I sneak in late to Sunday service at Redeemer Anglican and sit in the very last row. A black beanie is perched precariously on my head and I notice the priest glance curiously at me from his podium as I quickly hunch down in a seat. I’ve been wearing my puffy green winter coat all day and I can feel a sticky layer of sweat dampening my undergarments. Just a little too warm outside for a coat this thick but definitely too cool to go without it.
I am immediately conscious of my stench. Sitting down in the stagnant air of this old church building, I can sense it around me—filling the still air with a putrid smell. I sit back and listen to the priest’s sermon. It’s about generosity. I glance through the crowd of people who have gathered in the front of the room. Their hair is perfectly pinned back and their fresh fall dresses probably smell of lilac perfume. I do a quick count of how many of them I know— 1, 2, 3… 4, 5… too many.
I desperately hope none of them notice me. I hope none come over to say hello. I recount in my mind the order of the service. After the sermon comes confession… and then the passing of the peace. At least five people will want to hug me. More than ever I am conscious of my stink. I cannot allow anyone near me. They’ll think things about me. They’ll notice my unappealing smell. They’ll smile at me with their perfectly white teeth and give me a hug all the while thinking about why I haven’t showered recently and considering purchasing me deodorant.
I feel a strong sense of alienation from these prim and poised people. I don’t belong here. As soon as the priest finishes his prayer and turns around, I sneak out the back door and sit outside the church building. I read my Bible privately along a wall on the sidewalk.
It’s now early Saturday morning and I am on my way to run the service for Heritage Anglican Church at the Parkview Rehab facility. I am considering for the hundredth time why I ever agreed to do this. Just me. Alone with my guitar. The sole person from outside the rehab facility calling Heritage my home church. I had been talking with another member of our parish who attends Sunday service at Redeemer Anglican and asked him if he was going to get involved at all with Heritage. He replied, “I really don’t like it there. It’s dirty and smells like urine.”
I stared at him hard and said, “Well thanks for that positive opinion. In case you didn’t already know, I’m the new catechist (or lay person pastor) for that congregation.” Quickly he switched to a slightly more upbeat tone and announced: “That’s great! Such a great ministry.”
But I knew what he was thinking. He, along with most other people, feel uncomfortable at Heritage. They feel out of place and disgusted. Dried oatmeal on a resident’s shirt or crusty blood stains on one man’s chin where he cut himself while shaving are not uncommon sights. The slight scent of urine and an overwhelming amount of filth greets all newcomers.
I often wonder myself if it wouldn’t be better for these residents to be involved with a church in the community. Am I doing them a disservice by bringing church to this facility? Am I encouraging a disparate church structure? —all the well dressed wealthy members of our parish attend church on Sundays at Redeemer and the elderly, poor, and/or mentally-ill people attend on Saturday mornings at Heritage. It seems to be a form of segregation.
So here I am pondering these things on the train. The sun is rising and the city is sleeping in after a late Friday night. A man named Steve sits next to me on the train and glances at my guitar case. “You a musician?”
I ponder the question for a moment and nod my head, “Yes.”
“What kind of music do you play?” he asks.
I respond immediately: “Worship music.”
“Oh, you’re a Christian? That’s great. I’m a believer too.” Half of his teeth are missing and his salt and pepper beard is growing in patches. His eyes shift from my face, to the floor, to the guitar, to the window, fluttering from one object to the next with the timidity of a butterfly. “Where do you play your music?” he asks.
I tell him about my congregation at the Parkview Rehab facility. I tell him about how much I love worshipping with and spending time with the residents of that facility. Steve’s eyes settle on my face. I can tell that he’s really seeing me now, and I suddenly am able to see him clearly too. He can tell that I care. He’s middle aged and as skinny as a skeleton. I ask him if he goes to a church. He laughs quietly and says, “I used to try to go to church. But I don’t fit in there. You can’t go to church looking all grubby and expect to belong.”
Immediately I find myself condemning the church for not welcoming him. It seems wrong that the poor and the homeless are only able to encounter God within designated Christian ministries or homeless shelters.
But then I remembered how self-conscious I had been among the congregation at Redeemer when I smelled bad. Here I was thinking that it is our responsibility to create inclusive bodies of believers in every church building—anyone should be able to walk in and feel comfortable. But in reality, it is far more loving to meet people where they already have a sense of belonging. To meet them in their own neighborhoods and streets. To have a service right in the activity room at the rehab facility. To meet people in places where they don’t feel out of place and uncomfortable… even if I do.
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