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One of our community’s teachers passed from this world to rest with Christ in God just a little while ago on August 21st. During the few years we spent with her on North Main St., Joann taught us some of the finer points of gracious hospitality by living it out with little consideration given to laying out a complete, cohesive, and persuasive theology of hospitality. Simply put, Joann practiced hospitality because it was the “right thing to do” and because offering grace in a hard place gave her joy. She taught and reminded us that sometimes we should open our lives to others in hospitality not because it will help accomplish some particular kind of social change, but because it is a joyful and blessed thing to do.

Joann not only welcomed folks like Bruce, Linda, and Robert off the streets and into her home, but also welcomed a fledgling Grace and Main into her home and yard when we had a problem with no clear solution. We felt called to continue our work and our “roving feasts” on North Main, but our work depends on a foundation of relationships and consistent presence. Unlike we had downtown, we didn’t have a home on North Main Street. However, Bruce, our newest leader at the time, lived with Joann and thought she would let us use some of her space to serve. It was exactly the kind of opportunity we were looking for, so we hoped that our existing relationships with Joann and the folks on North Main were enough to form a new partnership.

Joann welcomed us eagerly into her home and onto her porch. Though we were anxious at the time about whether or not she’d welcome us, we can look back and laugh at ourselves years later. This woman who never drove more than 55 miles per hour—regardless of how high the speed limit was set—wasn’t afraid to take risks in the name of showering her neighborhood with grace and love. So, she took a risk on a fledgling intentional community that wanted to learn how to love and welcome the marginalized, disenfranchised, and oppressed.

When Robert and Linda wanted to start a breakfast out of the kitchen, she not only allowed them but she cooked the eggs. When Bruce wanted to start a tool library out of the old tool shed behind the house, Joann bragged about the work we were doing to her friends and coworkers—not pointing out that it was her hospitality that made a place to provide tools for the neighborhood to borrow. When one of our brothers relapsed, she welcomed him back when he had asked forgiveness for the relationships and trusts he had broken in his relapse. When we planted an expanding garden in the backyard, Joann joined with us in eagerly waiting for the first tomatoes and watermelons. When Linda was tragically struck by a car and killed, Joann joined with us in mourning. Joann is one of us and one of our teachers and we give thanks for her and her many sacrifices and gifts.

When the word was passed that Joann’s long fight with illness was over, we were heartbroken. We were thankful that she went peacefully, surrounded by her family, and under the dulcet tones of some of her favorite hymns and Elvis songs. All over her property are flower boxes that Bruce had made for her because of how much she loved flowers. All over the Northside are changed lives that Joann’s hospitality helped make because of how much she loved her neighborhood and its people. So, we give thanks for Joann though we are heartbroken, and we consider what it must have been like when Jesus welcomed her into Heaven the same way she welcomed so many into her home and to her table.

This I promise you: Joann of North Main St, beloved by God, her family, and her friends, helped teach us how to follow Jesus, so not only do we call her sister, but teacher as well.

Meanwhile, we look forward to being reunited with her and all those who have passed from our community. We know they rest with Christ in God and that even death itself cannot separate us from our beloved. Amen.

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The following reflection was written by Matt Bailey in late 2011 near the beginning of our work in a particular apartment community downtown. We ran this in our newsletter in August 2012, so you may have read this two years ago. But, since the tenants have recently had quite a set of victories and we’ve been able to join them in organizing and celebrating, we thought we’d run the story again as a way to reminisce, celebrate, and understand that the stories we tell are not finished.


During the spring of 2009, leaders of Grace and Main were feeling a call to spend more time with the individuals Jesus identified with, those who are neglected by respectable society. That is to say, with the poor, the homeless, prostitutes, and drug addicts. So, we went where they were. We began simply to walk the streets and alleys of downtown Danville—streets that are lined with abandoned buildings and derelict houses; littered with trash and overgrown with weeds. Streets abandoned by many and desperate for grace and mercy. We heard stories of abuse and addiction, of job loss and poverty, of homelessness and hopelessness, of hunger and pain. We were privileged to join the storyteller in their story for just a little while. We learned to listen.

