Craig Keen

After Crucifixion


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Ibid., 164.

      The Church of the Nazarene in Mid-City is a little urban congregation just off California Highway 15 in San Diego. It is a humble church, a broken church, far from ideal. Between cracked brick walls tagged by turf-contending neighborhood gangs, regret and gratitude, shame and joy, probability and possibility contend. Occasionally, fragmentarily, this little church becomes the address at which something extraordinary occurs, the address at which the throats and hands of ordinary people open (perhaps without purpose or design) to speak and to act and thus to await the consecration of the labyrinth of its hospitable spaces.

      And so, on rainy days and nights the church leaves its doors open for shelter for those without roofs over their heads. Similarly, it leaves time open for prayer requests during its services. It is open to those engaged to be married—advising, guiding, and querying them as close friends do. Those members who have been graced each with a long sacramental marriage provide care for other lovers and beloveds before their promises fail and, breaking apart, one by one slip alone each into a separate despair. That is, in a great variety of ways the church shares a great variety of goods, face-to-face helping, befriending, and praying through the inevitable and often divisive conflicts that emerge between members of the assembly and between the assembly and those who stay consciously away from it.

      And all of this is performed subtly, without pretense or ostentation. Anyone stumbling into one of its services would immediately recognize that there is something both faltering and delightfully extraordinary at play here. The sincerity of this work opens to the flesh as well as the Spirit. Facilities are in disrepair, banter erupts from a homeless congregant off her meds, persons without influence or power fill its pews, the thin walls that frame the sanctuaries let the sounds of drums and the voices that sing to their rhythms mingle with words preached in other languages a few yards away. Everything that takes shape here has the feel of a rough, ad hoc, beginner’s improvisational performance. People without homes find that they have cooked meals that have somehow made their way to other, hungry people. There are disagreements and tensions over how to take care of trivial matters (like who is to open the church when it rains or who is to lead the music during a worship service) or weightier ones (like a member who in dealing drugs is gambling with prolonged jail time and jeopardizing the welfare of her children). The church barely keeps afloat financially. There are sewage backups many Sunday mornings. Some of the old friends of the church have grown cold or uncooperative or hostile in part because of occasional eruptions of aggression, inflexibility, and meanness of spirit from those closest to the top on the church’s organizational charts and most visible on its raised platforms on Sunday mornings. The Spanish congregation struggles with its leadership; the French congregation is in the midst of a possible split; the new pastor of the Khmer congregation does his job in the wake of his predecessor, who left under a dark cloud of mistrust.

      But something beautiful and holy happens, when during prayers one voice after another calls out to a holy Mystery—for the healing of a mother’s diseased body or the cessation of a war in a distant country or a change in city housing policy or the spiritual renewal of a friend or a safe home for the abandoned children cared for by the church or for the undocumented workers who continue to flood into the neighborhood. These are prayers entangled in the actions and passions of these people. “This is our prayer,” they call out; and the priestly reply joins their words, “Lord, hear our prayer!”