Über die Autorin bzw. den Autor

Pastor Rudy, urban messenger and co-pastor of St. John's United Methodist Church with his wife Juanita in Downtown Houston, began his ministry with nine existing members in 1992. St. John's has grown to over 9,000 members. 3,000 of these are either currently or formerly homeless. He is also the co-founder of St. John's Academy and Bread of Life, providing a wide range of services to disadvantaged community members.

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TOUCH

Thomas Nelson

Contents

Acknowledgments.........................................................................viiForeword................................................................................ixPart 1 A Touch That Transforms Lives1 Sometimes, It's Messy.................................................................32 Grace with Skin On....................................................................273 He Touched Them.......................................................................514 Through His Eyes......................................................................715 Holy Disgust..........................................................................976 Walk This Way.........................................................................113Part 2 A Touch That Transforms a Church, a Community, and the World7 The Call on Crawford Street...........................................................1378 Keeping It Real.......................................................................1619 Intentionally Different...............................................................18310 It's Worth It........................................................................207Notes...................................................................................219Going Deeper: A Study Guide.............................................................221About the Author........................................................................237How to Begin a Ministry to Homeless People..............................................239How to Lead a Touch Group or Class......................................................243

Chapter One

Whatever makes us feel superior to other people, whatever tempts us to convey a sense of superiority, that is the gravity of our sinful nature, not grace. -Phillip Yancey

He came barreling down the aisle-police in hot pursuit-cradling something shiny under his arm and sweating heavily in jeans, no shirt, no shoes ... wild-eyed and dangerous looking for such a young, skinny man. The guest preacher looked over at me and kept preaching. He was the U.S. ambassador to Tanzania, had traveled extensively, and had vast experience in unique situations. He'd survived the bombing of Tanzania's embassy; we both knew he could handle a little interruption in an eight o'clock church service.

Truth is, despite the big stained-glass windows, vaulted ceiling, and theaterlike stage that clearly indicate "church," we have little interruptions like this about once a quarter at St. John's. Sometimes it's threatening, sometimes comical, sometimes insane, but every "interrupter" looking for sanctuary ... a spiritual shelter. We serve a part of downtown Houston that attracts every segment of society from 150 zip codes-a melting pot of wealthy and powerful, poor and fragile, educated and uneducated, very young and very old, black, white, and brown. For ninety minutes every Sunday, the lines of class distinction disappear and the pews are packed with white-collar professionals, the family next door, the homeless and addicts. And I was looking at an addict.

The wild man jumped on the stage, turned and faced the congregation-the more conservative, traditional, and less reactionary crowd of the day. If this was happening in the ten o'clock service, we'd need the police to pull the crowd off this intruder. I moved from the stage to the front row to get his attention. What is under his arm, I wondered. Is it a gun? I knew the two policemen-armed and in full uniform-were wondering the same thing. Neither had drawn his weapon, but the moment was tense. They hung back as instructed, waiting for my signal, unwilling to make a bigger scene until absolutely necessary. The preacher kept preaching without pause. The young man looked around frantically, curly afro bobbing, breathing hard, but in just moments we made eye contact. I smiled at him, and he smiled back-a big, toothy smile that transformed him from a threat to a need. There's a happy child in there, I thought and motioned to him. "Come on over and sit next to me."

He came over and sat down. The police watched and waited-just like everybody else in the service. I leaned over and asked him, "Man, what are you running from?" His big eyes looked at me in horror, and he said, "Hell." And then I did something I challenge the congregants to do every Sunday-namely, look your neighbors in the eye, then exchange greetings and hugs. I put my arm around his slight frame; he relaxed, and a CD case slipped from under his arm. No gun ... no weapon. Someone brought him a shirt from the back. The preacher called the young man to the stage and prayed for him, and God did something amazing right then-God gave His calming, healing touch. The fear and phobia were gone. The preacher wrapped up his sermon, and I began talking to this young man.

His name was Patrick, he was twenty-five years old, and he'd just escaped from the county psychiatric hospital by jumping the fence. He'd been placed there a day earlier for having a psychotic episode. He'd been smoking marijuana laced with formaldehyde, street name "wet," and he'd been hallucinating. "Wet" is a particularly wicked drug-it opens the user's spirit and brain to terrifying demonic encounters that have a paranoid-schizophrenic appearance. Patrick confirmed he'd had a firsthand encounter with the devil. But while locked up, he remembered hearing St. John's would be a safe place for him. He ran here as fast as he could. He wasn't carrying a gun; he was carrying hope.

And that's what St. John's is all about: a sanctuary, a place of safety and freedom for hurting people to be who they are authentically-whether crazed or sick or sad or lonely or desperate or just in need of loving human touch and a little hope. Sure, this creates some high drama at times. We hire off-duty cops for our congregants' safety. We get interrupted. Members get irritated and ask me when I'm going to "do something about all these ... people." I tell members what I won't do: I won't push these people aside or make them sit in the back or parade them to the front row to make a spectacle of them. What I will do is love them unconditionally, and treat them with grace and dignity.

Congregants at St. John's understand what it is to be poor, to have broken relationships, to lose a loved one to death. We have a common denominator of understanding human suffering. So we might be the only chance for people like Patrick ... people on their own drug-marked odysseys, looking for that warmth and acceptance missing in society. We are missionaries; we simply pose as a church.

The wild young man committed that Sunday to turn his life around. And he has. He started attending services and has a wife and two kids coming with him. Six St. John's men have agreed to call Patrick every week, and his life is starting to take a turn. His recovery has not been perfect, but he desperately wants his life to permanently change. And that's all we-and the Lord-require.

That was the eight o'clock service. When the ten o'clock service began, Patrick was walking out of the church as his father came walking in. They were estranged and hadn't seen...