I would but I won't

I and two others explored another street mission that opens before Potters. The Pastor there started speaking\preaching to us as soon as we introduced ourselves. He did not stop for twenty-five minutes. I felt anxiety that all his attention was poured out on us when I perceived that there were many other things he should be administering to. One of his regular volunteers told him there were many other students who he should meet but he just paid no attention. He spoke of dying to self, preaching in the moment and not coming prepared. He was a jovial man, had a French accent and had a long greying moustache that drooped down to his chin. He was a rather large man with suspenders that wrapped around the side of his stomach. You can’t help feel honoured to have someone give you all this attention. We stood humbly silent in respect. I wonder? Is he a man who has set his sails to the Spirits breath and moves with it or is it his character to ramble and be oblivious of his duties. Faith vs. Reason – there is always a tension there. All and all, I would dispute a few things he said but I really liked him. By my perception he was a man who had given himself up for the Lord.

Back at Potters worship was in full swing. We learned that Brad serves both missions and we talked about that for a moment. I need to hear his full testimony sometime. I sat there pondering what I had just seen and heard. I pondered our mission and my motivations for being there. It’s very easy for it to turn from a worship of God to a “points game” of impressive acts. Who’s doing the most work? Who’s displaying the most love? These “works” can be for God or for other people. I have to constantly ask why I am I doing what I am doing and then realign to Jesus Christ. Know thyself.

I look out the back door to the open streets. That lady in the wheel chair who was asking for phone numbers for recovery places last week is initiating a sale. Moments later a man comes back and opens his hand so that she can take the rock of her choosing. I think about going out there and asking her if she made the call. I want to know if she tried, and if it just got too frustrating making all the phone calls. Phone calls frustrate the hell out of me. I think of how she will feel, rock melting in her hand, as she is faced with someone asking her if she sought out recovery as she said she wanted to. She’ll remember back to when she was convicted that she had to do something about this addiction. She will feel that rock melting in her hand and feel ashamed and guilty. ‘I’m too weak, I’m a failure. I just want to smoke this so that I won’t feel this way anymore’. I couldn’t bare to send her into the night that way. I’m afraid of things getting messy.

A guy comes in that I’ve seen a couple times before. He looks to be in his thirties, native descent, usually in high spirits. I’ve seen him stand up and give his testimony with passion and blessing while one of our guitar players replaces a broken string. I like him. I ask him, what’s going on. He tells me he’s looking for a friend, he needs a favour. This is so he can do a favour for another friend. What goes around comes around, I say and I don’t pursue the conversation anymore. I ask him later if there is someone specific he wants to speak to. He’s looking for one of the Pastors. He needs five bucks so that his friend can take the bus to work the next day. He says she’s living with him. When I ask where she works, he says he doesn’t know. I tell him that I would give him the money but I wouldn’t know where the money would really go. He says, I wasn’t asking you for the money. Nice. Now I feel like an ass. Maybe I shouldn’t be spewing around my easy answer to the money situation. Maybe I should be dealing with my guilt in having so much in comparison to this community and giving so little financially.

Praise the Lord, G-- dam it!

Sept. 9th

There has been high interest in this eastside mission. Maybe it’s just the “cool” thing to do. Maybe it satiates some of our guilt. Maybe it’s just a lot of people like me who are growing numb with abundance in material but are starving for sharper relationships and experiences. Maybe we’re just looking for a purpose to our abundance. There is definitely a spectrum of reasons. I have found the reasons that I started are not the reasons that I continue to engage with poverty and addiction. It’s a continual process of the self being refined by the Holy Spirit’s fire.

We’ve started cleaning the streets as an outreach project. It is one way of making use of our excess volunteers as well it provides a reason to be out on the street. Sometimes the soap box method works but we think a practical service is a better way to show our intent in the community. Unfortunately I become very goal driven. My eyes stick to the pavement as I try to efficiently remove all refuse. I ponder the needles that have gone into my garbage bag and constantly remind myself, do not push down on the bag. This is really a foolish practice which becomes evident when we are reminded by those sitting on the streets to be careful. If you want to keep safe, heed the warnings of the locals. Bags get full and we turn back for Potters. Once in a while I look up and around but I hardly engage or allow anyone else to engage. I’m not fully open to the relational opportunities that this service provides. I’m not fully open to the Holy Spirit.

