Somewhere Over the Rainbow

In my Thursday morning prayer at Manna House, I saw in my “All Saints” book that the anniversary of Twin’s death was coming. One of the first guests at Manna House when we opened in the late summer of 2005, Twin was well-known among volunteers. He consistently took on and defeated all challengers in Scrabble. He was equally adept at chess and checkers. While he played, he also talked trash. He was confident in his skills and equally confident that no one could beat him. His confidence was also evident in the way he carried himself. To some, he might have seemed arrogant. But really, it was just that he knew who he was and was comfortable with himself.

Twin died on September 27, 2015. I still miss him. And I miss Robert, Sara, Abe, Brad, Tony Bone, Ron. The list goes on. Death is a reality for all of us, but it seems to come earlier and more often for our guests from the streets.

 

I thought of Twin often on Thursday morning as we served our guests. I couldn’t help but notice how death seems to be creeping up on a few. Their walk is less steady, or they have lost significant weight. One who came by shared that he had had a stroke. His strength was sapped. His talk was labored. 

 

Later that same day, as I drove on an errand, I needed to listen to some music. I put on a Tony Bennett CD. That’s not my “go-to” music, but something soft seemed in order. After a few songs matching my mood, I was surprised by his rendition of “Over the Rainbow.” I focused on the lyrics, almost as if I was hearing them for the first time.

 

Somewhere over the rainbow
Way up high
There's a land that I heard of
Once in a lullaby

 

I thought again of losing Twin. But I also thought of my Mom, who sang me lullabies. And my Dad, who didn’t, but I can’t think about Mom without thinking of Dad. I thought about this place, “Somewhere over the rainbow, Way up high.” A place we can all call home, a place where all are welcomed, family, friends, strangers. A place where there is no suffering on the streets. A place where "God will wipe away every tear.... there shall be no more death, nor sorrow, nor crying. There shall be no more pain, for the former things have passed away" (Revelation 21:4).

 

Somewhere over the rainbow
Skies are blue
And the dreams that you dare to dream
Really do come true

 

I have had dreams of those I have lost. My Mom, my Dad, and after she died of suicide, of my cousin Mary Jo. Coming to a stop light, I noticed the car ahead had a Minnesota license plate. My home state. But more, the license plate started with three letters, “MJW.” Mary Jo Weis. 

 

Someday I'll wish upon a star
And wake up where the clouds are far behind me
Where troubles melt like lemon drops
Away above the chimney tops
That's where you'll find me

 

Howard Thurman once wrote, “Again and again, we are reminded by the facts of our own lives that there is an aspect of our experience which seems to be beyond our control.” Thurman described such “coincidences” as encounters with the Divine. These are times and places where we are pulled into what Lerita Coleman Brown, drawing on Thurman, calls “holy coincidence.” In such “holy coincidence,” we experience the depth of the Mystery in which we live. In this Mystery we long for love to last, for those we loved to be alive, for life to be just and good for every person, for a magnificent reunion with Twin to play Scrabble, to have a beer with Mom and Dad, to laugh with Mary Jo. We know that Mystery is the deepest truth of life, but here we see through a glass darkly (1 Corinthians 13:12).

 

Somewhere over the rainbow
Bluebirds fly
Birds fly over the rainbow
Why then, oh, why can't I?

Only One Thing is Needed

 I find it easy to get distracted. I find it hard to keep my focus. This morning when I arrived at Manna House, I was distracted and found many distractions to stay that way. 

 

I had a lot on my mind. Who doesn’t these days? There’s plenty of fodder for distraction in politics and culture and in the myriad of debates and memes and more on social media.

 

I also had things to do. Turn on all the fans. Plug in the coffee pots. Walk through the backyard picking up stir sticks and other trash. Sweep the walkways of leaves, sticks, and gravel, Take donations to the back room. Restock the socks and hygiene baskets. Set up the serving area for socks and hygiene. Set up the coffee serving area. Clean with hot, soapy water the sugar and creamer serving table, and all of the picnic tables and chairs. Prepare “the list” for showers, and “socks and hygiene.”

