The Church That Died to Service
My agnostic friend walked in. He asked to share my booth. I motioned him to sit down, even though I knew what was coming. He delighted in challenging my profession, my faith, and the church in particular. I’ve never been able to completely determine how much is to goad me and how much is genuine searching.
The conversation porceeded for a while with the usual jibes. And then he challenged me. “Tell me one church that ever acted like Jesus.”
“Okay,” said I, “but let’s make this interesting. Let’s make a bet. I’ll tell you a story about a congregation. At the end of the story, if you can honestly tell me this church didn’t act like Christ, I’ll take you out drinking and pay for all the beer. But,” I cautioned, “if you agree the church is like Christ, you’ll do two things. First, you’ll attend the church of your choice next Sunday, and bring me the bulletin signed by the pastor to prove you went. And, secondly, you’ll make a contribution to the church you’re convinced acted as Christ would.”
“Oh, this is going to be good,” he said. "Do you know someone who can be the designated driver?"
“Let’s get some more coffee,” I suggested. “You’re going to love this story – by the way, to you have appropriate clothes to wear to church?”
“Yeah, well, you haven’t won the bet yet.”
The coffee came. I took a sip. I began my story.
I was born in 1941. The first decade of my life was lived at my grandparent’s home. It was located on McLendon Avenue in Atlanta. If you stood on my grandmother’s front porch you were at the bottom of a triangle of streets. The sides of the triangle were formed by Ivy Place and Connecticut Avenue. And right in the center of the triangle, elevated on the hill the triangle formed, was this large white house. The back of the white house always caught my attention, as that's what I saw from Mama's porch.
I remember that house occupying my fascination in the early years. World War II was going strong. My uncle was a prisoner of war in Germany. I realize now I must have picked up on my grandparent’s anguish. I transfered that to the white house on the hill. In my young mind it was a place where Germans were hiding, waiting to wreck havoc on us all.
My grandfather bought me a wooden machine gun. It sat on a tripod and had a small crank that turned a sprocket which flicked across a piece of tin making a noise close enough to bullets being fired to convince me. I’d set up my machine gun in the shrubbery fronting Mama’s porch. I’d crouch down and shot at the German’s occupying the large white house on the hill. There’s no telling how long I did this. My memory whispers it was almost every day. And, then, the fateful day came. I guess I was leaning on the machine gun too hard. One of the tripod legs broke. I ran to my grandfather screaming that the Germans were shooting back. I don’t know how long it took him to convince me I was safe.
Maybe it was that experience that kept me focused throughout my life on the white house high on the elevated triangle across the street from my grandparent’s house. Through the years I watched that house every day I visited there.
Now, there was another thing going on in that intown neighborhood of Atlanta. There was a fellow up the street from us named Joe Coppage. Mama and Aunt Virginia, who lived next door, would tell me, “Now, don’t you bother Joe. He’s not right in the head, but he won’t hurt you.”
He didn’t. I remember riding on the trolley with Joe occupying the seat next to me. I remember sitting on the curb talking with Joe, while both of us whittled on a stick. Joe must have been in his mid-twenties then. Mama and Virginia were right, though. Joe wouldn’t hurt anyone.
When my mother remarried, we moved away. Whenever I’d come back I’d look up at the large white house on the hill formed by the triangle. The older I got the more confident I became the German’s had left.
I never knew who lived in that house. But one day I noticed a change. A sign was erected at the corner of McLendon. It read: Clifton Presbyterian Church. By this time I was a minister and I was grateful the house that had provided me so much consternation was now a place where folks found comfort. Little did I know it would become the only congregation I would ever know where the corporate body acted as Christ did.
I paused, “You want some more coffee?” I asked. “How about a piece of pie?” He nodded. I called the server and ordered. And then I continued:
While I was growing into a man, Joe Coppage was growing deeper and deeper into his mental illness. I always thought Joe lived at a particular house on McLendon. I don’t know if my memory fails me, or if, perhaps, his family died. But over the years, as I was establishing myself, Joe was more and more losing himself. Joe was homeless.
