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wade in the water3posted by Lindsey Krinks

Last week, after another long day, I got the frantic call. No, the floodwaters had not destroyed the camp and neither had the police. The camp residents were destroying one another. Tensions were high, nerves were frayed, words were said, and then one of them picked up a 2×4 and beat the other, slamming the wet wood into forehead, face, limb, and body, again and again. I left our house within minutes of getting the call like a bird in flight, my heart beating and frenzied like wings.

Lately, on long days, long weeks, I’ve found myself drawn to bodies of water. Something in me needs to be near the troubled depths so I drift to the banks of the Cumberland, to Radnor, to Frederic’s Lake. I drift to the rivers and lakes seeking solitude, refuge, and healing. I drift to streams and brooks flowing through this land like arteries, rushing their way down, always down, singing with the voice of Sirens, wade in the water.

Last week the waters rose again with some of the highest levels we’ve seen since the flood of 2010. Everyone held their breath as the rains came down drenching everything that was exposed. Storm systems rolled through, the sodden earth opened its mouth, and the bloated Cumberland swallowed up everything low on her banks, giving our friends at the riverside encampment a mighty scare. She lapped at their pallet fence, she swirled across their gully trail. She was roiling and reckless, but finally, the rain dried up and the camp held. She drew back into herself, pulling silt and soil and song back down to the deep. Yes, wade in the water, she sang.

Lauren and Samuel met me at the camp and we started our work: survey the situation, make sure everyone is safe, tend the wounds. When we got out of our cars, our hearts still pounding, two of the residents were on the path and one was hiding in a ravine. We took the wounded one first. Most of the damage was internal, a concussion was definite. Soon, bruises would spread like sunset across his face, his body. He could not stay there for the night so Lauren administered first aid and made arrangements, opening up her home. Then we turned to the one with fresh splinters in his hands, also wounded in a deep way that came through in his eyes. And finally, we moved to the one in the ravine who Samuel found first. As soon as the 2×4 came out, he had a flashback that threw him back nearly 40 years to when his father use to beat his mother, his brothers, his sisters, and him with fists, with belts, with hoses, with boards. “If something happens, run and find a ravine,” his mother told him. “I’ll find you when it’s over.” And so he ran.

We weren’t interested in blame. This time, everyone was to blame or no one was. Or maybe it wasn’t about blame at all. “Tell us how you’re feeling,” we said to each one. “What is really going on here? What do you need to begin to heal? What would it take for you to be healthy and whole?” And the words and tears poured out.

“This isn’t who I am,” said the splintered one. He had learned to fight in prison. “When I was thrown into the general population, I didn’t have a choice,” he recounted. “It was either learn to fight or be crushed.” So he fought. He learned when and how to defend himself, learned that brute force meant power and power meant survival. Like a viper, he learned when and how to strike, and when he came out, he was a different man, a harder man. When he came out, he covered all his wounds with money, with drinking, with women, never forgetting the feel of a face bend with a blow, a bone snap, never forgetting the taste, the sting, of blood.

When I found the ravine, the third was hunched, his eyes swollen and wet with tears. Samuel sat beside him, holding him like a child and when I took his hand in mine, he held on tight. The ravine was small and we sat crumpled on the ground together like the last leaves of fall. I tried to keep from shivering, shuddering, weeping, as he told us the horrors from his childhood, as he told us why he ran. “I was scared to go home,” he said to me later, “I wasn’t sure what I would find.” We listened and held him, it was all we could do. We listened and held him as the dark waters swirled nearby, as they held the reflection of city lights, as they held the power of life and death in their depths.

These men on the river want to be free. They have been boxed in, beaten, caged, strapped down, and stripped of everything. Some grew up in abject poverty, some fought in condemned and horrific wars, and others have been branded by past mistakes and will never escape their charges. There is profit to be made when their bodies are behind bars and they are constantly fighting to stay out jail. Their barriers to housing, sobriety, and wholeness feel insurmountable. They are constantly fighting because the rivers of poverty, of homelessness, of mass incarceration, of death want to swallow them up. Anxiety and despair ravage their bodies and minds and when they are overcome, they turn to the bottle. There is profit to be made there, too, and instead of fighting systems and structures that oppress us all, they (we) fight one another.

