A Reflection Imprinted
Note, this is a work of memoir, some names, places, and incidents have been modified.
March 2013
If the guests’ eyes weren’t that expectant, I sensed that those of my brothers and sisters from the church were. My stance shifted. The acoustics felt different, the vent fan at the back of the space cycled on.
“Hello – good evening and thank you all...”
October 2012
A Sunday’s service was concluding with a fresh announcement.
“A number of us, led by Eduardo and Cristina, conduct a prayer service at the nearby shelter on Tuesday nights – it is Tuesday, right?” Eduardo affirmed and Pastor Jeff continued, “This ministry is a beautiful opportunity to be a blessing to those around us…If you are interested, please see Eduardo after service.
As the closing prayer and song were concluding I felt it, the tugging. A similar tug felt maneuvering from Boston’s North station underneath the Government Center parking garage to Congress Street in the morning. Or in the evening. When passing someone clearly in a tough place, where “tough place” meant a polite reference to any suffering or malady leaving someone on the street. The tug was felt to move toward this person but then it was quickly engulfed by a riptide whisking me into an office chair. On those occasions that I was directly approached for help, and the spotty number of times that I in fact did provide the same, I left each encounter confused and shamed. Any act of compassion manifesting as such a tiny addressal of the apparent need.
I angled toward Eduardo and was welcomed to join. The team going to the shelter met at 6:30 in a classroom on the first floor of the church, before heading a block over and across Massachusetts Avenue to a nondescript building housing the shelter
The Tuesday trip was straightforward. Pending normal operation, the nearby Orange Line ran straight to a station at Massachusetts Avenue, less than a mile away from my desitnation. The rest could be traversed on foot in good weather, on the MBTA Bus – Line 1 - in the inclement. The first trip I made in late fall was a walk. The total time was 40-45 minutes, give or take. A short commute in Boston.
We gathered in a classroom - I wasn’t sure how we would occupy the intervening minutes before 7:00. Then, the seven of us: Eduardo, has wife Cristina, her parents, another brother and two sisters from the church formed a circle and it became clear, we were there to pray. In tones loud and soft, wherein the written page cannot capture the move of the present Holy Spirit, voices lifted forth.
“Lord, we thank you for this day – we thank you for this place that is your house, you have blessed with so much, you give us our lives, our health our wholeness, we thank you Father, you are the almighty, the sovereign Lord, the maker of the heavens and the earth.”
“We lift up each man and woman at the shelter Lord, they are your childrens Lord – we bear a burdens of the others Father Lord – we pray , Father Lord, that for hearts open to your message Father Lord. Help us, Father Lord, with a word and a message to heal and bring peace – Lord Jesus you died for us, forgive us for so little time to with our brothers and sisters.”
“Forgive us Lord, for we are sinners. You love all of the people at the shelter. From the guests, to the cooks, to the cleaners and monitors and other workers and security people – you love them all. Teach us Lord – help us to bring your light into this dark world.”
“Lord Jesus we cry out as we go forward to witness to your mercy and your love to our brothers and sisters around us. We pray for lives to be transformed – we come against any design of the enemy holding down our brothers and sisters at the shelter. Break the chains of homelessness! Break the chains of addiction! Break the chains of despair! Break the chains of hopelessness! Fill us Lord, we cry out to you in the mighty name of our Lord Jesus.
Our prayers concluded with a blessing over Tim, a brother who would provide the meditation that evening. Brief instructions, we were there to worship with guests and pray with anyone who might want the same. We were to be respectful of the guests’ space and privacy.
After being checked in by a staff member on duty, we were allowed to make our way upstairs into the cafeteria where tables and chairs sat arranged post-dinner. The meeting was entirely voluntary. Guests of the shelter would begin to enter, and the ministry began its weekly offering shortly after 7:00 pm. Christian worship, in the form of ministry through music and singing, led the gathering. Often, we were joined by an acoustic player for this initial portion of music. Crisitna and Eduardo had numbered songs on pages of stapled sets [‘Draw Me Close to You’ was number 5]. Sometimes a guest had a selection to make, or we just picked one, such as Number 5. In this song, the lyrics follow a believer singing to “You” – to God:
“Draw me close to You
Never let me go
I’d lay it all down again,
To hear You say that I’m Your friend.
You are my desire
No one else will do
Nothing else can take Your place
To feel the warmth of Your embrace
Help me find a way
Bring me back to You.
You’re all I want.
You’re all I ever needed
You’re all I want,
Let me know you are near.”
