Reaching for the Kingdom

“The righteous shall possess the land and dwell in it forever.” Psalm 37

“Together we have walked, we have suffered, we have cried to God. He has sustained us and brought us to the place where we are. The land of God is here; the kingdom of God is in your heart….Trust him and keep walking.” (from Forward Movement, December 11, 2008)

“It smells like Thanksgiving in here,” I commented to another of the volunteers last night at the shelter, my second night to help out for a few hours in the week when my place of worship is one of two churches staffing with volunteers and food—precious, warm, fragrant food on a night where the temperature was headed for the low 20s here in the high desert. It was indeed Thanksgiving, not only because of the large pans of turkey and dressing, along with meatloaf and baked potatoes, and an array of desserts, bowls filled with fruit, but more importantly because of the spirit of gratitude that washed over those assembled. Some were escaping the cold, ready for a night out of the elements, even if it meant sleeping in scant sleeping bags on a concrete floor barely saved from rock hardness by a cheap, thin layer of commercial carpet. The number had climbed almost to 60 at this overflow shelter by the time I left at 9—mostly men, but a few women as well, and two couples.

Once again, I was amazed by the competence and good humor of the volunteers, although in my eyes I was the least among them. “What do you want to do?”, someone asked. Just assign me something, I said, and then I described the role I had played on Sunday night. It seemed that we had way more volunteers than we needed when I walked in the front door. As it turned out, we stayed busy for three hours, checking in pilgrims, welcoming them, stowing their belongings under lock, assigning rooms and issuing sleeping bags, and encouraging them to the dining area.

I am impressed by the other volunteers, most who seem to have lots more experience than I. A big, imposing but gentle guy manned the locked door, through which mostly one person at a time entered. He quietly greeted and explained before sending people forward to the check-in desk. About an hour into the evening, someone working at the desk commented that he was surprised we hadn’t needed to call the police because of drunken, aggressive behavior from one of the few regulars who had already created a reputation for themselves. Before the words were hardly out of his mouth, BAM-BAM on the exterior door—a young woman with way too much attitude who had already been told not to come back until the regular shelter staff came on duty at 9. At that time she might be admitted if she could get her behavior under control.

I guess I shouldn’t have been surprised that the offenders were equally men and women. The police eventually did arrive, and the drama unfolded, now at the front door. As I left, two of the women exited the shelter and started down the street, one trying to calm the other. They wore coats, but as I drove away, chilled just by my walk from the building to my truck, cold now after three hours in the parking lot with temps already in the high 20s, I wondered, how can they spend tonight outside? Where will they go? Another woman had already laid out her own sleeping bag outside the back entrance, where she apparently intended to camp after choosing to leave the shelter because she didn’t like her room assignment. It was claustrophobic, she had complained earlier in a loud voice—not fair, she added, as other guests watched quietly from the dining tables and chairs situated around the common area. More than a couple of men protested their claustrophobia, realizing they would be one of five sleepers in a 10 x 10 room arrangement. The crowded conditions couldn’t have been news because virtually every one of the guests is mightily familiar with the circumstances. The vast majority was just happy to be warm and safe, at least half of them retiring to their make-do beds after eating—to sleep, to have quiet conversation with their roommates, to read.

An articulate, handsome and fit man—just turned 66—sells Christmas trees during the day. When he rearranged his pack at the check-in desk, I saw among his belongings the wool and nylon pullover shirt with Native American designs that I had brought to the shelter on Sunday night. Along with all of the other things I brought, that shirt had to make its way to a local organization that processes donations, then to be distributed. I smiled, pleased that one of my own gifts had made it to the shelter and onto the back of a really sweet man. Another man asked for a wake-up call at 1:30 a.m. to go to work. I overheard him discussing art with someone across the table at dinner. A woman new to the shelter as of Monday had made her way from 10 miles south, and through the help of others, to the shelter. She hopes to have a job by the end of the week. There’s John and Paul and Mary. There’s the shy, smiling man reading the biography of a 19th c. American female author. They are a mirror. I was told late in the evening last night that one of the volunteers left, offended by the behavior of some of our guests. Allegedly, that’s not what she and her church were there for. Second hand information to me because I was quietly working at my station in the back of the building, where the pilgrims enter. Hmmph, well, what are we there for, to pick and choose those who deserve our kindness?

From my small but warm and safe condominium here in Santa Fe, I can look out the balcony doors onto the remnants of snow on the ground. I look through the branches of a large pine, where a plump pair of doves occasionally light. I shower luxuriously every morning in this place where we are reminded that any time is a good time to conserve our precious water supply. I drink coffee brewed from beans purchased at Whole Foods Market. I cook chili and beans, and I bake sweet potatoes that I adorn with minced meat. Decent bottles of red wine sit on my kitchen counter. I sleep under down on a firm mattress. Books line the shelves of a cabinet at the end of my bed and rest on my softly lighted bedside table. The treasures that I instinctively seek fill this artful space. Yes, thanks to my good fortune—an education, good jobs, my very modest retirement income, the gifts of my own efforts and those who came before me, all the way back to my German great grandmother who landed in Galveston as a toddler with her parents in 1866—I live in relative luxury. And though my lot is not that of those who inhabit homes ranging in value from a half million to many millions in this land of plenty, contrasted sharply with a large measure of meagerness, I am blessed and I give thanks. We are reaching for the kingdom--together. At least, that’s what the prayer says.

Reaching for the Kingdom—Santa Fe, New Mexico (December 11, 2008)
R. Harold Hollis