harriet tubmanA different kind of river also calls to us, however. It is said that Harriet Tubman and slaves along the Underground Railroad sung “Wade in the Water” as a code to those on the run, advice to those escaping the horrors of slavery. Why wade in the water? Because it throws off the hounds hot at your heels. Why wade in the water? Because it will bring you a kind of healing and freedom you have never known. Yes, the Israelites also fled from bondage through the waters—waters held back with some holy force fierce like a hundred lions. Elisha and Elijah crossed the River Jordan before Elijah was taken into the sky by a flaming chariot and John the Baptist, Jesus, and the early Christians found their freedom through these waters, as well. So come to the cool waters and feel them ease over your ankles and legs, step down and feel the depths surround you, cleanse you, carry you to freedom. Yes, let us wade in the water.

In the 5th chapter of John, we find Jesus walking among the porticos of Bethesda where a multitude of the blind, lame, and halt lay on mats. They lay on mats waiting for days, for months, for years, for an angel to come stir and trouble the stagnant waters so they bring healing. Ease into the troubled waters in time and you could be made new. But if you were too slow, too alone, you were left waiting, longing to feel the cool, living depths cover you, heal you, and throw off the hounds of death and decay. As he was walking, Jesus noticed a man who had been ill for 38 years and asked him, “Do you want to be made whole?” Yes, but this man had no one to help him into the pool when the water was stirred up. “Take up your mat and walk,” Jesus said, and at once the man was made whole. What power did he feel pour into his limbs that day? What power straightened his legs, his back, his will? Whatever it was, it changed him, and he walked out of the porticos a different man, a healed man.

“What would it take for you to be healthy and whole?” we asked the men at the river. What would it take for all of us, for what Dorothy Day calls our “filthy rotten system,” to be made whole?

“Healing is impossible in loneliness,” says Wendell Berry, “it is the opposite of loneliness.” Hospitality, warmth, welcome, community, connection with the earth—these things bring healing and wholeness, he says. So my prayer on another long day is that we will all have the courage to find each other and start on the downward path. Let us go down to the earth, down to the river, down to where all the things we use to drown our sorrows cannot reach us. The water is right to be stirred, and when we see those troubled waters, let us wade. Let us bathe in the sunlight, in the moonlight, washing ourselves and each other clean. Let us throw off the hounds together and emerge from the waters changed.

(This entry was originally posted on http://www.drybonesrattling.wordpress.com)

Posted by Autumn Dennis 

I have been to several Maundy Thursday services over the years, but tonight’s service struck a very different chord for me than in the past. For the past few nights, homeless advocates in Nashville have gathered alongside homeless friends in camps around the city. Metro Police have threatened to raid the camps, and there have been recent instances where camps have been set ablaze by police. All day, I have waited to hear word or any sort of report on the state and condition of my friends in the camps. I have followed their posts and updates of staying awake in shifts to keep watch–to keep each other safe.

It is no coincidence that these night watches and raids fall on Holy Week. On this Maundy Thursday, these night watches are incredibly reminiscent of the disciples keeping watch with Jesus through the night as he waits for arrest–our homeless friend Jesus, who had no place to lay his head (Luke 9:58). Just as Jesus is unjustly arrested, our friends on the streets are unjustly arrested for the crime of existing.

Do this in remembrance of me.

Tonight, as I sat in a Maundy Thursday service at Edgehill United Methodist Church, I meditated heavily on what it means to remember and see Jesus. Maundy Thursday is not only when we recall Jesus’s arrest, but also the institution of the Holy Eucharist as the central liturgy for Jesus’s friends and followers. When Jesus broke the bread and blessed the cup, he said to “do this as often as you can in remembrance of me.” My Latin is a little bit rusty, but the word “remember” always stirs up images of body limbs being stitched back together. To re-member. In the United Methodist tradition, we understand communion elements to not be the literal body and blood of Christ, but that Christ is present in the elements and in the act of communion. In our liturgy before we partake of the sacrament, we declare the mystery of faith:

In remembrance of these your mighty acts in Jesus Christ,
we offer ourselves in praise and thanksgiving
as a holy and living sacrifice,
in union with Christ’s offering for us,
as we proclaim the mystery of faith:

Christ has died;
Christ is risen;
Christ will come again.