On one occasion, I happened to be walking around downtown alone, carrying sandwiches and snacks for our homeless, near-homeless, and poor brothers and sisters. I turned down Lyndon Ave. to where I thought my friend Andy lived. I came upon a large stucco apartment building whose faded paint and neglected courtyard were more than a little ominous. I was planning on going up to Andy’s apartment, but I couldn’t remember which one was his, so I decided to ask one of the group of guys hanging around the courtyard.  As I walked up, the men stared at me suspiciously. I felt uneasy, but it was a feeling that I had become accustomed to ignoring. But, this time the feeling was stronger, and so at the last minute I turned and continued down the street—in the opposite direction I needed to go to get back to my car.

I was pretty new to the downtown area and so I didn’t know many of the back streets yet. I was stuck; I had to walk back by the building no matter how much I wanted to avoid it. As I approached the stucco building for the second time, the same tense uneasiness came over me again.  Only this time, the fellows standing in the courtyard started walking en masse toward me.  I kept my head down, stared at the pavement, and prayed for protection.  They came out to the sidewalk in front of the courtyard and lined up shoulder-to-shoulder, glaring at me.  I didn’t dare look in their direction. Heart pounding and scared silly, I continued on to Main Street and made it safely to my car.  I didn’t know whether the men standing in front of the stucco building meant me harm or were just hanging out, but nevertheless, I vowed never to return to that building or street again.

However, God had other plans. During one of our walks downtown, Steve (another Grace and Main member) and I began talking about Mother Teresa.  We were reflecting on her words: “There are Calcuttas everywhere.  You just have to have eyes to see.”  Steve pondered aloud, “I wonder where a Calcutta in Danville would be?”  As soon as the words came out of his mouth, we looked at each other knowingly.  And knowing that we were both thinking of Lyndon Avenue and the stucco apartment building, I said, “No!”  But there was a soft, loving peace I felt as we walked on in silence. Months went by, and we continued sharing lunch with our friends downtown. I continued to be careful to avoid Lyndon Avenue. We made friends with people we met at the library, on Main Street, and in the park on Green Street.  They began coming to Grace and Main’s Thursday night community meals, and we began spending more time with them, sharing lunch, going to the library, taking walks downtown, and simply getting to know one another better.

Then one day, our friend Tyler invited us over to hang out. When asked where he lived, he replied, “Do you know the stucco building on Lyndon?” My heart began racing. “Yep, I know the place,” I answered, remembering my first encounter on that street, at that building.  Steve and I glanced at each other. “Let’s go then,” Tyler said joyfully. We walked and talked with Tyler about how long he had lived there (several years) and who else lived there. He began mentioning names of many of our friends we had met downtown: Coco, Darius, Eli, and David. I couldn’t believe it! God had been forming a connection between Grace and Main and our brothers and sisters at the stucco building without our knowledge. Even as I planted my feet and said “no,” God was planning for my eventual “yes.”

We continued on, and when we arrived at the stucco building, I was nervous but still very much in awe of the Lord’s fingerprints all over this “coincidental” connection. My fears were immediately dispelled by the welcoming smiles and cheerful greetings we received from the friends we knew and the ones we had yet to meet. Once again, I felt the soft, loving peace I had felt the day Steve and I remembered the wisdom and words of Mother Teresa.

The word “Calcutta” may bring images of filth, despair, poverty, and hopelessness to mind. But I think what Mother Teresa found in Calcutta was that appearances are deceiving. Calcuttas aren’t places of hopelessness; they are places that are filled with hope, love, and beauty. But they are neglected and under-nurtured. They are the abandoned places of our world. And that is exactly what we found on Lyndon Avenue: a community of beautiful people who are hope-filled and love-filled—people who continue to show us daily that Jesus is there with them, He has been all along, and He will be always.

