes before Manna House opens, during my morning prayer time, with her voice coming through the open window in the laundry room, I am tempted to respond, “Damn you, can’t you sit quietly on the front porch and leave each other alone?”

 

But instead, I reluctantly go to the front door and step onto the porch and say to everyone gathered there, “How about we all live in peace until we open?” That is my meager hospitality to the demonized at this moment. Then I walk back inside. I hear no more commotion and no more complaints.

 

I find it as easy as anyone to demonize those I disagree with or whom I find too different from me. When I offer hospitality to the damned, I do so as one who has not been saved. I remain all too willing to damn others. I resonate with St. Paul’s statement, “None are righteous, no not one” (Romans3:10). For Paul, this was to undercut self-righteousness based upon the claim to be saved; a claim used to exclude and demonize those deemed “not saved.”

 

Hospitality teaches a different way from dividing people into “saved” and “unsaved,” between “godly” and “ungodly.” When we practice hospitality, like Jesus, we recognize that we are all in this together, that we are all broken and in need of healing, that all of us need compassion, respect, love. 

 

If there is any salvation for any of us (the very word “salvation” comes from “salve” which means to heal), it is in the gracious healing of our mutual love for each other. We are all made in God’s image, all people for whom Jesus lived and died and rose from the dead, all people to whom God offers grace. 

In Jesus, God stands with the demonized, until there are no more demonized. And if I am going to follow Jesus, that is my call too, especially with those I find most difficult and damnable, like the man in the green shirt and the woman on the front porch this morning. 

God Loves Suzy

“Would you pray for me?”

I was asked this question by a guest on the front porch at Manna House some fifteen years ago. 

What followed stays with me and speaks to what is being done to trans people in the United States these days.

When I asked Suzy (not her real name) what she wanted me to pray for, she began to tell her story. She had been born biologically male. But she realized early on in her life that her assigned male gender did not fit with who she really was. She was never interested in boy things. She saw herself as a girl. She wanted to dress in “girls’ clothing.” As the “son” of a minister, this led to her parents’ condemning her, and angry “discipline” that included beatings. Finally, she was thrown out of the family home at age thirteen. She had lived on the streets ever since. She survived the trauma of this rejection and her being without a home through prostitution and drugs. 

“I’m so tired. I want to kill myself,” she continued in tears, “I just want to be loved for who I am. Pray that God will love me. Pray that I find a church that will love me.”

I said, “I do not have to pray that God will love you. God already loves you. You are loved by God.”

“But then why won’t any church love me?” she asked.

I shared with her about a few churches that I knew were welcoming and affirming; places I knew would open their arms to her, “They will love you.”

I took her hands in mine and prayed. “God help Suzy to know that she is loved, fully loved by you. Help her to find a church where she will be embraced for who she is.”

I am telling this story now because there is an evil spirit abroad stirring up hatred toward people like Suzy. Laws are being passed based upon that hatred. Too many churches are either openly endorsing this hate or silently standing by while it goes on.

I am telling this story now because Suzy’s suffering and tears are a cry from the heart that echoes the heart of God. 

I am telling this story now because it reminds me that at the very center of our practice of hospitality at Manna House is the belief that each guest is sent by God and embodies the presence of God. 

The biblical testimony is clear. Jesus taught that “Whatever you do unto the least of these, you do unto me” (Matthew 25:31-46). God sends messengers who come as strangers. To hear God’s voice we need to welcome those strangers (Genesis 18, Hebrews 13:1-3).  “Whoever mocks the poor [the vulnerable and despised] shows contempt for their Maker” (Proverbs 17:3). God hears the cry of the poor (Psalm 34:6). God does not despise those marginalized because of their sexuality, but rather they reflect God’s work in the world. In the prophet Jeremiah, the Ethiopian eunuch Ebedmelech rescues Jeremiah, acting on behalf of the king of Judah, and is later spared by God for this act (38.7–13; 39.15–18). The Ethiopian eunuch in the New Testament was a triple outsider — a gender-variant foreigner from a racial minority. He was not allowed to worship in the Temple due to his sexuality (see Deuteronomy 23:1, No one whose testicles are crushed or whose penis is cut off shall be admitted to the assembly of God). But Philip welcomes him into the church (Acts 8:26-40).

 

The fear and contempt of trans people expressed in laws, political rhetoric, and the teachings of too many churches is contrary to hospitality. It is contrary to God’s love for the stranger, for the poor and vulnerable, for the marginalized. It is contrary to this basic truth, God loves Suzy.

A Calloused Heart

Guests from the streets wait in front of Manna House. They sit on the curb of the sidewalk. Two men and a woman. All dressed for warmth in the layers of clothing that street people have as a uniform through the winter months, and that a few even wear through summer heat.

This morning is warmer. But the night chill no doubt lingers for these three who had slept outside.

The woman looks up as I nearly reached the sidewalk. I have my key ready to open the gate.

“Will you all do showers today?” she asks.

“Yes mam.”

“What time do you start?”

“Eight o’clock.”

“What time is it now?”

“Six forty-five.”

“Ooooh.”

Her weariness and resignation go out with her breath.

I unlock the gate, walk up the steps, unlock the front doors, and go in to start the coffee and change over laundry from the day before. Her weariness follows me.

Two words from a nurse who volunteered at Manna House several years ago come to mind.

“Calloused hearts.”

She said that nurses have to develop calloused hearts, and she observed the same was true at Manna House.

A calloused heart.