Tonight, I got chills when we proclaimed the mystery of faith. In that very room, by the gathering of people of faith for the purpose of re-membering the body of Christ, Christ rose in that room. Every time we gather to partake of the holy meal, Christ comes again and again. The body of Christ is stitched back together as we share the bread and wine. The disciples saw Jesus in the breaking of the bread. As Dorothy Day wrote:

We cannot love God unless we love each other, and to love we must know each other. We know [God] in the breaking of bread, and we know each other in the breaking of bread, and we are not alone any more. Heaven is a banquet and life is a banquet, too, even with a crust, where there is companionship. We have all known the long loneliness and we have learned that the only solution is love and that love comes with community. (The Long Loneliness)

Whether people of faith are gathered around an altar or a fire in an “illegal” encampment, we re-member Jesus in each other. Even when the powers and principalities continue to arrest Jesus through our friends over and over again, Jesus is risen again and again through the most beautiful act of resistance– community. We are not alone anymore. We are all walking the road to the cross, to the tomb, to the road to Emmaus, together. Jesus needs our company on this long night, to keep watch and pray. Pray and care for your friends on the streets and in camps this night. Amen.

Image

Photo by Lauren Plummer

elijahposted by Lindsey Krinks

Several mornings ago, I awoke to a faint dusting of snow. The air danced with specks of white fire, tiny fragments lit from the early light emerging from the dense veil of winter clouds. I got ready in a daze, my mind brimming with all the people I forgot to call, all the emails I forgot to send. On the way to our staff meeting, something dark up ahead caught the corner of my eye. At first, it looked like crows, but as I drove closer, I realized it was six to seven large, midnight-black turkey vultures crowding over some dead, frozen casualty. My car must have gotten within a foot or two of the carcass as I passed, but they didn’t flinch. Two hulked above the others on a fence glancing downward and the macabre feast continued. I shuddered at the thought of such terribly large birds silently feeding on death.

Last week, I dreamt that I was in some sort of cave. The lighting was dim and there was a fire burning near the center. In my dream, I was surrounded by dead bodies—40 or more—and my job was to anoint them. Not save them, not bury them… to anoint them. I remember feeling grave about this task, but doing it with intention and feeling some strange sense of meaning, like the task was one that needed to be done and done well.

When Samuel and I went to pick people up for the warming shelter the other night, it was late, already dark, and we only had 10 spots. A local musician was opening his home to our friends, even though the temperature was a little above 25 degrees. My task was to choose and pick up the 10 people. I made calls and sought out the most vulnerable. We arrived to the sight of canes and hospital bracelets, but “Kentucky’s” wheelchair was nowhere in sight. We found him nearby at the Citgo with “Chris” and “Jerry” (who were both a little more sober than usual). They both knew they couldn’t come in with us because of the lack of space, but they were determined to make sure Kentucky got in the van.

"This one is for the riders" found beneath a train trestle in Nashville, 2014 Kentucky hasn’t been able to walk for some time and can barely move. He gets a disability check, but hasn’t been able to access subsidized housing because he has a warrant out for his arrest in Mississippi. Kentucky used to hop trains and travel around the country. When he was passing through Mississippi, he said he once went for four days without food or water in a train car. “Hunger makes you do strange things,” he said. As the train neared a small town and slowed, he began passing fast food restaurants—Burger King, Wendy’s, McDonalds—but he had no money for food. Tired and half-starved he got off the train and went into a convenience store and stole a package of baloney. They caught him and he left town before he could be booked. And he now has a warrant out for his arrest.

Oscar Romero, the Archbishop of El Salvador who was assassinated in 1980, once said that we are called upon to be “stretcher-bearers” in this world. He was drawing from the story in Mark of the paralytic man who was raised up to the roof of a house and then lowered down to by Robert LentzJesus to be healed. Romero was saying that yes, God still works to mend our wounds and heal the brokenness of our wayward, capitalistic society that feeds, like a vulture, on the death of “the disposables,” but that we are called to be the hands and feet that bring those broken, wounded, wayward things forward.

