A
few weeks ago Sarah Weedon, a senior from the School of Theology at
Sewanee and the seminarian assigned to Southside Abbey, preached at
our Friday evening worship.
By way of reminder, I will share a little of how our preaching works in our community – one that is two-thirds to three-quarters people who are in transitional housing – motels, cars, camps, abandoned buildings, streets, etc.
By way of reminder, I will share a little of how our preaching works in our community – one that is two-thirds to three-quarters people who are in transitional housing – motels, cars, camps, abandoned buildings, streets, etc.
The
preaching style at Southside
Abbey begins
by inviting conversation based upon a question or two. After Holy
Scripture is proclaimed, the preacher asks a question and our
worshipers break into small groups for discussion. We try to be
intentional that these groups represent something of the diversity of
the community – homeless people and millionaires, PhDs and people
who are illiterate, many ethnicities, immigrants from Sudan,
Guatemala, Russia, and even folks from the upper Midwest.
When
I preach, I try to be a part of as many of these small groups as
possible. When we gather back together as a group, the homilist
preaches something of a capstone homily, trying to integrate what he
or she has heard with what he or she has prepared for the week –
often jettisoning all of that hard work in favor of something someone
in the community has shared. My all time favorite is the time an
African American man shared this: “I'm a black, homeless, jobless
man and I just talked about Jesus with a white, female zoo-keeper.
Where else could this happen? That is church to me!” All of this
takes place in the holy space as we eat dinner between the bread and
wine of Holy Communion.
This
particular week, Sarah invited us to reflect upon the things in our
life we hold in tension. When she called us back together from our
conversations, she asked people to share – as they felt called –
with the wider community. That's when Chris nervously stood up. Chris
is a big guy, whose hugs cause me to wonder if one of my ribs might
snap. A blue teardrop tattoo on his cheek brands him as someone who
has paid a debt. He had been a part of our community for only a few
weeks when he shared – with shaking in his voice – the things he
holds in tension:
“On
the one hand, I'm trying to walk the good walk. I'm trying to be a
good man. The kind of man that my grandmother would be proud of. I'm
trying to follow Jesus and not do some of those bad things I have
done in the past. On the other hand, I'm homeless and an ex-con. I
spent twenty-five years in the pen. Not that I want to live that kind
of life ever again or the kind of life that put me there, but . . .
people have these expectations of me – of what kind of man I am –
because I'm homeless and I've done time. But I want to be good. I
want to do good.”
What
can you say to that? What could a seminarian preach after that? Sarah
was wiser than I would have been at that point in my career. She said
she didn't know what else to say but “Amen.” “Amen” comes to
us from our Jewish roots. It is a Hebrew word that means so be it. So
be it. So be it, Chris. Keep trying. Keep holding those things in
tension. Keep wanting to do and be good, following Jesus.
For
me it was another in a seemingly endless (thanks be to God) series of
moments where I am hit over the head with the reality that the Holy
Spirit can speak through anyone. Anyone. That's what I am thankful
for and I am thankful that occasionally the Holy Spirit even speaks
through me. And I'm especially thankful that I get to share all of
our adventures on the margins with you, the readers.
This post was originally published on the Episcopal Church Foundation's Vital Practices Vital Posts blog on November 26, 2014. It has been reprinted here with permission.
