by Violet Cucciniello Little

When my husband, Willie, and I moved into our first apartment, a friend gave us a Shaker plaque that read, "It is around the table that friends best perceive the warmth of being together." Not everyone would agree with these words that hung for decades over our dining room table.

I heard a story once about a wealthy landowner in France who, for more than 60 years, three times a day, dined from an open bureau drawer. He did this so that if an unexpected guest arrived, he could quickly slam that drawer shut to avoid sharing his food.

That is very different from how I grew up. Though we were one of the poorer families on our street, we probably had one of the largest kitchen tables. I say kitchen table because there was no dining room in any of the small apartments on Mulberry Street in New York’s Lower East Side.

Our table had a grey and white Formica top trimmed in stainless steel. The leather studded chairs that originally came with the set wore out, punctured and scratched as the number of children in my family rose to five. But the table was constant, not only centered in the kitchen but centered in our life together. When there were more people gathered than our kitchen could hold, my father simply dragged that table into the living room and added chairs.

Alice
I come from a family of feeders. So maybe that’s why it was so hard to get Alice out of my mind.

I met Alice at Philadelphia’s 30th Street Station in a fast–food restaurant while I was ordering a cup of tea. Alice was one of a number of homeless folks who lived in the train station. She was counting the change she had collected for food.

After I placed my order, the manager went over to Alice. He was about to ask her to leave when I said, "She’s with me." I invited Alice to place her order and then asked if we could sit together. She agreed, and I was blessed by our time together. I hated that the only reason Alice was allowed to be in that restaurant was because she was eating with me.

I couldn’t get Alice out of my mind. Alice was dirty and she smelled. Our conversation was limited and I knew we would probably never see each other again — still, I couldn’t erase her face from my mind. The homeless were no longer "the homeless." They were Alice. Later, there would be Fred and Patti and Eddie and Brenda — but for now, I knew Alice. Even before Alice, however, there was Henry.

Henry
I met Henry while I was serving as an interim pastor in my first congregation. I had been at St. Mark’s in Philadelphia for several months when I noticed a blue car parked in front of the church. The car always seemed to be there; often I would see a man in it. When I asked some parishioners about the car, they explained to me that the man I saw was living in his car.

One day, determined to meet this man, I approached the car. I was cautious, especially when I saw a body in the back seat, covered by a coat. All that showed of this person were long dreadlocks flowing out from under the coat. I couldn’t even tell if she was dead or alive. The owner of the car was in the front seat, bent over, busy doing something.

"Okay," I thought, "he’s probably doing drugs." I thought maybe he raped or even killed the woman in the back seat. I was worried. I wondered if I should call the police. Before I could do anything, the man saw me and waved me over. I hesitantly approached the car door. He introduced himself and asked if I was the pastor. The woman stirred. Pointing to her, he said, "She needed a place to stay last night, so I let her stay here."

Henry had covered the woman with his own coat. And the drugs I thought he was doing turned out to be bologna and cheese. He was making sandwiches on the front seat, carefully laying out the bread and lunch meat. And then, before I left, Henry offered me a sandwich. The three of us feasted in his car.

"Blessed are you who are hungry now," said Jesus, "for you will be filled." Communion as I had never known. Grace to overpower my fears and assumptions.

Getting used to the light
Lunch with Alice awakened memories of Henry, but I wasn’t so sure I liked what I was feeling.

In her book Operating Instructions, Christian writer Anne Lamott kept a journal of the first year of her son Sam’s life. Although she was a single parent, Lamott had a great deal of support from friends and from her church family. Two of those friends were present during the difficult birth — at delivery the umbilical cord had been wrapped around Sam’s neck.

Describing those first few moments of Sam’s life, Lamott writes, "Finally, finally Sam slid out, and they put him on my chest for a bit, and cleaned him up, and then Pammy and Steve held him because I was too hurt and out of it. They walked around the room with him, explaining what various things were and telling him that he would get used to the light."