 

I worked up a good sweat being distracted. Then, I finally sat down to try and pray. Today was the Feast of St. Mary of Magdala. However, given my distractedness, I did not spend much time with her. Instead, I started to think of other “Marys” in the Gospels. Thus distracted, I re-read the Martha and Mary story (Matthew 10:38-41). There I found an alternative to my distractedness.

 

Martha complains to Jesus that Mary is sitting around doing nothing. Martha, meanwhile, is busy doing all of the hospitality work for Jesus and the other guests. Jesus tells her, “Martha, Martha, you are worried and distracted by many things, but few things are needed—indeed only one” (Matthew 10:41). I heard my name in what Jesus said, “Peter, Peter, you are worried and distracted by many things, but few things are needed—indeed only one.” I heard Jesus tell me to throttle back.

 

Only one thing is needed. Only one thing is needed. What is it? Jesus doesn’t say what that one thing is, but the story invites me to hear this, “Be centered on God’s love.” Sit at the Lord’s feet (as Mary did in this story) and take in the presence of Jesus, his words, and his love. As the Psalmist says, “Be still and know that I am God” (Psalm 46:10).

 

Hospitality involves a lot of work. My list of distractions this morning is just the beginning of each day. It is easy to get lost in that work. It is easy to use the work of hospitality to hide from the guests, or at least keep them distant. 

Efficiency at the work of hospitality can keep me from stopping to listen to stories or hear about an ailment, a loss, or a joy, maybe an upcoming birthday. The work can serve as a cloak that keeps me from compassion. We have a saying at Manna House, “Efficiency is the work of the devil.” It is the work of the devil when it distracts us from serving our guests in which we both welcome them as Christ (Matthew 25:31-46) and they in turn as Christ welcome us (Romans 15:7).

 

“Be centered on God’s love.” Practice listening. Be silent. Sit down. Or at least slow down. Centered on God’s love maybe I can be enough at ease to accept God’s love, and then I may love too. 

Mercy shall triumph over judgment (James 2:13)

A guest asked what he should do about a spider bite. Where he was bitten is not healing. It is red and infected. He did not want to see a doctor. “I had my fill of doctors. I cared for my parents when they were dying. Being around doctors raises up all sorts of hard memories. I just can’t be around doctors.”

 

He couldn’t show Kathleen and I the spider bite. “It’s in a sensitive area,” he said, looking down. 

 

“Is there a way I could get some antibiotics without seeing a doctor? I’ve tried antibiotic creams. They aren’t working.” 

 

Sleeping outside, under a bridge, in an abandoned building, or in some wooded area, spider bites happen. This on top of mosquitoes, flies, and rats.

 

Kathleen suggested the Christ Community Clinic down the street at Catholic Charities. “You might not even see a doctor; you might see a Physician’s Assistant. You do really need to get that looked at and get some treatment.”

 

A new guest showed up with an orthopedic boot on his foot. He wore a paper hospital suit and still had the medical ID bracelet on his wrist. “I got discharged this morning. I’ve got a plan. Don’t worry, I’m going to be ok.”

 

A long-term guest wandered the yard talking into the air, or maybe with herself. When she came up for “socks and hygiene” I could hear snippets of her conversation. Though what I heard did not make much sense, it was clear that anything she suggested was being rejected by the voices she heard.

 

Earlier, during my morning prayer, I read from the Letter of James, “Speak and act as those who are going to be judged by the law that gives freedom, because judgment without mercy will be shown to anyone who has not been merciful. Mercy triumphs over judgment” (James 2:12- 13).

 

Our guests, it seems, experience a lot more judgment than mercy. 

 

And sometimes I am part of the problem. When I practice hospitality at Manna House, I make judgments. Last week I judged that a guest had cut the line for the shower list. I asked him to go to the back of the line. He didn’t take it so well, grabbed the clipboard from my hands where I was recording names for the shower list, and threw it across the porch. I judged again and asked him to leave.

 

Then the other morning, as I worked the “socks and hygiene” table, I saw a guest whose name had not been called standing by the shirts. I asked him to get on the list and not stand by the shirts. As he walked away, I saw a shirt in his hand. I judged he had taken a shirt and asked him to give it back and wait for his turn. He threw the shirt at me and stalked off. 

