A Place of Sanctuary

A homeless transvestite prostitute makes her way slowly up Jefferson from the intersection of Claybrook and Jefferson. She doesn’t look familiar, but later I notice she’s entered the front yard at Manna House. Mike and Robert arrive loudly. Mike is agitated, and both he and Robert cannot seem to speak to each other, or anyone else, without shouting. I can hear them complaining about some real or perceived injustice they suffered at the emergency room at Methodist Hospital. Jacob, meanwhile, is quietly standing on the porch, looking out to the street, with his Bible gently held in his right hand. 

Down the street, an angry man crosses Jefferson, gesticulating wildly. Nate, tense and silent, walks up the slight incline from Claybrook. He seems filled with a rage he is struggling to contain. Cory arrives with a massive backpack. He looks ready to hike the entire Appalachian Trail. More guests arrive, some on foot, some on bikes. The porch and front yard fill up with guests waiting for Manna House to open.

I can see and hear a great deal as I sit in the house after arriving early at Manna House to plug in the coffee. Most often I stay in the kitchen, sitting on a chair facing east, so I can not only see our guests arriving from that direction, but also enjoy the rising sun. It is a good place to pray, to read, and to write with the percussion of the coffee pots sounding in the background. This morning I happen on Psalm 27. It is a good morning psalm.

Manna House is a place of refuge, of sanctuary. We seek in our work of hospitality to extend welcome, affirm the dignity of each of our guests, and treat each person with respect. We hope to be the kind of place where guests and volunteers alike find peace, a sense of their goodness and the goodness of life, even in the midst of hard times and grief. As wounded people carrying our own failures and grieving, we seek to share compassion rather than to exert control or mimic the larger society’s exclusion and domination.

I know it is hard to quantify the transformation hospitality brings into our lives as hosts, just as the transformation that might occur in our guests resists measurement. But I see in myself a difference in the quality of my soul in relation to others, to the creation, and to God. I catch glimpses of such transformation in other volunteers and guests as well. There is a sensitivity and awareness of our being together in the mystery which is life and death, and even resurrection. 

Down the street from Manna House, at the intersection of Claybrook and Jefferson, the fragile memorial to Tony Bone, a guest of Manna House who died on Good Friday, still stands in the park: a cross upon which his winter coat is stretched out, and at the base of the cross, a small carefully arranged stack of stuffed animals. 

As we opened today, we prayed with our guests that we might welcome each other to this place with grace, and with a smile on our face. The prayer was answered. We shared a few hours of peace in the backyard, whil

e the usual business of Tuesday at Manna House went on with women’s showers, “socks and soap,” and coffee being served.