And so we continue to spend time together, reminding each other of Jesus’ love and presence within each of us by sharing lunch, planting flowers, and sharing stories. And Jesus continues to remove the scales from my eyes to see, not the Calcutta the world sees, but what He sees—a place of hope, beauty, and love in the stucco building, a beautiful little Calcutta in downtown Danville, Va.

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The following reflection was written by Katherine Ellis. Katherine is a rising senior at Baylor University and is working with Grace and Main this summer as our Missionary and Artist in Residence. In addition to living in community with us, she is serving in our midst. We’re excited to offer opportunities to participate in our work to younger, developing leaders as they discern God’s call in their life. The following is a reflection from the first few weeks of her involvement with us. The piece of art near the bottom is also done by Katherine.


Richard Rohr, a Franciscan friar, once said, “We do not think ourselves into new ways of living, we live ourselves into new ways of thinking.” This summer God’s people are teaching me the art of living and loving and their presence compels me to respond both in action and thoughtful retrospection.

This summer I am staying in Danville, Virginia, population 43,000. Through the Cooperative Baptist Fellowship’s Student.GO missionary intern program I have been commissioned to live and work among the homeless and near homeless of Danville as missionary and artist in residence with Grace and Main Fellowship. It has been over two weeks since I made the long trip from Texas across the North Carolina border into Virginia and my experiences in these past several days have already been overwhelming and compelling. Grace and Main, my community for the summer, describes itself as “an intentional Christian community of hospitality and service.” Deciphering what exactly that means has taken me more than perusing their website. Each day I believe I better understand the radical work that is taking place here in Danville and daily I am humbled to be a small part of it this summer.

Grace and Main is not ushering a community through a soup kitchen line–Grace and Main is ushering a community to its dinner table. Grace and Main is not managing a shelter in town–Grace and Main is opening up its houses and offering hospitality to those without a place to sleep.

One Thursday I was joining what Grace and Main calls the Roving Feast: two or three times a week a few of Grace and Main’s leaders pack a couple dozen sack lunches and set out into the city, to meet people where they are whether that be homeless, drunk, hungry, or just in need of some company. Mark and I gathered up a couple of the brown lunch sacks and walked through someone’s yard toward a tool-shed: Steve’s home. We went inside and sat down next to a mattress on the floor and a discarded dishwasher as I shook hands with Steve who appeared to have had more than one drink that day. We talked about the Daytona 500 and Steve’s childhood and I laughed when Steve persistently apologized for accidentally cursing in front of a lady. As we were leaving, Steve took my hand and squeezed my pinkie finger with his own. He asked if I knew what that meant. I responded, confused, “Is it a promise? Like a pinkie promise?”

Steve replied, “No, that means love, don’t you ever forget that.” I squeezed his pinkie, Mark prayed, and we left. We returned to the shed a few days later. Steve was once again drunk, but glad to see us. The conversation was heavier this week as Mark and Steve danced around the topic of Steve getting help. Steve repeatedly proclaimed that he was tired of drinking–he wanted to stop. At one point I grasped his pinkie finger with my own and asked, “Remember what this means?” After some coaxing, Steve stood up and we walked out of the shed toward my car, toward the ER, toward detox, and toward the hope of freedom from the slavery of addiction. We sat in the ER with Steve for several hours waiting with him.

As the blood was drawn and the first tests were run, Steve took my hand and held it, not letting go for most of the rest of our time there. At one point that evening Steve looked up at me with his weathered skin and untamed beard and quietly noted, “You must think I’m a baby for wanting to hold your hand. It’s just comforting you know, it’s nice to have someone here with me.” Steve is a middle aged man accustomed to the streets and empty bottles, and like all of us he wants to know someone cares, that he matters, that he is loved. This summer I am learning that we all need community. Just as I hope I’m teaching Steve that he is worthy of love and comforting, Steve is teaching me about grace, redemption, and friendship. This summer is messy, Roger walked into Bible study drunk last night and looking for his wife as the 105th Psalm was being read. But also in the room sat Steve, 3 days sober and reciting the Lord’s prayer. Beauty and hope spring forth in the murk where community is riddled with pain and mistakes, but also with the transformation of hearts.

