The Yada Yada Prayer Group Gets Caught

by Neta Jackson

  She sighed. “Tell me something I don’t know.When he starts speaking to me again, I’ll let you know if I forgive you. So—what’s this I hear about the Baxters moving to Jesus People? A little off the deep end for you, Jodi, no? ”

  OK. If Ruth was still speaking to me, I’d take that as forgiveness. Just had to set her straight about Jesus People. “Not moving, Ruth. Just volunteering this Saturday.”

  When Amanda heard what we were going to do that weekend, she wanted to come too. And José. Josh called to make sure it was all right and was told some youth group from Indiana had to cancel, so “come on down.”

  We arranged to meet Edesa and José at the Wilson el stop—they had to come from Little Village on the West Side—and walk over to the JPUSA shelter. We still had a transit card from the last time we’d ridden the el—on July Fourth weekend, with Little Andy. Not many suit-and-tie commuters on Saturday, but the trains were still half full—Latino grandmothers with giggling grandchildren; teenagers of all shades plugged into their music; young women in short tops and hip-hugging shorts or jeans, their tummies bared to the world; middle-aged shoppers heading downtown. The doors slid open at Bryn Mawr, loaded and unloaded, then slid closed again. Florida’s stop.Wonder how the packing’s going . . .

  I tugged on Denny’s T-shirt. “Um, forgot to tell you. The Hickmans are moving next Saturday. They found a house to rent near Adele’s shop. Can you help? ”

  Denny gave me that Look. The one that said, I used to lead a quiet life until you Yada Yadas filled up my schedule. He sighed. “Yeah, guess so. Far as I know.”

  Four more stops. “Wilson,” crackled the speaker. “Wilson and Broadway.”

  We piled out and waited until the train pulled away. Edesa and José weren’t on the opposite platform. “Let’s go down to street level,” Josh urged. “They’ll find us there.”

  Correction. We found them on street level. They’d already arrived and were standing in front of a long concrete wall beneath the el station, gazing at a mural of sorts. Edesa, dressed in a breezy summer shift of yellow and orange, colors that brought out gold tints beneath her mahogany skin, waved us over. “Hola! Not your usual gang graffiti, eh? ” she said, waving a hand at the wall. “Some of these taggers are pretty good.”

  José was gazing intently at a figure spray-painted on the wall, surrounded by some kind of gang signs. He traced something with his finger. “Josh! Venido! ”

  Amanda, not to be left out, hustled over with her brother. The trio studied something on the wall, talking in low tones.

  “What? ” I said when they rejoined us.

  “Uh, can’t really be sure,” Josh said.

  José stuck out his lip. “I’m sure.”

  “What? ” Denny, Edesa, and I sounded like a Greek chorus.

  José pointed at the life-size drawing of a brown youth on the wall,muscled arms, arms folded, legs apart. “I thought I recognized that drawing—well, the style anyway—but I wasn’t sure. Then I saw the signature.” He pointed. Our gaze followed. It wasn’t a name. Just a C with a slash through it. “I saw it at Cornerstone. That’s his signature.”

  We looked at each other. “Who? ”

  José hesitated as several people walked by. Then he lowered his voice. “Chris,” he said. “Chris Hickman.”

  16

  Serving JPUSA’s “dinner guests” for the next several hours in their community center chased my emotions around like a cross-country race. At first I felt awkward, feeling rich and privileged and conspicuous even in my jeans and T-shirt beneath the clear plastic apron we each put on. A woman in a security vest greeted people at the door and waved them toward the long tables where we served from big aluminum pans of rice, chicken-something in a sauce, iceberg lettuce salad with a smattering of grated carrots and tomatoes for color, and a yellow sheet cake with chocolate frosting. I thought the greeter was one of the Jesus People, but it became apparent that she herself was a “dinner guest” who had found a way to give back by helping out. The same was true of several men—a hard life on the street outlined in their faces and scruffy clothes—who wiped tables, folded them up, and swept the floor afterward.

  My heart ached for some of the younger adults who came through the line. Too young to be living on the street; too old too soon. Some dinner guests ate alone; others chatted with each other, like old friends meeting at the local coffee shop. As far as I could tell, anyone could come to dinner—those living in the shelters or those who just needed a meal. No one was turned away.