Skin callouses develop to protect the skin in areas of friction or pressure. A calloused heart develops to protect compassion and care from the friction of unending need and the pressure of despair from systematically imposed suffering. 

A calloused heart loves the people who come for hospitality and hates the injustice that grinds them down.

A calloused heart maintains boundaries needed for long-haul hospitality. Hospitality to last needs order, along with a humility that accepts that not every need can be met, even as a community of people can faithfully meet some needs.

A calloused heart is innocent as a dove and wise as a serpent. Grace gives the innocence in which everyone who comes is welcomed. No ID is required. No means testing takes place. No distinction is made between “worthy” and “unworthy” poor. No demand is made to change or to be evangelized. But with wisdom gained from experience, stories that seek to create sympathy for special treatment are discarded. With wisdom, people who threaten hospitality’s decorum and the dignity of others are asked to leave.

A calloused heart still weeps. Jesus wept. I weep. I hear the stories of loss that pile up in the lives of our guests. The death of loved ones. No work. Exploitative work. Agony in addiction. Torment in mental illness. Beatings. Harassment from police or passing strangers. Physical suffering from cold, rain, heat, mosquitoes and rats. Bad food. 

I weep as our guests die. Sometimes alone. Always too early. I weep from the harsh dismissal of any care for people on the streets and the calls to punish them further.

At eight o’clock the Manna House door opens. 

A calloused heart. I have one. With a calloused heart I can make it through this morning.

A few reflections on a night of protest in response to the police murder of Tyre Nichols

Tyre Nichols was beaten to death by five Memphis police officers. They have all been dismissed from the police force and now face second degree murder charges, among others. On Friday night, just as the videos of Tyre’s murder were being released, I joined with about 400 people in a protest.

 

We met at Martyrs Park, which commemorates those who died in the Yellow Fever Epidemic of 1878. It overlooks the Mississippi River. In the distance sits the old Holiday Inn where Dr. King once stayed in 1968 during the Sanitation Workers Strike. For his last visit, when he was assassinated, he stayed at the Lorraine Motel, about 2 miles from the park. One block from the Lorraine, now the National Civil Rights Museum is a historical marker for the “Memphis Massacre”—a police riot in 1866 in which 46 African Americans were killed, with homes, schools, and churches burned to the ground. 

 

As we left Martyrs Park we were walking within that history, as we marched toward the old site of Fort Pickering where African American Union soldiers were billeted after the Civil War, and who were the among the first killed in the riot.

 

I felt the weight of this history as I walked into the night. Tyre, an African American man, aged 29, had been stopped by Memphis police for a supposed traffic violation. All of the officers directly involved with the beat down were also African American. The police chief is African American. But the plantation mentality which hangs in the air in Memphis is strong; strong enough that some African Americans share the white attitudes of disdain for the ones still in certain neighborhoods. All five officers belonged to the Scorpion Unit, formed just a few years before. Its formation was urged by the white Mayor of Memphis, Jim Strickland who had campaigned on a promise to crack down on crime. Scorpion was intended to create a powerful police presence in areas deemed high crime, to intimidate and dominate, much like an occupying military force.

 

We made our way onto Interstate 55 and shut it down. We eventually stopped on the Memphis and Arkansas Bridge, the “old bridge,” built in 1949, with the new “Hernando Desoto” bridge, finished in 1973, a few miles to the north where Interstate 40 crosses the river; a bridge shut down by protestors in 2016 after white police officers gunned down Alton Sterling, a Black man in Baton Rouge, Louisiana, and Philando Castile, a Black man in suburban St. Paul, Minnesota.

 

With traffic backing up for miles both east and west, and the next steps of the protest uncertain, I decided to make my way back toward the place where we had initially stopped traffic. There a man had just tried to drive through the barricades and found himself stuck with protestors yelling at him to back up and turn around. He eventually did. I ended up in a conversation with Edie Love, a Memphis Theological Seminary graduate. She is a Unitarian Minister. With her clerical shirt on she serves as a movement chaplain. She had been part of the group urging the man to turn around.

 

I stood for a while, there in the dark, on the highway, with vehicle lights in the distance visible for at least a mile. I thought about Tyre who was killed about 80 yards from his mother’s home, and who called out in his last words for his Mom. I thought about his mother, and his family. I wondered about the family backgrounds of the police officers. 

 

I tried to discern something of God in all of this. Tyre still lived with his Mom. He was a skateboarder, a way for him to find a path (I had read earlier in the week) between gang life and athletics. As he skateboarded, he would also stop and take photographs, beautiful shots from around the city of Memphis. He seemed like a Christ figure, an innocent in a world of sin. Struck down, crucified, the Christ of the lynching tree (in James Cone’s words). He was “‘buked and scorned” and made his final journey alone.

 

I needed to pray. I walked alone along the side of the highway, retracing my steps, passing the cars stopped by the shutting down of the bridge. I went down the embankment we had climbed to get onto the highway, and then up Riverside Drive, before turning left to go back to the street where I had parked. 

 

I drove to the Lorraine Motel. I was alone there. The night was quiet. I looked up to the second-floor balcony, room 306, marked by the large white wreath of flowers. Tyre. Dr. King. And the long, long list of men and women killed by the police. “My God, my God why have you forsaken us?”

 

As I left, I did not feel much hope. I turned away from the museum and onto Front Street. There, off to the right, on the sidewalk, I saw a young African American man. He held a skateboard as he walked.