I sang and prayed during the meeting. The healing was felt within; I sought to radiate it out. Over the next weeks, I tried to greet, talk, or pray with any guest afterward who seemed to be amenable to the same. Still, it was inescapable. Whether it was Eduardo, or Cristina, a brother like Tim, even Cristina’s parents, who spoke almost no English - all seemed to be able to relate to guests in that cafeteria better than I did. Since I understood these interactions to be important, how did it slip into my mind? Yes, that to the - entire group - I felt like a kind of detriment. That somehow, I was not pulling my weight. There was more than one set of chains to be broken on that second floor.
Maybe because I had not been attending with the group for that long. Maybe because I was coming straight from work, this placed me in business dress and carrying a satchel. Maybe my eyes sunk too deep. I didn’t smile naturally enough. Not unique to my experience at the shelter, the hook went deeper; it could not be rationalized or prevented from surfacing. I just did not belong. As re-burial of such inclination was second nature, it was not in itself an impediment to arrive Tuesdays and pray over God’s children staying there.
I did receive a blessing over the weeks to greet an older gentleman who stayed at the shelter. His name was Carl. On some occasions, Carl would muse, “Don’t know how it got to be like this here, no sir.” Other Tuesdays found him with a chuckle, demeanor reflecting that evening’s resolve, “I tell you what, we made it through another one.”
There were some guests that attended every week, others dropped in and out. In fleeting moments, sharing of one’s day or experience took place, yet for me the stories and circumstances of most who stayed at the shelter remained elusive There were things about the system, the rules – housing lists – foundational for many living in the shelter that I understood little about. As the weeks progressed, seating space intermingled. Those living at the shelter and their visitors took desegregated space in the cafeteria where a number would sing and pray, and a message from the word of God would be delivered. Cristina’s parents were positioned in a corner serving area with donuts for the end of service. Despite my inner esteem struggles, the Lord smiled down on this ministry.
I was asked to occasionally offer the opening prayer to all gathered as an incremental expansion of my role within our group. I was becoming more ‘regular’ to everyone, and as I was often the only native English speaker of the church group attending, it felt natural. The inspirations of Pentecostal-type prayer that lifted me since age 40, I strove to convey. I felt a high bar. With moments of power, pause, thanksgiving, and stumble - the Tuesday night prayer meeting in the cafeteria at the shelter was launched. From songs, to mediation, to treats for the guests afterward (with a few late, or after, arrivers in line as well) , the “church people” as the staff referred to us shared this imperfect present to anyone who wanted to experience it.
Winter wore through. There was personal cost borne by everyone rotating in the ministry. Within my home, one night a week absent from the house could serve to stress. When service concluded, Eduardo would give me a ride to North Station, and perhaps others to their homes (Cristina would travel with her parents). On a ‘good’ night, I could hustle through the North Station concourse and grab a 9:05 train just before it pulled out. Failing that, the 10:40 departure clanked down to the rails and the clock had turned past midnight before my head hit the pillow. Tuesday night could leave me restless, the mind buzzing over the message, wrapped in the concluding prayer.
There were moments when I just pondered how could I do something better to reach out to one of the guests with the joy of salvation gifted by God in His grace to all who in faith would believe in His son our Lord Jesus.
These were times when Susana would notice me: footsteps circling in the bedroom upstairs when I was supposed to be brushing my teeth; the self-whispering, less concealed, and no longer in the form of our running jest; leaving hat here, underwear there.
When I snoozed the alarm for the second or third time Wednesday - I convinced myself that, if necessary, I could spark an internal mental afterburner required to endure the remainder of a work week. Temporally, I was correct. Participating in the ministry was my significant act of Christian outreach since years earlier busing down East Berkeley Street – to cut my teeth serving others while in business dress – at the Pine Street Inn with the elderly Irish women from St. Anthony’s in South Suburban Boston. I felt blessed to pray with my brothers and sisters at the shelter and with those living there. I prayed over a young man who sat next to an expectant mother. I assumed he was the father and that he was open to prayer, at least I hoped so in retrospect. Admiring the people that I served alongside. I was getting to know more of Eduardo’s work on the rides to North Station. Feeling renewal, spiritual wings felt to spread.
February 2013
In February, the Lord showed a next step for me in the ministry. Cristina had mentioned to me, and over a few weeks I volunteered, to give the reflection during an upcoming Tuesday service. A Bible based citation with thoughts and reflection, I heard them on many, many Sundays and our condensed version on Tuesdays. I accepted and began to pore over the message that I could bring, not realizing that there was no message that I could bring.