 

And I am part of all sorts of judgments in our practice of hospitality. Only twenty people can get on the shower list. We stop doing “socks and hygiene” at 10:00 a.m. We have limited hours.

 

How then can I hope to practice James’ call for mercy to triumph over judgment? Maybe I reflect mercy when I listen and offer encouragement about suggestions for getting treatment for a spider bite. Maybe I offer mercy when I listen to the story of the man in the boot. Maybe I share mercy when I wait for a guest to let the voices stop enough so she can still select some hygiene items and get a shirt. Maybe I practice of mercy when I show up every Monday and Thursday and help provide hospitality. Maybe. 

 

At the end of the day, I have to hope that God’s mercy triumphs over judgment more consistently than mine does.

Desert Places

“The Lord your God … has watched over your journey through this vast wilderness” (Deuteronomy 2:7).

 

A Bible booklet, open to a yellowed and water-stained page, lay abandoned on a front bench at Manna House. The headline, “Desert Places” caught my eye. I was about to lock the gate after a morning of hospitality. Physically, the desert is a stark and hard place to live. Spiritually, the desert is a place of testing, and for vision quest. The desert is a “liminal space” in which there is uncertainty between where one has been and where one might be going. It is a threshold (Latin, “limen”).

            From a spiritual perspective, the desert is a location for spiritual growth. The opening words of the booklet pointed in that direction. “God’s aim is to use the desert places in our lives to make us stronger… God’s goodness is meant to be received in the midst of your pain, not proven by the absence of pain… The desert is not an oversight in God’s plan but an integral part of [our] growth process.”

But such a view is dangerous, perhaps even damaging. Is it God’s plan for people to be on the streets? Is it God’s plan for those experiencing homelessness to suffer, to be in pain? I don’t think so. God is not a masochist who wants people to be in poverty and suffer.

Then a slightly different point was made. “God was with Moses and the Israelites each step of their way through the desert, and He’s (sic) with you and me in ours.” Yes, God can meet people on the streets. Maybe one way this can happen is through Manna House. At Manna House, hospitality intersects with the desert of the streets. We welcome people to cross a threshold for respite from the streets. 

I hope this is what God does at Manna House. God calls us to share hospitality, to offer an oasis in a desert. Guests come for this alternative to the desert, that yet stands near the desert. Our guests come for the shade and slightly cooler temperatures of the backyard, for the cold water, and the showers. But they also come to be welcomed, greeted by name, listened to, and even celebrated (we like to sing “Happy Birthday” when we find out it is someone’s birthday). In hospitality, the desert (for a time) gives way to an oasis we share as volunteers and guests. We reject the desert of a system that judges, denigrates, and excludes people based on race, class, gender, and sexual orientation. We create with our guests a place where all are welcome. 

But as good as that might sound, it is still dangerous. It could easily be deformed into a charity where those offering hospitality are above the guests, dispensing favors, and not being touched by the desert. As I offer hospitality, I need to remember that the harshness of the desert remains. And sometimes it seems like God is not there. Jesus on the cross quotes Psalm 21:1 as he cries out, “My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” People on the streets are crucified. Harassment, exclusion, ridicule, arrest and imprisonment, the abrupt loss of health, the sudden death of a loved one, losing a job, suffering from addiction or mental illness, not being able to make ends meet, ending up on the streets, where’s God in any of that? 

To practice hospitality, I need to let this desert reality touch me and change me. I need to let it humble me and disabuse me of easy answers. I need to listen and learn from the guests who come, the experts in desert life. I need to practice compassion, not judgment. I need to let God teach me that hospitality is a liminal place where I am emptied of myself when God crosses the threshold as a guest. 

These Shoes Take On Water

The heavy rains Wednesday night soaked our guests. So, they arrived Thursday morning looking bedraggled. One guest, who had a tracheotomy long ago and cannot speak, handed me a slip of paper with this written request, “Can I get a pair of tennis shoes? These take on water.”

 

His request made me think of a Bible story about another night storm (Mark 4:35-41). The disciples and Jesus were on a boat in the Sea of Galilee. A massive storm suddenly developed and “the waves broke over the boat so that it was nearly swamped.” Like our guest’s shoes, that boat was taking on water. Jesus, meanwhile, was asleep on a cushion near the boat’s stern. The disciples cried out to him, “Teacher do you not care that we are perishing?” 