When I saw Chris and Jerry in front of the Citgo, straining with all of their might to pull Kentucky out of his wheelchair and raise him up into the van so he could get out of the cold, all I could think about was this story of the paralytic. And I wonder what the friends of the paralytic were like in the story. Surely they were resourceful, determined, willing to break the rules, willing to piss a few people off. I can’t imagine what kind of an operation it took to raise and lower their friend. I wonder if there were moments they thought they might not make it. If they were truly the paralytic’s friends, I wonder if they, too, were outcasts. I wonder if they, too, smelled of urine and filth. I wonder about how their lives were changed after that day, about the stories they told that evening. I wonder if they laughed among themselves when they thought about the shock and dismay on the faces of the scribes and those in the crowd when bits of roof fell in on them as they dug through and as Jesus showed them grace. I wonder what that day meant for their lives moving forward.

paralyticAnd I wonder what kind of healing Chris, Jerry, and Kentucky seek. At this point, they have all saved each other’s lives several times over. At any given time, at least one of them is sober enough to take care of the others. But what kind of healing do they seek? I heard last night that Kentucky’s feet were so frost-bitten that the doctors wanted to amputate them. And there is something deep in Chris and Jerry’s eyes (especially Jerry’s) that is so tender, so gentle.

The other night, after most people were settled into the emergency shelters, I took the church van out with our intern, Corley, and we drove around East Nashville looking for those guys. We couldn’t find them anywhere so we headed to the MTA bus terminal to check the benches and warming rooms for people who needed to come in. As soon as we walked in, I saw a wheelchair and realized it was Jerry and Kentucky. They were trying to get someone to give them a ride to a shelter but had no bus fare. They were beyond glad to see us, they almost cried. After we checked the other areas, we turned to the task of getting Kentucky from his wheel chair into the van. It took 10 minutes, at least, maybe more, but Jerry got him in.

Jerry is a 38-year old country boy born and raised in Nashville with black and gray speckled hair and a speckled beard. He looks much older than his years and has soft, sky-blue eyes. As we were driving down to check Broadway and 2nd Ave., Jerry said, “Miss Lindsey, you know I love this man. I’ve done things for him I never thought I’d do… things I couldn’t imagine.” He described how he has been one of Kentucky’s care takers and has helped him with everything—eating, clothing, bathing, going to the bathroom… As he talked, his eyes filled with sadness and disbelief. “We’ve got to get him off these streets,” he said.

Yes, we are stretcher-bearers, Jerry is a stretcher-bearer. We sometimes share the filth and sickness of others. We tend to each other’s wounds, search for healing, and push each other forward. We walk alongside those who are beyond help and anoint the dead with oil. We work daily to comfort the afflicted and break the yokes of oppression. We pass those who prey and profit off the casualties crushed by a system of war and greed, and with every ounce of hope we can muster, we cling to the faith that a better world is possible. But what kind of healing do we seek?

Jesus said to the paralytic, “I have seen your faith, pick up your mat and walk.” And with Chris, with Jerry, with Kentucky, with Romero, I cling to the hope that our people will somehow get up and walk.

(Originally posted on http://www.drybonesrattling.wordpress.com)

Nativity Icon“When the song of the angels is stilled,
When the star in the sky is gone,
When the kings and princes are home,
When the shepherds are back with their flock,
The work of Christmas begins:
To find the lost,
To heal the broken,
To feed the hungry,
To release the prisoner,
To rebuild the nations,
To bring peace among others,
To make music in the heart.”
– Howard Thurman

This letter by Amos House Community member Autumn Dennis was originally posted on the Reconciling Ministries Network blog at http://www.rmnblog.org/2013/12/a-time-to-stay-and-a-time-to-leave-an-open-letter-to-the-umc.html.

“For everything there is a season, and a time for every matter under heaven:

a time to be born, and a time to die;
a time to plant, and a time to pluck up what is planted;
a time to kill, and a time to heal;
a time to break down, and a time to build up;
a time to weep, and a time to laugh;
a time to mourn, and a time to dance;
a time to throw away stones, and a time to gather stones together;
a time to embrace, and a time to refrain from embracing;
a time to seek, and a time to lose;
a time to keep, and a time to throw away;
a time to tear, and a time to sew;
a time to keep silence, and a time to speak;
a time to love, and a time to hate;
a time for war, and a time for peace.”

