Lessons From 13 Years Living in Manila's Slums

The following article was recently posted on the Servants website (www.servantsasia.org). It is written by Christian Schneider who is a nurse from Switzerland. He arrived in Manila in the late 1980’s, living in its slum communities for a further 13 years. Here he tells of his battle to try and mobilize middle-class churches to get involved with the lives of the very poor, and of how God worked through him to raise-up a new ministry to Manila’s street youth, called ‘Onesimo’....

A tale of two cities...

Inequality runs like a deep scar through Filipino society. This stark inequality has its roots in a long history of conquest, oppression and colonisation. When the Spanish arrived in the 16th century, they claimed ownership of these lands for their God and King based on the superior power of their muskets and swords. Huge tracts of land were taken out of Filipino hands and distributed among the Spanish gentry.

This dark legacy continues to cast its impoverishing shadow even today, with most of the Philippines still 'owned' by a small group of fabulously wealthy Spanish-descent families, while the vast majority of Filipino's remain landless – and poor. In the Philippines, the elite 20% hold 52% of all wealth, while the bottom 40% of the population subsist on only 14% the nations resources.

One of the most disturbing sights for Westerners visiting Manila is the desperate living conditions that about a third of its 10-16 million strong population struggle to survive in crowded squatter communities along swampy riverbanks, under bridges and flyovers, along the edges of railway lines or even in open dumpsites and cemeteries. Despite frequent evictions, land clearances and periodic ‘beautification’ schemes these hundreds of slum areas and the millions of Filipinos in them cannot be disguised or hidden.

The government officially calls the worst of them “depressed areas” and those marginally better off as “semi depressed”. To an outsider's eyes, the difference between Manila’s rich and poor citizens is so dramatic that it jars the conscience and floods the soul with heart breaking questions. But not so, it seems to me, most Filipinos. For them the everyday sight of the poor massed on their doorstep in their millions has become too familiar to have any more shock value.

In a city like Manila, the gulf between rich and poor is dark and gaping. Yet despite this it can be difficult to make clear demarcations between the very poorest, the relatively poor, and those who are beginning to 'make it'.

At least another third of the city’s population is made up of those living outside the obvious slums, but who have not yet made it into an officially zoned “village”, and certainly not as far as one of the highly privileged and highly guarded “subdivisions” where the wealthy live so well. To call all those living outside the officially depressed areas “middle class” would be inaccurate, since many of them are also struggling to meet their basic daily needs of food, rent, clothing, health, transportation and education. The ghettos and the prejudice…

But people living here certainly draw a clear line between those living inside “depressed areas” and those who reside beyond them. The Filipino themselves have well used labels - you are either “loob”, from inside, or “labas”, from outside of a particularly poor place.

And the names of these slums have over time become synonymous with certain social realities. Names like “Tondo” or “Payatas” are immediately associated with whichever violent gang holds that particular piece of turf, or with the image of criminals lurking in dark alleys. And since many of the “loob” families are squatting on land for which they have no official title, the wealthier “labas” categorise them as outlaws.

What disturbed me most is that I would often find the most indifferent and ignorant attitudes towards the poor amongst Manila’s confessing Christians. I frequently found myself wondering which Bible they were reading, and which city they were living in! How can we live surrounded by poverty and not even see it? How can we study the Bible week after week and not hear what it says? I began to fear for my brothers and sisters that by not recognizing their poor neighbours as their responsibility, and by failing to share the resources God had entrusted to them, they might eventually lose hold of Jesus all together!

The Church and the Blindness…

Quite often I would attend various church services across Metro Manila conducted in English (for this is the preferred language of the educated middle class in the Philippines).

These Evangelical or Pentecostal churches hardly differ in style or content from their counterparts in the West. They meet in beautiful buildings, where skilled musicians enhance a well designed order of service, and where an expensive sound-system and LCD projector are must haves. There are a huge number of these churches. Some services in these mega-churches are attended by hundreds, some even by thousands of believers.

Jesus is worshiped with the same songs found in nearly every other Pentecostal or Evangelical church everywhere else in this globalised world. I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of gospel we have exported from the West, what kind of churches have we planted, what kind of discipleship have we brought? Have we simply been selling franchises in some kind of bland, anaemic ‘McChurch’?

The topics of the sermons are nearly always the same: personal salvation, how not to backslide, how to fight the devil and his temptations, how to live a pure and holy life, how to get others saved, how to become successful in relationships and in business, how to get the maximum blessing out of being a follower of Jesus… the plight of their poor neighbours is seldom mentioned anytime or anywhere. It as if their impoverished brothers and sisters simply do not exist. It is as if the middle class live not only in a totally different city, but in a totally different world, where they never see people literally starving, thousands digging through mountains of garbage, millions ‘living’ in inhuman squalor.

In the spacious homes and ornate churches of the middle class, it seems that the thousands of abandoned children working, begging or stealing to keep themselves alive on the streets are never mentioned.

Victor – a rich young man …

It was in just such a middle class church that I met Victor, a young Filipino businessman in his thirties. Apart from a spell studying in England, he had lived all his life in Manila. Here he grew up in a first class subdivision as the son of a successful medical doctor. When I told him about Servants, and that all our foreign workers, compelled by their faith in Jesus, lived in the slums with the poor, Victor was fascinated. “I have never entered a squatter area in all my life,” he said. “Let me join you for a visit.” And then, after hearing about my ministry among the street youth there, he added “Oh, and I will prepare a bible study for your guys.”

Victor arrived in his fancy car at an American fast food restaurant which has a secure parking lot near the slum area where I lived with my family. I felt really excited showing him around: at last, someone from that affluent church was showing an interest in the lives of their poor neighbours.

Slowly we walked through the dark, crowded alleys of the squatter area. As always it was hot, narrow and noisy. Victor, usually such a chatty fellow, became very quiet. After 15 minutes, we reached the community house of Onesimo where our boys were still having their siesta (an early afternoon nap).

We carefully peeped through the unlocked door and saw about 10 half naked bodies, mostly tattooed, sleeping on the floor like packed sardines. Most were small and skinny but there were some big guys too. It was very hot and more than a little smelly. I suggested to Victor that we go to the chapel next door and wait until the guys were ready.

As we sat on the bench in the chapel, Victor started to softly weep. “Chris”, he said, “I have nothing to say here. I am in the wrong place. I have never seen anything like this.”

As gently as I could, I replied: “Victor, a third of your city live like this, and these young men are believers - they are part of your family!” Despite his initial shell shock, we managed to strike up some good interaction with the guys, and each shared with Victor where they came from, what life was like before Onesimo, and then how they met with Jesus. They finished with a song for their new friend. It sounded terrible but they sang it from their hearts.