 

I went to the back room to look for shoes, size ten and a half. Thankfully, the stock of shoes was good today. 

 

I returned to the living room. The guest calmly tried on the shoes, looked up, and smiled. He gave me a thumbs-up. The shoes were good. He was good. These shoes would not take on water, at least for a few months. I could feel a wave of peace coming from this man. It is not simply that he cannot speak; there is a stillness about him, a center that will not be rocked.

 

But what about Jesus? Was he sleeping through the storm again? Does he care that there are people on the streets with shoes taking on water? Does he care that our guests are drowning in a whirlpool of chaos? Where is Jesus in this story from Manna House?

 

I think Jesus was in the quiet guest. Jesus in the Bible story woke up, rebuked the wind, and said to the sea, “Peace! Be still!” At this “the wind ceased and there was a dead calm.” Then he asked the disciples a few questions, “Why are you afraid? Have you still no faith?”

 

I had come to Manna House this morning still struggling with my little faith. My reading of “All Saints” took me to Peter Maurin born on this date, May 9th, (co-founder of the Catholic Worker Movement along with Dorothy Day). I had marked this date as also the birth of Daniel Berrigan (peace activist/war resister) and Sophie Scholl (resister to the Nazi regime). I found out later it was also the birthday of John Brown (armed resister to slavery). I thought about how I had ended up at Manna House, through a long line of ancestors in the faith. These included those already mentioned, but also, Murphy Davis, Ed Loring (he’s still alive, but a mentor), Fr. Rene McGraw, O.S.B., my parents, my Grandma Weis. Surrounded by this cloud of witnesses, why should I fear, why would my faith be so paltry?

 

Then came this guest with his worn-out and wet shoes. And his simple written request, “Can I get a pair of tennis shoes? These take on water.” I could see his quiet dignity, his calm in the storm in which he lives, his trust in this place Manna House to be there for him. So, in him, Jesus broke through and asked me to wake up, to not be afraid. He asked me to realize the strength of the faith I have been graciously gifted with from these ancestors in the faith and from guests who give so much, like this man with his note. The rest of the morning, I felt at peace. Maybe I’m taking on less water. Maybe Jesus isn't asleep.

Resurrection at Manna House

This time after Easter and before Pentecost seems like a long stretch. My Easter joy, not very strong to begin with, has faded. But there are still Easter songs to be sung and Sunday readings that tell the triumphant tale of the spread of the Gospel following Jesus’ resurrection. Sure, there are bumps along the way, but angels spring people out of prison, conversions are happening all over the place, and apostles are going around healing people. At one level it all seems a bit too easy.

            I guess I’m still stuck at the empty tomb, at least as we have it from the oldest manuscripts of Mark’s Gospel. Like the women, who see the stone rolled away, I'd much rather flee and say “nothing to anyone” because, like them, I am “too frightened” (Mark 16:8). Resurrection? Jesus executed by Roman imperial power is alive? What does it mean? What are the consequences for how I live if Jesus’ resurrection is true?

            Then Monday rolls around and I see dead men going into the showers at Manna House. I think of a homeless man I read about who yelled out in a fight, “You can’t kill me! I’m already fucking dead!” I see the despair in our guest’s faces because being on the streets is a road to early death. Many guests hide it most mornings. As Kathleen says, “They give us their best.” But it lurks there. Sometimes it comes out in harsh words toward another guest or one of us volunteers. Sometimes it comes out more directly as one guest told me recently, “I don’t see much point in going on. I’m about all gone.” 

            I think about the guests who have died during the nearly 19 years that Manna House has been open. This past week was the one-week anniversary of Brad Winchester’s death. Meanwhile, I get a text from a chaplain at the VA who tells me James Sutton has died. I used to greet him, “James Sutton, he ain’t no mutton.” He’d roll his eyes.

            Resurrection? I don’t feel very hopeful. Homelessness. The slaughter of the people in Gaza. Terrorist attacks. Ukraine. Sudan. Climate change. I can easily see how death seems more powerful than life. 

