The street ministry team at Operation Nightwatch provides deep pastoral care to over seven hundred people living in poverty every month. The need to be known and seen is met through meals, socks, conversation, and prayer. One afternoon while on outreach, a young man sitting on the sidewalk, in front of a church apologized to me. “Sorry that you have to deal with people like us.” I told him that we were all created in the image of God and encouraged him to not adopt an identity of shame and guilt. He smiled and nodded in agreement. “I always thought we were all God’s children!” The narrative that poverty is a result of moral failure has taught my friends on the street that homelessness is God’s punishment. “He doesn’t give us more than we can handle.” Street ministry challenges that narrative, communicating the God of Scripture. A God who commands love. A God who promises to not leave us homeless but to make his home with us. “Jesus answered him, “Those who love me will keep my word, and my Father will love them, and we will come to them and make our home with them (John 14:23).” Help us to remember that all of us together form the Body of Christ. May we suffer and rejoice together.
Tears
Early nineties R&B music played mournfully as Sarah danced next to a shopping cart filled with all her stuff. Serving both as home and companionship, the shopping cart seemed to transform the street corner into an intimate space, like a family room with a warm fireplace. Sarah asked what church I go to and told me that she loves her church. The name of Sarah’s church is Church on the Side of the Road. The name reminds me of the parable of the Good Samaritan. Sarah gets out her Bible and asks me to read it. The story talks about a person lying on the side of the road who has been beaten and robbed. Two church people pass by without helping while the Samaritan, a person maligned and hated by the dominant culture stops and helps with over-the-top generosity. The story ends with all of us encouraged to show mercy and compassion to our neighbors. To be, “real neighbors.”
Sarah shares that she is Presbyterian and starts to cry. I offer to pray, and she asks that we pray for her dad who recently had a heart attack. We pray and Sarah cries some more. She tells me that she usually doesn’t look people in the eye. We pray again and Sarah has tears streaming down her face. There is a gentle powerful quiet that has engulfed us. The Spirit’s presence is tangible and safe. We stand in silence for a moment and then Sarah sits down, looks me in the eye, and waves goodbye with a respectful thank you.
Wallace is in the park and immediately asks me to pray for him. He starts to cry and wants to pray for his broken relationship. He hasn’t seen or talked with his fiancé since Valentines Day. We pray and Wallace gently sobs, snot running out his nose and onto the street. When were done praying Wallace asks if he can pray for me. He puts his hand on my shoulder, starts to cry some more and asks God to give me a church. Wallace apologizes for crying so much and then shares Psalm 56:8. “You have kept record of my wandering. You have stored my tears in your bottle and counted each of them.” Tender and caring God, thank you for being a God that suffers for and with us.
Quiet
Listening is underrated and undervalued. Most of the time, when we’re “listening,” were just waiting to talk. Compassionate listening requires an ear that is nonjudgmental. A heart that can humbly receive what words are trying to communicate necessitates patience, and an openness to suffering that vocabulary tends to either minimize or exaggerate. My work as a street minister is rooted and grounded in public listening. When I listen in and through the Holy Spirit, my opinions are restrained and held in check. “My dear friends, you should be quick to listen and slow to speak or to get angry (James 1:19 CEV).”
Last night on outreach, it was unusually quiet. The streets felt well rested. The rain had stopped, and it was unseasonably warm. My fellow chaplain is from Ireland. Her warm Irish brogue naturally forms all conversation into prayerful poems, practical and sturdy, pregnant with the inevitability of hope. We are downtown and talk with two men living in tents in front of the mission. Larry is happy to talk with us and thankful for a pair of gloves and handwarmers. His neighbor, Richard, is sixty-five and has chronic obstructive pulmonary disease. The infection in his lungs is painful and makes it hard for him to breathe. He tells us that he plans to go to Urgent Care in the morning. I ask if he wants to go the Emergency Room tonight and he answers with an emphatic, “Hell no.” I affirm his choice to seek medical care in the morning and we pray.
