Manna House as "Home"

Manna House as “Home”

“I’ve come by here many times, and wondered what this place was.” A man was leaning out of his truck window. He had started talking to me as soon as I got out of my car in front of Manna House. We are closed on Saturday. I was there to take the garbage cans to the back yard after they had been emptied yesterday. When I drove up there was a white truck parked directly in front of Manna House in the center turn lane. I had wondered what was up.

“Do you work here? Are you going in?” he asked.

“We’re a place of hospitality for people on the streets and people in this neighborhood. We’re closed today. Can I help you?”

“I’d really like to have a look inside. My grandparents lived here. My parents lived here for thirty years. I grew up here. This is home.”

The man was about my age. He was almost a shorter version of myself. A little more than a month ago I was in Rochester, Minnesota, where I joined with other family members to help my Mom move from her home of 62 years. It was the home in which I had grown up and had always returned to whenever I “went home.”

“Come on,” I said, “I’d be honored to show you around.”

His name was Philip Humphrey. They had moved out in 1995 and he had not been back inside since. He walked through the house with me. “I can’t believe it. I can’t believe I’m actually back inside here. I like what you’ve done with the place.”

We walked into the clothing room. “This was my sister’s room. I slept in the back, for a while in the pantry, then in the back bedroom.”

He wanted to know how long Manna House had been open. Ten years, I told him. We loved this place from the start. It had such a family spirit even when we walked in the first time and it was in such disrepair.

“Our family loved living here. We had our ups and downs. But this was always a solid house, a good home.”

As we walked around he also talked about the area around the house. “The neighborhood really changed. Bellevue Baptist bought up and tore down so many houses for their parking lots. That building across the street used to be a Bausch and Lomb eyewear place. That corner store was a florist. There was a little store across the street. It’s gone. The house next to it was a very fine house.”

I showed him all the rooms in Manna House. He marveled at the bathroom and wondered if the old claw-footed tub had been there when we moved in. Nope.

Then I showed him the backyard.

“My Mom and Dad would love how it’s being used for good. My grandparents would love it too.”

He stood in the backyard and pointed up to the roof, “I put that antennae up there. You see that black wire, that was for my shortwave radio.”

His memories were pouring out of him.

“Parked my first car out front. Another car hit it. Some church-goer forgot to set his brake and his car rolled down the hill and smashed into mine. I brought my first date here.”

He took some pictures. He told me how hot it was in the summer with no air conditioning and how cold it was in the winter with just a few small gas heaters. As he got ready to go he said, “This was home. This is what I think of when I think of home. It will always be home for me. Would you mind if my sister came by some time and had a look?”

“Not at all. She’s welcome anytime, and so are you.”

God Acts in Funny Ways

God acts in funny ways. Until this morning when I stumbled across it during morning prayer, I was not aware that today is the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross. And I doubt our guests at Manna House knew of this feast. Few of them come from Christian traditions with a liturgical calendar. But it was on this morning that a guest asked me to take his picture in front of the crucifix in the chapel in the backyard of Manna House. And then in rapid succession five more guests asked for the same. What was going on?

            It took me a while to figure it out. But it started to come together when a guest asked me for the “Word for the Day.” Because it was the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, I shared from Hebrews 13:12-15 about the crucifixion of Jesus, “Therefore Jesus also suffered outside the city gate in order to make the people holy by his own blood/life. Let us then go to him outside the city walls and bear the abuse he endured. For here we have no lasting city, but we are looking for the city that is to come.”

            “I live outside the city walls,” a guest said.

            “What are you talking about? What walls?”

            “We’re walled out. Invisible walls, but strong walls.”

            “That’s crazy.”

            “Are there places you can’t go? Are there places you’re not welcome? Walls around them places. You’re outside those walls.”

            “Jesus outside the walls; Jesus with us.”

            “Jesus.” 

            "Ain't no city for us here."

            Our guests know the cross. Our guests know crucifixion. They have state sanctioned violence come at them through cops and security guards and jails. They have culturally supported violence come at them through being jumped while they walked the streets. They have economic violence come at them through having no work, or not being paid for work that they did.

            So today some of our guests at Manna House wanted their pictures taken with Jesus, crucified outside the walls. God acts in funny ways.

Mercy Over Judgment

Mercy Over Judgment

When I looked into the backyard I immediately made the judgment, “This can’t be good.” Two guests were seated facing each other, and given their histories, I was sure trouble was brewing. The first guest, who I’ll call “Jerry,” suffers from severe mental illness. He has never given us his name (he will usually identify himself with a random string of letters). He has never said a word that makes any sense. The other guest, who I will call “Steve,” is a noted neighborhood tough guy. Just last week, Steve verbally threatened another mentally ill guest, and a fight was narrowly averted. 