When we left the slum and arrived back at his air conditioned car, Victor said, “I will tell my brothers and sisters in my bible-study group about this. I will convince them to come and visit your centre and meet the guys too. They have to see this.”

I must admit that I felt hopeful. Finally, I was playing a part in bridging these two worlds! But sadly, my hope was in vain. I was to be disappointed once more. None of Victor’s friends ever turned up. And when I reminded Victor of his good intentions, the well rehearsed excuses rolled easily off his tongue…

A new charismatic church, and who is going to wash whose feet?

Another smaller and less traditional church caught my attention. It had a new congregation of about 80 young adult Filipinos, most of them professionals. I first met them in a public park where they were preaching the gospel and giving out free fruit drinks to the people passing by. I was impressed with their creativity, and drawn by their beautiful, worshipful singing.

I got to know Williams, their Pastor, who I learnt had a heart for the poor. He was already volunteering in an adult education program for people from depressed areas. This was in fact a program in Tagalog (the Filipino language) which Servants had helped set up. I talked with him about how his young professional congregation could get more involved with the lives of the urban poor. His response was cautious: “You know I have to be very careful with this, and I have to find the right moment. They have to be readied to face such big issues”.

After more than a year, I got a telephone call from Pastor Williams. He said, “Chris, I just feel we need to do something symbolic - an act with enough spiritual impact to break the evil spirit that keeps us from getting involved in ministering to the poor.” “Sure” I replied, “sounds like you‘ve got an idea already, right?” “Yes. Chris, I thought I would handpick 10 guys. We would visit one of your centres in the slums, and wash their feet just as Jesus did with his disciples. What do you think?”

To be honest, I did not feel too comfortable with the idea, but I didn’t want to dampen his enthusiasm. So I replied, “OK, let me first consult with my guys at the Onesimo centres. But I think they should also be agreeable to it.” I spoke with the trainees and leaders of our therapeutic communities, and asked them what they thought about this “symbolic meeting”. To my surprise they actually liked the plan, but added “and we want to wash their feet too!”

I went back to Pastor Williams with our guys’ suggestion. He did not say much. And for some reason, he never did visit us with his 10 handpicked guys.

A bright young upwardly mobile theology student…

One day, we were visited in our squatter house by Conny. She had heard about the Servants workers living among the poor while studying a course called Transformational Theology at her seminary, and had grown curious. This college was only ten minutes walking distance away from the slum where we lived as a family. Conny was in her mid-thirties and was working on her Ph.D. She wanted to know how we were coping with two small kids in such basic living conditions.

After she had asked most of her questions, she suddenly started preaching at us. “You must know”, she explained, “that those people moving from the province into the capital would be better off if they just stayed where they were born and where they were supposed to be - in their provinces, instead of ending up in such dreadful places like this! Why can’t they all stay in their provinces?! There are just too many people in the city. Why did they have to come here in the first place? Really, it’s is all there own fault!”

So I asked her, “What about you? Which province are you from?” “What do you mean?” she asked back, a bit surprised. “…well, we are from Bicol”, she continued, “the city of Legaspi. Our family still owns a big house and some land there.” “Then why are you not staying in Bicol with your family, why are you living here in Manila?” I asked. “Well, it is different you know,” she explained, “our children need a good education, the kind we can only get here in the capital.”

“That’s interesting, Conny” I said - and now it was my turn to preach. “You claim a right for your family and your kids to migrate to Manila, just because you are well off. But what about the poor, and the education of their kids? Why do they have less right to try and improve their lives here in the city?

And what about the poor who come to the Manila unemployed and desperate to save their kids from starving, because there are no longer any fish in their ancestral fishing areas now that the big fishing companies have taken them over and are making huge profits? Or what about those poor whose villages have become unsafe to live in due to the insurgency – the insurgency which is fuelled by the horrible economic inequities and injustices of the Philippines? I can take you and introduce you right now to families here in my neighbourhood who will tell you their stories!

And tell me Conny, what would happen to Manila and all its rich people and its factories if there were no cheap labour from the provinces coming in? Who would fill their need for house-servants, gardeners, drivers, bodyguards, factory workers and the street sweepers? They are my neighbors, living right here in the slums, and you, Conny, need them. But because they are paid so poorly they simply can’t afford nice housing like you have!”

Conny never came back.

Many Churches with Closed doors…

I knocked at the office doors of a number of pastors of big, wealthy Manila churches. I was convinced that as someone living with the poor, it was my duty to advocate and seek a better life for the many orphans in our community. So I approached these churches to ask if they would consider sponsorship for these children, their brothers and sisters, their fellow Filipinos.

I thought it was right that I should speak up on behalf of the voiceless, who themselves would never be able to get past the security guards watching the front gates of these church offices. I was certain this was part of my Christian duty: to lift up the cause of the weak, the poor and the defenceless.

But as l look back, it all seemed to be a waste of time and energy. I did not get a single response that actually turned into long term support for a single orphan. I got plenty of promises, but no results…

In fairness, most pastors would listen to me patiently. But then they would claim that they already had a ‘program for the poor’, and an over-full agenda for their members. They were genuinely convinced that they were doing enough already.

Who am I to judge? One pastor even considered my visit to be very handy, as he was able to dump a few boxes of used clothing on me. Somebody had left the boxes at his office to be passed on to the needy, and they were getting in his way. In that particular church, according to a Filipino friend of mine who worked there, there were fourteen millionaires among its members. And so eventually they promised that they would collect some money for the street kids - next Christmas day…

One Sunday, someone persuaded me to take some friends from our slum to experience one of these rich peoples church services – after all, the poor also enjoy air-conditioned temperatures, soft seats and wonderful worship music!

Afterwards though, my friends told me that they simply felt uncomfortable and out of place. They didn’t have enough English to understanding most of what was said. Actually, I was quite relieved that they hadn’t understood the sermon. It was totally unrelated to their lives.

I was shocked myself by one of the testimonies shared during the service. It was given by an obviously wealthy and prominent woman who shared a convoluted story of how the Lord had blessed her and saved her out of a business crisis. In describing how her business went down, she wept great tears and explained, “I lost absolutely everything, imagine my friends, really everything. I went down to only one car…”

I was so ashamed knowing that my friends struggled everyday just to fill their stomachs, while this Christian lady considered being reduced to one car as having “lost everything”.

A daring minority: Filipino professionals making sacrificial career choices in order to help their poorer neighbours.

