Episcopal Church Foundation Vestry Papers - for leading congregations

“May I borrow some water?”

Nine years ago, JT knocked on the back door of Christ Episcopal Church in Cape Girardeau, Missouri, a five-gallon jug in hand. JT lived in a Housing and Urban Development (HUD) apartment next to the church; the city had turned off his water and he hoped to fill his jug so he could flush his toilet. When the rector opened the door that day, he had no idea how this simple request would bring about radical change in the Christ Episcopal Congregation. 

Here’s their story, as shared by Robert Towner, rector of Christ Episcopal Church:

We are all quite proud to call ourselves the little church that said I should 
Practice stability, bloom where we were planted and serve the neighborhood. 
But all we knew to do was ramps up “The Episcopal Church Welcomes You” signs 
With more signs, flyers, advertisements. 
We learned that promotions of unpronounceable, unknown sects are not good news, 
And even tastefully done fail to attract. 
—— 
Karen and her family joined us because it was the right thing to do, 
Not that any, they or we, knew any more than where and why. 
Not how, know how. 
We knew who, but they skeert us. 
They who are poorer, or more visibly wounded, or less financially able, 
Paralyze us with fear. 
We hide this big hairy secret 
In our dreams. 
—– 
Karen was sitting with four others adults, whose own kids are youth and young adults, 
Trying to plan a kids’ club, though we’ve forgotten what kids love and 
We are still chary to ask them face to face. 
Our parish can claim only two or three grade school kids that we can never gather in one place.
In fact our own folks aren’t too sure the church is where kids belong. 
Since they have too many music and theatre and travel and sports and academic appointments, 
Already. But the neighborhood kids got nothing to do after the bus drops them off, 
Yet. Karen sits, embarrassed and she wonders in silence, 
What am I doing here? No, why? 
—– 
And her answer bursts in the back door with a whoop. 
Heeling to tiptoe when he finds the room full of excellent women. 
A spring loaded eight year old, who tells all the girls his name is Shaq and he’s fifteen years old. 
He slips over to the slide of the pastor for a hug and a whisper. 
Let’s get together tomorrow, Marquand. 
You got it, man. See you then, he chirps, hi lo later, Father. 
There, said Karen, goes the answer to my unspeakable question; 
Let’s plan this party.

Nine years ago, under the arc of the long range vision team, T J came knocking at the back door with a five gallon blue plastic jug. The city had turned off his water, and might he tap our supply so he could flush his toilet? At the time he lived in the HUD approved building across the back lot of the church where all the Episcopalians parked. Which oddly worked since none of the residents owned a car. In the unlikely event that HUD ever inspected this property, failure to flush could have been grounds for eviction. Thus we launched our neighborhood mission with water and the Spirit working anonymously, thus far.

Five moves in less than ten years have not pulled T J out of our orbit. There is no one else in this very loving parish who lives closer to my heart, my phone, and my discretionary fund check book. He takes me into his life week in and week out, but never on Sunday. To worship he must sit in his mother’s (she of ten children and blessed memory) church, where he knows all the songs but must hide the many truths that do not fit the lyrics. This is the rule of zombie world around us. Poor and middle class don’t mix on Sundays. But T J works for us when we have money and he has none. Nine years and still only four of us know this beautiful, faithful man. What happens when he comes around? My God, is this meanness or blindness?

Now T J was cleaning up the parking lot in back, which we don’t own but maintain, even though now we have a parking lot out on Fountain Street, because our unofficial clients, anonymously recovering alcoholic and addicts, prefer to park out of sight. And everyone knows, though we cannot bear to say it, that this at least is one place that the Holy Ghost raises us from the dead today. So, by all means, take care of the back lot.

When along comes this slinky, nosey, bouncy boy, Asking T J, “Man, what are you doing?” “Can I help? And can I have a job too? You don’t even have to pay me.”

“Well, yes, if it’s okay with T J,” and “ since you ask so nice, we will pay you too.” And from that day forward Marquand was head man of the Fountain Street clean up squad. Within days he had recruited two more. He hired Tom Sawyer style, and as quickly as some quit, others stepped up. A nickel per piece of paper, plastic, glass or can, collected and sorted into recyclable and land fillable. And once, after work, while getting dreamsicles at the corner store, I saw him, bane of the school principal, nightmare of his mother, transfigured as a leader of his peers, the first member of the Red Door Kids’ Club. Now he comes around often. We teach one another the ground rules. Hugs are free and so is watering the plants around the church. Litter control is paid, and he’s in charge of hiring and firing.

But it was T J taught me that the difference between friendship and patronage is the friend knows who is your mother, and respects that too. And the patron knows your social security number. Marquand’s mother lives where T J used to live, where Angielie and her daughter are the only ones with the seniority to tell the landlady what’s broke and needs be fixed. A year ago, Marquand brought his mother and his great grandmother, Mamma Grace, to the Community Meal. After we prayed one of her wilder granddaughters back home one Sunday afternoon, Mamma Grace started bringing more of her family around for supper. Imagine my surprise as on her bony arm she brings her daughter, Mary Gray, a blue eyed black fallen angel of the neighborhood, whom we have counseled, prayed and paid out of many a tight corner since we decided to become a neighborly church eight years ago. Mary, turns out, is Marquand’s grandmother.

Though I am pretty sure we cannot fix what’s broke back of the church, at long last we are beginning to see and daring to love our neighbors. And the love of God is taking on muscle and blood. So Karen can touch the reason why we work so hard for those who do not go to Christ Episcopal Church, yet Kneel in awe at the birth place of God with skin, arranged by adoring kids, angels, the ass and oxen, sheep and shepherds, innkeepers and kings, each just where she or he or it belongs together marking the unbroken circle around the Christ. And pray with me we grown up kids get it half so right next year.

Nine years ago Robert and the Christ Episcopal Church congregation responded to God’s call, opening the door to a renewed and richer relationship with the community. What riches are waiting outside your door? And, if your neighbors don’t come to you for a gift of water, how can you extend an offer of radical welcome?

Merry Christmas from everyone at ECF Vital Practices.

Special thanks to Beth Felice, director of communications at the Episcopal Diocese of Missouri, for sharing this story.