Now Jerry faced Steve with a very agitated manner. He spoke loudly and incoherently while he rapidly pushed gravel around with his feet. All the while he remained seated, leaning toward Steve. I was sure Steve would not stand for this very long.

So I moved from the back porch into the yard. I headed toward where Jerry and Steve were seated. I wanted to be ready to get between them.

I got close enough to see Steve’s face.  But what I saw surprised me. Instead of the threatening scowl I expected, there was a slight smile. Nothing about Steve suggested he was bothered in the least by Jerry’s antics. For the next fifteen minutes or so Steve sat there listening quietly, and occasionally nodding his head as if to understand Jerry. For his part, Jerry seemed satisfied with Steve’s patient presence. And then Jerry got up and walked out of the yard. Steve turned his attention to a friend seated a few chairs away.

Earlier in the morning the “Word for the Day” came from James 2:13, “For judgment will be without mercy to anyone who has shown no mercy, mercy triumphs over judgment.”

We seek at Manna House to welcome our guests without judgment, to be merciful. The hospitality we strive to practice welcomes guests as they are. We try to have no agenda except to treat our guests with respect, to honor their dignity. 

But I find that it is a spiritual struggle to live into this hospitality. It is easy to fall into judgments and to stray from mercy. It is hard to be present with compassion instead of condemnation.

Part of my struggle comes from the reality that not every guest is all sugar and sweetness. A few are downright unpleasant, such as Steve. Some are difficult to understand and work with, such as Jerry.

A larger part of my struggle comes from who I am. I carry within myself the judgments of “respectability” favored by our society. Those judgments encourage me to honor those who are well dressed, well spoken, and well behaved, and to dishonor those who are not. The judgments of respectability also encourage me to see myself as successful, and therefore to have solutions that will save those “less fortunate.”

I had carried that judgment with me when I had first looked at Jerry and Steve. I had expected conflict based upon my judgment. But they were practicing mercy, God’s mercy, toward each other.

Their witness to God’s mercy in the face of my judgment brought me back to something else James wrote, something that overturns those judgments of respectability. “Listen my beloved brothers and sisters. Has not God chosen the poor in the world to be rich in faith and to be heirs of the Kingdom that God has promised to those who love God?” (James 2:5).  

I am a child of God

The last time I saw him he was being taken away by the Crisis Intervention Team of the Memphis Police Department. He was put in the back of a police car at the corner of Claybrook and Jefferson; half a block from Manna House. That was about three years ago. But here he was crossing the street in front of me as I turned from Cleveland onto Jefferson on Monday morning as I drove to Manna House. It was like seeing a ghost. He seemed to glide across the street, and then when I looked back he was gone. Until he showed up at Manna House an hour later right before we opened.

                He did not stay long on Monday. I got a chance to say “hi” to him and that was about it. He seemed tentative about being back, hesitant to enter into any conversation with anybody.

                But this Tuesday morning as the crowd thinned out in the back yard, he approached me with his story.

                “I was in prison for two years I think. Then Lakeside. Then a halfway house. Then Lakeside. Then a halfway house. Then I left. The food was bad. They didn't treat me right. I just walked away.”

                “You on the streets again?” I asked.

                “I am. I don’t want to be, but I am. I got no other place to go.”

                “How are you doing? You feeling ok?”

                “They tell me I have thyroid cancer. Isn’t that a kick?” Then he told me he doesn’t want any treatment. He’s ready to die. He doesn’t want to have surgery or radiation or chemotherapy or anything.

                “I’m going on my own terms; my way.” Next time I see him I might encourage him to consider a different route. I did a little reading and thyroid cancer sounds quite treatable. Then again, the way our conversation proceeded I wonder how much he is in touch with reality. He wandered off into a monologue about finding precious stones in various places around Midtown. I listened as long as I could then excused myself to do some work.

                I went down the driveway and ran into another guest. He was very agitated.

                “They don’t respect me. My life doesn’t matter. I don’t need to be treated like that. That man shouldn’t disrespect me. I’m human too. I’m a man too.”

                I picked up that he had been rather roughly told to leave from somewhere. I could not make out the reason, but I could guess he had not cooperated with some rule and that he had not left gently. He got some coffee, sat at a picnic table by himself, and kept muttering about how he should be treated.

                I always feel a bit inadequate relating to guests like these. I’m not trained in psychology or psychiatry. The few books I have read about mental illness and homelessness have given me some insight into the depth of the interior struggles, the lack of societal support, and the need for better mental health care. I know that listening, being calm, and responding with a steady voice are all helpful. I also know that though those do not sound like much, I find it emotionally draining to keep doing these things.   

                But both of these guests were telling me something important. I had to listen carefully and let their presence and their words sink in through my thick head and heart.