What I have written here are reflections from my personal experiences. I am not a theologian or a development expert - I am just a Swiss layman. I am a cultural outsider with a limited, perhaps distorted perspective. Nevertheless, for thirteen years I lived among Manila’s poor, walked with them, loved them, and tried to see life through their eyes. And during those years I visited many middle class churches in the city in an attempt to connect rich and poor Christians, that the whole gospel might be experienced by both sides of the divide.

And with genuine gratefulness, I have to mention the Union Church of Manila, a very wealthy church right in the heart of the country’s main business district. This church regularly supports many good projects among the urban poor, including some involving Servants and Onesimo.

Furthermore, I have been privileged to meet a few young professional Filipino Christians who opted for a more sacrificial way of life. They chose not to strive for promising careers in the corporate world, or move overseas in search of high salaries. Instead, they opted to serve on lower incomes with faith-based development organizations, in order to help and journey with the poor.

Yes, there are Pastors and activists - like the beautifully spoken Melba Maggay – who do raise their voice and use their gifts to fight for the poor. These professionals advocate justice and righteousness in society through their publications, training, free legal aid, counselling, grass root development work and church planting among the poor.

On the roof top of a passenger jeep

In my early years of living with the poor, I dreamed of helping start a movement of churches which would build their dignity by experiencing the transforming power of a relationship with Jesus - and by keeping a safe distance from the rich!

I perceived us, the middle class and the rich, as hopelessly and incurably patronizing and disempowering towards the poor and their communities.

But soon I realized that while Jesus really is the key for any lasting transformation, to liberate the poor ‘as a people group’ was only a sentimental dream of mine. The root of poverty lies not just with ‘the poor’ but also with us, the rich.

The solution to poverty must come from both the poor and the rich. The sharing of money, of know how, of access, of manpower, of values, of connections and means of communication – these are all part of bringing the poor out of their trap, and the rich out of theirs, to a place where both can really meet God!

But it has to happen in the spirit of Jesus, which means journeying together and learning from each other. And this will require mutual respect, understanding, passion and patience.

Such sharing is crucial and brings blessing to both the poor and the rich. The salvation of the poor and the rich are inextricably bound together. I had also learned from the sociologists that, historically, no social movement among the poor ever survived unless a vital connection with the middleclass was nurtured. It was crucial that we should find a way to bridge this gap.

Eventually the help for Onesimo to begin bridging this gap between Filipino social classes came from a place I least expected. And it was not from the church!

During my first year with Servants in Manila I was staying in a relocation area at the northern outskirts of the Capital. It was called “Bagong Silang” meaning ‘new life’ which sounded rather ironic, if not sarcastic, to me.

About 150 000 slum dwellers from the inner city, forced by government troops at gunpoint, were literally dumped at a site without a functioning water system or any electricity. There were no toilets, hardly any trees, and no playgrounds for the kids. There was no resident doctor in the area and hardly any health workers. It all looked to me like a rather poorly organized refugee camp. Like a thick, dark cloud over this shanty town, hung the ever present smell of sickness and death. Every week, small children died in my neighbourhood due to lack of food, clean water or medicine. My heart broke when my own host family, during a weekend I was away, lost a wonderful, seemingly healthy baby boy because of simple diarrhea.

In this place, two years before I joined the team, a Servants couple from Australia started a church, a small kindergarten, a feeding program and a “health clinic”. I found myself in that small “clinic” – nothing more than a plywood shack with some ointments and bandages - as the only ‘professional medic’.

I ended up getting some surgical instruments and treating patients all day, often well beyond what my general nursing skills actually allowed. We would organize transport to the city hospitals for really severe cases. My language study suffered and I got worn out fast - physically and emotionally.

One Sunday I will never forget, a mother brought her dying 8 year old son to church. The starving boy’s body was literally skin and bones. As a congregation, we prayed and cried to the Lord for a miracle. At the end of the prayer time, the mother loudly screamed and wept. The boy had died right there.

A week later, the grieving mother came to church again and told us that it was her dying boy’s request to bring him to church that morning. “He died,” she continued, “while God’s family was praying for him, guiding him to heaven…” This was the testimony of a mother, who found comfort in God’s presence in the midst of her tragedy. But my heart pounded with confusion and my head swum with questions: questions my theology couldn’t address. I found myself badly in need of a more adequate theology of suffering!

My senior missionary colleague and his wife – hardworking founders of the Servant’s ministry in that area, almost lost their sanity during those times. It was so difficult to witness all those children dying around them and not able to do enough to prevent it. The feeling of powerlessness was devastating. Their own unwanted childlessness made matters worse.

I remember my colleague telling me that as the prophet Elisha had done over the dead body of the widow’s only child, he repeatedly did over children in his neighbourhood who had just died. He would stretch out his body over them and breathe on them while praying. But unlike the experience of Elisha, none of those starved children ever came to life again. We cried to God and wept with the family members in utter despair. And many times, with a reading from Scriptures and a prayer, we helped them bury their children since the parents (mostly Roman Catholic) did not have the money to pay for a priest.

But mostly, all we could offer was to stay with them in there grief and desolation. This godly missionary couple eventually burnt out, and left the Philippines after a few years, returning to their home country for good.

After a succession of such physically and emotionally draining experiences, the Servants team advised me strongly to take time off for a holiday. I travelled to a nearby and very beautiful island, and enjoyed some wonderful days at a Philippine beach.

On my way back, I had to take a 3-hour drive on rough roads in order to reach the airport and catch my plane to Manila. The passenger jeep was so crowded (as usual) that I opted for the windy “seat” on the roof, with a fantastic open air view. It was a bit dangerous though! I had to hold firmly to the luggage or to whatever else was available while the jeep skipped across the rough roads.

Next to me I noticed a Filipino guy, just a few years younger than me. When we started talking to each other, my first impression was that he was rich. His name was Harry. He was in his last semester studying law and was also on his way home to Manila. He spoke with a very sophisticated American-English accent.

When I explained to him that I belonged to a group called Servants and that we all stayed in slum areas, he was plunged into disbelief: no westerners would ever live in places like that! But then he shared with me that he was part of a group of young lawyers who gave free legal aid to the poor. And maybe still in disbelief, he asked me for a description of how to get to my slum house.

A few weeks later, he showed up at my place in “Bagong Silang” together with his best friend Joel, who would soon be a lawyer too. I had not believed he would really come, but he did! They drove two hours through the city traffic just to find me. I was very impressed. Out of this “divine meeting” on the roof top of a passenger jeep, many years of friendship developed.

Harry visited our youth camps, climbed with us through tropical forest and mud tracks, and up to high mountain peaks. From firstly just cooking spaghetti for the guys in the drug rehab program at Camp Rock, he eventually became the president of the Onesimo Foundation.