Service begins. I find myself lost in thought focused on myself. It’s impossible to worship when your focus is yourself. It takes an act of will to refocus, and soon enough, I open my ears, and I’m hearing the Spirit again through song. Kyle speaks for the first time. He reads the parable of the prodigal son and then delivers his full testimony of addiction and recovery. The door is noisy tonight. Brad – a volunteer from the community - is taking care of the door. Brad is a little bit chubby and not very tall. He looks to be in his late forties and wears non-descript clothing like thrift golfer tees. He has a moustache and medium length blonde hair. I see this man genuinely loving and caring for all who come to Potters. He is always there and he knows many of the people in the community. People trust him and talk to him openly. He is also a warrior. I’ve seen him unarm men at the door flashing screwdrivers in a stabbing motion. He really is the unlikely bodyguard of Potters. He stands in the world but not of the world with all the tension that entails. I see him wrestle with both sides every Tuesday. I feel compelled to help him in anything he needs to fulfill that position. This night he was confronted physically by a man we all know, a man who is not sane. I didn’t see exactly what happened but Brad had to fight him off and throw him back from the door so that he could close it and lock it. There was a lot of commotion. The locked door is always a point of contention for various reasons.

The other garbage cleaning group comes back mid sermon. I wonder why they have taken so long? The answer: they were probably more open to engaging. I was very impressed with a young man named Tyler who has been very busy at a bible school in Australia, a mission in Mexico, and a camp in BC. This was his first time back to Potters in a while but he hit the ground running and it was obvious to me that his heart had been well tuned during his many adventures to be the Lord’s instrument. Tyler recounted two of the conversations they had while street cleaning. He was seeking help for another waiting at the door. Sadly, the one waiting at the door was not helped. You could see the hurt and frustration in Tyler’s eyes.

Service ends, food is served. I sit at the back for a while and listen to some guys talk with Brad. These guys had been quietly heckling Kyle while he spoke. They asked Brad if he knew what a panic room was. He said he did. I asked what a panic room was. I told them I only knew of the panic room that is described in the movie. They jeered that it would be great to have the money to have one of those rooms. I backed up and said I only knew it from the movie and that I didn’t have one personally. (You will always get lambasted for having money down there – always). Brad knew it was the movie with Jodie Foster. I was then told that the east side panic room was the room where you went when you ripped a drug dealer off and four black guys would keep you there for 10 hours and continually beat you. We talked about when you would start to panic. The paradox of actions I see from the community is hard to comprehend. One man last week was on his knees through out worship but started yelling at the speaker and giving dismissive hand signals, later he even tried to start a fight. These guys at the back watched the door and guarded it from friends who were too drunk. They comforted others in their community by putting their arm around them and listening and yet they were very aggressive and rude. The last man to leave cried out drunkenly, “Praise the Lord, G— dam it.” And when I said, that’s kind of like an oxymoron, and got a chuckle, he started shouting fighting words to me. That’s the paradox right there in a nutshell.

Near the end of the night a very thin woman in a wheel chair asked Kyle about his recovery and where she should go. She was in tears earlier talking to someone in the community. Kyle gave her a pamphlet and I wrote down the number to two different recovery programs. I explained that one of them she would have to keep calling back and wait for a bed. She said that was B.S. The second one would take her right away but it was further away. She seemed to think her disability would cause considerable problems in finding a suitable recovery house. I wish we had told her that we would provide transportation for her get to one of these two places. I asked what her name was and she wouldn’t tell me. I asked again and said I would pray for her. She said what good would that do? I said prayers are powerful and at that she turned from us and started riding away complaining that if God cared he wouldn’t have - off into a mumbling of all the suffering she had endured. I called out that it is man that brings suffering not God but I’m sure she didn’t hear me. Sigh. There were other volunteers around . . . I’m not sure if I was completely being myself, or completely in the Spirit . . . I might have been just giving out the “right” answer. Words alone will never win someone over. Love followed by action brings trust.

A Wet and Angry Man

This recounts events that occurred on Aug. 26^th ‘08

It was pouring rain down at Potters on Tuesday. I’d just spent two and a half days doing nothing. Well not nothing; just nothing constructive. Played stupid games and watched questionable TV shows on the PC. As I was preparing to go I remembered, for the first time, to bring an aid bag: 6 pairs of socks, a journal with information about shelters and food hand outs. Small, but it was a start. So service goes on as planned. Friesen is great as expected and Cameron delivers a fine sermon. The guy is a natural. Charles asks me to tell this unruly attendant to pull his bag out of the aisle. Charles said he’d do it but he would probably get punched. I ask the guy if he can move his bag and he basically says to go to hell and that the bag isn’t in the way. It was funny cause right as he was saying it someone in a wheel chair narrowly squeezed his way by. I was uncomfortable in the situation so I went to help serve food. It went smoothly and when it seemed I had time I walked the aisle to look for people to talk to. It really is a practice of listening to the Holy Spirit, and then saying yes. Sometimes I’m not going to be much use, sometimes I’m not willing to say yes. I sat down across from the man who had his bag in the aisle and tried to talk to him. He just ignored me. I kind of understand. He was smart enough to realize that Charles was manipulating him through me and he didn’t want to be manipulated. I basically said I wasn’t there to control him and that I wanted to extend peace and not have anything between us. He got up and started talking to someone else as I talked. So time passes. I help serve and clean a little and then as this guy is leaving he turns to me, looks me in the eye for the first time, and extends his hand. I can’t imagine what my expression was; shock, happy? I quickly pulled off my serving glove and shook his hand. I can’t even remember if we had words; I don’t think so? It was very satisfying.