                “I am a human being,” each of them said. “I am a child of God. I am more than what I struggle with. I am more than whatever it is about me that scares you or you do not understand. I want you to welcome me. I want you to listen. I want you to care. I want you to recognize that God is at work in me.”

                And so I turned later to read and to let this truth sink in, “In the hands of God every one of us is infinitely worthy; in the mind and heart of God, each of us is of eternal value. And no matter what the odds, no matter what influence, illness, or evil threatens, God struggles for our healing and salvation” (Craig Rennebohm, Souls in the Hands of a Tender God, page 43).

Happy Birthday as Lament

Happy Birthday as Lament

Today was a guest’s birthday. As is our tradition at Manna House, we sang “Happy Birthday” very loudly and as off key as possible. Another guest had tipped us off to this guest’s birthday. The tipster knew that this rather curmudgeonly guest would be both delighted and consternated by the attention. And he was. He could not help himself. By the end of the song he was smiling.

            Shortly after the song, I was standing in the backyard near where both of these guests were seated, and the tipster asked for “the Word of the day.”

            Since we had just sung “Happy Birthday,” I selected Luke 2:8-14, “In that region there were shepherds living in the fields, keeping watch over their flock by night. Then an angel of the Lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified. But the angel said to them, ‘Do not be afraid; for see—I am bringing you good news of great joy for all the people: to you is born this day in the city of David a Savior, who is the Messiah, the Lord. This will be a sign for you: you will find a child wrapped in bands of cloth and lying in a manger.’ And suddenly there was with the angel a multitude of the heavenly host, praising God and saying, ‘Glory to God in the highest heaven, and on earth peace among those whom God favors!’”

            “I’m no Jesus,” the curmudgeonly guest observed at the end of the reading. “No angels announced my birth.”

            “I bet your parents were happy though,” responded another sitting nearby. “You weren’t so crabby right from the start.”

            “Maybe so,” the curmudgeon reluctantly conceded, “Maybe so.”

            “Even Jesus’ birth was terrifying, at least at first” another added. “Those angels had to calm everyone down.”

            “He sure came with a lot of hope,” said another, “And that’s what I’m taking from this Word today.”

            I often wonder about the way in which each of our guests entered the world. Were they welcomed with love and celebration, or was there rejection and despair? Were they born into poverty or somewhat better circumstances? Did they grow up with hope and promise? Or did they grow up with shattered dreams? Over the years I have gleaned from guests that most started in poverty. Many were raised in surroundings that offered little support, and many experienced neglect and abuse. For most, any joy there might have been at their birth quickly gave way to harsh impoverishment.

            I learned today the story of a young guest. He was given crack when he was just a child of eight by his mother’s “clients” as she prostituted herself to feed her own crack addiction. His upbringing was more “slaughter of the innocents” (Matthew 2:16-18) than the initial joy of Jesus’ birth. What hope can he ever have? He has been on the streets since he was a teen. He is a difficult person to be around, and we struggle to offer him welcome.

            Later in the morning, Kirk pointed me to an article by Soong-Chan Rah in Sojourners on lamentation. “Lament is not the passive acceptance of tragedy. Lament is not weakly assenting to the status quo. Lament is not simply the expression of sorrow in order to assuage feelings of guilt and the burden of responsibility.” Lament involves listening, sitting with the reality of suffering, refusing easy answers, but also not giving in to injustice. Lament resists by its very cry of complaint. - See more at: https://sojo.net/magazine/septemberoctober-2015/no-easy-road-freedom#sthash.NqQV7NJI.dpuf

            In the Gospels, from the birth story of Jesus to the slaughter of the innocents, “Happy Birthday” becomes lamentation. Angelic song gives way to “A voice was heard in Ramah, wailing and loud lamentation, Rachel weeping for her children.” In the backyard at Manna House both joy and lamentation are present. And maybe our off-key and loud singing bring together the angels and Rachel weeping for her children, refusing to be consoled.

Seeing the Light

Seeing the Light

When I was in fourth grade I got my first pair of glasses. They were black plastic frames and clunky. I endured teasing from classmates who called me “Four Eyes.” And of course I broke them. Duct tape held them together at the bridge and the temples. In junior high I got a pair of glasses that were made of some indestructible plastic and were perhaps the most hideous glasses ever made. I still have that frame. It never broke despite my best efforts.

I should have been more grateful to even have glasses. Without glasses I certainly could not see very well. In fact, the world was a blur without them. I wondered sometimes what it must have been like for people with bad eyesight who had lived in a time without eyeglasses. I was always fascinated by the stories in the Gospel when Jesus would heal a blind person. Seems like a mighty fine thing for Jesus to do given how difficult it is to go through life with impaired vision if you’ve don’t have glasses.