His voluntary contribution in legal matters to Servants and Onesimo have been priceless – enabling us to comply with the complicated procedures in building houses and buying land, in securing organizational permits, standing as defence in the criminal cases of our young clients among the poor, helping us stand against illegal demolition attempts of squatter communities, and much more…

Harry was and still is always available to assist us with his entire law office. Today he is a well known professor at the University of the Philippines, and appears almost weekly on the major TV channels. He married Mylah, a beautiful lady journalist and TV newscaster. They have two great kids.

Over time, Harry gave up smoking and began worshiping in a local church. And I really believe that it was his involvement in the lives of the poor that drew him closer and closer to Jesus.

How Camp Rock came to be…

We came to learn that regular time out is part of good self-care practice, and that we in Servants needed to remind each other of this often. One favourite spot for a retreat was the beaches of Puerto Gallera on the Island of Mindoro. Though only half a day’s trip away from the monstrous mega-city of Manila, you can find yourself in a tropical paradise of almost untouched natural beauty.

But while I was enjoying one such escape, I couldn’t stop thinking of my poor friends from the squatter areas, and how much they would not only enjoy, but really needed a taste of this beauty.

I wondered how the street kids and the youth from the slums would react if they could see a clear blue sky no longer hidden by dark layers of smog; or how they would feel if they could gaze at the endless ocean, sparkling and full of sumptuously coloured fish – such a far cry from the black, oily Bay of Manila that they knew. I wondered if they could get to know their Creator in a new and deeper way if they had the chance to dive into a cool waterfall just a short rainforest walk from this beach. Wouldn’t their hearts want to start trusting a God who had given us such an unspoiled creation to enjoy and to care for! A creation which could provide more than enough for every person on the planet …if its bounty were shared rightly among its population!

It was during one of these times of retreat that my parents in-law from Switzerland joined us at Puerto Gallera. While strolling along the beach one beautiful day, I pointed out to them a big straw-roofed bamboo house built on solid rock which was for sale. “This is for sale,” I said, “and has been for quite a while already. It used to be a Spaghetti House for the tourists run by a Swiss guy.”

Wistfully, I thought out loud “It would be just wonderful to own such a spot for the poor of Manila, so they too could enjoy holidays here just like us.” The response of my parents-in-law was totally unexpected, for I had never thought of them as rich. They said, “Well why don’t you buy it. We will lend you the money!” “Whoa… what an offer,” I thought, “but is this from God? Would such a purchase be compatible with the principles of Servants, such as simplicity?”

A few weeks later, we invited to that beach site in Puerto Gallera, some of our friends who were urban poor leaders. We shared with them our emerging vision of buying this land with the Spaghetti house in order to run youth camps, leadership training and retreats for the folks from the Manila ghettos. There was quite a discussion, much reflection and prayer, and a lot of excitement of course.

At the end of that weekend, our local friends endorsed the vision and committed themselves to supporting it and being part of it. We called the Spaghetti house (including the 800 square meter lot) “Camp Rock,” and entered into the long and tiring process of buying the property - of course with the help of our lawyer friend Harry Roque.

But right away we were able to use the site for a succession of youth camps for the residents Manila’s various slums. How we got scorpions instead of bread… Those camps initially were too crowded. We were hosting over 200 boys and girls at a time. The boys had to sleep in tents at the beach while the girls would enjoy the safety of the old Spaghetti house.

But we soon realized that we were not always making friends on that beach, but by our very presence also provoking irritation and even hostility among some neighbours and local government. Camp Rock is located at a prime spot in a fast developing tourist area. Little wonder that some felt threatened by these urban poor folks crowding the beach.

We soon had to abide with a new local government ordinance prohibiting the use of tents on the site. We carried on despite the restrictions until 1999, when there was a terrible tropical storm. It rained for weeks causing the steep slope behind the main house of Camp Rock to move dangerously.

When some small rocks started to fall down on the house, Regie, our faithful guard and local caretaker, called and urged us to do something. We then took this threat as a signal that it was time to further develop Camp Rock. We planned to make a deep and firm foundation on that steep slope, building an additional big house, parking space and a half court for playing basketball.

We did not have that much money but our original debt was already paid off. And we were learning that we would never lack in financial provision if we would step out in faith to help the poor! But it took us endless trips and meetings with officials, long waiting and many prayers until we finally got all the needed permits through the corrupt and bureaucratic system of local and national government.

The German Embassy in Manila had helped us with an initial amount, and some more money came in from overseas. But we still needed even more funds to get the construction finished.

On the same beach, about 1000 feet away, a very rich family owned three marvellously designed beach houses. The family was Filipino but of Spanish origin. They visited their resort just a few times a year. They would come aboard three helicopters or on their luxury boat. Being a rather chatty neighbour, I befriended their family architect and also got to know their care-taker. The architect showed me around one day, allowing me to even peep inside the beautifully, handcrafted houses. When I shared with him that at Camp Rock we were still in need of donations for our current construction and slope protection, he encouraged me to ask the mother of that rich Spanish family, ‘the Dona’. He told me that that she was a good woman who supports many foundations for the poor and is quite approachable.

So with considerable effort and perseverance I managed to bring a request letter to the personal secretary of ‘the Dona’. Her office was on the 35th floor of one of the most modern high rise building in the heart of Makati, the country’s major business capital. This building is owned by the family. Its grandiosity radiates a sense of power and wealth that almost took my breath away. The same building also hosts the Philippine Stock Exchange!

People say that half of this ritzy business district is owned by this old Spanish clan whose name appears at many street corners. I felt so good about myself after I had passed on the request letter. Even if we could just get a few crumbs off this rich family’s table for Onesimo, it would surely be more than enough! Camp Rock could be finished without any further delay. I still felt good even a few days later when I called the personal secretary to follow up on my letter. “You are lucky”, she said, “Dona is spending a few days in the Philippines”.

But what followed had nothing to do with being lucky: it was more like a terrible nightmare! When Dona read about our request, she hopped into her helicopter and went for a site inspection of the on-going construction at “Camp Rock”. Straight on, without talking to us, she went to visit the Mayor of Puerto Gallera in the local town. There, she placed a complaint against us.

One must know that Dona is the “Queen” of that Island and whenever she complains, even the Mayor starts to tremble…. “Drug addicts and street kids on my beach? No way! This is too much, and besides this new building doesn’t fit the new standards drawn up for this tourist zone!”

It was the first time that the Dona had visited the Mayor in person which made him feel both honoured and terrified at the same time. Without talking to us first, the Mayor had a letter written revoking all permits and licenses regarding Camp Rock and its development. The reason given was that a drug rehab site in that place would jeopardise the development of their tourist program.