Getting used to the light — that was something I had never considered. As I thought about Sam’s transition from the dark and comforting warmth of his mother’s womb into a world of stainless steel and bright fluorescent lights, this began to make sense. Still, as someone who strings at least 20 strands of lights around my house for Christmas, "getting used to the light" was something I had to think about. The full spectrum lamp I have at my desk came to mind — it’s wonderful for crafts and for matching those navy and black socks, but because the light makes things so clear, all those tiny imperfections in my work jump out at me much more clearly.

Yet the prophet tells us, "Arise, shine; for your light has come." This Jesus stuff wasn't so easy.

A Rest Room
More and more, I began to notice the faces of people experiencing homelessness. I was especially aware of the women like Alice who would use public restrooms to wash up and change clothes. I noticed how often the women were asked to leave. I was struck by the irony; the restrooms offered no rest to those who lived on the streets all day. The image haunted me.

And then I had this crazy idea, one that probably came from that old table on Mulberry Street. What if we opened the doors of our large urban churches and created Rest Rooms, real rest rooms where folks could rest, have a cup of tea, and maybe some conversation?

A Rest Room — yeah, I liked that. What I didn’t like was that to start this I would have to leave St. Michael’s, my beloved congregation of nearly 15 years, and find a space in Center City, where many of Philadelphia’s homeless people lived.

This meant finding a church willing to donate space in a part of town where rents were high and getting higher. A space that would welcome folks with a variety of physical and mental illnesses into a community that would not ask us to leave.

This meant a space where people could use the bathrooms for washing up or changing clothes. This meant a space where people in the midst of addictions to drugs and alcohol would be welcome. It meant opening the doors to people who had been incarcerated — to murderers, thieves, prostitutes, and con artists. It also meant opening the doors to many good and honest folks who simply did not make enough money to pay for a place to live.

In short, it meant finding a church willing to take a risk.

This Jesus thing was really hard.

But when Jesus invites us to risk — to live and love in a way that opens us up to pain — there is no gamble. There is no gamble because always we are assured of God’s loving presence with us.

So, what happened?

Welcome
On January 17, 2007, the doors of the Welcome Center opened at Lutheran Church of the Holy Communion, right in the heart of Center City, Philadelphia. For two days a week, in a lovely space, volunteer "hosts" serve our 25 to 40 guests lunch along with their tea. In a corner shaped by sofas and chairs, folks watch a movie or simply rest. In another part of the large room, a group of women work on an afghan to hang on our wall. April discusses a hymn with our newly forming gospel choir. Some people play chess; others catch us up on their lives.

Jackson has left the shelter and has set up a computer business in his daughter’s basement.

Ronald has started school, studying medical assistance.

Barbara has just had a new grandchild and shares a photo.

Michelle brings a friend to browse through our "boutique" of free clothing.

And together we are all blessed by the one God who brought us to this place where the greatest risk–takers are the guests who have invited us into their lives.

The Host
Our first year was funded through the generosity of Southeastern Pennsylvania Synod, Lutheran Church of the Holy Communion, the city’s Office of Supportive Housing, Project H.O.M.E., and a number of individual, church, and organizational grants. Now the Welcome Center seeks long-term funding to support this ministry. A risk, for sure, but not a gamble. "Guess who’s coming to dinner?" asks Jesus. It is Alice and Henry, and everyone else that you might not imagine inviting to your home. It is your worst enemy, and it is your best friend; it is the one who betrayed you, and it is the one who loves you; it is the one whose politics you hate, and it is the one whose poster hangs on your wall.

Guess who’s coming to dinner? "It is all of these, and more," says Jesus, "because I am hosting the meal."

The Rev. Violet Cucciniello Little is an ELCA pastor who directs the Welcome Center at Lutheran Church of the Holy Communion in Philadelphia. She is also a psychotherapist with private practice for children and adults. Married to and inspired by Willie D. Little, director of Youth Emergency Service (a shelter for youth ages 12 to 18). They have two grown sons, Jason and Matthew.