In another lifetime, I was the wife of a Southern Baptist Deacon heavily involved in evangelism when our well established church decided to create a mission church. It would be housed in a trailer park conveniently located in the poorest part of town. The idea from its earliest inceptions was to bring a home of worship to those who wouldn’t show up to our rose colored stained glass cathedral. At least not with borrowed clothes and dirty shoed children hanging off their hips. Or, perhaps, the single mom doing magic tricks with the family budget on a minimum wage job couldn’t afford the extra gas for extravagances like hiking so far up to the other side of town. Either way our church had a heart for those less fortunate and we prayed to be able to establish a home of worship for them. Our prayers were answered with the gift of a trailer in the very heart of the neighborhood that we had set our sites on.
The first Sunday I was the choir director in our shabby
singlewide trailer. It’s a laughable thought since my singing could clear the rodents out of a NY apartment complex in under a minute. Alas, I was on a mission for God so it didn’t matter at all. There were four of us called to this work and we prayerfully committed to do whatever
it took to keep the doors open for God's work.
It was a rough start but eventually people began to come in small doses here and there. One day a drunken man stumbled into our shanty church in mid-hymn and reclined in a chair. The only other visiting parishioner was an older African American woman who looked at him compassionately and then turned her attention back to me on what I feel now was a mission of her own, keeping me at least partly intime with the song. The drunk man balanced on the tin chairs and fell asleep snoring loudly with our young pastor speaking over him. This dear man came every Sunday and sometimes could remain alert enough to sing along, and, on rarer occasion, alert enough to hear part of the sermon adding an amen or two. It was my job to wake him up after the service and help him down crooked stairs. I remember a growing appreciative feeling for his commitment to show up each Sunday and imagined we were more than just a material shelter; we were a spiritual one. That thought kept my heart so open and warm with the feeling that we were feeding the needs of others.
It was a rough start but eventually people began to come in small doses here and there. One day a drunken man stumbled into our shanty church in mid-hymn and reclined in a chair. The only other visiting parishioner was an older African American woman who looked at him compassionately and then turned her attention back to me on what I feel now was a mission of her own, keeping me at least partly intime with the song. The drunk man balanced on the tin chairs and fell asleep snoring loudly with our young pastor speaking over him. This dear man came every Sunday and sometimes could remain alert enough to sing along, and, on rarer occasion, alert enough to hear part of the sermon adding an amen or two. It was my job to wake him up after the service and help him down crooked stairs. I remember a growing appreciative feeling for his commitment to show up each Sunday and imagined we were more than just a material shelter; we were a spiritual one. That thought kept my heart so open and warm with the feeling that we were feeding the needs of others.
Each Sunday I donned a ridiculous clown suite with a big red
wig. It seemed like a great idea until the first time I climbed into it in the sweltering heat and felt my makeup rushing down my face like a mudslide. I'd walk the dusty streets handing out church pamphlets,
candy and hugs to wide-eyed children. Their parent occasionally looked
over the fan propped in the doorway long enough to see what the ruckus was. Most exchanges were mildly uncomfortable but I rationalized to myself that when you're doing things for God, it's supposed to be uncomfortable. The only exceptions where the ones who yelled extreme profanities about me staying out
of their yard. Their ability to weave the "F" word in and out of each sentence astonished both me and the Jesus in my heart. Others
smiled with lips half turned in conviction that although church was good enough for their children, they were above it. There was no point of engaging them when they weren't ready and maybe never would be to hear the gospel. I'd simply say in my goodbyes, "God loves you."
The young pastor and his wife who began the church moved away within that first year and a retired pastor took his
place. He was greatly offended that the drunk was allowed to come every
Sunday. The new pastor's first order of business was to ask the man to stop coming to church if
he could conduct himself in a more righteous manner, we all knew he couldn’t. The
new pastor was not interested in seeking help for the drunk man so we simply cut
him free to drift away into the woods nearby. My clown suite was also retired as I would learn, "Saving souls was not the work of clowns!" I gained back my second class status as a woman when he dismissed my argument about how the clown suit was working with the proof of the number of children now attending Sunday School.
That stance almost got me removed from the mission church that I had grown to love. With my Southern
Baptist roots well grounded; I picked up my petticoat and sashayed to the back of the church where I belonged. It would not be long until a not so loving church leader picked off my Sunday School students one at a time.
Dissatisfied with our meager surroundings the new pastor finagled the church to purchase a double wide newer model. Our sponsor church bought a more accommodating used double wide trailer that came with the same porch ailment that seemed contagious throughout the rundown park. I remember seeing the drunk man that first Sunday we opened the new church home. He came and stood outside the church for the whole service; I wondered if he had forgotten that he wasn’t allowed in. He came back many Sundays and never once tried to open the door. I watched him through the window as he sang along to the empty hymns about God loving us at our wretched worst. I’m remembering him singing outside the home that Jesus brought for him so clearly that it still kicks up the dust in my heart about how shameful that doublewide, crooked porched, trailer in shanty town became.
Dissatisfied with our meager surroundings the new pastor finagled the church to purchase a double wide newer model. Our sponsor church bought a more accommodating used double wide trailer that came with the same porch ailment that seemed contagious throughout the rundown park. I remember seeing the drunk man that first Sunday we opened the new church home. He came and stood outside the church for the whole service; I wondered if he had forgotten that he wasn’t allowed in. He came back many Sundays and never once tried to open the door. I watched him through the window as he sang along to the empty hymns about God loving us at our wretched worst. I’m remembering him singing outside the home that Jesus brought for him so clearly that it still kicks up the dust in my heart about how shameful that doublewide, crooked porched, trailer in shanty town became.
Billy Graham once said that the new spiritual awakening would not begin in the church but through corporate America. He's right! While others are content to watch their fellow church goers fall through the cracks in the church's foundation, others are on a quest to nail a new proclamation to walls of our brothers and sisters' hearts. One that is so anchored in truth that it clears away decades of the debris of apathy and empowers us to make phenomenal changes in our broken systems. Changes that include clown suits and love for those with addictions ----- an all inclusive love that does not require stain glass windows or uppity alters. I think Jesus would be onboard with the change.
Mona McPherson
Mona McPherson
Mona McPherson