A few blocks away we are at the park with a gentleman who begins to cry sharing the fragmented bits and pieces he can remember of his life. His neighbor is beyond grateful to have a fresh pair of socks. His feet have been wet all day. He takes his shoes and wet socks off and lets his feet dry. He tells me that he was a Marine in Afghanistan. I thank him for his service, he pauses, and very gently says, “You’re welcome.” It gets incredibly quiet, and we both are aware that I have no idea what it’s like to be a combat soldier. We sit in the most unawkward awkward silence, allowing the healing breath of the Spirit to pour over us. “Only God’s Spirt gives new life. The Spirit is like the wind that blows wherever it wants to. You can hear the wind, but you don’t know where it comes from or where it is going (John 3:8).” I give him another pair of socks.
We make our way to another park where my homeless friends sleep. It is well lit, with an awning that makes it dry and feel reasonable safe. Matthew tells us that all his stuff was stolen. Matthew always greets me with a story of injustice and the moral failings of his neighbors. He asks me if I know why it’s so quiet on the street tonight. I confess my ignorance and agree that there is a palpable holy silence in the air. He nods and says, “the devil knows you’re out here and he’s scared.” He begins to talk about church, bursts into tears, and walks away thanking us for the beanie and fruit snacks.
We end our night by the bus stop and meet William. William asks if I am a priest and tells me that he has been haunted all day by images of burning skulls. We talk about the battle between good and evil, the power and authority of Christ, and how drug use is an invitation to the spirit of oppression. William vulnerably shares his feelings of isolation, despair, and anxiety about God’s love for him. We hold hands and begin to pray. We invite his friend to join us who looks me in the eye and tells me he hates prayer. William tells him to put his beer down and be respectful. I tell him that he doesn’t have to pray. I begin praying and William’s buddy tries to disrupt our time with angry mumbling, eventually threatening to punch me in the face. I pray thanksgiving for William and how God silences the voice of our enemies. With that, the angry friend stops talking and goes running down the street. William and I talk more about the bondage of addiction and the freedom of Christ. We pray a second time. When were finished, William smiles and says, “It’s been a while since I’ve prayed like that!” “In the same way, the Spirit helps us in our weakness. We do not know what we ought to pray for, but the Spirit himself intercedes for us through wordless groans (Romans 8:26 NIV).”
Shared Humanity
Last month, thirty-two people died who were unhoused. Three from hypothermia. As the temperatures dipped into the teens and low twenties, staying warm on the street becomes a matter of life and death. Our street minister team passed out beanies, socks, gloves, and handwarmers. We heard stories of hospitality and community. The sharing of propane, firewood, tents, and RV’S. My homeless friends were concerned that I was out in the cold and that I didn’t have gloves on. One man looked at me with both apprehension and appreciation. “Thank you for being out here with us in this.” I reconnected with a client who, last year, had horrible frostbite on his toes. He is walking and didn’t have any of his toes amputated. He introduced me to his friends as, “the person that saved his feet.” Street ministry is about our shared humanity. The incarnational presence of Christ embodies the divine and acknowledges that every human has value. That we all deserve a life of hope and dignity. “The Word became a human being and lived here with us. We saw his true glory, the glory of the only Son of the Father. From him the complete gifts of undeserved grace and truth have come down to us (John1:14 CEV).”
Going Home
When I was in my twenties my choices and decisions were filled with the wonder of adolescent hubris. I miss being filled with excessive amounts of pride and self-confidence. It took a while for me to develop foresight, to perceive and prepare for what may happen in the future. I miss being filled with excessive amounts of misguided spontaneity. Maybe wisdom is gained through accepting the things we cannot change and having courage to change the things we can.