With all due respect to Ecclesiastes 3, I feel there is one line missing that I would like to add: “There is a time to stay, and a time to leave.” I was not raised in the United Methodist Church, or in any church for that matter. My interest in the Divine emerged at the same time I was realizing I was gay, at the ripe age of twelve. My first experience with church was at a Baptist megachurch in Tennessee, where I have vivid memories of crying in the pews as I was told I was going to hell. The next few years were marked with me trying to pretend I wasn’t interested in God, because clearly this God hated people like me! These feelings drove me into an intense depression with strong suicidal thoughts. I admit that when I came to the United Methodist Church at sixteen, it was only because the girl I had a crush on invited me. However, the reason I stayed was because this particular church contained the first Christians I had ever met who didn’t immediately tell me I was going to hell. Instead, I found a safe space in their youth group where I was free to be who I was and to ask questions about God. Through my involvement in this church, I got a full scholarship to a great Methodist college.

As I was welcomed into the Methodist church, my campus ministry and local Tennessee Conference connection fostered my gifts and my budding call to homeless and prison ministry. However, I wouldn’t allow myself to consider a call to ordination, even though I felt one—I knew what the church said about people like me, so why even try? Whenever I had pastor friends affirming my gifts, graces, and fruits for ministry, I heard the institutional church say, “You are incompatible with Christian teaching” (Paragraph 161F of the United Methodist Church Book of Discipline). When my campus minister suggested I consider ordination as a deacon, I heard the institutional church say, “You will not be accepted as minister” (Paragraph 304.3). However, God’s calling soon overwhelmed the dirge of condemnation from the institutional church: “Yes, I am already ordaining you, you are not incompatible with me, and I will accept you as a minister.” When the Church reduced me to a faceless “homosexual”, I knew God saw me as more.

I decided to enroll in the candidacy process anyway. I began skating through the requirements set by my Tennessee Conference, believing that being ordained through the United Methodist Church could give me a greater voice for change in the church. I was proud to be a representative of the UMC. I felt that I was giving my church an opportunity to recognize what God was already doing in my life, ordaining me as a minister to the margins. However, over time, the pressure I felt from the UMC to hide who I was grew and grew. I began to be paranoid about who was a “safe” Methodist and who was an “unsafe” Methodist. I watched many of the Methodists that had first welcomed me into the church fight to uphold the same discriminatory passages of the Book of Discipline that were ruining my life. I watched cases like Amy DeLong’s, Mary Ann Barclay’s, and Frank Schaefer’s, wondering, “Who will rat me out?” Living a half life, I was stressed over whether or not the conference physicians and psychologists would ask me about my sexuality, worried about if I was dressing feminine enough for when I visited the Conference offices, and wondered if my voice was high-pitched enough for when I visited the head of the Board of Ordained Ministry. Pretty soon, I couldn’t focus on my call from God at all anymore; instead, I felt like I was in a perpetual den of Methodist lions.

The stress of this paranoia compared with the indescribable pain of recent events in the life of the Church became too much for me to handle: seeing the inflammatory language against me from the Book of Discipline in my candidacy guidebooks, witnessing General Conference refuse to even “agree to disagree”, observing the Council of Bishops condemn Bishop Melvin Talbert’s presiding over the marriage of Joe Openshaw and Bobby Prince, having my classmates and professors speaking insensitively about “the gay issue in the UMC” as if I weren’t in the room, and others. One of the most harmful things to me was seeing the open letter from my own Bishop Bill McAlilly condemning Bishop Talbert, upholding an idolatrous clergy covenant over God’s truth of inclusion (http://bishopbillmcalilly.com/2013/10/24/please-pray-and-display-christ-like-spirit-in-midst-of-our-disagreement/). I began to think about leaving the ordination process.

I decided to postpone my decision until I attended Exploration, the biannual event for United Methodist young adults considering ordination. During this event, the Council of Bishops sent us a video with President Bishop Rosemarie Wenner saying, “The Church needs you!” In my head I finished her sentence: “…Unless you’re gay.” More than ever, I felt like the church was repeating over and over a hollow lie. I felt like the church needed me to support its broken bureaucracy, but when I needed the Church, it wasn’t there for me. It threw me the bone of “Sacred Worth” and threw me away. As soon as I returned home, I saw the Internet explode with new stories of how Rev. Frank Schaefer was given a guilty verdict for presiding over his son’s wedding to his partner of the same sex. I felt like I could no longer go on rationalizing the state of the United Methodist Church; this was the last straw.