  The volunteer coordinator—a woman who said she’d been at Jesus People at least twenty years—offered to show us around. The community center had an after-school program and a childcare center for children of shelter residents, so moms (and sometimes dads) could look for work or sell the Streetwise newspaper or apply for welfare benefits. I was delighted to see the bright colors of the toys and equipment and the artwork by the children. But my heart sank to my knees again when the coordinator showed us the large residential room for women with children—a sea of bunk beds, the only privacy provided by a sheet or blanket pinned to the top mattress marking off two bunks as “family space.” We were told some of the women were simply homeless, a litany of hard-luck stories or chronic drug abuse. Others had been abused by husbands or boyfriends. Like Rochelle, I thought. I couldn’t imagine Avis’s beautiful daughter here, even though the room was surprisingly tidy.

  At midafternoon, the room was mostly empty, except for two little boys playing with action figures on one of the bunks. I stopped to talk. Dwayne and Tremaine, they said. Brothers. First and second grade. I wanted to sit down and read them a story—but we moved on. Just visitors passing through. It made me feel like a window shopper of human misery.

  The “family floor” had individual rooms and parents of both sexes. A mannerly black man, maybe thirty, greeted us politely in musical French. Staff? No, said the coordinator. He and his wife and child were shelter residents, immigrants from French-speaking Senegal with no place to go. The floor for single women (no children) occupied two conjoined rooms—one with rows of single bunks, like an army barrack; the other a day room, brightened with colorful walls, comfy couches, a TV, a small kitchen in one corner. At night, the coordinator said, the day room floor was covered with mattresses for overflow who came in from the street “just for the night.”

  Later we sat and talked with the volunteer coordinator in her little office. I felt overwhelmed. How did Jesus People deal with this level of stress, day after day after day? Even more, how did homeless women—especially the women with children—survive in a shelter for two, three, even six months?

  No wonder Avis didn’t want to see Rochelle end up in a shelter. But the tension on her face when we’d talked in the school office several days ago punctuated her words: “I have to admit, Jodi, I feel caught between my daughter and my husband. I don’t know how to do what’s best for both of them. A few weeks is one thing. But long term? ”

  I reined in my thoughts and tried to concentrate on Edesa’s questions about the health needs of the shelter residents. “I am still a student, third year, and have just changed my major to public health. Is there some way I can help? ”

  “To tell you the truth,” said the coordinator, “we’ve got a fair number of resources lined up for our residents, and a lot of available staff. Oh, I don’t mean we can’t use volunteers—there’s always something to do and toilets to clean!” She laughed. “But there are other shelters that are woefully understaffed. A new one, Manna House, here on the North Side, is desperate for volunteers . . .” Edesa and Josh leaned forward, listening intently. Amanda and José too. Denny and I looked at each other.

  Only on the way home, as we passed that brooding figure spray-painted on the long wall of the Wilson el station surrounded by gang symbols, did I think about Chris Hickman again. The wall bumped my emotions over one last set of muddled hurdles: the art-work on that figure was good. The kid ought to have art lessons! But was Chris part of th
e gang that had taken over this wall? Oh God, please no. Should I tell Florida? Wouldn’t she want to know? But what if José was wrong?

  I leaned against the cool window of the elevated train as it squealed out of the station heading north. The Hickmans were moving in two weeks. Maybe the move was the answer.Give Chris a fresh start . . .

  TEMPERATURES HAD COOLED OVER THE WEEKEND to the midseventies by the time we climbed the stairs to the second floor at Uptown Community Church the next morning. Good thing, because by the time kids, teenagers, and visitors crowded into the rows of chairs along with the usual adults, we barely had elbow room. Add muggy hot and we’d probably get mutiny. A couple Uptown women were setting up the Communion table at the front of the room with its special embroidered cloth depicting children around the world. First Sunday of August. Communion Sunday.

  Avis, Bible in hand, was talking to Rick Reilly, who played lead guitar in our praise band; she must be the worship leader this morning. Didn’t see Peter Douglass—or Rochelle and Conrad the Third for that matter. I swallowed a big sigh.Here we go again, back to our separate churches, same space, different times . . .