Some of us may live in large houses, drive nice cars, and be able to hide our addictions better than others. We are all slaves to our own forms of addiction whether they are alcohol, drugs, sex, or money, comfort, and success. We may not lump ourselves with those who we consider poor and needy, but not even one of us is immune to poverty of the soul. There is growth that occurs when vice meets faith, when our messy community embraces one another amidst the struggle. We are all impoverished in some manner, all addicted to something, all in need of community, and all in need of a Savior. The people that I am blessed enough to encounter this summer are, as Richard Rohr said, helping me to live myself into new ways of thinking as their stories become entangled with my own. When we come face to face with another’s struggle we are forced to look into their eyes and see our own reflection, our own pain, our own need for detox and healing. Often we all need someone to squeeze our pinkie finger and ask us, “Remember what this means?”

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Once a year, Grace and Main likes to throw a party in one of the parks downtown. We call this celebration “Downtown Jubilee” because it calls our minds back to the Jubilee taught in the book of Leviticus, when debts were forgiven, slaves were set free, lands were returned to their original owners, and life was balanced again for a little while.

The first time we talked about having this party, we were clear about one thing in particular: we didn’t want to have just any party. We wanted a party where grace is thrown around with abandon and we can celebrate all those things worth celebrating that get overlooked.  We didn’t know how we would do it that first year.  With the few leaders we had then, it seemed an overwhelming task to throw a party like that.  After much prayer, we believed that God was calling us to have Jubilee in downtown Danville even if we still didn’t know how it was going to happen.  We knew that, “If God is calling us to this place, then God will be there when we get there.” So, we set out with faith that God would show up to the party.

As spring came around that year, the details were whittled away and we hosted our first ever Downtown Jubilee. There was music, dancing, and plenty of hot dogs, but most importantly there were new relationships forged by celebration. At one end of the park we played games in a fire hydrant’s spray while at the other end of the park we hosted a “free flea market” where folks could either give away or take something they saw that they might need. We gave away six bicycles, several pieces of furniture, boxes full of clothing, and lots of toys and books.  We had face painting, games, and prizes galore for children. In that neighborhood, we discovered that sometimes grace looks and tastes an awful lot like a quickly melting ice cream sandwich.

We recently had our third annual Downtown Jubilee. We’ve always depended on partners like Spin Bike Shop (present at the first Jubilee in those bikes we gave away) and First Baptist Church of Danville (one of our first congregational partners) to make this party happen.  This year we expanded on that dependence.  We had representatives from five different congregations: First Baptist Church of Danville, Ascension Lutheran Church, Mount Vernon United Methodist Church, Chatham Baptist Church, and an as yet unnamed church plant in a nearby neighborhood. These blessed folks joined us in their own particular ways to take this party another step in faith toward where God is working in our midst.

Years ago, before we even knew what it would look like, we called this party “Downtown Jubilee”  because we had hopes—hopes that it might be a dim reflection of God’s Kingdom among folks who needed more celebrations and things to celebrate. For a few hours on a Saturday in the middle of May, we stood in that park among so many with whom our little community has shared meals, prayers, struggles, and suffering;  our beloved in whom God is moving and through whom God is changing our neighborhoods. Among former slaves to addictions, we celebrated freedom with chocolate chip cookies and kickball. Among the formerly homeless, we celebrated God’s providence with a hot dog and face paint. Among the formerly disenfranchised with whom we’ve had the privilege to stand up to oppressors, we celebrated justice and mercy in equal parts with lemonade and horseshoes.

