Lost Sheep

On Monday a guest asked me, “Do you know where Donald [not his real name] is?”

            “Isn’t he still at the Med?”

            “Nope. Not there. I don’t know where he’s gone.”

            I had to confess that I had not been up to see Donald in several weeks. I knew Donald was in no condition to walk away from the hospital. When he would leave he would need months, if not years, of nursing care. Life gets busy, too busy. I had assumed Donald was still in the hospital.

            The friend shared a rumor. “Some people told me Donald is dead. I know that’s not true. I would’ve heard from his relatives if he was dead.”

            “Why don’t you call those relatives? Maybe you can find out where he is.” The friend made a few phone calls. One of the relatives said they did not know where Donald was. Another said he had been moved to a nursing home and gave the name of the home. I called the nursing home, no Donald there. I promised to let the guest know if I heard anything.

            Today we heard another rumor. Donald was in a nursing home nearby. Right after Manna House closed, Kathleen and I went there to see Donald. Donald was not there.

            I wish I could say this is the first time we have searched for a guest after a guest was hospitalized or imprisoned or went off to who knows where. But the truth is that this happens all too often. Life for people on the streets is often chaotic, relationships are tenuous, the ties that bind have been broken or horribly loosened. 

            On the refrigerator at Manna House is a picture of a guest who disappeared about three years ago. He came to Manna House faithfully for several years. Then we never saw him again. We heard he had been killed. But the city morgue could not match his name to any corpse. Then we heard he was in jail. But no one of that name was there. We checked area hospitals. Nothing. He had vanished into thin air.

            Another guest disappeared in the same way. Rumors of death, jail, and hospitalization were unsubstantiated. Then one day, after nearly nine months had passed, we got a phone call from a minister in South Carolina asking if we knew so-and-so. Indeed we knew him. How he ended up in South Carolina from Memphis was a mystery. How he had my cell phone number was a further mystery. He needed some verification about his identification which we were able to provide.

            Lost guests make me think of the shepherds of Israel and the lost sheep of Israel of whom the prophet Ezekiel spoke. The sheep are lost because the shepherds are unjust; they have oppressed the sheep. Homelessness is created by poverty, neglect, the willingness to regard some people as disposable.

            Ezekiel says, “The word of the Lord came to me: Mortal, prophesy against the shepherds of Israel: prophesy, and say to them—to the shepherds: Thus says the Lord God: Ah, you shepherds of Israel who have been feeding yourselves! Should not shepherds feed the sheep? … You have not strengthened the weak, you have not healed the sick, you have not bound up the injured, you have not brought back the strayed, you have not sought the lost, but with force and harshness you have ruled them. So they were scattered, because there was no shepherd; and scattered, they became food for all the wild animals. My sheep were scattered, they wandered over all the mountains and on every high hill; my sheep were scattered over all the face of the earth, with no one to search or seek for them” (Ezekiel 34:1-6).

            The work of God, Ezekiel says is to search for the lost sheep. “I will seek the lost, and I will bring back the strayed, and I will bind up the injured, and I will strengthen the weak… I will feed them with justice” (Ezekiel 34:16).

            In the parking lot, as I was trying to leave Manna House today, another lost sheep approached me. She was in tears. Her family has completely abandoned her. Her children won’t have anything to do with her. She is isolated. Cut off from human companionship.

            “Pray for me” she said. “And when I’m gone please don’t take my picture down from the wall in the living room. That means a lot to me.”

            I assured her of my prayers, and that her picture hanging in Manna House with so many other guests was not going anywhere.

            “Pray Psalm 23 for me. That’s my favorite” she said. Then she recited through her tears. “The Lord is my shepherd….”

            

Coincidence or Providence?

Coincidence or Providence?

Maybe it is my Christian belief in providence that somehow God acts and speaks through the confluence of certain events. Or maybe I just want to make sense of life (and death), to find some order instead of wallowing in randomness. Twin died on September 27^th. St Vincent de Paul died on the same date. Sarah, one of the matriarchs of Manna House, who died two years ago, was born on that date. I seek significance and even solace in such providential coincidences

            While he was alive, Twin frequented the St. Vincent de Paul Food Mission located a few blocks from Manna House. Sarah did too. Every day of the week, the Food Mission offers a meal to about two hundred people. Folks on the streets call it “The Radio Station” because for many years the Food Mission was located in an old radio station just down the street from Sacred Heart Church.

            At Manna House, we have sometimes reflected on the life and work of St. Vincent de Paul. His ministry with the poor and imprisoned provide a guide for our work. I am sure that Twin and Sarah in their insistence on attentive service would have resonated with his words, “It is not enough to give soup and bread. This the rich can do. You are the servant of the poor, always smiling and good-humored. They are your masters, terribly sensitive and exacting masters you will see. …It is only for your love alone that the poor will forgive you the bread you give to them.”

            I think Sarah forgave me the socks and hygiene, the clothing, the showers, and the coffee that I (and many others) gave to her over the years. I am not so sure about Twin. I think that uncertainty is why I have found it hard to write about him since he died. My memory of him is always going to be complicated, just as my relationship with him was complicated.