  Stu came in with Becky and Little Andy. The toddler with the chocolate-and-whipped-cream complexion waved at me and my heart squeezed. We Baxters had offered to help pick him up each Sunday from his paternal grandmother, who had temporary custody, but Stu had never asked for our help. Just as well. From what I’d heard, his grandmother was rather recalcitrant about getting Andy ready for his weekly visit with Becky. Stu probably put on her I’m-DCFS-and-he-better-be-ready persona to get results. Never mind that she wasn’t Andy’s caseworker anymore.

  Avis Johnson-Douglass, dressed in a black sheath with a blackandwhite scarf at the neck, set her Bible on the simple wooden stand that served as a pulpit and called out, “Good morning, church!” Andy Wallace yelled back, “Good morning!” then collapsed in giggles on his mother’s shoulder. People laughed. Becky’s face turned beet red.

  Avis smiled. “Andy’s got the right idea. Talk to me! Makes me feel at home. I came up in the black church, you know, where talking back to the preacher was part of the worship flow.”

  “Got that right!” called out Florida. “An’ if you didn’t talk back, you were asleep.” More laughter. I caught her eye and gave her a thumbs-up. Could count on Florida to talk back to the preacher, worship leader, or whoever was up front. That was one of the gifts Florida and Avis brought to Uptown, nudging us away from being an audience to being participants in all parts of the worship.

  “So let’s encourage one another this morning,” Avis continued, “to bring our cares and burdens from the week and leave them at the altar, so that we can freely worship our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Listen to the words of the apostle Paul . . .”

  I marveled at Avis. Joy seemed to leak from her pores as she read from Galatians 5, verse 1: “It is for freedom that Christ has set us free. Stand firm, then, and do not let yourselves be burdened again by a yoke of slavery.” Huh. If my married daughter showed up at my house nursing a black eye and a cut lip, I don’t think I could dredge up joy. Or could I? What did that verse mean anyway—the one that said, “The joy of the Lord is my strength” ?

  “—old devil likes to bind us up any way he can,” Avis continued. “Sometimes it’s religious ‘rules’ that get in the way of a relationship with Jesus. Or money—having too much or too little. Or maybe it’s that son or daughter who keeps you awake nights. Satan wants us to worry instead of worship. But let’s tell Satan this morning that he’s a liar. It is for freedom that Christ has set us free! Come on, church, let’s sing praises to the God of our salvation!”

  The worship band—keyboard, guitars, drums—did their best at launching into the Richard Smallwood song, “I Will Sing Praises.” New Morning’s saxophone would be nice, I thought. But as we sang, several phrases stood out: “Lord, You are my joy . . . whom shall I fear? I don’t have to worry, I won’t be afraid. For in the time of trouble You shall hide me . . .”

  That was Avis’s secret. Oh God, I want to have that kind of joy.The kind that doesn’t depend on my circumstances.The kind that encourages others who are struggling. I opened my mouth and poured my voice into the song: “I will sing praises! Praises unto You! . . .”

  After an extended time of worship, the children and teens were dismissed to their Sunday school classes. But instead of preaching a sermon or serving Communion, Pastor Clark surprised us by announcing an ad hoc congregational meeting. “We have several pressing matters that need our immediate attention. We won’t be voting on anything; that can come later at a regular business meet ing. Rather than call you back for an extra meeting, it seemed a good thing to weave these matters right into our worship—for that is the issue at hand.”

  I looked sideways at Denny; he met my gaze. Both of us had an idea what “the issue at hand” might be. I noticed Josh was still at the soundboard; he hadn’t left with the teens.Well, he’d graduated. Time for him to transition to adult responsibilities.

  Pastor Clark, in shirtsleeves and tie, squeezed his eyes shut. “Lord, we invite You to be part of the business at hand. Our only desire is to love You, serve You, and bring glory and honor to Your name. Show us Your purpose for our presence as a church in this neighborhood. Amen.”

  People shifted uneasily in their seats; murmurs rustled across the room and then settled down as Pastor Clark waited for quiet. “Most of you know we’re outgrowing our space here on Morse Avenue. This building has served us well for almost twenty years. But give us a few more months and even a shoehorn won’t help.”

  “That’s what I been sayin’!” Florida snorted. “An’ these chairs don’t help neither.”