When I began the ordination process, I figured I would “see how far I got before the church kicked me out.” Never did I expect that the church would push me out before my District Committee even had the chance to expel me from the process. It is with immense pain in my heart that I confess to you, my beloved United Methodist Church, that I have to leave the ordination process in order to follow God. I cannot represent an institution whose idol is the Book of Discipline. I cannot pledge to uphold that abusive Book which has long since stopped being a source of illumination in how we connect with each other and God, but now is a glorified bludgeoning tool. I cannot join an order of ministry that is complicit in injustice. I cannot lie my way into an abusive clergy covenant or lie my way through the Historic Questions. I cannot pretend that my church has “Open Hearts, Open Minds, Open Doors” when it does not. I cannot lie about who I am or what the Church is any longer.

However, there are “Reasons I Stay.” For all the ways that the United Methodist Church is incredibly broken, you are my dysfunctional family that I cannot leave. I still believe in the Church that welcomed me when no one else did, and I believe much more in that Church than I do in the same Church that is pushing me away. I still believe that our Methodist connection is something mystical and holy—something I wouldn’t exchange for the world. If I left this church totally, I would just be a Methodist sitting in another denomination. I need to be here to see this Church change. I need to be one of the people joining hands with all the other Reconcilers as we proclaim, “Love Prevails! Draw the circle wider still!” My liberation is bound up with yours, UMC.

(Oh, and one last thing—I’m still being ordained by God and I will find another church to recognize it. If you’re serious about getting more young clergy, make this is a church where we don’t have to lie about who we are in order to serve God. You’re better than that.)

The Lord be with you, and I’ll see you at the open table.

With grace,

Autumn Dennis

Tennessee Conference

 

“Oh God, Let us not be rich while they are destitute, nor be in good health if we do not tend to their wounds, nor have enough food or covering, nor rest under a roof, if we do not offer bread to them, and give them something to wear and a shelter to stay in, as far as we are able!” – Gregory of Nazianzus

crutches, james fulmerOn a frigid night in early January, an un-housed man named James “Jimmy” Fulmer froze to death on the steps of an East Nashville church. The temperature was 25 degrees. Jimmy and the crutches he used were visible from the road. All he had was one blanket wrapped around his shivering body that another un-housed man bought for him. A week later, advocates held a public funeral procession decrying his death and the lack of affordable housing. A couple years before, an un-housed man named Carl froze to death just off Main Street. He was also visible from the road and no one stopped to see if he was okay.

Every year in Nashville, one to four people freeze to death on our streets and countless others get frostbite and hypothermia. In a city with a new $600 million dollar convention center and new luxury condos and high-end restaurants sprouting up in every direction, we don’t have enough shelter and transitional housing beds for everyone who needs them. There are also hundreds of people who can’t get into traditional shelters like the Mission or Room in the Inn—people who have pets, couples and spouses trying to stay together, people who have been banned from services, and people who can’t handle crowded, structured environments, most often due to mental health issues.

chris stainFor the last three years, our sister organization Open Table Nashville has filled this gap by opening Emergency Warming Shelters when the temperature drops below 25 degrees. For our friends, this is a matter of life and death. The people we bring in are often some of the most medically vulnerable and it will take ALL of us—as a city, as service providers, and as people of conscience and faith—to make sure that what happened to Jimmy, Carl, and others never happens again; to make sure that no one feels so hopeless and alone that they give up and let the cold overtake them. While we are opening these emergency shelters, we are also advocating for more affordable and accessible housing because the lack of affordable housing is one of the root causes of homelessness.

In order to ensure that no one else freezes on our streets, we need help. Please, please spread the word to everyone you know asking them to chip in and help in whatever way they can. We cannot enjoy the warmth of our own homes without responding to the dire needs of our brothers and sisters who too often shiver and suffer in silence in our own back yards. Our liberation is bound up together.