Last month a church in Burien, a suburb south of Seattle, welcomed thirty-five homeless people into their parking lot. This group of homeless people were staying in front of the library and have become political scapegoats for the community. Neighbors don’t want encampments by them, the city doesn’t want to provide shelter, the city council believes the homeless should be cared for by the church not the government. When I went to visit the camp, the pastor shared how the city was fining him every day and trying to bully him to sign away the churches ability to provide shelter. The very same city council members that said the responsibility for the homeless should rest with the church are leading the crusade against the encampment. The media has gotten involved, stirring up the false narrative that the poor among us are not only dangerous but evil. The lack of compassion and empathy is truly chilling. After the pastor calmly shared all the drama surrounding his church and the encampment we prayed. Praying for peace, safety, and for the church to continue to embody the gospel, the presence of God was tangible. When we were done praying, I was invited to meet the camp and take a tour.
This little encampment is one of the most organized I have ever encountered. When I shared with the camp leader and community organizer that Operation Nightwatch would love to help provide support in the various ways that we could, I knew that I would be hearing from her sooner than later. A few weeks later, she contacted me to see if we could provide bus fare and help send a young couple back home. After running a background check and confirming that the couple could stay with family, I went online to buy the tickets. My card was declined so I called the bank. The bank said everything was fine on their end and that it must be a problem with Greyhound. I tried two other cards that were also declined. I restarted my computer and tried to buy them on my phone. After an hour and half, I ate some Christmas candy and drove to the bus station. When I got there, prepared for the worst, it looked like they were closed. The lights were off in the ticketing booth and there was no line. I was relieved when I was able to open the door. As I walked into the bus station a voice from behind the counter asked if I needed help. Apparently, the ticketing agent prefers to sit in the dark! It took all of three minutes to purchase the tickets. Five hundred and sixty dollars can change somebody’s life.
Later that night I went to the camp to deliver the tickets and itinerary. The couple was deeply moved at how many people had helped them. They had been promised work in Seattle that fell through. Someone met them at 7-11 and brought them to the camp. They told me that they had been homeless for three weeks. The other campers gathered around to share in the moment as we prayed and thanked God for his Angels that come along side us when we lose our way. When were unable to predict the future. Thank you, God, for your way of seeing. “When he saw the crowds, he had compassion for them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd (Matthew 9:36).”
Three hours of street ministry
My friend Jay is happy to see me. His chest wound has healed, and he is feeling better than usual. I helped him sign up for a primary care physician with Public Health and he has been visiting the clinic regularly. Antibiotics, fresh dressings, prayer, and persistence prevented infection and saved his life. While Jay’s health is on the mend, he still has to deal with the stress and isolation of the street. The city has been aggressively sweeping encampments, causing more people to try and move into his spot by the freeway. He has spent the last two days keeping other homeless people from becoming his neighbor.
When is enough a enough? How much can one person take? This is the question Tammy asks me after I offer her a pair of socks. She moved here from Georgia, had all of her belongings stolen, and can’t work without a state ID. While were talking she begins to cry. I gently suggest that she might be feeling exhausted and tired. She seems relieved that I am able to help articulate her pain and give words to her experience. We hold hands and pray. When were done praying she asks me to pray for her friend whose thirteen-year-old daughter died. We are by a busy bus stop, and I can’t hear all the details of her death. I am not sure if I am being invited to pray now or later. I turn and walk about ten feet down the street when everyone starts yelling at me. “Hey pastor, can you come and pray for my friend? His thirteen-year-old daughter died.” I walk back, feeling literally led by the Spirit. We all hold hands and gather around the grieving Father. He is hunched over and sobbing. As I begin to pray, people stop and join the gathering, enlarging the prayer circle and the kingdom of God. It’s times like these when the voice of the Spirit speaks loudly, creatively addressing deep unspoken needs. The Spirit of the living God prays for all of our children. The things that kids experience that my generation never had to deal with. There are prayerful groans of grief and positive affirmations of God’s care and goodness that arise from the group that has gathered. Amen, in the name of Jesus. When the prayer is concluded, a young woman named Theresa gives me a huge hug. Thanking me through tears for a beautiful prayer, she tells me how great it is that me and the volunteers from Operation Nightwatch come out on the street to see them. She gives me another huge hug and tells me to be safe.