It was a Sunday night when I got this letter and I was totally shattered, right down to the core of my bones, fearing that this could be the end of Camp Rock. I did not wait for an opportunity to speak to him in his office, but on that very night I searched out the mayor’s private residence in town.

My heart was beating so hard that I could feel the pulse in my head when I knocked at his door. His son brought me right into the living room. I was already familiar with the mayor’s bully-like face, as his portrait was on posters and streamers all over town following his recent election campaign. “This is a misunderstanding”, I explained after some formal introductions, “we have never planned to run drug rehab at Camp Rock. It is a camp and youth training site only. And of course, once the basic construction is finished we will cover all the concrete with indigenous material like bamboo, rattan and plants.”

The mayor was unimpressed. He just shrugged his shoulders and asked: “Why did you ask the Dona for money in the first place? Don’t you know that she is a big tax payer on this island? And because of this issue, you know, she has visited me personally for the first time!”

All seemed hopeless. But after some time of prayer, I got into a real fighting mood, knowing that at this point we couldn’t fall any deeper.

What then followed was a nerve racking exchange of letters and faxes between the Dona, the mayor and my friend and lawyer Harry Roque. Dona actually faxed me from Hotel Peninsula in New York, defending her position, stating that she is solely concerned with the preservation of the beauty of her place.

Harry, in reaction, exploded in holy anger when he heard my terrible news. “These Spaniards already raped our country for three hundred years, and now they still want to do it…”.

He then placed the story of the “Dona and the unwanted street kids on her beach” with supporting documents at a major daily newspaper and with the national TV channel.

As a last resort, Harry told me, we would put pressure on the Dona and the mayor through the media. Harry at that time was also a congressman’s chief of staff and used this capacity to ask the governor of that island to put in a good word for us with the mayor.

On a follow up visit at the Mayor’s house, I mentioned in passing that the whole story might be released on national TV and newspaper. This upset the mayor, and with raised voice he shot back at me, “Are you threatening me?” “Well,” I replied as calmly as I could, “what other options do we have against a powerful family like that of the Dona’s?!”

The construction of Camp Rock stood still. It took another few weeks of prayer and waiting. Finally, we got a response from the Mayor’s office. It was a letter of agreement that we were asked to sign! It contained nothing that we would not have wanted to do in the first place. We had to agree not to have drug addicts undergoing rehabilitation at Camp Rock, and to put finishing touches on the new building so that it would best fit in with the natural environment.

In terms of bridging the gap, the professional help we received from the “middle class” was crucial in this crisis. One man armed with ‘holy anger’ took on one of the most powerful families in the Philippines. And this, backed by the awesome grace of God, meant overcoming the iron will of a fearsome lady - despite all her billions of dollars.

[Christian and his wife Christine lived with Servants in the slums of Manila for 13 years, while raising their children Isabel and Noel. In response to the tragedy of Manila’s street kid and street drug problem, they began the ministry of Onesimo – a network of therapeutic communities and a youth campsite where many are finding new life. Onesimo draws its name from the Biblical character discussed in the letter to Philemon who escapes slavery and oppression, and in the process finds Christ.]

Mayor To Exempt Faith Groups From Seeking Permits

During my year in Vancouver the government attempted to require churches and other faith groups to apply for a social service permit in order to help the poor. Some good friends of ours at Tenth Avenue Alliance Church were the first to stand up against this policy, stating that providing for the needs of the poor and vulnerable is at the heart of what it means to be Christian. A Christian lawyer who attends Grandview Calvary Baptist Church (which all of us on the Servants Vancouver team attend) offered to help organize and lead a coalition of faith-based groups in an effort to change the governments policy. Below is an article I received today that tells the of Vancouver's mayor's support:

JUSTINE HUNTER
The Globe and Mail
Saturday, March 22, 2008

Religious groups should not have to beg city hall for permission to offer succour to Vancouver's poor, Mayor Sam Sullivan said yesterday.

His comments mark a policy change after a lengthy battle that pitted city hall against a wide array of faith-based organizations.

Mr. Sullivan announced his new position outside Holy Rosary Cathedral, where he attended a Good Friday service. He said he wants to exempt faith organizations from a controversial permit process that threatened charity services aimed at the city's most disadvantaged.

"It seems counterproductive that we would ask the faith communities to take out a permit simply to do good works in the community," he said in an interview yesterday.

The conflict started six months ago, when the Tenth Avenue Alliance Church found itself entangled in bureaucracy over its soup kitchen.

Facing pressure from neighbours upset about homeless people lining up outside the church, city hall ordered the church to take out a "social service use" permit that carried stringent requirements.

It was the first attempt by bureaucrats to regulate soup kitchens and shelters offered by the city's churches, temples, mosques and synagogues, and it sparked outrage among religious leaders who argued the city was interfering with their missions to comfort the poor.

To win approval for a licence, Tenth Avenue church officials were told they would have to hire guards to patrol lineups, and collect identifying information from the homeless who came to them.

An alliance of faith groups - with Christian, Jewish, Muslim and Sikh leadership - organized to support the Tenth Avenue church, warning that their programs for the poor could be threatened next.

Mr. Sullivan said he was shocked to learn of the permit demands."I was taken aback that we would require a permit," he said. "I also understand there are many guidelines and rules put in place to try to negotiate the conflicts between neighbours and I certainly understand the rationale behind it, but in my mind it really doesn't belong in a community where we are focused on doing everything we can to help those in need."

The mayor, who is running for re-election later this year, invited media to hear his response to the issue on the steps of the church. He later described himself as an occasional churchgoer who attends Good Friday services every year at a different church.

Next week he will table a motion, expected to go to city council in April, that would effectively exempt religious-based social services from the city's licence requirements.

The motion would instruct city staff to waive special land use permits for service programs attached to places of worship, other than those required to ensure adequate fire and life safety provisions.

Ken Shigematsu, senior pastor of the Tenth Avenue Alliance Church, could not be reached for comment yesterday but issued a statement applauding Mr. Sullivan's intervention.

"Older than the church itself, there has been a sacred mission to care for the poor. I am grateful that Mayor Sullivan has recognized this fact, that when churches are unencumbered by unnecessary outside regulations, we have the freedom to best serve the whole community," he said.

Excerpts From the Diary of a Homeless Man

Saturday June 23

10:00pm
Starting tomorrow, I’m homeless. What’s even crazier is that I’ll be homeless voluntarily. In April, Craig and I began sensing God calling us to spend 7 days and 7 nights on the streets of Canada’s poorest neighborhood, Vancouver’s Downtown Eastside. At first, I wrestled to discern if I was being motivated by radicalism or love. But after months of prayer, reading the gospels’ accounts of how Jesus modeled mission, and seeking the counsel of the rest of the Servants Vancouver team, Craig and I are convinced.

