Rogue Reverend

Best. Newsletter. For Homeless Ministry. Ever.

My friend, Hugh Hollowell, of Love Wins writes:

Dear Friends,

Several weeks ago I sat in a room full of pastors from downtown churches in a forum called by the Raleigh Police Department. Ostensibly, it was to talk about how faith communities can properly secure their premises, especially in light of Martha’s murder a few months ago. The gist of the presentation was about church security - having your facilities well lit, etc. And then, they started talking about the homeless.

We saw pictures of dangerous criminals (their words), all but one of whom were black, as examples of the sort of people we should be watching out for. (Of course, most of the folks in the audience were white, so this played with their stereotypes perfectly.) Then they presented us all with trespass letters, which, if signed and placed on file with the police, would give them permission to arrest folks found on their property after hours. The entire presentation built to this, and you got the feeling this was the whole reason for the meeting.

There aren’t near enough shelter beds. If you are unhoused and needed a safe place, you might think about going to sit out of the rain under the awning at the corner church. Especially since the church is closed so you won’t scare any of the rich white people who attend there. If you thought this way you wouldn’t be alone. There are several churches downtown where friends of mine sleep - behind their dumpsters, in the shrubs, under the awning. Because it is well lit, clean and generally safe.

The police work for the city, which makes revenue from developers, who sell houses to rich people who do not like seeing homeless people. So the police are under a lot of pressure to “clean up” the homeless problem. The police are frustrated by the churches that have allowed people to sleep on their grounds. So, the police scare the daylights out of the church leaders, throw Martha’s death in the mix, show some scary pictures of black men and convince a goodly number of the downtown churches to put up no tresspassing signs, enabeling the police to act on those tresspass letters they wanted us to sign.

The presenters assured us they did not want to interfere with our mission - they just wanted us to help them keep us ’safe’.

I was the only one who stood up and said that our mission does not call for us to be safe - it calls for us to show extreme love and radical hospitality. I asked the people, preachers and police alike, the following question: If you are tired and hungry and alone and have no home and no hope - if you cannot go to the church, where should you go?

No one had any answers to that. The police officer told me he understood, but that was not his job.

But it is my job. It is our job. To extend grace and love to the other. Not to put up signs to keep people who don’t look like us away.

So I have spent the last few weeks telling my friends who sleep outside that churches are not safe places anymore. That the No Tresspassing signs mean they will be arrested. And when they ask me where they are supposed to go if they can’t go to church, I tell them I don’t know. And when they leave, I cry.

Love Wins. Always.

Who Am I?

Some days, I don’t know who I am.

Audacia Ray wrote a post at Feministe this week about American Sex Worker Activist Projects and mentioned Star Light. She wrote, “There is also the now sadly defunct Starlight Ministries, an outreach ministry to exotic dancers that was totally awesome and not in any way a creepy paternalistic shaming religious group.”

Ever since I resigned from Star Light Ministries, the organization I founded as an outreach to sex workers, I have struggled with my concept of who I am. It’s not so much who I am inside, but who I am outside. What do I tell people I “do for a living?” How do I express my passion for people deemed “unacceptable” by the Church, by society at large, by whatever social circle I seem to find myself in, and still be “just a pastor.”

The church that I pastor is amazing. They are smart, funny, easy-going, committed, and so accepting. I really love being around them in a way I haven’t felt in church in a long time. And my love for them seems to grow.

And yet, there’s me. Who am I? WHO AM I?

Many, many years ago I read a story in a book of Russian fables about a student who goes to Minsk to study. But he’s miserable. So he searches out a hermit Rabbi in the woods and says, “When I was in St. Petersburg, I prayed. I read books. I studied. I was happy. Then I moved to Minsk. Here, all I can do is cry. Tears is all I have.” The Rabbi answered, “Maybe what God wants from you now is tears.”

So maybe me not knowing who I am right now is precisely what God wants from me.

How To Be An Ally to Sex Workers

This is from SWOP, the Sex Workers Outreach Project-Chicago, a Chicago community of sex workers.

For those of you in professional ministry, this is a great list of “How-To’s” for any community.

Other Thy Neighbor

I wrote this for the Star Light blog in October, 2008:

I had a dream a few weeks ago. I was hanging out in a brothel. The brothel was raided by the police. The police started rounding up all of the women there, me included. I kept thinking, “I’m a minister, not a sex worker.” And then I would think, “I can prove it!” Then I realized that I could not prove it. I had nothing on my person or in my purse that proved that I was a minister. I was handcuffed and taken away. I remember being resigned to this, to not fighting my way out of it, because this is what sex workers face all the time.

When I awoke from the dream, I knew something was different.

Maybe it’s only a tiny shift, but it’s a shift nonetheless.

I have worked, since the inception of Star Light, for viewing sex workers as whole people, as bright and shining women and men, who are powerful agents in their own lives. But in all honesty, when I started this ministry eight years ago, I thought there was a difference between me and the sex workers. I believed I could help. Mind you, it was never a sense that I knew what was right for any woman, never that I knew better than her where her life could go, never that I had all the answers, but it was, perhaps, that I had more experience, more networks, more maturity and could help. Basically, I thought that I was better than sex workers, even if only in degrees.

In my immaturity, I committed the sin of othering, especially when it came time to talk about the ministry I was doing. I talked about the kind of statistics Melissa Farley talks about. I used the “these poor women” tactic, because it was the only one I knew. I shudder now when I think about talking about some of the sermons and teaching I did. I try to imagine myself saying those things in front of the women I work with, and I just can’t imagine it.

I’ve been thinking about a sermon I heard in my preaching class in seminary, by a friend named Kara. The type of sermon we were supposed to be preaching was on a specific social justice issue, and hers was on homosexuality. As a rhetorical device, Kara used a lot of “those people” statements, which were very effective for understanding that “those people” weren’t different from everyone else (by the way, this was a VERY radical view in our seminary, which I shared with Kara). The finale of the sermon came when Kara, this straight, sweet, innocent woman with a lilting voice, exclaimed, “I’m a homosexual!”

I saw myself as “other,” and that is sin.  I am sorry.

I perpetuated that othering through conversations, preaching and teaching. I am sorry.

Ultimately, though, I realize that I didn’t take the role of prophet far enough. I am convinced that the church is replete with well-intentioned people who are committing the sin of othering through their mission endeavors. Church members are concerned with the sin of commercial sex, but, really, it keeps them cozy in their feeling, “I’m better than you.” Failing to understand this, and failing to point this out, put me in collusion with their sin.

And I am sorry.

Towards the end of Jesus’ ministry on earth, he begins explaining to his disciples that he’s going to be killed. Then he says, “I no longer call you servants, because a servant does not know his master’s business. Instead, I have called you friends.”

I don’t resonate with Jesus calling his disciples servants. However, the shift in his understanding of who the disciples were does resonate with me. It’s a shift from “I’m better than you,” to “I’m equal to you and you are equal to me.” It says, “I no longer teach, I learn. I no longer comfort, I am comforted. I no longer lead, but I am lead.” There’s a healthy reciprocity in the relationship. I feel that, and I think my dream on Saturday illustrates it more than anything.

I am grateful for my friends who are sex workers for putting up with me thus far. You have taught me about strength. You have taught me about resilience. But most of all, you have taught me acceptance, the greatest component of love. Thank you.