Soon after, I notice this guy at the back who is drenched to the bone. His hand is clenched in a fist. He says he’s so cold, his hand is numb, he’s so hungry, he’s eyeing for food. I tell him the food is done and packed away. He says he’s so angry, he says he feels the anger building inside. It looks like he’s about to hulk out and I take a half step back. He donkey kicks the chair behind him into the window and Pederson approaches and says he shouldn’t have even let him in so he better chill. The soaked man says out loud that he is so hungry and one of the men from the community who had been served gives him his plate. I love seeing that. There is love in this community. The guy puts the fork aside and scoops the food into his mouth by the hand full. I ask him to come sit down and get warm. I ran some errands for other people and I over hear him asking for socks. I tell him I can get him some socks. Praise the Lord that I remembered them or that the Lord prompted me. Practical service . . . I want to do more of this. So I give him the socks and he starts to talk. Someone has given him another cup of food and he is eating this with a fork. He tells me how harsh his life is in no linear fashion. He says he’s a binner, he just wants a couple of bucks in his pocket, he knows there’s money in this place, his one hand is totally numb. “Who says giving is better then receiving. I give and what do I get for it. People just take. What do I get for it? . . . All I get is $75 from welfare because of my anger issues. Who can live on $75 bucks? That’s why I have to go binning . . . Ya, so I want to have a drink once in a while, smoke a joint once in a while, it’s just for some relief . . . I’m so tired, my arms are tired, my feet are tired, I’m so tired, tired of life . . . I know there’s money in this place. I just need a couple of bucks.”

I’m praying as I listen. What can I say Lord, what can I do? I say, “I’m not going to give you any money. I don’t know if it will go to drugs or alcohol.”

He gets visibly agitated. “Ya, you don’t care,” he says, “you got a home to go to, car to drive you there, food in the cupboard, you got money, you don’t care.”

God definitely sent this guy to me. What a convicting thing to say. He was right. In about an hour I would be home and I could go back to my complacency. I would have a shower and wash my self clean of this filth. After a night sleep maybe I could forget the pain of this poor soul. Maybe I could forget that I was going to send him on his way in a few minutes to find shelter under a door step awning; forget that as wet and cold as he was he would be even more tired tomorrow. Yet I was angry at his desperate cry for cash. I said with my tone slightly riled and voice a little louder, “I get angry too when God doesn’t give me what I want. God only gives me what I need. Prayers sometimes go unanswered but I know he has my best in mind.”

Why does God allow me to participate? Why would this guy ever believe that God has his best in mind? I thought I was being firm. I thought I had to break through his self pity and take his mind of trying to acquire money. Maybe I did need to do that?

Everyone had left except staff and volunteers. He said, “Nobody cares anymore.”

I agreed with him, mostly, but I pointed out that everyone left in the building cares. None of them have to be here. They all choose to because they care. He began putting on his new socks. His feet were water logged; white and wrinkled. As he put his soaked shoes back on I realized my small gift of socks would be soaked again within minutes. I should have brought those old running shoes. There was a loud bang at the door. I got up to check. Two guys were in an argument but it seemed to be calming down. I told the man that we had to go. I think everyone was waiting for us. He got up to leave and said thanks before he exited. Why did he say thanks? I couldn’t do anything for him. I could have took him back to my house and given him a warm dry couch to sleep on and a shower and a shave. My excuse, he might try and steal something. It’s a very good excuse. Where do I draw the line on being Jesus to those in need? It’s been two days. It hasn’t stopped raining. I’m wondering where he is right now. I can’t forget.

Another Taleswapper enters the Blogosphere

I'm going to try and and keep a journal of my weekly journey to Potter's Mission in the downtown east side of Vancouver. My purpose is to bring awareness of the suffering of our neighbors, and to document the change that I hope to see in myself and in this community.

This will be simply a journal in which I hope to present an authentic presentation of my naivety, mistakes, struggles, joys, dreams and triumphs in engaging with a hurting, and most times, seemingly hopeless sector of our population.