SMELL. (Our Ministry in 5 senses)

There is an edge to the people we serve on Sunday mornings. Often times as I come downstairs and encounter the line that is already formed, I am assaulted by the scent of....

Fresh sweat and dirty feet.
Dried blood from last night's bar fight.
Earthy, fluid exchange residue from being used.
Distinctive breathes full of hard liquor.
The rawness of not having the advantage of daily bathing routines.

These all mingle together into one intoxicating mess.
The very essence of broken people.

The folks who come to eat with us on Sunday mornings don't have their lives together. And in that aspect, they are very much like me. Sure, I may "gussy" myself up and spray some perfume, but inside I am broken.

And the only thing that could ever fix me was the grace of Jesus Christ.

So I humbly stand in line with them.
I eat my eggs and toast with them.
I look them in the eye, pat them on the back and hug them around the neck.
In our exchanges, sometimes I come home smelling like them.
And when I do, I sense God's favor.

TASTE.

The journey on how we came to minister at an inner city church could take a couple of hours to explain. It certainly wasn't on our horizon. Neither one of us had experience at this type of church. Looking at us from an educated perspective, we are unqualified. Knowing us from a personal perspective, it is surprising. This was not our dream. This was not our plan. This was not where we had aspired/hoped/prayed to be.

And yet, God has given us great passion for this place.
Intense passion.
Overwhelming at times.

We came with a handful of good folk dedicated to do Kingdom work. We were hopeful and naive and had no idea what would happen on the West Side of Charleston. We also had no idea on how to reach our community.

Many of us were familiar with the neighborhood, only through local TV coverage of the crime problems. We knew that there were large communities of public housing there. Rated: Poverty Level in the census reports. How could we declare the power & freedom of Jesus to people so entangled by poverty and generational dependence upon government programs?

We quickly realized that people came if there was food involved.
Hot dog cookouts attracted a crowd. (Large crowds in fact.)

Our resources were (still are) very limited. Our core group small. How could we utilize what/who we had with the maximum opportunity? Somehow we made the connection that we were there every sunday MORNING.
And what do people eat in the morning? BREAKFAST.

Let's serve breakfast!
When we hung out our little "Free Breakfast, Every Sunday @ 11:30" sign, we had no idea what kind of adventure we were embarking. We did not know that eventually this thing would grow & that sometimes we'd run out of eggs. We did not expect to serve persons whose faces sometimes appear on the Charleston's Most Wanted list. We didn't plan for the waiting line to sweep through the hallway & outside the building.

We simply opened the door, baked some biscuits & said Come on in!
Through a modern-day-miracle, God continues to multiply our loaves & fishes each week.
No one leaves hungry, instead they are filled up on hot coffee & warm, tastey food.

I like to think that everyone who comes would agree that on Sunday mornings at 814 Florida Street, the gospel tastes a little bit like scrambed eggs & bacon.
(Or sausage, whatever is on sale or donated that week!)

"Taste & see that the Lord is good!" Psalm 34:7

HEAR. (Our Ministry in 5 senses)

So much of what is said on Sunday mornings at our church is unspoken.

We serve a large crowd in a small space and yet for the most part, we don't have a rough and rowdy group of folk come through the serving line. (I won't lie, there has been an occasional scuffle.)

There is chit chat, greetings and a little small talk, but for 75 people, the noise level is minimal.

But if you stop for a moment, the screams coming from our people are deafening. Downcast eyes, full of hurt and pain. Slumped shoulders carved out from a life of rejection. Broken spirits inside of bodies that are tired, weary & worn down.

What I hear from our people is the silence of shame and embarrassment.

And it's intense. Louder than any shouting match you've ever heard.

No one plans on living a life where they need to accept a free meal on a regular basis.
No. One.
They are poor people, overwhelmed by the journey life has taken them.

I hear it when they look me in the eye and say thank you. I hear it when they reach for the bag from the food pantry and shuffle on out the door. I hear it when they clean their plates and hope for seconds. I hear it as they stuff their pockets with whatever freebie is on the table that week.

We've worked really hard to be a community that is generous with what we have. We are committed to being loving and kind and giving. Yet we recognize that this one small meal on Sunday mornings cannot erase a lifetime of choices & circumstances.

And so in faith, we continue to step forward, serving eggs & toast, knowing all the while that we are in partnership with THE ONE who hears these quiet cries more keenly than we ever can. It's why we do what we do. It's why we believe in what we are doing. It's what motivates us to continue, even when we are exhausted and cranky and ready to stop listening.

Because we know God hears the cry of human hearts everywhere, even on the West Side of Charleston, WV.

Time to get up, God—get moving.
The luckless think they're Godforsaken.
...........
But You know all about it—
the contempt, the abuse.
I dare to believe that the luckless
will get lucky someday in You.
You won't let them down:
orphans won't be orphans forever.

The Message, Psalm 10:12-14

TOUCH

The Poppa currently pastors an inner city church. It is not what we ever expected we would be doing. It's not the dream job of ministry. It certainly doesn't pay well. You won't find our name on the pages of any glossy "Happy Church" magazine. It's exhausting. It's unpredictable. It's messy. It's complicated.

And yet, it is one of the most beautiful places we have ever served.

The small white building sits right in the middle of a very needy neighborhood. Many transient people. Truly, poor people. Disadvantaged would be the PC term these days. Through a continual God-miracle, our church family offers a free meal every Sunday morning. There is no cover-charge or hidden costs. There is no expectation of attending services. Two years ago we hung a small 6x8 sign out front: "Free Breakfast, Every Sunday @ 11:30 AM."

The first week 15 people showed up.
This past Sunday we filled up 74 plates.

These folks have become our people. They have captured my heart in ways I did not know were possible. Awhile ago one of our "regulars" suddenly died. Every woman who works in the kitchen cried the Sunday we found out about his death.

Our people are smelly. Dirty. Sloppy, even.
Some of them reek of alcohol. Sometimes they stagger.
Occasionally, they can be hungover.
But they are OUR people.

I find I love them in spite of these situations. Perhaps even because of it.

God provided a way for us to operate a food pantry. Every Sunday we are able to give every person who comes to breakfast a bag of groceries. (My kids love to "work" the food pantry. Ms. Sherry, the amazing volunteer who coordinates everything allows them to be her helpers. I plan on writing more about my kids & this outreach more later.)Some Sundays I wash dishes.
Some Sundays I stand in the hallway & help direct traffic.
And when I do, I like to touch each person who walks by.
I pat them on the back or on the arm & tell them that I hope they have a good week. I assure them that we are glad they visited with us. I encourage them to come back next Sunday.

Our people aren't normally touched by society.
They just aren't.

Think about how great it feels when someone holds your hand or gives you a hug. Humans are made to be connected to other humans. Part of that connection is actual.physical.contact.
Skin on skin.

And maybe, just maybe it's a reminder that Jesus is touching them too. That He loves to touch the "untouchables."