            A lot hinges on the word “seems.” I start to wonder if I have to go looking for resurrection. The women at the tomb of Jesus were looking. Later the disciples on the road to Emmaus were looking and listening.

            A man came out of the showers at Manna House. He had gone in with face down, shoulders dejected, quiet. Now his face shone. He stood tall. And he gave witness, “I feel alive again!”

            I know it is not much. Given where he is headed for the rest of the day, and what he is up against every day, this moment is brief. The structures of poverty and racism, the culture of hatred toward the poor, and the misplaced priorities of government budgets all remain in place. Yet, this little revelation gives hope of the possibility of a larger liberation, of resurrection.

            Yes, it is not much, but it is something. Enough to hear the truth in what Daniel Berrigan wrote: “We are people of the resurrection,” and “we have longed to taste the resurrection. We have longed to welcome its thunders and quakes, and to echo its great gifts. We want to test the resurrection in our bones. We want to see if we might live in hope instead of in the … twilight thicket of cultural despair in which standing implies many are lost.”

            So, I’ll go again to Manna House, acting on and testing this hope of resurrection, looking for signs of resurrection, and learning from guests who resist death. 

To Love What is Mortal

“To live in this world 

 

you must be able 

to do three things:

to love what is mortal;

to hold it 

 

against your bones knowing

your own life’s journey depends on it;

and, when the time comes to let it go,

to let it go.” –Mary Oliver, “In Blackwater Woods”

 

Oh girl, that feeling of safety you prize 

Well, it comes at a hard hard price 

You can't shut off the risk and the pain 

Without losin' the love that remains 

We're all riders on this train—Bruce Springsteen, “Human Touch”

 

“Daily washed the feet of poor people” from the Profile of Saint Oswald of Worcester, Feast Day, February 29 (the day of his death in 992).

 

“Ain’t nobody got no business mistreating nobody.” –Diane B., guest at Manna House

 

Hospitality draws us close to serve other people in their vulnerability, their woundedness, even their death. Guests come with needs, some of them physical, which are relatively easy to address. A shower and some clothes, a haircut, “socks and hygiene,” a cup of hot coffee; none of those are all that hard to share. It is the emotional and spiritual needs that require more. To listen or have a conversation with a person who has lost their place to live and have lost work, or sobriety, or family, or friends, or their minds, that takes empathy, compassion, patience, and in all of that, love. 

 

To practice hospitality with love requires being close, in the same space with those who come. Hospitality means smelling sour breathe, body odor, rotting flesh, shit. Death hangs over hospitality. People on the streets and people in poverty die younger than the general population. One study found the mortality rate for unhoused Americans more than tripled in the past ten 10 years. Another study notes that the average life span of a homeless person is about 17.5 years shorter than the general population. 

 

I doubt Mary Oliver was thinking about hospitality with people on the streets when she wrote that our own life’s journey depends upon our capacity “To love what is mortal” and “hold it against your bones.” And I’m sure Bruce Springsteen was not thinking about hospitality when he wrote, “You can't shut off the risk and the pain, Without losin' the love that remains.” But they both get at something fundamental about love and the practice of love in hospitality. In both we join with others in the shared human condition in which fragility, vulnerability, woundedness, and death are unavoidable. And to recoil from this human condition is to also recoil from love. That is the pathos and the promise inherent to human love. There is no love without risk, and finally without loss. But there is also no human life worth living without love.

 

This love is at the heart of being a disciple of Jesus. To keep practicing love knowing vulnerability and death is how we practice resurrection. We love, we practice hospitality, by getting close to people and allowing them to get close to us, physically, emotionally, spiritually. St. Oswald, whose Feast Day of February 29^th was celebrated Thursday morning at Manna House, understood that a Christian faith that does not touch and is not touched by those who are hurting, abandons Christ who both touched the hurting and was crucified. Thus, St. Oswald, “Daily washed the feet of poor people.”

 

To practice resurrection is to live the loving conviction that every person is created in the image of God and deserves respect and recognition. As a guest put it this morning at Manna House, “Ain’t nobody got no business mistreating nobody.” Our business in offering hospitality is overturning mistreatment, overturning death with affirmation of life and love, holding people close, holding the love that remains, knowing we’re all on the same train.