Here are some ways YOU can help:

Locations (email lindsey@opentablenashville.org if we can use your site!):
We currently open a combination of any of the following congregations (depending on which ones are available any given night), but we are in need of other locations that can accommodate 30-50 people: Hillcrest United Methodist Church, Barth Vernon United Methodist Church, Green Street Church of Christ, and First Church of the Nazarene. We will fully staff the sites, we just need warm, available buildings!

Volunteer roles (email regina@opentablenashville.org to get plugged in):
First Church, 11.24*Inn Keepers (spend the night with another volunteer, 8pm-7:30am)
Evening/Morning Transportation (drive a van to pick up our friend around 5:30pm and/or take them back downtown around 7am)
Kitchen Coordinator (make sure coffee is going and food is heated, set out, 5:30pm-8pm)
Laundry (someone to pick up the laundry in the morning & wash it for the next day’s shelter)
Sign-In Table (greet our friends when they come to the shelter 5:30-7:30pm)
Set Up Team (5pm) and Clean Up Team (6:30am)
Floater Volunteers (anytime between 5pm and 7:30am to help fill in the gaps)
Canvassing (driving around downtown and East Nashville to look for people who desperately need to come in, 6:30-8:30)

Donations (every little bit helps!). You can drop these items off at Metro Social Services at 800 2nd Ave. North in the Homeless Services Office Monday-Friday during business hours or contact lauren@opentablenashville.org:
– Sleeping bags, blankets, towels, twin sheets, air mattresses (can be gently used!)
– Hand warmers, hats, heavy duty gloves, thermal underwear, coats & scarves.
– Coffee, creamer, sugar
– Paper products (coffee cups, paper towels, paper bowls, paper plates, napkins, utensils)
– Cleaning supplies (Clorox Wipes, Lysol spray, Dish Detergent)
– Extra dinner and breakfast food (preferably food that can be stored for flexible usage)

This post, written by Amos House Community member Autumn Dennis, was originally posted on the Ministry With* the Poor blog. The original post can be accessed here: http://www.ministrywith.org/blog/view/216/

This article is the fifth in a series of reflections on Autumn’s experience this summer living and working at the Open Door Community in Atlanta, Georgia. The Open Door Community is a residential Protestant Catholic Worker community. They seek to dismantle racism, sexism, heterosexism, abolish the death penalty, and proclaim the Beloved Community through loving relationships with some of the most neglected and outcast of God’s children: the homeless and our sisters and brothers who are in prison.  

Every Sunday at 4pm, the Open Door residential and extended community gathers for worship. However, just as every other aspect of life at the Open Door, worship is very intentional and looks quite a bit different from the mainstream church. While our service does include hymn singing, lectionary readings, sermons, altars, and Eucharist, the similarities end at this face value level. In order to explain how the Open Door views worship with the poor, I must first explain how I believe the Open Door understands worship.

The church has historically considered worship to be a practice in which devotees meditate on their God, often in a manner where we remind ourselves of the attributes of God, or where we engage with God. Most churches I have been in do this by mostly focusing on praising God, giving thanks, and asking God to intervene in their lives. I know especially in the South, this praise and worship is especially focused inward, considering the moral implications of our personal faith lives and how God can work in our personal lives. I’ll cut to the chase- a lot of our worship is pretty selfish. Instead of meditating on who God is and how we can get closer to God, we often meditate on who God is and how we can reap the benefits. Worship at the Open Door does involve meditating on God, reminding ourselves of the attributes of God, and seeks to engage the Divine. However, we do it very differently. Peter Gathje, Open Door Community historian, writes in Sharing the Bread of Life, “Worship [from the beginning of the Open Door] sought to embody the biblical insistence…on the connection between worship and the practice of social justice in the lives of the participants. Worship which made people feel good but did not move them to seek justice in their way of life and in society was offensive to God. Worship was to be the basis for community action” (35). Let me paint a picture for you on what worship looks like at the Open Door.

