Matthew 25:34-40; Luke 15:3-6; Matthew 11:28-30
They took us to the alley–and the doorways and the park bench and the late-night restrooms. Garrett and Leigh–one homeless, one recently housed, both on the staff of common cathedral’s City Reach youth weekend.
I have attended the overnight twice, each time with a confirmation class. Garrett took Jacob and Olivia Sorensen and me on a night-time tour of downtown Boston. He showed us the doorway where he sleeps at night. We greeted a few of his pals who had settled in with their sleeping bags. He described how he and his friends watch out for each other. He told us that he sometimes accepts money from passersby, but is reluctant to ask for it: they might need it, he said, for their own families. After the tour, we joined other youth and their guides on the Boston Common, where we prayed and sang Kumbaya. Someone’s praying, Lord, someone’s sleeping Lord, someone’s crying, Lord, come by here.
Our daytime guide was Leigh, who had been homeless for 27 years before getting his apartment. He took Derek Carl, Olivia, Laura Litman and me on a walk to give out sandwiches and clean socks. We found a man sitting on a milk crate in an alley. Derek gave him a sandwich. On the way back, we passed him again. Leigh put 50 cents in the man’s cup. “He needs it more than I do.”
Garrett and Leigh took us to the alley. They showed us the pain, otherwise hidden from our view. They showed us the community, no longer hidden to us, that offers healing and hope.
“Take me to the alley.” I first heard this song by Gregory Porter at Open Spirit’s Weekend of Spirit concert, “Deep Calls Out to Deep,” featuring the Willie, Zoe, Doug and Erez. I remember saying to them after the concert, “Someday I want you all to sing that in our sanctuary.” I had no idea, of course, how dramatically we would be re-defining sanctuary. When Willie offered music from Old South Church’s Jazz Coffeehouse for use in our zoom worship, I immediately asked for this song. I remembered it as a gloriously tender piece that points us to God’s deep love–God’s deep treasuring– of the people society dismisses as unimportant.
The song is clearly inspired by the gospel–but not just a single text. We hear echoes of Matthew 25’s call to see Christ in the people the world defines as the least among us. We hear Jesus’ gentle promise of rest for those who are weary. We hear the good shepherd seeking out the lost sheep.
Gregory Porter identifies two sources of inspiration, beyond the gospel, for this song. When he was growing up, his mother was a preacher at a Church of God in Christ storefront congregation in Rome, Georgia, near Atlanta. He remembers her going out to distribute sandwiches to homeless people in the neighborhood. And he wrote this song at the time of Pope Francis’ visit to New York City. Three spiritual leaders inspired Porter’s creativity: Jesus, the pope, and his mother.
The song begins with a hint of a rebuke: “Well, they gild their houses in preparation for the king, and they line the sidewalks with every sort of shiny thing.” Oh, how they–how we–misunderstand this king, who is not impressed by the things we assume matter to kings, who turns the very notion of kingship upside down. This king–or perhaps this teacher who points us to the holy–is not the slightest bit interested in the gold covering our houses or the jewels glittering on our sidewalks.
The opening lines lead me to expect words of judgment about how quickly we lose sight of what matters: “you know what I ask of you, to love your neighbor, and you come to me with gold?” But this king–this teacher–teacher has a different purpose for the visit. The judgment becomes an invitation: come see the world as I see it, as God sees it. “Take me to the alley.” Then the song shifts from rebuke to promise, from challenge to comfort. “Let them hear me say, ‘I am your friend. Come to my table. Rest here in my garden. You will find a pardon.’” The afflicted ones, the lonely ones, the weary ones are offered food and beauty and rest. The ones who have been seduced by shiny things are called to come bear witness to a different way.