We are quite excited about what we’ll learn firsthand about the lives of our homeless friends. We’re pretty sure there is no greater way to learn than to experience it ourselves. And of course it will be a fantastic way to make more friends down here, on an equal footing – rather than as service providers.

In essence this next week will be a spiritual retreat. No work! Nothing to do all day except figure out where our next meal is coming from (We’ve decided not to take any money with us).

We also want to do this as a gesture of solidarity with the growing number of people becoming homeless as the city moves with tunnel-vision towards the 2010 Olympics. Basically, inner city low income housing, such as rooming houses, are rapidly being turned into high end condos by speculators and developers, despite written promises by the government that they would protect this low income housing stock and build more. Instead, the number of homeless here has doubled to over 2000 people in the past 3 years and is expected to triple by the Olympics.

Father, teach me to love as You have loved me. I can do nothing apart from You. I am Your child, not a professional missionary. To be honest, I often don’t know how to love my homeless neighbors. Speak to Craig and I this next week. Fill our hearts with Your compassion. A soldier does not ask for ease; to suffer should be expected. I do not anticipate that this next week will be easy; be our Sustainer. Come what may, uphold our joy in You. Your name be praised, Your kingdom come, Your will be done…in our lives…in Vancouver…in Indonesia…on all the earth…as it is in heaven. Amen.

Sunday June 24

11:30pm
Today has been one long, exhausting day. After attending church, we packed up the house, loaded the truck, and moved everything to the new house. Craig and I said goodbye to the rest of the community, and ventured downtown.

At 8:30pm our time being homeless began.

Walking down Hastings St., I spotted people waving a sign on top of a yellow school bus. “Free Food from the Sikh Community” it read. Craig and I snagged a bag comprised of cookies, a wrap, and a bottled water.

We kept walking as we wanted to see more of what nightlife is like in the DTES. Outside the police station we saw a line of people. “Let’s go see what they are getting.” Soup, pastries, and coffee…compliments of the Salvation Army’s mobile kitchen. The volunteers didn’t really talk to any of us; but I’m just happy for something warm on a cold night. Manna from heaven! Two unexpected meals in just two hours.

As I write, we are settling down for the night. We found some clean cardboard on top of a dumpster in Chinatown. It took awhile to decide on a place to sleep for the night. We finally chose a nice park on the edge of Chinatown. I spread out my cardboard under a park light (for safety) on some terraced grass. The park is only two blocks from the hustling nightlife of the DTES, still it seems like an entirely different world. I’m surrounded by high-rise luxury lofts. These residential skyscrapers seem like giants ready to trample on us homeless.

As a young boy, my image of poverty came from that man on TV in the early 1990s who asked for money while being surrounded by orphans in Africa. Poverty happened somewhere far away. Now I know that’s not true. Poverty and wealth typically live right next to each other. For example, the poorest and wealthiest zip code regions in the United States neighbor each other in Birmingham, Alabama. In Los Angeles, multi-million dollar condos border Skid Row, home to thousands of homeless. The same is true here in Vancouver. Two of the city’s most popular tourist destinations (Gastown and Chinatown) hug the Downtown Eastside.

**Mental Note: If a park has lush green grass, assume that’s because there is a sprinkler system! That was a close call! All of a sudden sprinklers started going off. I had enough time to grab my bag, Bible, and journal (Thanks God!)…but the cardboard did not escape the sprinkler’s wrath. That could have been a lot worse. Now we are on benches.

Father, according to Your will, keep us safe, warm, and joyous tonight.

Monday June 25

9:27am
Granting two out of three prayer requests aint too bad. Thank You for keeping us safe and at least longing for joy last night. We were quite cold. I only had one blanket, which could not cover my face and feet at the same time. We were awake most of the night, shivering. We slept in three different parks, all on benches with cold air coming up from below. We had to walk around every few hours to heat our bodies up.

I shivered in Crab Park (by the water) from 5am to 7am when we then went to the Dugout for free coffee and soup. From 7:45-8:30am, we sat on the steps outside the Carnegie Hall community center. I was repeatedly offered rock (cocaine). We went to see if the Listening Post was open (it wasn’t) but two guys invited us into the Aboriginal Front Door for a pastry. Someone there mentioned First United Methodist Church had free blankets, so we went there. They only had three, and there were three of us asking for blankets. Thanks Lord for providing!

Lord I don’t have the strength to last all week in this cold. Uphold us. Continue to keep us safe. Fill my heart with compassion. Help me focus on You and not on the struggles. Anoint me with joy. May I speak of Your goodness with every breath.

10:30am
Lord, I’m so exhausted, sleepy, and cold. I can’t get warm. I can’t last a week on my own strength. What a beautiful position to be in! I know that only You can sustain me through this week. You promised Gideon victory, yet at one point in the battle he and his men were on the verge of fainting due to exhaustion and dehydration. They asked for water, and people refused to give them any. Father, I know following You involves suffering at times. I do not ask for You to pamper us with warm weather and no trials. But please, be our strength.

2:00pm
I’m at the main library. At 11:25, Craig and I had lunch at Harbor Light, a Salvation Army shelter. Then I read/rested in the “T.V.” room at Evelyn’s Center. Everyone in that room just listened to the radio (the TV was not on) while staring at the wall. They don’t let you fall asleep there. You must remain awake.

I’m reading The Perfect Joy of St. Francis. I figure it will be quite applicable this week. I’m realizing that my physical body cannot survive this level of voluntary poverty.

May my joy not dwindle and may I be attentive to where You are at work around me.

6:30pm
Just had dinner. It was the same as lunch. Soup. Come to think of it, that’s what I had for breakfast too. Soup. That was dinner last night also. Four straight meals of soup. The initial joy of “manna” has diminished.

Tuesday June 26

11:14am
Last night, Craig and I played bingo at Evelyn’s Center. What a mind-numbing game! With each of us having nine boards to play on, there was little time for talking. Lord, bring purpose into people’s lives!

We then sat in the TV room until 10:45pm (closing time). We watched CSI and Sopranos. Both shows had graphic drug usage, violence, and prostitution. Lord, these shows glamorize my neighborhood’s addictions and neglect to show the consequences. These are not the shows they need to be showing down here!

At 11pm we went searching for cardboard. In Chinatown we found an unlocked “cardboard only” dumpster. Other than a strong fish smell, the boxes were a good find!

