Raven Thursday Night Team October 2011
It’s interesting…The way we can embark on an experience with one kind of mindset, only to have it altered in the end. That’s pretty much the way Thursday’s Raven Team outreach was for me. As I hastened to end one part of the day I’m sure my brain had not had enough time to adequatelyEdit project some imaginary picture of how the evening might unfold. Things began rather pleasantly and ended as pleasantly, but my eyes saw differently at the end of the night than they did at the onset of the evening.
From the Theater to the Shelter
I had arrived at the jumping off point for one of Times Square Church home missions–the Raven Team–at the end of a long work day. Raven meets during the week in the hind quarters of the Mark Hellinger Theatre, which houses TSC. The atmosphere was friendly and relaxed as the team members caught up with each other and preparations were made for the night’s venture.–A night that would apparently involve a sort of dinner theater. The scent of homemade soup hung in the air as lines from Jesus’ story of a rebellious, prodigal son met my ears from time to time.
Our time of prayer was short and to the point, and before the long, crates and baskets of food were loaded into the vans along with the volunteers. I’m not sure what I might have expected. I had visited a homeless shelter perhaps once prior to this night. Though the visit was not an unpleasant one, it had failed to bring about a second or third visit. I suppose I simply expected the usual song singing and testimony sharing, but I must confess that I expected nothing beyond what was unusual.
The Hotel Barbour sits just south of 42nd Street. A stone’s throw away from the lights and busy hotels of Times Square. It houses homeless men living with HIV. Arriving there only took a few minutes. After unloading the vans we found ourselves in a small room on the top floor of the Barbour. There were just a few men who were quietly watching a television program. I looked around the room. There was a small kitchen area with a stove that had likely seen better days. Chairs were stacked against the wall in anticipation of a larger gathering. The entire room had a sort of dingy quality to itself. Perhaps the best thing about it was the large television which stood tall in one corner of the room. To this television was the focus of the men applied, except for one man who muttered derisive things aloud for much of the evening.
Life Stories
It’s difficult to explain how getting up in front of people and talking about your own life can make a difference in theirs. It’s difficult to believe that your own story can penetrate the hard exterior of a person calloused by life itself. One by one Raven volunteers shared their lives with the men gathered in that small room. One woman’s tale of struggling with drug addiction as a mother and a church goer. A young man who knew what it was like for addiction to destroy everything of value and leave you sleeping in a cold subway car in the dead of winter. I could hear some of the men respond faintly at the stories of these people who bore no resemblance to their past selves. ”I know the power of God,” says the young man dynamically. ”At one time I was in bondage and captivity.”
Dinner Conversations
As dinner was served everyone joined themselves to a conversation. I myself expected to sit and observe with pen in hand, but that was not to be. I quickly found myself in conversation with one man who asked that I pray for his daughter. He proceeded to give an account of the tragedies of his life, speaking with an almost incomprehensible voice that wobbled as he went along. Somehow I managed to make out some part of what he was trying to communicate. I learned that alcoholism had corroded his voice. His daughter had been taken away from him, his son was shot to death. He cried as he spoke. His tears fell on a face that bore the strain of alcohol and illness. It’s odd to think that all of these men were at one point in time–someone’s baby, and then think of their lives now.
When I left the Barbour that night I began to make my usual quick strides toward 42nd Street. Something felt different. I looked back on the street that I was leaving behind me..I looked in the direction of the Barbour. I thought of the brown and tan walls and the dingy looking “upper room”. Husbands, fathers, sons and brothers housed withing its walls with perhaps no one knowing that they are even there. Had I ever known that they existed? But now I know that they are there.