Worship at the Open Door

You walk into a somewhat industrial looking dining room and kitchen that has the walls decked in anti-death penalty posters, flags declaring “peace” in different languages, with a cross on the back wall bearing a black crucified Jesus. Banners with the faces of the executed (or those approaching execution) hang on the wall to your left, saying “We are Andrew Cook” and “We are Warren Hill”. You find yourself to a small plastic chair, and check out the makeshift altar. A small hip-high table is draped in hand-stitched cloths that show the liturgical colors, but with ethnic patterns. Handmade ceramic plates and chalices holding the bread and juice have Matthew 25 carved around the sides. The bread is robust, home-baked, and is brown and white. The table is also set with Georgia wildflowers. You look at the bulletin that was sitting in your chair, and the written liturgies all refer to God as Liberator and Advocate, to Jesus as poor and executed, and speak of the homeless and prisoners. The songs are a mixture of slave spirituals, protest songs, and other various folk and liberationist hymns—maybe even some Woody Guthrie or Pete Seeger. Today, its “Ezekiel Saw De Wheel”, “Make Me a Pallet on the Floor”, “Wade in the Water” and “This Land Was Made For You and Me”. The lectionary is read, and a short reflection is given, either dissecting the liberationist aspects of it, or it might be connected to a current day issue, a local concern of the local homeless community, the mass incarceration system, the state of war in the world, or of a friend up for execution. We make our way to the sermon, which is given by a different person nearly every week on a variety of topics. What is guaranteed is that it will revolve somewhere around the constant theme that we come to know God through the plight of the poor and prisoner. When it comes time for the Eucharist, people pass the bread and the cup around: “…Until Christ comes in final victory and we feast at the Welcome Table…AND COME AGAIN HE WILL!” Soon after, an adaptation of the Lord’s Prayer is read with the celebration of the Mystery of Faith: “Christ has died! Christ is risen! Christ WILL come again!”

All of the many symbols I just depicted are intentional and key to how the Open Door understands worship and the life of discipleship that proceeds. The homemade bread is intentionally made with white flour and a separate batch of white flour mixed with cocoa. The two doughs are then braided together and baked to become white and brown—symbolic of how the Body of Christ is not white, but is of many colors, representing many peoples, and how Christ lived and died for and with all of us. Other symbols are re-appropriated for use in worship; for example, on Pentecost we waved red bandannas to remember the fire of the Holy Spirit. I’m not sure what those bandannas meant to everyone else in the room, but they reminded me of a prominent gang symbol in my hometown, and using it in worship was especially meaningful for me as I remembered the reconciliatory power of the gospel.

When we understand the stories and traditions of the poor and those historically oppressed, we understand God. God is not only an advocate and provider for the poor and suffering, but also is ultimately and most fully revealed through our poor and imprisoned friends. The Open Door takes Matthew 25 to its fullest interpretation, knowing that in order to worship a brown, immigrant, executed, homeless Christ, we must align ourselves alongside and live life with those children of God that come in the same form today. Not only is the story of God and Christ understood through the inspired Scriptures, but also is understood through the inspired lives of our friends struggling to live and die on the streets and prisons. Worship at the Open Door revolves around the key concept that as we remind ourselves who God is, it becomes easier and easier for us to see the broken bodies that come through our soup kitchen as the broken body of Christ. I encourage all of us to rethink how we can make our worship spaces the place where we most creatively proclaim God’s inclusive, reconciliatory, and resurrecting love with* the poor.

I would like to close this article with the words from one of my favorite worship songs at the Open Door Community:

“Jesus Christ is waiting,
 Waiting in the streets; 
No one is his neighbor, 
All alone he eats. 
Listen, Lord Jesus,
 I am lonely too. 
Make me, friend or stranger,
 Fit to wait on you

Jesus Christ is raging,
 Raging in the streets,
 Where injustice spirals 
And real hope retreats.
 Listen, Lord Jesus,
 I am angry too. 
In the Kingdom’s causes 
Let me rage with you.

Jesus Christ is healing,
 Healing in the streets;
 Curing those who suffer,
 Touching those he greets.
 Listen, Lord Jesus, 
I have pity too.
 Let my care be active, 
Healing just like you.

Jesus Christ is dancing, 
Dancing in the streets,
 Where each sign of hatred 
He, with love, defeats.
 Listen, Lord Jesus,
 I should triumph too.
 On suspicion’s graveyard
 Let me dance with you.

Jesus Christ is calling,
 Calling in the streets,
 ”Who will join my journey? 
I will guide their feet.”
 Listen, Lord Jesus, 
Let my fears be few.
 Walk one step before me;
 I will follow you.”

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