March 2013
As we on the prayer team all navigated other commitments, on ‘my’ particular Tuesday night we were to meet up in the shelter cafeteria just before the meeting started. The afternoon unfolded without disrupting my scheduled departure. A quick sandwich at a dining stop still open after lunchtime would hold me. An early spring rain had drawn down, it was damp enough to board the MBTA 1 bus at the Massachusetts Avenue Orange line stop to take the trip toward my destination. Soon I had arrived, early – the vanguard of that night’s prayer group. I tried peering through the opaque glass of the firmly closed entry door to see if a staff member was on the other side. Usually someone was waiting for us. I gave a medium knocking and the outer door opened.
“Can I help you?” one of the attendants asked, looking me up and down – perhaps wondering why I kept a tie on at this hour.
“Yes, thank you. I am here with the church group for tonight’s service.”
“Mmmm – I don’t have on my list any visitors coming”
“Yes”,
I wasn’t sure what to say, someone else from our group handled getting entry to the shelter,
“We come here on Tuesday night for a prayer meeting in the cafeteria?”
“Prayer meeting? – Is that one of the events on the activities calendar? – I don’t see it.”
Now I really wasn’t sure what to say. Another staff member recognized me – sort of, ‘He’s one of the church people that comes in on Tuesday evening, there will be a few others. It’s ok – buzz him in.”
The first staff member shrugged a bit as the inner door buzzed, clanked, and opened.
“Thank you”
“No problem” the first staff member replied, still looking puzzled.
I made my way up the staircase and took a right to walk down the hallway a bit leading to the door of the cafeteria.
“Hello….good evening”, I offered to the janitor finishing up mopping the edge of the floor – he nodded in reply and shortly left me alone. It was not long before other members of our group and then the guests and a staff member would arrive. I asked for the Lord to be with me on this night and He arrived, as He was never away. The reflection that I had planned sought to contrast “righteousness” as understood through most of scripture, and the Lord’s specific use of the term in addressing the Pharisees during a dinner at the home of the disciple Matthew, after the Lord called Matthew out of his tax collector’s booth. (Matthew 9). A clear, moving message from God’s word was my goal. God sought something different.
Our church group began arriving soon thereafter, I felt relieved – though there was never any reason for concern. We prayed and the group prayed over me. I was introduced and I said a good evening to those gathered and offered a general ‘thank you all’.
The individual giving the devotion in a Bible study often worked from a Bible of their own – more savvy leaders also often included a handout to allow those in attendance to read along or review as the contemplation was being given.
“I would like to share,” as I felt eyes fixed on me, “a verse from Psalms and portions of the, uh, calling of Matthew to consider righteousness….” Eyes still fixed on me; suddenly I realized context was required – and I began to depart from script, “Matthew was one of Jesus’ disciples, who was – a tax collecter before - he became a disciple…. I mean, before Jesus called him to leave the tax collector’s booth to become a disciple…..of Jesus.“ A few nodded and I felt encouraged and offered the opening prayer. If I could just get into my marked sections of the Bible, read God’s Word and reflect within it – I could overcome this halting start.
I stood before those in the cafeteria, holding my Bible with the two marked sections where I wanted to turn. This would have been fine, save for the uneven lighting in the cafeteria. As I began, “The Old Testament Psalms speak of righteousness -- earnestly seeking after and then embodying that of God in your daily life…” Or now, I wonder, did I really say that? Or just leave ‘righteousness’ hanging in the air? Most likely, the latter. The Psalm could have spoken a long way for itself, however in the dim light at the spot I was standing I was having difficulty making out the letters to read the words of the text. I knew what it said, but paraphrasing was not part of my original plan. I needed extra help from the glasses I occasionally wore, which were buried in their case, tucked away in the satchel that I carried to and from Congress Street on any given day. I couldn’t just call time out and go over to the wall and dig into the satchel to retrieve them. I held the Bible at one or two angles at the marked page referring to righteousness. The letters just continued to be fuzzy, and I apologized to those gathered, drawing one or two nods and a few looks of concern from the eyes upon me.
“So, we think of the people of God as righteous”, I looked to transition, “Let us consider the calling of Matthew and the reaction of religious leaders that night. I flipped my Bible to the marked sections of the Gospel according to Matthew, Chapter 9. I should have simply closed my Bible. I couldn’t read from it anyway. But while I knew the verses well, and the points lent themselves to being paraphrased, I held the Bible open in my hands at Chapter 9.
