Dismissals

Evelyn Underhill (1875 -1941) was an Anglican intellectual, pacifist and writer on mysticism. She once received advice from Austrian religious writer and Christian apologist Friedrich von Hügel (1852-1925) who thought Evelyn too enthralled by ideas: “I believe you ought to get yourself, gently and gradually, interested in the poor; that you should visit them, very quietly and unostentatiously, with as little incorporation as possible into Visiting Societies etc. You badly want de-intellectualizing or at least developing homely human sense and spirit dispositions … I would carefully give preference to the two weekly visitations of the poor above anything else …”* *(From A Mile in My Shoes, Trevor Hudson)

Every Friday, I go to the men’s homeless shelter for a few hours. A block away, I always pull over by the railroad tracks to gather my thoughts. Recently, sitting there, a police car pulled up behind me. Two officers wanted to know what I was doing, parked like that. They were pleasant but curious. I told them I was enjoying the day and I’d soon be on my way. One policemen warned me: “Be careful. There’s a homeless shelter just down the road.” I thanked them. They went on their way and so did I, a few minutes later.

The usual rigamarole … empty pockets, 20 questions, show ID … then into the prisoner visiting area to see Mike. Prisoners cannot leave their chair so I went to the vending machine to peruse the wilting ham sandwiches, sawdust cookies and limp chips. The woman ahead of me tried for the chips but her card was woefully underfunded. I watched her walk away. I bought the chips, palmed the bag and sauntered nonchalantly to where she sat. It’s strictly forbidden, but I pulled it off … I passed the chips to her prisoner. I returned to Mike. He smiled and said, “Very smooth!” 

At a conference on racism, on the table before me, a small sign with these words: “… I am responsible for the house I did not build but in which I live.”* I learned much about racism at that conference. More learning lies ahead but that little sign gave me clarity and understanding. Whether it is racism, the degraded environment, muddled politics, or the seeming failure of decency in the world … this time and place is the house where I live … and I will, with God’s help, work to make it a better house.  *Dorothee Sölle, 1929–2003, German liberation theologian

The grocery checkout line was long. Folks were impatient. The cashier did her best. The old man ahead of me had only a few items. When it was his turn, the cashier dropped his one and only apple. She picked it up and said, “Please, get another.” He went slowly. The line grumbled … “Apple not shiny enough?” … “What’s the holdup?” The old man returned with an apple, handed it to the cashier, then said to those near him in the line, “I’m sorry to be so slow. Thank you for waiting for me.” He paid and left us waiting quietly.

As a deacon, I end up in some strange places. When I was ordained, I made promises about what I would do. One promise calls me most clearly … that I am to “… interpret to the church the needs, concerns, and hopes the world.” I knew then that I would not remain in the comfortable church but go out into the world, into the places where the least light shines. I have done that … and I return to you every week to tell of what I have seen … and to ask your help and prayers to make sense of it all. 

A young man, I attended the Episcopal Church where Father Hutchins was priest. One Sunday, invited to the rectory for dinner, Mrs. Hutchins opened the door. We walked toward the kitchen and there was Father Hutchins, flat on his back on the living room floor, still wearing his collar, eyes closed, listening to Mozart on the stereo.  Mrs. Hutchins told me, “Two services this morning, still chores to do and an afternoon of hospital visits ahead.” I walked quietly to the kitchen. I did not understand then about Father Hutchins the floor. But fifty years later? Now I get it. 

My parents ate once at McDonald’s. It was confusing … pay first … find table … carry food … bus table … but they allowed it wasn’t the worst meal they’d ever eaten. I ate my first fast food in California when I was 19. A day laborer, I spent a morning digging trenches for two-fifty an hour. By noon, I could have passed out from hunger. The other guys all headed for a Jack-In-A-Box. I wasn’t keen on the fast food idea but for a buck and a quarter I ate my fill … and learned to not be so particular. 

I go to the homeless shelter to visit the men, to listen and encourage. I’ve made friends there. Last week, Ray was fuming. A new shelter rule infuriated him and someone had looted his knapsack. I listened. I encouraged … but I was an easy target. Ray seemed angry at me. I left without a word. I sat in my car, certain I’d never go back. Who did Ray think he was? I thought and prayed. I returned to the shelter. I found Ray and we said words that were needed … we said that we would see each other next week. 

Norman always sat in a pew up front. He knew the words to the hymns and the first names of most Sunday regulars. One day after the service I spoke with Norman. He said that in matters of faith, “I have more questions than I have answers.” He shared with me about his busy professional life and his several ministries in the world. “Sundays are my day of rest. The church is my refuge, my port in the storm, my sanctuary. I come to church to gather my strength for the week ahead. Communion is my food for the journey.” 

As a boy, I took lessons on an old hand-me-down flute. Everyone told me, “Practice every day!” I most assuredly did not. Decades later, I heard a man play a flute so beautifully, so effortlessly, that I rummaged through closets, boxes and bureaus to find that old flute. Now, I am trying again. I practice daily, and every day I struggle, I stumble and forgive myself. My spiritual life is somewhat more advanced than my flute playing. Yet, even in spiritual practice, I struggle, I stumble and forgive myself. Like the flute, the Spirit also requires daily practice.

Maundy Thursday: “The disciples were keenly aware that someone needed to wash the others’ feet. The problem was that the only people who washed feet were the least. So there they sat, feet caked with dirt. It was such a sore point that they were not even going to talk about it. No one wanted to be consider the least. Then Jesus took a towel and a basin and redefined greatness.” [From Richard Foster’s book, Celebration of Discipline]