Yes, for just a little while, we partied like the battle was over and the Kingdom of God really was on earth as it is in heaven. As the party faded back into the neighborhood, we packed up our things and headed to our homes a block or two away. For a little while the Kingdom of God was strong in that place, but our God is on the move and working wonders in other places, too. So we’re saying to ourselves again, “if God is calling us there then God will be there when we get there.” We don’t want to miss the next party God shows up to—wherever it may be.

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“This can never happen again,” Josie intoned with an insistence bordering on an ultimatum. Turning to the other lay members of the leadership council of Ascension Lutheran Church, Josie reiterated her point with the words “never again.” There are a number of grave situations that a phrase like this could precede or follow in a church leadership meeting and none are the kinds of things most of us want to consider. We hear this phrase uttered when something previously unconsidered becomes a recent and regrettable experience.  “This can never happen again,” we insist when our worldview is shaken by what has just passed.

But on this particular day, Josie and the other leaders at Ascension were saying, “this can never happen again” because one of our formerly homeless brothers had been locked out of the service when he had shown up late and ushers had failed to notice him. Waiting patiently at the door, he was admitted with a dollar in his hand for the offering as the congregation was returning to the waiting world and the leadership council began their monthly meeting. Though once they had uttered the phrase for fear of people intruding during worship and theft, they now uttered it at the thought of one left standing outside—one whom they had learned to love.

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The leaders insisted to their pastor, Meredith, that she needed to find the man and get him to forgive the congregation for their oversight—Meredith agreed with them wholeheartedly. Of course, Meredith knew the gentleman very well because Ascension has been hosting a meal for us every month for well over a year now. Each month, we fill their fellowship hall with folks from all over town who are eager to eat a delicious meal and spend time with each other. In that blessed space, we gather our little beloved band of folks. Some are homeless and some have beautiful homes. Some are hungry and eager for the meal to begin, while others are better fed and okay to hang back and join the line more slowly. Most struggle with some kind of addiction, whether it is to alcohol, money, crack, or control.Margaret Adams Parker Reconciliation

But, the fine folks in this lovely congregation have learned and are learning not just to provide a meal, but to provide their hearts in welcome hospitality to whoever may show up to God’s feast in their building. So when they unintentionally excluded their brother, many of them already had a relationship with him built over many dinners and conversations. So, at the insistent urging of her leaders, Meredith sought our brother out, apologized, and asked for his forgiveness. He was quick and eager to say that it wasn’t a problem and that he’d see them all again very soon.

You see, what was built over many meals cannot be shattered by one mistake. When God puts folks together, humility and forgiveness will keep them there by the Spirit.

Meredith likes to say that the meals they host and the partnership between Grace and Main, Ascension Lutheran, and Third Chance Ministries is something of a “little Pentecost” for her folks. “We’re learning how to speak and think about poverty,” she explained, “and it’s changing our people.” They, like we, are learning a new language full of “we” and “us” and not so much “them” and “other.” They, like we, are learning to say, “This can never happen again.” When we eat with a brother who has nowhere to lay his head, never again can we look the other way. When we break bread with a sister who has sold her body for a place to sleep or a bite to eat, never again can we say we’re not our sister’s keeper. When we share the cup with a child who has too little food at home, never again can we say that it’s somebody else’s problem.

Together, we’re all learning how to breathe a silent prayer to God—“May this never happen again”—and then join God in making it so.

 

 

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We’ve told you about our brother Roland before in these newsletters (click here to read one). Perhaps you know how he escaped homelessness for the first time in over a dozen years a few years back and how we helped him find a clean and fairly rented apartment in one of our beloved neighborhoods. Perhaps you know how overjoyed he was when a friend of Grace and Main (and member of First Baptist Church) donated a bed and some furniture for Roland’s new apartment. You might know about how Roland began providing hospitality in his apartment for homeless folks his second night there on some of that donated furniture—he reminded us, “Folks need a place to stay.” You might know that we commissioned Roland as our minister of prayer early on in our community’s life and he has guided us spiritually time and again and taught many of how better to pray, as well as how he prays over and blesses many of the groups that retreat with us. You might even know that Roland was eventually able to find another apartment by himself, in spite of some his particular challenges, and how he budgets and saves to continue to offer hospitality in his new home and to welcome us there to study scripture and share meals.

