Dismissals

Twice a week I’m at the 2100 men’s shelter in Cleveland. On Wednesdays, there’s an Art Workshop … it’s nothing fancy … no easels or palettes … only a folding table, a jumble of brushes, colored pencils and whatnot … strictly catch-as-catch-can. I’ve learned that if I leave an unfinished drawing or watercolor on the table, it’s likely someone will come along and finish it for me! This has required a few attitude adjustments on my part. There is something communal about it … and there’s the old maxim, “Many hands make light work” … not to mention making some very interesting art!

At a little church I once attended, there was an older man who became a guiding light for me. Norman sat up front but never failed to visit with me, sitting in the back row. We talked openly about faith. Norman, a modest man, said, “I have more questions than I have answers.” He shared the story of his life as a Christian and about his ministries in the world. Norman said, “Church is where I gather my strength for the week ahead … where I am made ready to go into the world … wherever and however I might be called.”

I visit twice weekly at the 2100 mens’ shelter … two chairs in a busy hallway across from a small room with a landline. If you have no cellphone, that phone is all there is. There’s usually a line along the hallway … a long wait for a call to go through … to someone, anyone who can help a man get out of the shelter and into a place of his own. It’s a privileged world that does not have such troubles … “Please hold for the next available … ” The man waits … at last, a human voice … and the wheels begin to turn. 

As a child, I learned the names of the three dikes that kept the sea from submerging the fields and cities of Holland: Watcher, Sleeper, and Dreamer. The Watcher was first to meet the rising sea. If overtopped, the Sleeper was next. When the Watcher and the Sleeper could not restrain the sea, the Dreamer remained the lone and last guard. There are times and circumstances in our lives today when we must hold back the ruinous and destructive forces that have come upon us. Some days we are the Watchers … some days the Sleepers … and some days the Dreamers. 

“Christianity isn’t a failure. It just hasn’t been tried yet.” The words of Gilbert Keith Chesterton, English author, philosopher, and Christian apologist. His words are unsettling … harsh … yet there is the ring of truth to them. If only we had a device, with dials, knobs, and video screen, by which we could measure our progress in this complex undertaking we call Christianity. But we don’t. So we try, and fall short. We are no more than works-in-progress,  walking along the well-worn path of those gone before. Not one of us has succeeded at Christianity … except the One. 

A warm Fourth of July night, the bedroom windows open, I am awakened by a voice from without. I rise and pull back the curtain. A woman, singing, walks the centerline of the street. I cannot discern her words, only listen as her voice comes closer. Then I see her plainly in the streetlight, her gait matching the melody, she sings mellifluously in a soft voice that carries off into the night, a haunting melody in a language I have never heard. She goes on by, she sways to her tune, down the street, still singing, then she is gone.

I worked alongside him in ministry for a few years and I was not alone in admiring his care for the people we served. Many thought well of him. Then came the news that he had been arrested on several serious charges. We did not see him again. No one at the ministry spoke of him. In time, and with prayer, I was moved to write to him. I sent him a letter expressing hope, and a prayer for mercy in the days and years ahead. I received no reply and expected none. I wait while God sorts it out. 

On my way to St. Luke’s Food Pantry, I often stop at a small bodega and buy a few snacks to hold me until dinner. In the little store there are lots of snacks and chips, but no fruits or vegetables. I ask the proprietor about this. He shrugs. We exchange pleasantries. I pay him and take my leave. When next at his store, he told me that he thought it unlikely that fruit would be sold in a store such as his … though when I was paying, I saw a small basket of apples right next to the register. 

Fresh out of high-school, I drove my old car to California to seek my fortune. Clearly, it was not going to be easy. I hired on with a temp agency and joined five men working on an assembly line. All that morning we filled bottles with an unknown black liquid and screwed on the caps. Our hands were stained with the stuff. My co-workers spoke no English, I spoke no Spanish, and the labels on the bottles were indecipherable. When at last we spotted the tiny skull and crossbones printed there, we shut off the machine and left. 

At the Sunday service, I set the table, proclaim the Gospel, clear the table, and dismiss the congregation. I’ve mostly mastered these basics. But, years ago, when I was Deacon at an ordination, as I stood mid-church to proclaim the Gospel, a boy in an alb handed me a smoking brass pot hanging from a chain. I had no idea what this was or what to do with it. Mercifully, I recollected an old black and white movie … Lon Chaney? … a robed figure swings a smoking pot … back and forth over an open book … and that’s what I did. 

He was something of a mentor to me. I was a stripling and he as old as the hills. Walking along, he greeted everyone … a tip of his cap, a small wave, the briefest salutation. He never failed to offer a helping hand … “Carry that for you?” … “Need a hand with that rake?” Few folks took him up on his offer, though occasionally they did, and I’d help him carry shingles out of someone’s garage or change a flat tire. He was plain about it … it is not the labor that changes the world … but simply the offer to help.