On Saturday morning, I drove to the Dream Center for our weekly visit to
Herndon Homes to visit the kids . . . I arrived there before Jeremy, so
Pastor Paul insisted that I come with him to Mama D's house. We drove
down the street to a dilapidated structure, and I felt my apprehension
grow as Pastor Paul warned me that the house would smell badly (Mama was
bedridden and had no bladder control) and that she rented her rooms to
prostitutes and drug dealers . . .
Pastor Paul squeezed his
Bronco into the tiny driveway, I took a deep breath in (to fit through
the door) and nearly stepped in a pile of something nasty (either vomit
or diarrhea - I didnt double check). The first thing I noticed upon
entering the house was that it did, indeed, smell strongly of urine
(along with a hodge-podge of other equally gross and unmentionable
scents . . . )
Mama D was out of bed that day, smiling widely at
us from her wheelchair, several men were passed out on a dingy looking
couch, a pregnant woman stood in the middle of the room, and an adorable
little boy (probably somewhere between one and two) ran up to us as
soon as we entered the door. Pastor Paul lifted the boy into his arms,
telling me he was soaking wet (although apparently even having pants on
at all was a big step up). I was somewhat surprised at the level of
delight everyone seemed to share at Pastor Paul's visit. For some
reason, I assumed that people like this would rather not share the same
space as a conservative white pastor who disapproves of their lifestyle.
To the contrary, Pastor Paul was obviously close to all of these
people, calling them by name, kissing their foreheads, and playing games
with their children.
After joking with everyone a little,
hugging all around and passing out food, Pastor Paul insisted on
grabbing hands to pray. We gathered around a small stove, the only
source of warmth in the old, drafty house. Somewhat hesitantly, I held
Mama's wrinkled hand and laid my other hand on the shoulder of one of
the men passed out on the couch. As Pastor Paul began talking to the
Lord, people began emerging from rooms all over the house, asking to
join in our prayer, and adding their own prayer requests to our list.
One of the men requested that we praise the Lord that he had been
released from prison the day before (he was arrested for drug
trafficking and aggravated assault): his two sons, who were grinning
widely, flanked him on either side. A woman walked in from outside
wearing dirty Sponge Bob slippers and asked us to pray for Mama D's
health. A white woman emerged with a nasty black eye and asked to join
our circle as well. . .
After prayer, the woman with the black
eye thanked Pastor Paul and gave both of us hugs. Pastor asked her where
she got her black eye and she sheepishly responded "from my man"
"Is
he still your man?" Pastor asked. Looking down, she murmured a quick
"yes" in response, bursting into tears. Pastor Paul pulled her into a
hug, and tears welled in his eyes as he whispered to her that she was
worth more than that and that "real men do not hit their women." My own
eyes blurred with tears as I realized that this was probably one of the
only times in this woman's life that she had been treated as worthy of
love, as a daughter of a King . . .
To tell you the truth, I
cannot remember ever feeling as overwhelmed by what the love of Christ
in action looks like as I did at that moment. Like so many of the
disciples and Pharisees, I have a tendency to disapprove of and avoid
these people and their lifestyles - yet over and over again, these are
the very people and the very places where Christ chose to spend most of
his time and ministry. As we left, I hugged each and every one of them,
kissed the little boy's forehead and walked away changed by having
encountered the face of Christ in the place I least expected it . . .
Originally posted in January 2008