Then it began. Repeated in conference room meetings at Congress Street, even gesturing during private conversation, or wielding a fork; my fine hand tremor. To me, it was a byproduct of the course of psychiatric medication I was saddled with and nothing else. To outsiders, that is, to virtually everyone else – it was simply nerves. I felt questions. But why are you nervous? Are you not confident? Are you scared? Isn’t it just clear you are not prepared enough? Or that you don’t know what you are talking about? Or that you simply do not measure up?
While in significant aspects I was not prepared, I had entered the cafeteria that night with a plan. While I was hitting unexpected turbulence in attempting this reflection, the brief talk was to continue.
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Whenever I reflected then, and to this day, I am stunned, and humbled, reading and re-reading one of the most brief sections recounted of Jesus’ ministry on earth, the calling of Matthew, one of the original twelve disciples. The bookends to the story overcome me. Jesus saw a man named Matthew sitting in his tax collector’s booth. In the text in red lettering indicating the Lord Jesus’ speech, Jesus spoke two words – “Follow me.” With no additional ornamenting of any sort in scripture, Matthew got up and followed Him.
To me personally, there was a different shade of contextual meaning. Matthew was a businessman. He was educated and established in a profession. He gave that all up, a livelihood, a position, a comfortable, if unpopular life, in barely a moment to follow the Lord. And what was I doing? My approach to being a follower did seem to come that close to measuring up. While I had family to provide for, Matthew did not. True. For my part of supporting Susana and our home, my part of Patrick and Leigh’s development, God sourced through my work. I could not begin to entertain walking away from it all. Where would I go? I remained at distance from knowing that my only true need was a close walk with the Lord Jesus my savior. An earnest seeking for God to “order my steps” (Psalm 119: 133) on this walk eluded me. I was even further away from an understanding of Jesus’ encounter with Matthew at a different level, a call to leave the ‘former-self, not just former job behind to follow the Lord and become one of His disciples.
The conclusion to the story seems simple, but my formula for articulating it in that dimly lit second floor cafeteria at the shelter was badly flawed. I have yet to sort it through.
After leaving the tax collector’s booth to follow Jesus, Matthew hosted Jesus and the other disciples at his home that evening. Among the guests were other tax collectors and guests referred to as “sinners” or “disreputable sinners”. Nearby – the Pharisees, the Jewish religious elite, stood. They began to question the disciples why the Lord, “their teacher” was eating with tax collectors and sinners. Jesus offered one of the most stern reprimands given this early in His ministry. “It is not the healthy that need a doctor, but the sick.” (Matthew 9:12) Jesus’ last statement. “For I have not come to call the righteous, but sinners.” (Matthew 9:13 NIV) continues to challenge me. Another translation reads “For I have come not to call those who think they are righteous, but those who know they are sinners.” (Matthew 9:13 NLT). I desperately needed this version in preparation for the devotion I was giving, but did not have it in hand. Such would have, with far more clarity, revealed the dart hurled by our Lord at the Pharisees.
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Seeking to recover myself during the talk, I began with what I had originally thought might be the second part of the reflection by conveying the magnitude of Matthew’s acceptance of the Lord’s call.
“…. And Jesus only says two things to Matthew, ‘Follow me’, and Matthew leaves his tax collector’s booth, leaves everything behind to follow Him and become a disciple!”
My wonder and enthusiasm at this beginning of Matthew’s transformation did not appear to be shared among the listeners gathered, at least I inferred that from the blank stares in the room in the moment. I had closed my Bible, it did not relieve the tremor.
“So, the Pharisees were not righteous, like the righteous I would have read to us all from Psalms.” Why mention the Psalms now? the Lord went to Matthew trying to…”
A not-so distant feeling emerged, becoming confused at a chalkboard trying to explain something while in graduate school, or a sudden departure of thought making a point in a conference room. I struggled against it.
“The Lord came to this world trying to – through Mattew – to show us something. And that was….” I trailed off again. In the moment I had no idea what the Lord was trying to show us, save for following Him, we are called to become new and become disciples – but I could not get the words out of my mouth. I felt the eyes of the gathered no longer upon me.
Shortly after, Eduardo came aside me. Eduardo offered the closing prayer – thanking me and briefly reinforced a theme to follow Jesus. Our meeting ended and the guests gathered towards Cristina’s parents, who were sharing the post-meeting donuts.
Feeling the impending exhaustion, a quiet ride to the 10:40 departure from North Station was approaching. While some of the guests thanked me and wished me well, I recall asking myself, “Why? Why not focus elsewhere?” Such as Jesus’ answer to his disciple Thomas on finding the way, “I am the way and the truth and the life. No one comes to the Father except through me.” (John 14:8).
Then I noticed Carl from across the cafeteria; he looked my way; he smiled.