  Nervous laughter, more rustling.

  “We have several options to consider. We can stay where we are—but like a too-tight shoe, that will stunt our growth.We can sell our building and hunt for a new one. That seems like the most obvious solution. Or—there is another possible option.” Pastor Clark paused. All the rustling ceased. “In other words, rather than treat our shrinking space as just a financial issue, as just a building size issue, I’m suggesting we use this opportunity to ask, what is God doing among us right now? What does it mean for us? Is God wanting to do something new? ”

  “I don’t get it. What are you talking about, Pastor? ” A voice spoke from the back of the room.

  Pastor Clark smiled. “Bear with me a moment. This summer God brought a new relationship into our lives as a church—a relationship with New Morning Christian Church, which has been sharing our building as they looked for new space. Two churches, one building.”

  “That’s right, Pastor!” I said. Stu gave me a smirk. I ignored her. Avis told us to talk back to the preacher, didn’t she?

  “Then, as we all know, tragedy struck. One of their members—Dr. Mark Smith, who also happens to be a close friend of several in our congregation—was brutally attacked by members of a hate group, trying to sow seeds of hatred, distrust, and fear among the races and ethnic groups in our city.”

  “Jesus! Help us!” Florida cried.

  Pastor Clark didn’t miss a beat. “Throughout this summer, both churches have made a conscious effort not to succumb to the enemy’s schemes. We have invited their members to our men’s breakfast and our Second Sunday Potluck; a few of us have visited each other’s worship services. When they found a new space for their services, they invited our whole congregation to join them in thanksgiving and worship—something we decided to continue once a month as long as we are sharing this building.”

  I saw several heads nodding.

  “Soon, we could just go our separate ways. But God has been stretching us, teaching us what it means to be His church, not just our church. As your pastor, I think it’s worth asking, what has God been doing among us? What does God want to do now? How does our need to move on from this building figure into that ? ”

  No one spoke for several moments. Then a familiar voice piped up from the soundb
oard. Josh. “We could sell our building and invest the money to renovate New Morning Christian’s new space—”

  “What? ” a woman behind me gasped. “Just throw away our church assets? ”

  “Somebody said the same thing at our last men’s breakfast,” a man snorted. “But it’s crazy. You can’t be serious.”

  “—and merge the two congregations. Just be one church,” Josh finished.

  A babble of surprise and dismay followed, though some people actually clapped. I gripped Denny’s hand. Peter Douglass should be here.Wasn’t this his idea? But he wasn’t a member of Uptown, even though Avis was. And Josh was still a teenager. The idea would never fly unless the leaders of the church supported it 100 percent.

  To my surprise, Pastor Clark laughed. “You stole my punch line, young man.” People laughed. For some reason, this broke the tension that had us all by the collar. But a lot of hands shot up, too, with a lot of questions and comments.

  “What does New Morning think about this idea? They might be a little surprised if we all showed up—for good.”

  “Yeah. Maybe they don’t want us!”

  “Who would be the pastor? Can’t see Cobbs stepping down.”

  “Visiting their services is one thing—but every Sunday? Not really my style.”

  To my surprise, Denny stood up. “Pastor? May I say something? ” At Pastor Clark’s nod, he made his way to the front of the room.

  I tilted my chin up. You go, Denny.

  But for a moment, Denny just stood staring at the Communion table, not saying anything. Then he picked up the cloth covering the elements, the cloth with embroidered children from around the world all along the edge— “red, brown, yellow, black, and white” as the children’s chorus went.

  “Pastor . . . brothers and sisters . . . The events of this summer opened my eyes in a new way to those verses in First Corinthians that talk about the church being the body of Christ. Especially the part that says we can’t say to different parts of the body, ‘I don’t need you.’ No, Paul said, the different parts of God’s body need each other. But do we? Do we need New Morning Christian Church? Do they need us? We don’t act like we do.We’re so used to staying in our own little church corner, doing things our way, that I, for one, have no idea what it would be like to actually function as a whole body. But . . .” My husband tore off a piece of bread from the loaf on the table and then picked up the cup of wine. “Seems like I remember that just before Jesus died, right after He shared broken bread and wine with His disciples, He prayed that all His followers would be one, just as He and His Father in heaven are One.”