A few weeks ago at Manna House an organization called VSP offered a mobile eye clinic for our guests. A local eye doctor (Dr. Schaeffer) partnered with VSP to do eye exams. For some of the guests, they got glasses that very day. Many others, however, had to wait for their glasses since their prescriptions were more complicated, typically bifocals or trifocals.

Today I had the honor of handing out glasses that have now arrived. Fourteen guests got glasses and there are more on the way. Guests carefully took their new glasses out of the cases and tried them on. I asked them if I could take their pictures as they put on their glasses (see the post earlier today on Manna House Memphis). Most were excited to get their pictures taken so that they could immediately see how they looked in their new glasses. All were quite happy with their new glasses.

“So that’s what you look like!” one guest said to me as he laughed, “You’re uglier than I thought.”

            “I can read the newspaper and books again,” said another guest, “and I can see far away.”

            “O man, the world’s back in focus! No more headaches!” a guests said with a smile.

            “This is my first pair of glasses in four years,” a guest said, “I never thought I’d get to see clearly.”

            The King James Version of the Bible says in Proverbs 29:18, “Where there is no vision, the people perish.” Of course this vision is not the literal ability to see, but rather the ability to receive God’s Word. Still the metaphor works because of the importance of literally seeing. Vision is so crucial for living. In the Gospel stories of Jesus’ healing of the blind, those who could not see supported themselves by panhandling near the Temple (John 9) or along the side of the road (Luke 18:25). Blindness was often viewed as a punishment from God; a view Jesus firmly rejected (John 9:3).

            The glasses today, like Jesus’ healing of those who were visually impaired, are signs of God’s graciousness. The world became slightly more lovely in those delightful moments as guests put on their new glasses. Joy broke through as they came to see with renewed clarity.

                Jesus when he healed a man born blind spoke of how he came to be the light of the world (John 9:5). Hank Williams drew on that Gospel image as he sang,

“Just like a blind man I wandered along,
Worries and fears I claimed for my own.
Then like the blind man that God gave back his sight,
Praise the Lord I saw the light.

I saw the light, I saw the light,
No more darkness, no more night.
Now I'm so happy no sorrow in sight,
Praise the Lord I saw the light.”

This morning we all got to see a bit of that light.

Hospital Visitation

Hospital Visitation

Kathleen and I went up to visit Freddie this past weekend. He has been at the Med for several weeks now. He remains in intensive care. We’ve been asking and continue to ask for prayers for him as he struggles to recover from a very serious spinal injury sustained in a fall.

When Manna House started, I never imagined that I would be doing hospital visits like the pastor of a small church. But over the nearly ten years we have been open, hospital visits have become an all too regular feature of our work of hospitality. Some guests fall ill, seriously ill, as poverty grinds them down. Some get hit by cars as they negotiate the city streets. Some are done in by violence, swift and brutal. Some, like Freddie, have a horrible accident. Whatever the reason, word comes to Manna House via the news of the streets that a guest is in the hospital and off we go to visit.

I’m grateful that in Kathleen I have a good partner in making these visits. They would be too difficult for me to do alone. The difficulty includes the physical exertions of finding parking and getting up to a room, but more there is the spiritual challenge of being with those who are suffering.

Jesus taught that when we visit the sick we visit him, just as when we offer hospitality to the stranger we are welcoming him (Matthew 25:31-46). But how do we see Jesus in a guest who is terribly broken and barely alive in a hospital bed? How is Christ present in those we visit in the hospital?

When I read Monday morning from Edith Stein (whose feast day it was) I saw another identification between Jesus and the guests we visit in the hospital. “Do you want to be totally united to the Crucified? If you are serious about this, you will be present, by the power of his Cross, at every front, at every place of sorrow, bringing to those who suffer, healing and salvation.”

When I stand next to the hospital bed of a person I love, and I know that person is there because of a life of poverty and suffering, I readily recognize I am at the foot of the Cross of Christ. At this place of sorrow, I pray for healing and salvation for the person who I have come to visit. I certainly cannot bring either healing or salvation. But I deeply hope for both.

To have that hope does not take away my sense of emptiness and helplessness, rather it affirms that it is that very emptiness and helplessness which makes room for God. There is nothing that I can offer except my prayers and my presence. I simply stand at the bedside asking for God’s blessing upon the person who is broken and ill.

Visiting accepts that there are no easy answers in the face of the Cross; just as there are no easy answers in the face of human suffering and death, especially when those are caused by human injustice. There is only the hard response of reaching out with compassion, of standing with those who suffer. To visit is thus a moment of great grace, but not the cheap grace of easy answers. Rather it is, as Dietrich Bonhoeffer called it, the costly grace shared with us by Christ in the cross.