What you might not know is that Roland had surgery this past December on his heart. He joined another one of our homes for a little over a month as he recovered from surgery in one of our hospitality rooms. After a while, Roland learned to like the fair-trade coffee and began to experiment with a few different ways of preparing his morning oatmeal. He shared Christmas morning with his new (temporary) housemates and was more excited about the meal than any of the small gifts we passed around. He was insistent that some of us keep an eye on his house so that folks could still find a place to stay and would have the sheets, towels, and food they needed even if he couldn’t be there while he recovered—we were glad to do so. He led the house in prayer upon occasion and taught his housemates better how to greet each morning with joy. We learned much from Roland over those several weeks—about how to live faithfully and dependently upon God—but eventually he returned to his own home with a mixture of sadness and gladness.

Because of the surgery and recovery, Roland is doing much better now. He’s back to walking nearly everywhere he wants to go. He gets up early, has his breakfast, and off he goes into our neighborhoods on whatever mission God has placed on his plate for the day. Each Sunday evening he comes to one of the Grace and Main houses to pray and worship together. Sometimes, he contributes a song or a prayer, but always he brings himself and his prayer list. He offers special prayers in the meantime over our book of prayer and for all the people and causes written inside of it. Each Wednesday, our community gathers together to study scripture and Roland is a part of that, as well. When our leaders gather to make decisions as a body, Roland joins us. He has joined us at nearly every meal we’ve hosted as a community for nearly four years and contributes food to the feast when he can.


Lots of folks see Roland and think only of the ways he has been blessed by participation in our community and by the actions of other local congregations and individuals. It seems often that our congregations and communities have learned to see the world of mission and ministry in stark terms of caregivers and care recipients. Yet, Roland does not fit into just one of these categories. He is neither or he is both, but nobody should insist that he is one or the other. This isn’t only the case for Roland, but also for the countless folks still out there on the streets, taking shelter in stairwells or abandoned buildings, begging for daily bread or pocket change, or fighting desperately against their own demons. We have the grand privilege of walking arm in arm with Roland and many others toward our Lord and our God and living and serving alongside a wide variety of beloved and blessed brothers and sisters, and we cannot get there without them. The sooner we can learn to believe that this is true, the sooner we all can be set free to do God’s work in good and powerful ways in our homes, congregations, and neighborhoods. Those folks we’ve learned to look away from are not problems waiting to be solved, but they are the very keys to our freedom in Christ through love.

You see, the world is changing around Roland. God is using him to teach us even more about grace, hospitality, prayer, and joy. Through Roland we are learning more and more about the power of community, the discipline of hospitality, and the deep, deep love of Jesus. We’re thrilled to call him part of our little community and a leader in our midst because God has given us to him and him to us.

The most recent edition of Third Chances, a newsletter about ministry in Danville, Virginia, is available at: http://eepurl.com/PqXSX

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One Sunday night, Emily approached me as people were making their way out of our home after worshiping with us and sharing a piece of cake with a sister in celebration of one month of sobriety. As people trickled out to their cars with hugs and a few more jokes and encouraging words to our recently clean sister, Emily hung back with a look of frustration on her face. As I placed our community’s Christ candle back on its shelf, I noticed that Emily was waiting for me.