Craig and I made our beds outside an unrented store front. Within ten minutes we were kicked out by a private security guard. You see their patrol cars everywhere. I tried sleeping on the steps of a church, but another hired patrol guard came and said, “Hey buddy, you can’t sleep there!” I bit my tongue because I really wanted to reply, “If I can’t sleep on the steps of a building owned by people who worship a homeless Savior, then where can I sleep?” Instead, Craig and I moseyed back to the cold park benches south of Chinatown.

I was warm when I fell asleep, but I awoke at 1am freezing cold. I shivered and slept off and on until 3:30am. At that point, Craig and I decided it was time to walk around and get some blood circulating. We ended up sitting on the sidewalk outside the bank opposite Carnegie Center. We were too cold to sleep. So we watched the night scene at Carnegie.

Craig’s eyes were swollen from allergies and we both couldn’t take the cold any more. So we walked down Carnegie alley and discovered a 24 hour clinic. Warmth! There were about 40 people attempting to sleep on chairs. Others watched yet another violent, drug-using, prostitution-glamorizing movie. Seems like the wrong medicine for that clinic to be giving to my neighbors.

We stayed there until dawn and then returned to our “cozy” benches. I slept soundly until 9am, and awoke warm and rested! At 9:30am we met Nay, Amy, and the kids at our friend Peter’s café (in the heart of the DTES). It was great to see them.

9:46pm
We had lunch at Union Gospel Mission. Manna again. I then read/slept in Oppenheimer park until 3pm. Before lying down on the park grass, one is wise to check for syringe needles and seagull crap. I was so tired I could barely read. I decided a new location might help, so I trekked to Vancouver’s main library. Read and checked emails. Told my Mom I’m alive, cold, but full of joy.

Craig and I met up for dinner, but our referral sheet had the wrong time. No dinner tonight. I wish I hadn’t thrown out that wrap from the Sikhs. I’m currently sitting in the Carnegie Center until they close at 11pm.

Help us to find a place to sleep tonight! As You see best, keep us warm, safe, dry, and rested. Give Nay and Amy energy to love on the kids. Only You will get us through this week. Teach me; may I be filled with compassion. I want to preach and model Your love like St. Francis.

Welfare Wednesday tomorrow. I’ve heard it will be like Mardi Gras in the DTES.

Wednesday June 27

3:45pm
Yesterday we heard it was going to rain at night, so Craig and I settled down under a bridge in a skatepark. The park’s sign said “everyone welcome” and that the park is always open. We figured no one would come skating at 11:30pm. We were wrong. No sooner had we dumpster dived at a construction site (found some great padded insulation) and made our beds than four skaters and a BMX biker appeared. We felt bad as we were sleeping under one of the best ramps.

After moving off to the side, we noticed a young man searching for half-used smokes. This is a common sight in the DTES, people scraping for drug residue in sidewalk cracks or picking up half-used cigarettes. The young man came over and asked if he could join us. Lex began to tell us his story. His body twitched as it fought its craving for crack. Lex had been clean for two days. Though, he shared with us that he didn’t think he would be strong enough to overcome the temptation to buy crack once he received his welfare check tomorrow. Lex also warned us to be careful in the DTES tomorrow (Welfare Wednesday). He said lots of people get mugged and have their money stolen.

We all talked until 1am when a private security guard told us to move. “But the sign says everyone is welcome, sir” I mentioned. “Everyone with a skateboard” he jeered back. “Where are we allowed to sleep?” asked Lex. Mocking the guard snickered, “In a house, duh!”

“In a house, duh!”? So being homeless is illegal. The amount welfare provides for housing is only enough to rent a tiny, one-room SRO (Single Room Occupancy hotel). There are no cooking facilities, and you share a bathroom with everyone else on the floor. It’s safer to sleep on the streets. Less violence, rape, cockroaches, and rats. The SROs are almost all run by slumlords who refuse to fix their dilapidated buildings.

“In a house, duh!”? With all the speculation surrounding Vancouver’s 2010 Olympics, the housing market is booming. The average house in Vancouver increased 24% in value last year. I don’t know of a single house in the Downtown Eastside that, despite its age, small size, and run-down state, is selling for less than a million dollars.

“In a house, duh!”? Just like in the States, people in Vancouver love to talk about minimum wage. Why not talk about a livable wage? A livable wage is the hourly amount required to have all your basic needs met when working a fulltime job. For example, in California minimum wage is set at $6.75 an hour. Yet, a livable wage for Los Angeles is estimated at $17 an hour. For Philadelphia, minimum wage is $6.25 yet a livable wage is estimated at $14.75 per hour. Any minimum wage that is below a livable wage is unjust. What’s more, as our friend Dave asks his students, where is all the talk about establishing a maximum wage?

Lex showed us a quiet spot on the dock by Science World. In three years, Olympic Village will be standing where we slept. But for last night, all was peaceful. I think the cold will be a permanent guest each night this week. Tonight it is suppose to rain again.

Rain. It’s a minor inconvenience for those with houses, but for those of us on the streets, it’s a catastrophe.

Had lunch at Union Gospel Mission (UGM). For once, no soup! Hallelujah. I lined up outside the building fairly early. There was only one other guy waiting. I struck up a conversation with him, and he quickly began to share his story:

Matt has been homeless for one week. He is not using any alcohol or drugs to dull the pain of having his dignity crushed. Though a Canadian citizen, Matt had been living in Alaska for the past three years. Unfortunately, he did not realize that his visa had expired. Matt was deported last Friday.

With $20 in his pocket, no identification, and no belongings, he somehow managed to hitchhike to Vancouver. He’s been sleeping at UGM, while working with the welfare office to get some money to rent an SRO room and have new identification cards made so that he can apply for work. Matt graduated from college with a degree in graphic arts. He confessed that six years ago he spent six months addicted to crack cocaine. I invited him to my birthday party tomorrow.

Father, help Matt to get back on his feet. May he get out of the DTES. Don’t allow him to be lured back to cocaine, like a dog to its own vomit (Pr. 26:11). Remind him of my party tomorrow so that he can experience the love of a Christian community.

Thursday June 28

3:16pm
Craig and I slept south of Science World last night. We had to walk over a mile to find a place out of the rain. Despite the precipitation, the temperature remained fairly warm through the night. I slept soundly until the sun woke us up at 5:30am. I hate to brag, but I had the most luxurious bed to sleep on last night! Craig and I spotted one-inch think sheets of Styrofoam yesterday evening. Padding and insulation all in one!

For my birthday breakfast I enjoyed a nice cup of burning hot soup, some liquid substance they called coffee, and stale bread.

At 9:30am I walked to First United Methodist Church for coffee and day-old pastries. I ended up having a great conversation with an adamant atheist. What started out as three older men (Loren, John, and William) trying to draw me in to their endless philosophical debates, transitioned to John venting his anger towards Christians on me. John had some very sound reasons for being frustrated by the Christianity he witnesses almost every day in the Downtown Eastside.

