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.