Deb Richardson-Moore - The Weight of Mercy: A Novice Pastor on the City Streets

Copyright 2012 by Deb Richardson-Moore

This edition copyright 2012 Lion Hudson

The right of Deb Richardson-Moore to be identified as author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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ISBN 978 0 85721 229 0
e-ISBN 978 0 85721 387 7

Unless otherwise stated, Scripture quotations taken from the Holy Bible, New International Version, copyright 1973, 1978, 1984 by the International Bible Society. Used by permission of Zondervan and Hodder & Stoughton Limited. All rights reserved. The NIV and New International Version trademarks are registered in the United States Patent and Trademark Office by International Bible Society. Use of either trademark requires the permission of International Bible Society. UK trademark number 1448790.

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library.

Cover image: iStockphoto/cStar55.

Dedication

To my mom and dad,

Doris Richardson and the late Hewer Richardson
And to Vince, Dustin, Taylor, and Madison,
whose love and steadfastness allow me to
minister elsewhere

Authors Note

This is a personal memoir, and as such, is told from my perspective. Other people coming in and out of Triune during these years may have told a different story or many different stories. While all of the stories I tell are true, I have no way of knowing if the stories told to me were true. That, in fact, was my challenge.

Because of privacy issues, I have frequently changed names and identifying characteristics. Where I have used a single name, it may have been changed to protect privacy. However, where I have used a first and last name, it is correct.

Woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you tithe mint, dill, and cummin, and have neglected the weightier matters of the law: justice and mercy and faith.

Matthew 23:23, NRSV

Acknowledgments

I WOULD LIKE TO THANK Elaine Nocks, Lynn Cusick, Lynne Lucas, and Matt Matthews for their early and constant encouragement. And thanks to later readers Cecile Michon, Toni Masters, Oscar Masters, Kathy Vass, and Toni Pate for their excitement.

Thanks to Rich Butler and Carl Muller, who probably have no idea how much their kindnesses meant. But I do.

Certainly, I owe tremendous gratitude to David Gay whos been with me every step of the way, but also to current staff members Pat Parker, Don Austin, Diane Mensch, Shannon McGaugh, Kathy Sharp, Greg Koon, and Bon Secours St. Francis Health System employees Jean Lilley and Connie Haudricourt. You guys are the best. Alfred Johnson, I still miss you.

Thanks to Triune board members, past and present, and all the volunteers who make our work possible and even pleasant. But most of all, thanks to the Triune parishioners, housed and homeless, who have made this place their church home.

I appreciate my colleagues at the Collegeville Institute for their kind words and laughter at all the right places.

Thanks to Tony Collins and the folks at Monarch Books who were the first to talk about the book rather than my lack of a platform.

I am grateful to my parents and to Rick, Candy, and Maggie Richardson who came to Triune despite our lack of a childrens program. And to Lori, Robert, Sam, and Robin Bradley, just because.

And finally, to Vince, Dustin, Taylor, and Madison. You know why.

Prologue

I HAD THE DREAM AGAIN , the one where Im in the back seat of a speeding car and it dawns on me theres no one driving. Somehow the car remains on the road but I dont know how, and the scenery whizzing by paralyzes me.

I see a red light, and look around frantically for oncoming cars. There are none and my car whooshes through the intersection. My heart is hammering and I wonder if I should climb over the seat to take the steering wheel, but Im confused and heavy-limbed. I see a curve ahead and I panic, but the car hugs the white line and races on. Apparently the hairpin has triggered a ringing, and I turn to look behind me for a police car, maybe, or an ambulance. But those vehicles dont ring, exactly, do they? My mind isnt working properly, and I cant figure out where that ringing is coming from.

I rolled to Vinces side of the bed, and clawed my way to consciousness, the ringing rising to the surface with me. Vince was already in the dining room, eating cereal and reading the newspaper, but our bedroom remained coolly shadowed. I could have slept another three hours on this Thursday off, if not for that ringing.

Hello, I answered, my voice sleep-clogged.

This is the alarm company. The alarm at 222 Rutherford Street has been activated. A police unit is on the way.

I groaned. Id been on the job just eight weeks and this was at least the eighth alarm. Squirrels, it seemed, could set it off. Mice. Spiders. Not to mention, men.

The facilities manager typically got the first call, but he was on vacation. I tugged on a pair of jeans and a lightweight sweater. The morning looked foggy and gray, though it was late September, a summer month in this part of the South. I brushed my teeth and ran my fingers through my hair, not bothering with make-up. Thatll serve the intruder right, I thought irritably.

As I drove the seven miles from my house in the suburbs to the church just blocks from Main Street, the scenery changed from trimmed lawns and shaded houses to industrial buildings, windowless bars, a nursing home, abandoned gas stations. The closer I got, the deeper the dread settled in my stomach. I hated this job. I hated the creaky old church building. I hated what Id gotten into, and I was close to hating God for getting me into it.

I repeated a mantra I used to soothe myself. Eight weeks down, and what, maybe thirty to go? Forty-four at the outside. I doubted I could last a year.

The early morning traffic was brisk on four-lane Rutherford Street, pronounced Rul-therford, a denizen of Old Greenville corrected me recently, rolling the absent l in his throat. Im sure he summers on Pawleys make that Pahhwl-ees Island, which prints bumper stickers declaring itself arrogantly shabby, if that tells you anything.

Old Greenville passed this church every day. But it didnt stop.

The red brick sanctuary was handsome, especially compared to the nearby three-story education building with its broken windows and rusted air-conditioners discoloring the faade in green streams. It was a brave little church, too, hanging on in this outpost of a dying mill village; Id give it that.

Rutherford Street was separated from the sanctuary stoop by a sidewalk and a strip of dead grass. No one was stirring at the Salvation Army Thrift Store across the street, but Tommys Country Ham House next door was filled with a breakfast crowd of businessmen, blue-collar workers, and retirees getting their day started with bacon and eggs, toast and grits, coffee and conversation. I parked in the pitted lot behind the church and trotted up the sidewalk and around the corner to the sanctuarys side door. This mornings alarm was not the work of critters. Someone had kicked in the heavy wooden door, splintering the doorjamb. Someone, no doubt, who had eaten in the churchs soup kitchen, taken clothes from its closet, received groceries from its pantry.