We walk down to the park and find a man passed out with beer cans both empty and unopened strewn all around him. He doesn’t have a coat on and is shivering. We try and wake him, but he won’t budge. He is on his side and breathing, so we give him an emergency blanket and decide to come back with a sleeping bag and check on him later. When we return, we call 911. The fire and police department come and wake him up. The EMT rolls him over and sarcastically tells me that he’s not dead. The medics tell him that people were worried about him and that’s why we are all standing there trying to wake him up. The man sits up, says his name, and apologizes profusely. He tells me at least a dozen times that he is sorry and that he didn’t want anyone to be worried. I tell him that we are worried and that I don’t want him to freeze to death. He agrees to go to the sobering center, but they’re closed because of bed bugs. The detox van driver offers to take him to the emergency room where he can sit in the lobby. He agrees and is inside and safe for the night.
When I get back to Nightwatch, I run into one of our senior residents who tells me he has a present for me. He runs upstairs to his room and returns with a smile and a gift. He hands me a cross with a picture of Father Oscar Romero on it that was blessed by a priest in El Salvadore. Surrounded by folks trying to get a meal before the Nightwatch kitchen closes, we hug and pray.
Isolation
God heals isolation with community. People from all walks of life make their way to our weekly meal. Tonight, a man came for the first time. He is always walking his tiny dog and refuses to believe that I am not a Catholic priest. I have invited him at least a dozen times. As he approaches the dinner soaking wet from the rain, sharing how he got on the wrong bus and got lost after his doctor’s appointment, dinner church becomes a literal life raft.
My friend Donna asks me if I know of any good places to sleep tonight. I know from experience that she doesn’t feel safe in shelters, so I suggest the well-lit, covered courtyard across from the school. After some discussion, she knows exactly where it is. Donna is always positive and smiley. She tells me that her day was lovely because she got to eat breakfast and dinner. Beaming, she shares that when she comes to the dinner, she gets to meet new people and be around friends. She says that being seventy years old and homeless can be pretty isolating. She thanks me for the food and tells me that, “your food is from love and is a gift from the heart. When the gift is given from the heart its eternal.” Donna hugs me and thanks me for welcoming her. For making her feel like a “normal Christian”.
In the middle of the meal, I share the story from the Bible about the Kingdom of God being like ten bridesmaids, five wise and five foolish. I talk about how the parable always seems to be taught as a warning to be prepared. To be wise with extra supplies and not foolish and lacking. To be awake and ready for when God appears. I offer the possibility that the wise and foolish are all of us and ask if anybody else thinks it’s weird that the “wise” people don’t share their resources. I answer a question about the number ten bus and give directions to the domestic violence shelter and pray. When I finish praying, one gentleman thanks me and another invites me to his table and asks me what I think the parable means. We have a wonderful conversation about heaven on earth, Jesuits, and his favorite Psalm. “Who may stay in God’s temple or live on the holy mountain of the Lord? Only those who obey God and do as they should. They speak the truth and don’t spread gossip; they treat others fairly and don’t say cruel things. They hate worthless people, but show respect for all who worship the Lord. And they keep their promises, no matter what the cost. They lend their money without charging interest, and they don’t take bribes to hurt the innocent. Those who do these things will always stand firm (Psalm 15 CEV).” These last few months have been a lesson in trusting the Lord. In believing that he wants his house full. That in the face of dehumanizing isolation, the love of Christ, “bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things (1 Corinthians 13:7 NRSVUE).”