I have no idea where Joe hung out. I didn’t live in the neighborhood. I only visited. But this I know. Somehow Joe found his way to a church service at the Clifton Presbyterian Church. And I know he was not frowned on. I guess everyone knew who he was, had seen him wandering the streets of the neighborhood. He was made welcome. And he came back Sunday after Sunday.
Did Joe say something to folks one day? Did people see Joe sitting in the pews and suddenly hear echoing in their brains, “Inasmuch as you have done it to the least of these …” Whatever happened, one day in 1979 the congregation of that church decided Joe should have a place to lay his head at night.
The people of the Clifton Presbyterian Church got rid of their pews. They brought in chairs on which they could sit during Sunday’s service. And since the pews were gone, since the chairs could be moved out of the sanctuary, since cots could be moved in, the Clifton Presbyterian Church’s Night Hospitality ministry was begun. And Joe Coppage had a place to sleep and a place to bathe. More than that Joe had a place to eat, to eat good food, nutritious food.
Joe must have told his friends down at the park, where the homeless gather to mumble together and sometimes share food and beer. He must have told them. How else would the word have gotten around? It did. Soon there were thirty men in the church sanctuary every night. The cots were arranged in rows; beside each was a storage bin in which they could store their “stuff.” And all, if they were sober and obeyed the rules, were home.
The Clifton Presbyterian Church continued to worship God on Sunday morning. Now, the place was packed, however. The members combined with the residents of Night Hospitality provided a crowd. I wish I could have heard the singing.
It wasn’t enough. Men shouldn’t be homeless forever. The congregation of Clifton Presbyterian had a better vision. These men should get counseling. They should get training. They should be transitioned back to productive lives.
A triplex went up for sale on Ivy Place, across from the parking lot. The church bought it; they remodeled it; they turned it into a transitional housing building for men who were finding their lives again. I don’t know when Joe died. But I do know it was the reality of Joe that brought this church to its epiphany. And it was for that reason the triplex building was named “Joe’s Place.”
Since then a long line of men have entered Joe’s Place, obtained jobs, counseled with the social workers, and transitioned themselves back into a productive life. Some of those men are now the counselors that assist other homeless people on their journey back to reality.
The ministry grew. How strange that as the turning of the century approached, the ministry had overshadowed the church. It had become more important. The cots are no longer folded up on Sunday mornings; the chairs are no longer brought in. Instead, the members of the church disbanded their congregation and scattered to the neighboring congregations. But they still contribute. They still underwrite the work of Night Hospitality and Joe’s Place.
The Clifton Presbyterian Church died. But it rose again as Clifton Sanctuary Ministries. And today it provides more help than ever to the homeless men of Atlanta. It’s not located downtown; it’s not in some isolated place. It’s in a middle-class Atlanta intown neighborhood. And it’s accepted with pride by of the neighbors who support the ministry and claim Joe's Place as their own.
Not everyone, apparently, is happy with this ministry. A few years ago on a July night, as the residents of Night Hospitality slept contentedly on their cots someone set fire to the Clifton church. Fortunately, the fire was discovered quickly. But enough damage was done the residents had to be moved to other facilities. The Epworth United Methodist Church and the Druid Hills Presbyterian Church sheltered the men. Three nights later the arsonist returned. This time no one was there to discover the fire. Significant damage was done.
But the folks that once were a congregation that became a ministry, said their prayers and broke out their pocket books. Clifton Sanctuary Ministries is going strong again.
I signaled the server for one more cup of coffee. I looked at my skeptic friend and said, “Yes, I know one church that has acted like Christ. I know a place where Joe Coppage was called a friend, was given a coat, and meals, and a place to lay his head. I know a place that’s still providing the less fortunate with provision to become the children of God they were intended to be. It’s a church that died to service. It’s where my friend Joe found a home.”
He stared at me a minute. He drank the rest of his coffee. He picked up the check and pulled his wallet from his pocket. He put a twenty on top of the check. He handed me a hundred and said, “Shit! Send this to them. I’ll mail the bulletin to you.”
And now I’m sitting here remembering riding the trolley with Joe and sitting on the curb whittling sticks together. I’m sending the hundred in tomorrow’s mail. And I'm having a moment of thanksgiving.
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