“Hey Em,” I said, “it’s been nice having you to eat and pray with us these last couple of weeks.” She had only been showing up for a couple of weeks, but she seemed to be interested in what we were doing and our own particular way of living in God’s Kingdom. I continued, “What’s on your mind? Something you wanna talk about?” I figured it had something to do with Alan, who she had connected with strongly at one of her first meals with us—after a great conversation with Emily, Alan approached us about being ready to seek treatment and find better shelter, but he had recently relapsed after about 9 days clean. We were all disappointed, but this was the first time Emily had dealt with something like this and most of our leaders had seen something like it at least a few times, and while that doesn’t make it hurt any less, it does prepare you for it.

Abruptly, as if she had stored the question away for a few days to ferment before letting it pop in our living-room-turned-chapel, she asked, “It’s not as easy as I thought it was. Is it?”

I won’t dare say that I knew what she was feeling or thinking in that moment, because it’s beyond presumptuous to assume I could wrap my head around her own experience. But, in that moment as that honest and heartbroken question sprang forth, my mind flashed back to the first time something like that had happened to me at Grace and Main. With a slow shake of my head, I sighed and answered her, “No. It hardly ever is.”
You see, so many new folks are so very confident when they first show up to our meals, prayers, studies, worship, or get-togethers. They’ve learned from a combination of articles, books, pundits, sermons, Facebook posts, television shows, and teachers that poverty, homelessness, addiction, and hunger are simple things with simple solutions. These folks come with confidence and good intentions, believing that they have something to offer to brothers and sisters in desperate places and situations. Inevitably, they come to the same conclusion that all of us arrive at eventually, when our heart is broken and our confidence is shaken by the complicated nature of the work we do in our neighborhoods—the same place Emily arrived with her hands on the other end of our altar cloth as we folded it together.

“It’s different—” Emily began before cutting off in a thoughtful pause, “it’s different when you know somebody—when it’s not just something to talk about.” With frustration showing at the edges of her eyes, she added, “I wish it was easier. I wish I knew exactly what to do and when to do it to really help.”

Every time I get to have this important conversation with someone (which is about once a month on average), I find that this is the hardest moment. I know in that moment that they’ve come to me because they want me to replace their scratched and busted confidence with a promise that it gets easier—a promise that they can do the work we do and retain the confidence that they brought with them. I know that most of them want me to say something like, “Well, the secret to working among the marginalized is…” or “When you’ve prayed for somebody to get clean and to leave behind the substances that makes them a slave, all you have to do to make it happen is…” But, all I can say in that moment when they’ve placed their ailing confidence on the table and said they wished it was easier or that they always knew what to do is, “We all do, sister. We all do.”

In Emily’s case, and in nearly all of the versions of this conversation that I get to have, we talked about just how complicated it is. We talked about how homelessness and poverty are, at their most essential, not problems of material resources, but instead are relationship problems. We talked about why we say that relationships and consistent presence are foundational in what we do. We talked about the blistering chains of addiction and brothers and sisters still in bondage even after many attempts at liberation. I made Emily a promise that I try to make to all folks who make it to that hard moment of withering confidence: “I promise you that if you keep serving alongside us, your heart is going to be broken time and again, because a relationship isn’t real until you hurt when they hurt and celebrate when they celebrate. But, I promise you that in each of those moments of frustration and heartbreak, we’ll stand next to you and hold you up—because our relationship with you isn’t real until we hurt when you hurt, and celebrate when you celebrate. I promise that our Lord will stand next to you as well, once again proclaiming like he did with the cross that a relationship isn’t real until you hurt when they hurt and celebrate when they celebrate.”

You see, nearly all of us come to that hard place with confidence—knowing exactly how to fix poverty, homelessness, addiction, hunger, and other injustices and evils—but we find that we have to lay our confidence at the foot of the cross and commit ourselves to loving first and understanding only later. The answers aren’t easy, but our calling is simple: to love our neighbor and to love God. The beautiful thing is that when God sends us back to our community, God sends us with something to replace the confidence laying shattered at the cross. God replaces our confidence with hope, and we know that “hope does not disappoint us.

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