“I’m sick of seeing Christians come down here all smiley and happy, singing songs on street corners, handing out a few hotdogs, telling us we can be saved from an eternal hell, and then driving home. You Christians need to wake up to reality. My neighbors are dying down here, yet you all simply view my neighborhood as your next short-term missions project. Come for a week, feel good about yourselves, and go home. You’re nothing but monsters. Vampires who drain people of their life-giving dignity so that your pride can increase. You always have to be the providers…reminding us that we are helpless recipients. You never come to us as equals, as friends. But that’s probably because it takes time to build friendships, but my neighbors are only worth a day, or at most a week, of your time. You Christians don’t know what it means to love in practical ways until it hurts.”

Sometimes God chooses to color outside of the box. If He could use Jethro, a leader of another religion, to counsel Moses, then I suspect God can use an angry atheist to speak prophetically to the Western church. Will we have ears to hear?

After John and I finished chatting, I had one hour to get ready for my birthday party. I had heard a rumor that there were free showers and razors at Evelyn’s Center. I played a couple games of pool (lost both) while waiting my turn for a shower room. By the time my number was called, I had just enough time to wash my hair in the sink and scrape off a week’s worth of facial hair with a cheap disposable razor. Then I was off to meet up with Craig, Nay, Amy, and the kids at Peter’s café. As I walked to the café, I prayed that God would remind some of my neighbors I invited to come.

The party ended up being a great time. Amy and the kids baked a cake for me and put lots of thought into creating a birthday card. What made the party extra special is that Matt and Stan remembered to come. Stan even brought a card and gift. Matt arrived fairly depressed as he had his welfare money stolen from him while he slept yesterday. It was great to see him smiling and laughing by the end of the party.

Father, draw Matt to You; transform His life. Provide for Matt’s needs. Thank You for reminding me of how transformative it is when we welcome people into a loving Christian community as family.

Friday June 29

8:10 pm
Last night, Craig and I walked a good mile before we found cardboard. Still, You provided! During the night, it poured for a few hours. There is nothing like waking up to cold rain upon your face. Thankfully, we were able to get out of the rain before we were soaked. Still, I’m sure many of my homeless neighbors were not as lucky.

In the monotony of being homeless, food is the one thing I have looked forward to each day. It structures much of your day. To be honest, I have eaten so much this week. Free food is abundant in the Downtown Eastside.
• 7:30am Go to the Dugout for soup, coffee, and a stale bun.
• 8:30am First United Methodist Church for soup and coffee.
• 9:30am First United Methodist Church for more coffee, sandwiches, and donuts.
• 11:00am Harbor Light for soup, bread, and cake. No drink provided.
• 12:00pm Union Gospel Mission. Sometimes soup, sometimes real food! Coffee, and cake.
• 12:30pm Oppenheimer Park staff provide a meal.
• 1:00pm Mission Possible for soup and dessert pastries.
• 3:00pm Franciscan Sisters for two sandwiches and soup.
• 5:00pm Harbor Light. Soup, bread, and cake. Again, no drink provided.
• 7:00pm Union Gospel Mission. Sermon followed by real food, coffee, and cake. Best food in the Downtown Eastside.

Of course, this doesn’t include the almost daily handouts from religious groups that drive in for a few hours. Their surprise arrival breaks up our monotonous daily schedule and provides relief from the never ending soup, bad coffee, and day-old donuts. Still, I wish these groups knew that my homeless neighbors are not starving for food; they are starving for friendships. The loneliness I see down here is the worst form of poverty.

Saturday June 30

7:46 am
We slept on the ramp of Evelyn’s Center last night. It’s a popular place amongst the homeless to sleep. Thankfully, there was room for Craig and I to join the regulars. I only slept an hour or two, as the cold kept me awake. It was a cold that makes your bones ache.

Although, by the time the sun dawned, my bladder was also aching. For some reason, the city of Vancouver does not open the public bathrooms on weekends. After searching over an hour for an open restroom, I ran into Matt who was attempting the same. We finally walked about a mile to the Pacific Center train station.

After emptying my bladder, I decided to stay here in the train station in hopes of getting warm. However, I just watched a security guard walk in to the train station’s McDonalds and tackle a homeless man to the ground who was standing in line to order. I better leave before I’m next.

Sunday 7-1-2007

8:00 am
We slept on the ramp at Evelyn’s Center again. Matt joined us, as you can only stay at Union Gospel Mission five nights in a row. He had no blanket, so we gave him one of ours. Again, it was quite a cold night. We all barely slept.

I awoke at 6:30 am to find Craig and Matt gone. Matt had placed his blanket over my feet. Since we finish up our time on the streets today I gave a blanket to some guys who had just arrived to sleep for a few hours. As I walked to find a bathroom, I passed Craig asleep on a bench. He had given both his blankets away, so I put my second blanket on him.


Father, thank You for guiding our time this week. Thank You for strengthening us to endure. I finish this week full of questions. Continue to be my master teacher. Oh how I long to see Your kingdom spread here in Vancouver, throughout Indonesia, and to the ends of the earth. Send forth more laborers!

12:00 pm
Before picking up our bikes and riding home, Craig and I went to a church in the Downtown Eastside. The congregation’s average age was probably sixty years old, and I saw no kids. Like most of the churches in the Downtown Eastside, as the neighborhood changed, the congregations moved elsewhere. Now, those that continue to attend commute in each week.

The vicar asked his congregation, “Since Jesus was homeless, what does that mean for us who seek to follow Him?” After the service, another vicar invited Craig and I to stay for some refreshments. As I got in line for the food, a lady turned to me and condescendingly remarked, “Young man, it is very rude to be dressed like that in church. You should have at least taken your hat off at the altar.”

I wanted to blurt back, “I’m sorry, I must have forgotten to remove my hat as I was too busy confessing my sins,” but I knew my reaction was not motivated by love. Instead, I forced a smile, apologized, picked up my bag and left.

As I descended the church’s steps, I laughed in order to hold back the tears. I am like this church. I hear the call to die to myself and love my neighbor as Jesus loved me. Yet, as much as I long to follow this homeless Jesus, my flesh is always beckoning me in a different direction. The vicar’s question and the woman’s comment; my longing to love the poor and my innate tendency to instead only love myself. Yes, this church reminds me of myself.

Thank You Lord for so patiently molding me into Your image. I mess up often, yet You continue to hold and shape me in Your caring hands. Thank You for not giving up on me. Thank You for not giving up on us, Your church.