Face Time
I met Danielle in an encampment that overlooked the freeway. The view from her tent was spectacular. The waterfront, Bainbridge Island, the stadiums, and King County Jail, are all visible from her home. The noise, rats, and erratic behavior of her neighbors, makes her living situation extremely unsafe. After chatting a few times, I learned that she attends the meals at our dispatch center. Danielle has a housing voucher and isn’t sure how to get into an apartment. I refer her to our in-house case manager and several other people who know how to navigate the fragmented and broken system that is low-income housing. After a few more visits to her home, her encampment is swept, and we lose touch. “In 2023 the city dramatically increased funding for “encampment resolution, cleaning and hygiene” to 29.1 million dollars. In 2022 the city conducted more than 900 sweeps, coinciding with a record 310 unhoused people dying in King County (Guy Oron, Real Change)”. Periodically, I drive by her old encampment to see if she has moved back. No one is living there now, and as always, I hope for the best and fear the worst.
It’s Thursday night and I am on outreach with a wonderful volunteer in Pioneer Square. It is the end of the night, and we are walking back to our van. As were crossing the street I smile and say hello to a young couple that looks like they may be unhoused. It’s Danielle! She is happy to see me, introduces me to her boyfriend, and updates me on her housing prospects. As we say our goodbyes, Danielle tells me that it’s nice to see me, that seeing my face makes her feel like she is home. Home is where the heart/Nightwatch is!
Recovery
I have been meeting Jessica for Bible study every Thursday for three months. She lives in a shelter for woman fleeing domestic violence and is in the process of healing and recovery. While there are small victories with court dates, restraining orders, housing vouchers, and peer led support groups, nothing brings justice like the teachings of Jesus. When I arrive for our sessions, Jesssica is always sitting at a table, waiting for me, with snacks, ready to read the Word of God.
This week, we read the story of Jesus walking on the water. In the story, there is chaos, fear, doubt, and terror. Jesus responds with courage, comfort, and calm. “Take heart, it is I; do not be afraid.” To the question of “Lord, if it is you”, Jesus says, come, get out of the boat, participate with me in the miraculous. When your heart sinks into the trauma of sexual violence, take my hand, I will embrace you. Don’t be afraid to have your own apartment, go back to school, and believe that you deserve life. I reach out my hand to pull you up, to keep you from sinking, not to give you a black eye. Jessica, get ready to walk on water!
Alcohol
Alcohol is always at the scene of the crime. I started drinking when I was fifteen years old. I got sober when I was twenty-seven. It is a miracle that I am still alive. When I was a kid, alcohol seemed important. If my parents were having company over for dinner, wine was always offered. If we went to somebody’s house for dinner, wine was brought as a gift. Growing up in Sonoma County, wineries were where we took out of town guests. The phrase, “nice bottle of wine,” always makes me laugh. Does the nice bottle of wine volunteer at the senior center? Does the bottle of merlot tutor middle school students, struggling with algebra?
The first time I got drunk I was fifteen and I blacked out. My parents let me stay home alone and I drank three bottles of homemade wine with some friends in the park. I was sick for two days. When my band started to play at parties and bars, alcohol was how I was compensated. People love to give the guitar player free drinks. I was fired from my first job for being hungover. Before I took the SAT’S, I threw up in the parking lot because I was still drunk from the previous night. I drank a bottle of tequila the night before I graduated high school.
Reflecting on my high school drinking, I wonder why no one ever said anything. My parents caught me drinking many times. My mom found receipts for beer. My dad thanked me for only drinking five of the six beers in his fridge. When I moved out on my own, I was too drunk to make it to community college classes and eventually quit. I spent my time drinking. Working in restaurants, alcohol is everywhere. Free drinks in paper cups were how I maintained my buzz. I got into a car accident, with a beer in my hand, while delivering pizza. The police pulled me over with empty beer cans on my back seat. No one ever said anything.