            Twin was one of the earliest guests at Manna House. When he initially came to Manna House some ten years ago, he was strong and somewhat of a bully. He sought to intimidate both other guests and volunteers. We had a few conflicts along the way. He was asked to leave at least a couple of times.

            He eventually settled into a more gracious stance. He became particularly noted for his Scrabble playing with volunteers and guests. At the same time, he remained always willing to seek some bending of rules and expectations in his favor. Twin was a survivor and he never quite abandoned his need to hustle and con. Still, he was capable of generosity, and sought in his Islam to grow in faith and love for others. He was always a very private person, revealing little about himself or his history. As his brother told me at the memorial service, “He was hurt bad once and never really trusted again.” Like I said, complicated.

            My last conversation with Twin, he called and asked me to bring some candy up to him at the hospital. As was typical, Twin was quite specific in what he wanted. “Bring me some Werther’s root beer barrels,” he said. It was not the first time he was “terribly sensitive and exacting.” He was not happy that I would not come right away. I was busy. I never got him the candy. He left the hospital, spent a few days at the boardinghouse where he lived, and then went to a different hospital where he died.

            There was another phone call from him between the time he left one hospital and went to another. He left a message. He was mad that I had not answered my phone. I was angry at his anger and did not call him back. I had been down this path with him before, many times. I thought I would hear from him again. I thought he would call in a few days with a new request, and this time I would be able to help him, and we would forget my previous failure.

            He died before that happened. Maybe we both have some unfinished business. For myself, I will ask for the grace of faith of which St. Vincent de Paul wrote, “you will by the light of faith see that the Son of God, who willed to be poor, is represented to us by these poor people.” In that faith I will remember with love Twin, and Sarah. Especially when September 27^th rolls around.

Pope Francis, Dorothy Day and Manna House

Delighted that Pope Francis referred to Dorothy Day yesterday in his speech before Congress. She along with Peter Maurin began the Catholic Worker Movement. Manna House serves in the tradition of the Catholic Worker, engaging in the works of mercy and work for justice and peace.
Excerpts from Pope Francis before Congress:
"In these times when social concerns are so important, I cannot fail to mention the Servant of God Dorothy Day, who founded the Catholic Worker Movement. Her social activism, her passion for justice and for the cause of the oppressed, were inspired by the Gospel, her faith, and the example of the saints."

"A nation can be considered great when it defends liberty as Lincoln did, when it fosters a culture which enables people to dream of full rights for all their brothers and sisters as Martin Luther King sought to do, when it strives for justice and the cause of the oppressed as Dorothy Day did by her tireless work, the fruit of a faith which becomes dialogue and sows peace in the contemplative style of Thomas Merton."

Jesus is my Optometrist

Jesus is my Optometrist

We were on our way to the Southern College of Optometry. A short walk from Manna House.  We talked as we walked, about glasses and about our lives.

“I got my first pair of glasses when I was in the 4^th grade,” I said.

“I got my first glasses when I was in 9^th grade. I lost them when I was in 12^th grade. I haven’t had glasses since” Mary (not her real name) shared.

“When was that?” I asked.

“1980. Lord, a long time ago.”

The other guest, Harold (also not his real name), said, “I got mine later, when I was an adult. My eyes just haven’t kept up.”

Being the theological type, I mentioned that Jesus thought people should be able to see. He went around healing blind people. I wanted to give some praise to the Southern College of Optometry for the free eye exams so I added, “Seems like the folks helping you all get glasses are like Jesus.”

“Yes sir,” Harold said, “Jesus is my optometrist.”

“That’s a good one,” Mary said laughing, “Jesus is my optometrist too!”

We got to the Southern College and briefly waited before being served.

Mary told me while we sat, “When I get my glasses I won’t bump into things anymore. I really can’t see very well at all. See this bruise on my arm? I got this one yesterday when I ran into a table where I live.”  

Mary was called to come and pick out her frames. Harold waited to be called to get his glasses.

“I picked out some frames that didn’t cost too much. The frames aren’t gonna help me see anyway” he told me.

Then Harold was called. Mary returned.

“I saw them Gucci and Coach frames,” she said. “Why do people spend so much money? Mine are plain and simple. That’s what I like. I’d be afraid to lose my glasses if they cost so much.”

I went with her and paid for the frames. She was right. She had picked inexpensive but sturdy frames.

Shortly after we were done, Harold came out with his new glasses. He had a big smile on his face.

“I can see again! I can see again!”

He was excited like a child on Christmas morning. We went to settle his account, but somehow everything was already settled.

“You’re free to go. It’s all paid,” the cashier told us.

“I guess they covered what my insurance didn’t,” Harold said referring to the Southern College of Optometry. “I was supposed to owe a hundred dollars. Now Manna House don’t have to pay.”

I didn’t argue with the cashier, and off we went.

I asked if he wanted to get a picture of him with his new glasses. He most certainly did. So next time he comes to Manna House I can give him the picture of him standing in front of the Southern College of Optometry with his new glasses.

Mary’s glasses will come in next week. She was anticipating how the glasses will change her life.

“I am most happy because I’ll be able to read my Bible. I’m gonna read and read. And I’ll be able to see far away. I won’t have to squint so much. Lord, it will all be good!”

“Jesus is my optometrist,” Harold had said. Indeed, it will all be good.

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).