My memories of City Reach shape the way I hear the song’s words of comfort. It’s not,“Let me whisk you away to my palace with its manicured rose gardens where you can rest without a care.” Instead, it’s “Rest here in my garden.” The garden–God’s garden– is right there–right here–in the alley. God’s garden is the tough flowers that break through the pavement, bringing color and beauty amidst the shadows. God’s garden is the hope that blossoms when people sleeping on the street watch out for each other and put coins in each other’s cups. God’s garden is a community of people who care for each other even in the face of their own struggles. God sets a table right there in the alleyway and invites all who are lost and lonely and struggling to sit. Maybe the meal is a feast; maybe it’s peanut butter and jelly sandwiches, served by a youth group.
The final words of comfort, “You will find a pardon,” leave me wondering who the teacher is speaking to. Who in this song is in need of a pardon? Who has lost their way? I wonder if that line is addressed to the ones with the gilded houses who wasted their energy putting jewels in the sidewalk, the ones who have lost sight of what is important. Come, the teacher says, leave your shiny houses and shimmering sidewalks. Let go of the illusion that they can fill your emptiness. Open your eyes to beauty you never before noticed. Sit and eat with the people you secretly thought were beneath you. Get down on your knees, dig your hands into the compost, and help tend this alley-way garden.
The word “repent” means “to turn around.” Perhaps the pardon in this song comes as the lost ones repent, as they turn away from shiny things and the power that comes with them, as they turn toward a new vision of shared community.
I’m intrigued by the metaphor of a garden in the alley–God’s garden, a garden for all God’s people. It’s a thought-provoking image in this time when we have both an urgent need and an exciting opportunity to rethink how we care for one another as a society. What would it mean for all of us to come together to create God’s garden in the alley? For the ones coming from the gilded houses, it would take tremendous humility–resisting the temptation to pick the pretty flowers and put them on display back in the shiny houses, or to swoop in and design the garden in their own image. It might mean digging up some of the diamonds in the sidewalk and selling them to help support a garden someone else designs. For the ones already gardening in the alley it will take time to build trust and to claim the wisdom they have that has not been acknowledged. For everyone, it will take listening deeply, openness to new expressions of beauty, honoring each other’s creative gifts, being willing to get dirty, accepting that we can plant seeds but we can’t make them grow on our own timeline.
As I was making notes for this sermon, I wrote down the question, “Who are you in this song?” I crossed it out. The last thing we need to do in these complicated times is pretend we are not complicated people. It’s not helpful to put ourselves or anyone else in a box. In place of that one question, I ended up with three:
In what ways do you identify with the ones in the song who gild their houses and line their sidewalks with shiny things? Most of us are vulnerable to being seduced by that which cannot satisfy. For some, it really is the shiny things that pull at us. For others, it is comfort and familiarity, the illusion of being in control, the desire to be considered important. Jesus calls us away from whatever it is that distracts us, and calls us toward the alley, where we can care for our neighbors, where we can help plant a new kind of garden.
How do you identify with the ones Porter calls “afflicted?” What is the pain you bear? Perhaps it is physical pain or a frightening diagnosis, addiction or mental health challenges. Or maybe your life is constrained by the impact of trauma. It may come from the ways our culture has taught that you are of less value–because of the color of your skin, the accent of your words, your gender identity or sexual orientation, or your physical abilities. Or from the stress of not being able to make ends meet.
Finally: How are you one of the lonely ones? Some of us, especially in this time of physical distancing, find ourselves alone, and struggle with not getting the human contact we need. Some who live in tight quarters have less time alone than we used to. Most of us know what it is like to feel lonely, to fear no one really understands us, or would love us if they did.
We are the sidewalk-jewel-liners, easily seduced away from what matters. We are the afflicted ones, in need of healing. We are the lonely ones, longing to be fully known and fully loved. We are lost, seeking a new way. The words of challenge and comfort in this song are meant for us. The word of challenge and comfort in the gospels are meant for us.
Can you hear the words Jesus is speaking to you? Take me to the alley. Come to my table. Rest here in my garden. You will have a pardon. Thanks be to God. Amen.