“Some of you say, “We can do whatever we want to!” But I tell you not everything may be good or helpful (1 Corinthians 10:23 CEV).” My first church I attended as a sober person was into drinking. This community of faith loved their college years spent on Greek Row, and their faith reflected the image of a frat party. You haven’t lived until you’ve attended a prayer time with a keg. Social drinking was hard to navigate as a recovering alcoholic. One night after sharing my struggle with alcohol with my church’s small group, they immediately invited me to go out for drinks. During this time, I volunteered with a ministry that worked with homeless kids. Alcohol is always a part of a street youth’s story. Abuse, neglect, foster care, Child Protective Services, and abandonment are all framed with alcohol. The staff would meet once a week to pray and update each other on the status of clients. After crying and processing all the trauma homeless youth experience, the staff would go out for drinks. I know people can drink socially, but it always seemed strange to argue as a staff about farm to table produce, ethically sourced coffee beans, all in the name of being sensitive to the oppressed and marginalized, and not want to support those who are in recovery by abstaining from alcohol. We want to stand with the least of these, but when it comes to beer and wine at the fundraiser, well, “were not Mormons.” Alcoholics and addicts understand being alone with God.
Alcohol is the cruelest of addictions. Unlike other drugs, alcohol kills you slowly. Homeless people die the most tragic deaths because of booze. Alcohol related death is always slow and painful. Organ failure happens gradually, deterioration of the mind and body takes years and years to complete. Talking with people on the street who are drinking stolen vanilla extract and cooking sherry is surreal. I once had a friend rummage through a box of hygiene supplies in search of mouthwash. Some mouthwash has alcohol in it. Street alcoholics can drink twelve-hundred dollars of stimulus check money in a weekend. One of the saddest things is watching alcoholics lose control of their bowels. A friend of mine who has an apartment in low barrier housing asked me if I had a queen-sized mattress. While we were talking, I noticed a mattress covered in diarrhea by the dumpster. People drink themselves to death. The humiliation we put ourselves through kills our spirit long before our bodies. Recently, I helped a sixty-year-old man, who is sleeping in a tent, on the sidewalk, with his resume. Every time we talk, he asks me for underwear. He often cries when we pray, embarrassed that he keeps popping his pants. He asked me to pray that he would get sober tomorrow.
When I got credentialed with the Assemblies of God, I signed an agreement that I would abstain from alcohol. After twenty plus years of sobriety it was not a tough decision for me. I can’t tell you how many pastors I speak with who think the policy is too “legalistic.” They usually get angry and defensive, as if me being sober somehow ruins their right to have a “beer with the fellas.” Once, when I was talking with a mission’s pastor, he told me about an Assemblies of God minister that was “down to earth,” because he drank beer. For me, down to earth and alcohol equal death. God given potential and hope buried six feet in the ground.
Alcohol has been given lots of importance in America. The prohibition era in our history has welded alcohol with personal freedom. We believe the government should not regulate harmful products. It’s important that Anheuser-Busch remain profitable for its shareholders. We believe we have the right to drink ourselves to death. Viewed with a biblical understanding, we are not always entitled to do what we want. “Or do you not know that your body is a temple of the Holy Spirit within you, whom you have from God? You are not your own,for you were bought with a price. So glorify God in your body (1 Corinthians 6:19-20).” When we view our individual bodies as part of the larger body of Christ, we become a part of one another. Our lives are shaped by each other. “For just as the body is one and has many members, and all the members of the body, though many, are one body, so it is with Christ (1 Corinthians 12:12).” If someone is in pain, then we are all in pain. Your suffering is my suffering. My healing becomes your healing.
Being sober, and ministering with people who struggle with addiction, I continue to experience the radical freedom from bondage and decay that the love of Christ provides. “On the last day of the feast, the great day, Jesus stood up and cried out, “If anyone thirsts, let him come to me and drink. Whoever believes in me, as the Scripture has said, ‘Out of his heart will flow rivers of living water (John 7:37-38).” May we all receive the promise of new life that comes from the Holy Spirit. I am thankful to have twenty-six years of sobriety!
STREET MINISTRY STORIES 